Pathway to Japanese Literature

Campaign.

The moth—

in that mad frenzy,

does it not go plunging in?

Scorching itself—into the heart of the flames.

I—

Scorching myself—the battle's
I plunge into raging flames' core.

Ah—a lone moth.

In a dream, I see a white chicken.

Dimly lit by dawn's lamplight, the year renews—Jōtarō

Dawn’s lamplight—in the narrow temple kitchen,

The divinely aged white chicken cluck cluck cluck, clucked.

It beat its wings.

Afterward, all settled into profound silence.

(The chicken’s countenance—resembling my mother’s features—stirred intimate nostalgia.)

Now solemnly
Reality—what
――Years creaked, invaded reality.

Spinning top

On the desk of an autumn evening,

The spinning top spun clear.

—Aomori Ōwani, Shimazu Hikosaburō’s large spinning top

—A divination spinning top crafted from Tottori paulownia wood

—Jade spinning top

—Mutsu’s “Suribatsu” spinning top

—Tsuchiyu, Abe Jisuke’s lantern-shaped spinning top

—Ikaho’s Chinese-style spinning top

—Kyushu, Saga’s turnip-shaped spinning top

—Mie, Kuwana’s ornamental spinning top

Spin spin

On the desk of an autumn evening,

The spinning top spun.

A thing that spun while jostling a beer barrel’s belly

A thing that staggered while tilting its hexagonal form

A thing that spun while whistling

A thing that tumbled round and round mid-spin before falling

A thing that began spinning only after collapsing

A thing that spun while butting heads with companions

A thing already lying prostrate

Lonesomely—

A thing that spun clear in solitude

Spinning top—
When you spin and spin until perfectly clear,
your “motion”
returns to a depth of “stillness” like deep mountains—
still yet
still moving.

Still “motion”

――Behold the immovable tranquility of this "motion"

On autumn evening’s palm
A single spinning top
Spinning into clarity
Hemispherical expanse

Night arrives atop the desk lamp’s shade
Night
Drowsily closes its eyes

—Outside shutters, snow whispers
(The weight of snow softly spills and pools into time)

Coughing,

Upon the Earth

A single footstep approached.

A single footstep passes by and moves on.

My pen whispers.

A single epistle longer than time.

The brother-in-law who fights

Soon,

Briefly, this—

He would likely read into his brother-in-law’s affection.

The other side of the warm eastern hemisphere—

—gripping the sword hilt,

while sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat—

Outside the shutters,

snow.

On the desk lamp’s shade—night,

Peeling away from night—

Sword-like micro-needles of time—particles—

A whisper—
Pierced both my shoulders—
Stingingly, stingingly, they spilled and piled up.
New Year’s dawn

In the bright garden
Chest thrust out—a high note.

This year's nightingale sang.

The child’s sleep is deep.

From deep sleep—that which awakens the child.

——Things existing where eyes cannot see

Father?

Mother?

No—nay, it lies in the distance.

Something like the honorable hand of God

The light rages.

The light blooms.

Become intimate with the raging light.

Fear the blooming light.

In the bright night sky,

--Chest thrust out,

This year’s traditional kite danced.

Ōtoshi

Winter butterfly—mistaken for a sasanqua flower, it’s troubled.
Because it remained still.

Winter bee—in the cold, moving felt such a burden.

Winter flies—for the elderly, basking on the shoji lattice was prime.

The stone basin’s water—every morning crafted homemade glass panels.
Because the children delighted in them.

Children—This ice was too thin. No good.

Ladle—don’t take me along with you, okay?

Winter mountain—with snow crunching underfoot—shall one take a nap?

Winter river—my whistle didn’t carry clearly at all.

Winter wind—instead, I’ll play the bamboo fence flute for you.

Bell tower—two or three people had already arrived.
“The temple gate stands open—for New Year’s Eve visits?”

Wall Inscription

Emulating Kobayakawa Takakage

O elegant pastime of delight—to the extent one isn’t lost in poetry

O anguish of delight—to the extent it doesn’t dwell in gloom

O contemplation of delight—to the extent the lingering wine doesn’t chill

O abstruse complexity of delight—to the extent one doesn’t lose sight of self and self

O fissure of delight—to the extent there exists thread to twist back

O thatched hut of delight—to the extent wagtails come singing

Winter cricket

Piled high, the dust of god

On the books of the bookshelf,

divine dust silently accumulated.

“Now then, child—”

“Take out the Zhouyi Benyi from there.”

“Gently brush off that dust.”

“While you’re at it, go ahead and open its pages.”

-- Heaven

-- Earth

(This combination of yin and yang—child—
Thoughts—of the cold night’s
Threading through eightfold crossroads—
In one stroke of my hand—
The dust of god
Darkly parted from the book’s spine and scattered—
Grew hazy in lamplight’s shadow—
(With a single stalk of light upon the desk)
They closed the book.)

Again, they opened the book.

From within the opened pages, an insect began to chirp.

――Let them mend, let them clothe.

“Child—are you not cold?”

Bending to sit on the cold night’s lap,

In the marrow of the knee,

Again, sporadically, the insects of the cold night let out a single cry.

Roadside Improvisation

Just one breath short.

Clatter and fall.

The railroad crossing barrier spread its great arms across the path ahead.

Before one’s eyes—the moon borne aloft.

The somen noodles washed down in clear water—were they not?

Several railway tracks weave that white-striped pattern.

Suddenly

With a rush, the light showered over me.

A few glowing insects—

Intermittently passed before me.

I stood still—briefly—

In my half-life journey—

How many times had they obstructed me—

They shaped that invisible barrier—

Lured me to within an inch of my eyes—then blocked the way—

Performed an obstinate act as if deliberately refusing—those ones.

The very brink before passing through—

That which was gently lowered while awaiting resolution

They made me step one foot forward only to pull me back again—those ones.

Half made to walk, half urged into a gallop—those ones.

They made me wait interminably until exhausted—those ones.

Made me wait interminably until exhausted beside

After being driven to the railway overpass—those ones immediately spread open.

Now just one step away—

They made me lose the companion I had found—those ones.

And

And then……

Household

the interstices of human nerves
Buffeted by the autumn-chill wind flowing through those spaces,
as if honing myself—restlessly,

I walked and walked on.

Now—
the roughness of tatami needles too,
the fineness of sewing needles too—I understand them all.
Now this toughness of nerves
layered a thousandfold—serene with steel’s resonance.

Night

Beneath the lamp.

I am tossed by the wind—a single
swallowtail butterfly I shape.

—The swallowtail butterfly tossed by wind’s
tenacious arrogance I take on…

Night

Beneath the lamp.

I untied today's arm.

Something fell with a soft clatter.

(A single translucent scale)

Within me—more than any swallowtail butterfly—

Something patterned after a dragon's arrogance dwells,

And when it writhes in agony,

Dragon scales flake away—flake away with parched whispers.

Now me—myself—

Seem less manageable than any dragon.

What madness... these thoughts!

—a palm that tenderly torments such a self

From behind—quietly—

Without a word, they embraced me.

Travel Notes

Chūō Line, Koumi Line, Shin'etsu Line—September

I

Takenikusa—guards shook bells on both sides of rusted railway tracks.
Wearing yellow uniforms.
Lined up in a row.
At times mimicking autumn rice ears.

II

Buckwheat flowers—faded handwoven cotton rugs in mountains where autumn comes early.
Over there, one.
Over here, one.

III

A steam locomotive climbing the mountain—the moment it hit even a slight incline, its chronic asthma flared up.
It gasped for breath, utterly beyond caring for itself or the world.
With only two cars, and already in this state.
Out of pity, someone whispered in its ear.
“Quickly, have someone perform new-era electrotherapy on it…” Meanwhile, the aggravated asthma promptly subsided whenever encountering a downhill slope.

IV

Lake Suwa’s glow—After the surrounding mountains darkened, a single hand mirror lay placed face-up with a soft clink.
In such a place existed meticulous arrangement.
Heaven had a sense of humor.

V

Gong-striker—a visitor at the lakeside inn.
In autumn's drizzling rain, inside and outside the fence—how long would these pilgrims linger, never departing?
They only struck the gong, never chanting sacred hymns.

VI

Parting curtains—though hung at Lake Suwa’s inn come autumn, at Lake Matsubara’s inn they no longer hung.
Summer’s legacy.
This blue casting net that catches humans.
The distance of dozens of ri spanned in a single day made me don these “parting curtains.”

VII

Woodpecker—a bird that had tapped at lodges in Karuizawa.
Here by Lake Matsubara, it tapped at a grand oak tree.
It seemed to be trying to call out the squirrel in the hollow.
At the squirrel’s persistent refusal to emerge, it lost all patience and rapped with reckless abandon.
This impatient visitor—

VIII

Drying tobacco—those thin leaves resembled the ears of elephants at the zoo.
My train meticulously observed the mountain house under whose eaves tobacco leaves—aligned like elephant ears—hung drying.

IX

Watermill—flanking the road descending from Lake Matsubara, bracketing the first station marker of Mount Yatsugatake between them, two waterwheels spun in leisurely tandem, as though having turned slowly would yield better results. To me, a passerby, from within the hut came the diligent nodding pestle’s humming.

X

Lake Suwa’s inn—before it lay the residence of poet Mr. Tanaka Tōji.
Behind lay a stretch of lake.
Autumn rain drove down, heedless of front or back.
Autumn wind swelled—a rain of crimson spikes.

XI

Wild geese passed over—the mountain lakeside inn with its lights extinguished.
Across the lake’s night sky trailed their cries—a line of birds.
Their calls—harsh reciprocal cries—echoed coldly through the night mountain air as they called to one another... They seemed rather unsure of themselves on this nocturnal journey.
Even with so many of their own kind around.

XII

Lake Fishing—From dawn till dusk，there was an old man dangling a fishing line into the mountain lake．Never once was he seen catching anything．Did he persist because，as long as there was a lake，he assumed fish must dwell within？Or did he reason that，as long as fish existed，their refusal to bite stemmed solely from his own unrefined technique？——Only around the old man did the autumn days stretch long．Not one whit shorter than spring days．

XIII

Gliding across the lake surface—At Lake Matsubara’s inn, a loudspeaker gaped open toward the water.
Autumn too—still September.
The lake was still too early to freeze.
...In the evening, students arrived and played a waltz record through it.
All that glided across the lake’s surface was a wagtail parent and chick.

XIV

In Karuizawa—on the secluded path deep in the larch trees, the tears of slender leaves had already fully accumulated and turned red.
I tried riding a bicycle over them.
These tears were soft.

XV

Highland grasses—those from Karuizawa’s Kusaki-ya have become woodblock-printed picture postcards... appear to be bundled together.
Mountain columbine.
Red flower.
Maihizuru-sō.
Akebi. Otomeyuri.
Hototogisu.
Hotarukazura.……

XVI

The Bicycle’s Sentiments—When walking unaided, I was considerably faster; yet when I borrowed a bicycle, suddenly my weak-legged friend became swift.
It seemed that in Karuizawa, bicycles sympathized with lame humans.
(Oh, this emotional bicycle!)

XVII

Karuizawa’s apples—the apples here never look rosy, no matter when observed.
Gnarled and pallid as those suffering from chest ailments.
Likely because they avoid the highland’s ultraviolet rays by perpetually wearing paper cheek-wraps.

XVIII

At Kikuya on the old road—the two of us, a friend and I, changed plates of autumn pudding.
Military khaki in color, with chocolate poured over it.

XIX

At Karuizawa Station in mid-September—summer turned its back and fell through the rain.
After the summer visitors came a dejected lull.
Autumn came holding an umbrella.
From gaps in the mountain mist and larch trees—in great strides.
――I found myself walking precisely through that middle ground.
In summer clothes.
In white shoes.
Dripping wet.
……

XX

On the old road again—though said to be mid-September, the hasty shops here mostly returned to the capital like migratory birds, their storefronts boarded up with planks over packing crates left as they were.
The town grew lonelier as one ascended.
A desolate feeling resembling walking between packing crates… The autumn rain soaked these crates all at once.

XXI

Cherry salmon—in the clear flow of Karuizawa’s waterworks, elegantly honing their fins and tails.
At times pretending to be swept away, only to return to their original position.
Her Highness the Princess, terribly averse to exertion.
...they had the air of swimming effortlessly simply because water existed.
(If I were to have a daughter, raising her like that would not be the way!)

XXII

On the old road for the third time—each time the Kusatsu-bound light train stopped, even so, a bit of gaudy summer color spilled out.
But where did they end up seeping into?
After a while, the town returned to its quiet shopping district, and rain fell.
I, dressed in Western clothes with geta and holding an umbrella boldly inscribed with the inn’s name, went out to buy apples.

XXIII

Returning—amidst the haze of autumn rain, in Shinjuku, I parted with a friend.
Each of us carried travel bags brimming with travel weariness.
And bore heaps of travel grime clinging to us.

Beyond the cold curtain of autumn rain that had veiled the train window, the travel bag swayed.
Swaying, it receded into the distance,
together with my travel weariness.
……

Person of Autumn

With a decoy—the mountain where birds won’t come—the ritual mallet.

Late Summer

If one cannot sleep—the chill of late summer dawn and such Kusatao

A gust of autumn-tinged night wind crossed my roof ridge, spilling a drawn-out whisper as it swayed before slowly shifting over to the neighboring house.
The old house creaked with unhurried dignity, its response audible to the ear.
Deep night.

Beneath this “whisper” and “response,” as if struck by a thought, the child’s sleep-talking from one side startled me with its poignancy.—Just as even at midnight the wind made trees whisper and houses creak, perhaps the faint child’s dream painfully drove them to utter something.
What did the child dream of?
The nightgown the child kicked off attempted to mimic the rise and fall of waves at the hem of the bed curtain but failed to do so.

A Small Moment

Within the blue sea of the bed curtain, the child who had been swimming vigorously until just moments ago now lay at my side, emitting peaceful breaths with an innocent sleeping form.
――Only there did the flow of time pool gently; only there did the rough air that lashed the outside world slowly soften into calm.
It could only be perceived as softening into calm.

On my wrist, the sound of something softly marking time harmonized with the child’s breathing; the child’s breath too, naturally harmonized with this small ticking of time―and so the shallow summer night deepened.…

Furakoko

I

In the predawn garden.

Click-clack, click-clack,

Unbeknownst to all, Furakoko resounds.

(No one is here.)

Verdant garden

Unbeknownst to all, the wind delighted in Furakoko.

Furakoko delighted in the wind.

II
Entered the predawn garden
Moved Furakoko where no child remained
Furakoko resounded: click-clack, click-clack
Nostalgically rocked its body
For a while, mindlessly

As if the child were playing with it.

(In the predawn garden where deep green narrows eyes in silence)

III

Entering the predawn garden

Riding Furakoko where no child remains

The god of children

The god of children transferred onto it and rippled there.

The depth of the garden’s slumber.

Dragon’s Beard.

A predawn garden it was.

Dwelling hidden beneath the shade of shrubs.

Late spring, early summer.

A pale purple threader of prayer beads.

Thou, heaven’s dewdrop,

Dragon’s beard spilled upon the ground…

That figure belied the grandeur of its name.

Ah, did it ripple even in this wind of being and nothingness?

For my gaze, a heart-comforting jewel.

For children’s palms—a playmate for make-believe.

Clouded day.

Towering Himalayan cedars—each one the finest of their kind.

(Spring cicadas were chirping incessantly.)

Cold spring tombstones—every last one.

(Spring cicadas are chirping incessantly.)

In the midst of gushing mist

All things sweat,

All things lowered their voices.

Groaning in the depths—in likeness to earth spirits—numbed the soul.

This music……

I press my forehead against a single cold tombstone.

――Gyokusōin Fuyuki Myōkin Daishi

(My mother lies at rest here)

Admonition

One day—manageable—
I embraced illness through the larch forest,
earnestly pacing back and forth.

To such a me

“Hey—should you really be walking that much?”

The illness itself whispered worriedly.

“What do I care? If I die—we die together!”

Within me—a defiant voice answered thus.

In the midst of such question and response,

Faintly, I was ill.

All day long, fluttering ceaselessly—

Shedding tears—the larch trees of the larch forest.

Those tears fluttered down beneath the trees.

On my shoulders, chest, and trouser seams,

Without making a sound, they piled up.

When I brushed them away,

They still spilled soundlessly onto the ground.
At night, the sleeping flower’s nape,
With a sharp prick, a larch needle stabbed.
“It’s too much—don’t walk around so much, you hear?”
That must be their intention... surely...

Summer night

Midnight—silently.

In my stomach, thunder walks.

Midnight—in one part of the heavens

A muted distant thunder turns the millstone.

Course

Just as dandruff accumulated in the hair, day by day fatigue built up in the body and grime accumulated.

While my spirit grappled with illness at the front gate, my body had secretly befriended it through the back door.

On the temperature chart above, the lines of pulse and fever took the form of an unraveled red and blue rope—endlessly tangling as they drew near and pulled apart.
At their intersection, sparks of life invisible to the eye scattered with a sharp snap.

Now, even I could see them.

Disjunction

Even as the spirit raged and fiercely rebuked, the body remained as heavy as lead.

One of the heavenly threads that had supported my body had snapped, and like the pendulum of a tilted grandfather clock, my weight seemed distorted.

My arms had thinned to the width of fingers, my legs emaciated to the size of arms; staggering, I rose.
I staggered forward.
I collapsed.
Just like a stray dog that had lost its home.
(A stray dog cut off from its food supply)

Even as the spirit alone raged and fiercely rebuked, why was it that the body remained forever heavy as lead?

Nail

—This patient will die, it was said

This person did nothing but watch their nails.

They say patients who do nothing but watch their nails die.

(Those nails were incomparably beautiful)

Within the nails

The fiery vitality that had coursed through their entire life had solidified.

The fatal illness now—

To make that blaze fiercely—to adorn that beautifully……

Ah—that adornment was beautiful yet heartrending
—This patient did nothing but watch their nails
They say patients who do nothing but watch their nails die
(Those nails were incomparably beautiful)

Swallow

My hospital room was on the third floor, facing south.

At the fixed morning hour, a passenger plane loomed large at the window and passed by.

Power lines ran north-south past this window.

One morning, to that window came a stylish rare guest returning from the south—wearing a tailcoat and putting on his best visiting face—who peered into my room.
With his pale yellow, chattering mouth blinking and prattling away.

When I suddenly returned a few words of greeting, this quick-footed guest seemed to shrink his neck in embarrassment before vanishing with a swish toward the sunlit street.

Discharge

In the dim light of 4 AM

The evening cicada awakened—then I awoke.

The evening cicada was enveloped in thick predawn mist.

I lay inside a blue mosquito net like the sea.