Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Kira-ra.*

Mica.
*Unmo.*
A type of jewel emitting five-colored light.
Emerging from stones in deep mountains, it forms layered sheets like stacked paper; when peeled, it separates into thin, paper-like leaves—yet cast into fire, it does not burn.
Even plunged into water, it remains unwetted.
Japanese name: Unmo (Japanese name: Kira-ra)

*Nihon Daijirin*

New Life: Prelude

Power

A mountain blazed and moved—the power that came tilting it was there.

Egg

Blazing with light—deep within the nest were eggs packed tight—perhaps.

A large hand appeared—in deep noon—from above—it grabbed an egg—perhaps.

What sorrow—a turkey’s egg lay rolled upon a shunga print.

Large Crow

A Large Crow stood silent on the shore—behind it stirred a line of ripples.

A Large Crow descended to ground—deep noon—and gazing at it—another arrived.

As no one was visible on noon’s shore—the Large Crow pressed down upon the female—perhaps.

The Large Crow walked the shore, but the lovely waves did not reach there.

On Jakkō Beach, Large Crows gathered in a flock; directly above them, another arrived.

One flew up, two followed—three soared—four and five joined—the Large Crows all took wing at once.

Underneath an endless sky where it lay subdued—the ailing crow took flight at last, one final time.

Dog

On the water’s surface, the figure of a white hairless dog was reflected; in its mouth burned crimson meat.

Above and below the log bridge, a pure white form passed through, blazing radiantly, I wondered.

Three Varieties of Seafood

On the water’s surface, light lay hidden as noon deepened—suddenly, a sea turtle surfaced to breathe.

The midday sun moved boulders; even sea lice abruptly held their breath, I wondered.

The shark did not walk upon the earth—so there it lay, rolled in a heap.

Hole.

When I opened my eyes deeply, something glimmered and swirled in the abyss below—or so it seemed.

Rose

The rose crushed beneath a boulder throws off the stone and radiates profound light—or so it seems.

Cloud.

If there was nothing in the vast sky，cumulonimbus clouds swelled and swelled into being—or so it seemed.

Exile Chronicles

Misaki Lament

On January 2nd of Taishō Year 2 (1913), overwhelmed by sorrow, I crossed the sea alone to Misaki.
After ten days of sojourn, fortunate to have survived, I first returned to the capital.
This marked the beginning of my exile.

Eve

Deep snow—when I had sat silent—the crimson moon emerged where it rises.

Estuary

Did I ever imagine—exhausting myself solely on breaks in the fog—that looking upon the river below where light shimmers...

In the morning mist, I devote myself boundlessly—and love too without knowing limits, ah.

In the morning mist where light shimmered, I devoted myself—yet I did not think to die.

Misaki Shinpuku-ji

In a sunlit spot, a yellow rose shimmers with light; a bird sways it as it moves.

The yellow rose shimmers with light, unaware; the sparrow flies and sways it still.

Nichōdani

In my loneliness, I went out to the shore and looked—only waves writhe and twist, refusing to relent.

In their loneliness, three men went out to the beach; gathered together, they could not resign themselves.

Hakkeibara

The diver’s child dives and rows, harvesting seaweed—the ripples there know no bounds.

On Hakkeibara’s cliffs, kudzu leaves swayed and swayed, bathed in sunlight—unable to relent.

At Hakkeibara, a calf ate thistle; endearing—unable to relent.

Coming to look, today too the silvery offing far out at sea had a steamship moving along.

The sun shone, the sea glittered; sardine boats' planks were struck, unable to relent.

The spring light of Hakkeibara reached its zenith; he lay sprawled, tears streaming.

Moreover, the sun shone radiantly; even the deep scent of withered grass stirred hunger—ah.

The sunlight abruptly fell silent; could there have been some matter occurring offshore?

A single crimson orb of sun spun round and round, shining offshore—unable to relent.

The sky was red, the sea also red; why was the pointed mountain in Hakkeibara black?

As I walked the path through rice fields by the inlet where larks sang—lonely still, though the day had not yet darkened.

Hanakui Beach

A heart that somehow both laughed and cried; sardines rolled through the vegetable field.

When he came and looked—sardines rolled through the turnip field; overturned were the turnips’ green leaves.

Jōgashima Island

When evening fell, he hurried through Withered Grass Mountain, parting its dried grasses.

When dusk deepened, tears spilled across Jōgashima Island—not a single soul remained.

Homeward Path

Shamelessly surviving, I leaned my body against the crimson mountain camellia.

Ōkawa Riverside

Under the lingering glow of dusk, he pondered; a coachman drove an empty carriage along.

The sun on the roof thickened redly and sank into dusk upon the aged stone-paved walkway.

When evening fell, smoke rose along Ōkawa Riverside; a heavy, slanting wind began to blow.

Sadly lost in thought, he found himself tracing the flowing shore before he knew it.

The wind turned cold; the sunset yellowed. Winter water now flowed backward through the town’s backstreets.

Withered grass cart.

When evening fell, upon a lone cedar tree, the sun blazed on and on—ah.

Glowing crimson, the withered grass cart slowly creaked through the sunset field—ah.

Without sadness yet dear, the withered grass cart glittered bathed in sunset.

“O Michizunagami by the roadside, glowing crimson—sunlight without shadow—O Michizunagami.”

The day did not darken; they bellowed into the deep terror unknown to any human soul.

Misaki New Residence

Misaki New Residence

In late April of Taishō Year 2, the entire household relocated to Mukōgasaki in Misaki.

Ecstatically I stagger through the palace of scales at the edge of the wavering sea—here I dwell.

New Life

The water pale blue, the sky vast—oh father, this place is no prison.

Deep green, the sea vast—oh mother, this place is no prison.

Mount Fuji Notes

Mount Fuji looms sacredly in one corner of heaven—ah.

Mount Fuji slides up radiantly into the heavens; forgetting myself, I tilt back my head to gaze.

Since my heart is serene, Mount Fuji this day appears radiant—ah.

Since Mount Fuji is radiant, my heart grows clear; entranced, I gaze upon it.

Likewise

One time

With father and mother I went out to sea—could this self of mine be spinning rare tales of the floating world?

When I saw Mount Fuji, after boarding my parents onto the bonito-fishing boat, I pushed the great oar.

Mount Fuji—they call it Tarechinen for its steepness—now revealed itself across the vast sky.

How joyously vast it was—Mount Fuji had appeared in the heavens above my home.

There was a man shouldering great oars and sculls who gazed out at Mount Fuji.

May

When one climbs the hill carrying fish, the purple flowers of the potatoes now bloom in profusion.

Resplendent, Mount Fuji’s lofty peak emerges; the potato field’s purple flowers.

At times,
At times, when he opened his eyes wide in surprise, he bought vivid rose flowers.
At times, when life felt desolate, he had fresh vinegar-marinated oysters prepared.
At times, he picked cabbages—their globes rich with the earth’s pungent scent.
At times, setting out alone, he suddenly came upon a vermilion cross-section.
At times, he meant to replace the nest straw but found eggs already laid within.
At times, he gazed blankly at the house of hanging where crimson sunlight poured unceasingly.

At times, with no thoughts at all, he touched the hairs of the red horse’s tail by the roadside.

At times, with binoculars, he gazed intently at plovers frolicking reverently—

At times, he saw the day fly away earnestly on the side of a small vase.

At times, he moved through his own household like a thief, stealing his footsteps.

At times, thinking no one would notice, he unexpectedly found people from the mountain facing this direction.

At times, solely focused, he sat catching a large sea bream.

Living Flesh

Cherishing my living flesh, I rose before dawn to drink cow milk first.

Cherishing my living flesh, today too I went out to the tip of the cape to catch sea bream.

Cherishing my living flesh, I had them prepare rice with freshly picked green peas.

I bought noodles and received red rose flowers—how refreshing it was as I held them in both hands.

Cherishing my living flesh, I slowly dried the rotten abalone in the sun.

Mica Clouds

Dripping Water

The water dripping through Mizutare’s rocky gorge—a hush was in the depth of noon.

How poignant—the shadow of Mizutare’s pine moved; on that radiant day, a *bera* fishing boat.

Since the white lilies of Jōgashima were large, the pleasure boats must indeed have been gazing up—

Cliff-top Jubilation

On the branch of a large sagging pine，ripples glimmer—a single bird perches.
The auklets line up their heads in neat rows；the light fades；he gazes at the ripples—

This hateful philanderer shakes the azalea flowers and weeps—how long will he keep this up?

Upon the cliff above the abyss, red azaleas cast their glow on just two people—ah.

Around the dreadful abyss, auklets flew in a gleaming line—ah.

When I embraced her, my wife—fulfilling her heart's desire and finding relief—raised a laugh and closed her eyes.

Homage and devotion—at this distant hour, who could know the auklets’ light revolved?

Homage and devotion—the auklets’ light faded and shone again; people closed their eyes, then opened them faintly.

Homage and devotion—since none could know, the auklets created rings of radiance only to vanish again.

Abyss

Profoundly silent—children’s voices resounded in the abyss; yet peering down, there was nothing at all—ah.
In the deep pool，scattering like snowflakes—the cold aura of white snow—could it have been a person sinking?
For how long did the diver’s shadow remain unseen in that abyss? Ah，perhaps they had dived too deep.
The diving child plunged headfirst upside down，being his parents' very flesh and blood.
Having hidden in this abyss for so long，and being his parents' very flesh and blood，he must have been harvesting kelp，must have been harvesting kelp.

Water Shield

Though I longed for you—not thinking to go—I scooped the silver mud-water of water shields into my palms.

Since I am human, I too truly languished; water shields, shine in this deep marsh.

When I scooped water shields, the mud-water overflowed from my palms—shining and falling—and again the marsh deepened.

Brightness and desolation—no one came; though naked now revealed, I knew no way to weep.

Though lonely—my own shining neck submerged—I stepped deep into mud up to my knees.

Startled and peering close—it was an eel at the marsh's glowing heart.

From this marsh, something welling up—a terrifying light there—seeing it, I fled upward.

In the vast field of fresh green cut miscanthus where light reflects, I suddenly emerged entirely.

Spectacles Bridge

The water passing under Spectacles Bridge occasionally shone deeply through its arch before vanishing entirely.

Reluctant to flow, it formed rings of radiance where vegetables were washed a vivid blue-green hue.

At noon’s height, the skiff lay motionless; stagnant water pooled beneath while dappled shallows stretched below a blazing sky.

Though lonely yet thinking nothing of it, I thrust my oar into the lagoon’s silver mud—

—then bent my full weight into moving the skiff forward with each forceful stroke.

Three tea houses spanned Spectacles Bridge at its midpoint—this quarter now lay sun-drenched and inert.

Bathed in relentless sunlight stood Spectacles Bridge—the Spectacles Bridge where someone now sought passage across its stones.

At Spectacles Bridge, a watermelon seller splits open fruit; now the quarter basks at naptime's height.

In broad daylight, a child tripped—and for a while, not even a sound escaped.

He gazed from within the spectacles of Spectacles Bridge—a single willow swayed in the wind; swayed in the wind.

Daylight Wandering

Though lonely, from my straw hat spilled the summer light—I kept gazing as I went.

Though lonely, I simply climbed straight up the blazing slope—ah.

The gentle slope where broad light spilled appeared only to move—ah.

On the cliff above, something shone and flickered—I passed by, seeing it as a great lily.

In my loneliness, I turned back from Aburatsubo toward Koajiro—yet how deep the noon lingered.

In my loneliness, I passed deep beneath the mountain’s midday red torii gate and emerged again—
At the red shrine of the Fart God in broad daylight, he stripped to the waist and wiped off sweat.

Jōgashima Island

On a sheer-cut cliff where grass grows deep—a large man lies there—is this a lonely sight?

I tried to fly with the cormorants—but the cormorants, attempting to fly, flew away.

Seized by a swooping bird—the glittering fish likely felt no semblance of life—ah.

A swooping bird seized a fish—ah, ah—and attempted to fall into the radiant sky.

The smoke I intently watched at the sea’s edge—before I knew it, became a large ship—became a large ship.

The head of one who forever turned away—the more it shone, the more hateful it became.

The women of Jōgashima Island basked serenely naked—when he looked, they lay exposed, sleeping soundly.

The women of Jōgashima Island basked serenely naked, gathering abalone—what could they be thinking?

As he drowsily gazed at the sea, the women of Arisoumi turned naked—ah.

Kaigai no Hama

Octopuses hide one by one in their pots; the leek flowers bloom across the rolling field.

Deeply, the sound of human laughter resounds; the valley a field of white lilies.

In a place of pure whiteness, a man drying tengusa seaweed blazes radiantly, alone.

Iris Garden

What compelled me to come alone and quietly to this water’s edge where white irises bloom?

I came alone and shed tears; while gazing at the irises withering, how deep summer grows.

Bright, yet when I gather these pure white irises into a bundle, somehow it darkens.

Pure white and truly shining, these lonely irises—I came with a white dog to see them.

Ah, the irises behind the pleasure quarter—could there be eyes peeking at dusk?

Yugasaki Swimming

Under the blazing sun, a man cutting through the sea with a front crawl came into view—how deep the noon lingered.

The two children stripped their father naked and went to swim.

Because he was lonely, he spread both arms wide and cut through Sagami Bay with a front crawl, leaping onward ceaselessly.

Though he leaped in and cut through with a front crawl, the swirling tide’s power in this sea ran deep.

Swimmers cutting through the water in a line, their hats pure white, as the autumn wind blows.

*Sangaikyō*

Fox Razors

A profoundly lonely heart arose; though I thought to go to the mountains, I came to the mountains.

This heart—though I saw crimson fox razors upon the cliff, it remained unhealed—ah.

If I did not step on the fox razors—imagining them as if blood would well up—the setting sun burned red.

The fox razors clustered red, yet the wind blew them one by one.

The fox razors blazed profoundly red; yet clustered in bloom, how they provoked resentment—ah.

The poisonous red fox razors were fed to the sorrowful horse—ah.

Note: If a horse eats this flower, it dies.
Without hesitation to kill even a lone crow—the crimson fox razors were trampled.
Things lewd and inconstant are truly lonely—here and there, fox razors.
In the open field, the fox razors were merely crimson; with a start, I fled.

Sea Light

If I go to the sea, this loneliness might be forgotten—yet having resolved to go, here I have come.

Having rowed out—ah—have I come all this way? The waves rising offshore stretch beyond knowing.

It is a heart that worships the oar with me; as I go making the water's path gleam straight.

The golden spray struck cold against heaven—the great sea's waves were sorrowful.

A man rowing a boat intently appeared in the distance; the golden sun spun and shone.

When he urinated, a golden streak of light fell blazingly and ricocheted.
Hokusai’s sky-striking waves came cascading down—in that instant, Fuji had vanished, perhaps.
The flying fish beat their wings fiercely and soared in single file—was the sea itself in torment?
As the flying fish formed a crescent-comb line, how I longed for you.

If I leaped in and swam alone, lonely fish came pecking at my navel—
When I swam, something pulled at my feet from below—something that pulls at human feet—
A large figure appeared before me—suddenly—the joy of rowing! Joy! Joy!—
Blazing, the setting sun burned itself out on the vast quiet sail ahead—
The sea’s waves heaved endlessly grand; dusk fell and hungry night arrived—
I stopped the boat and hushed—in darkness—the deep seabed’s echoes resounding—

In the endless sea’s midst, bearing the boat—unable to cry—I caught squid.

I caught squid like a mouse pup—recklessly, all night long I caught sorrowful squid.

I caught squid while staring intently at the movements of something profoundly dark in the sea’s deepest depths—there I remained.

Ah, how pitiable—humans in the dark sea lit fishing fires; how red those flames burned.

Red Glass

The red glass door shut tight without a sound; there I lurked in hiding.

The red glass door shut tight; I lurked there, forbidding anything to enter.

The sunlight shone full upon me; my limbs were redder still than red glass—ah.

Through the red glass window, I dried rotten abalone in the sun listlessly; outside, Mother stood made to wait.

The red glass door; a box filled with red eggs piled high—both visible on the engawa.
Pressed into silence by the light outside the red glass—what did the crimson human do?
Even when they knocked on the red glass door where a dog sat facing both ways, it did not flee.

Lonely Day

Front Garden Vignette

Rudder boats gather on this fine day; all at once, the oars are raised—how sorrowful.

Spring has passed; summer seems to come—only those harvesting white-robed tokoroten seaweed are seen.

The day is fair, the roses too crimson red—though I think to suddenly burst into tears, I...

The sunlight blazed there—the perfectly square ice’s corners were illuminated.

The pufferfish’s belly, swelling and shining as it gazes at the sky, tautly strains in the deep noon—perhaps.

When gently released onto the blue turf, in the deep noon, the live Ise shrimp leaps.

The quilt’s cotton is spread out to air; beside it, sharp red chili peppers.

Though I soaked it thoroughly in water, the pearl oyster ultimately did not absorb even water.

The boat, having rowed close to the bait boat glinting and grown still, suddenly began to move—perhaps.

Eel

Front Garden Vignette

The eel basket swayed gently as if about to burst, bathed in full sunlight—perhaps.

The latent power of the eels packed within writhed unceasingly, yet the day remained serene.

That leaping and swaying basket—it was a heart firmly suppressing overwhelming emotion.

How serene! The young eels slipped from the basket as if fearing something—perhaps.

In the garden with deep crimson pineleaf daisies, the eels leapt over them and vanished to who knows where.

Serenely searching for eels while parting the daisies, he stared wide-eyed.

When I parted the crimson flowers and looked, there in the corner sat a young eel, sluggish and unmoving—perhaps.

Since the pineleaf daisies burned so deeply red, the young eels kept still with eased minds.

The young eels that had been pinned beneath the flowers—how fiercely they struggled to escape!

Seafloor

Front Garden Vignette

In my loneliness, when I peered into the sea—ah, ah—an octopus fled through the midday light.

When I let the octopus escape and peered into the sea, there was nothing but the octopus walking away—perhaps.

By the sea cucumbers on the seafloor lay a sea urchin; there, the sun shone in the depth of noon—how.

Though it did not move, the vermilion sea urchin glowed intermittently; when gazed upon intently, it seemed to crawl.

In loneliness, the vermilion sea urchin moved its limbs; upon it, another sea urchin had piled.

Sunset Glow over the Strait

Front Garden Vignette

On the stone cliff, seven children sat fishing for pufferfish; evening glowed, small glows.

Two hands cast out mackerel two at a time—aligned and shining there they were, perhaps.

On the pier, a single large tuna had been flung down with a heavy thud—dusk.

When evening deepened profoundly, Jōgashima's fish baskets were washed away—the tide had come in full.

Rowing close to the offshore fish baskets, the red Ise shrimp lay exposed in the summer evening glow.

"Resenting my father deeply, I kicked over the eel basket and left it overturned—I."

He grabbed an oar, leaped into the boat, and rowed frantically in circles through the crimson, crimson evening glow.

The Setting Sun of Jōgashima

The setting sun violently swirled around Jōgashima’s lighthouse—pierced through by the lightning rod, how.

In Jōgashima’s swiftly spread casting net, the great sun swirled.

The great sun, having swept down decisively, hung over Izu’s cape at Amagi Mountain—how.

Moonlit Night

Tonight especially, the moon shone clear—every last thing on the seafloor lay sharply visible.

Crimson, the fifteenth-night moon hung over the sea; there, a single person could be seen swimming.

Were the great moon to roll out fully from within the sea, I resolved to weep.

Midnight.

Unable to suppress my fury, I rose late at night and cleanly sliced through a tuna—how.

Natural Contemplation

Ripples

Sickbed Chant

Continuous waves—silver ripples—the endlessly shining sea; I gazed at it all day long.

Nets hung high—above them stretched ripples without known limit: rows of small waves.

Though I looked around, there were no people at all; the sea’s ripples merely shone and vanished.

Ripples here and there—at times shining and vanishing; glowing, shining, vanishing.

All day long did the light fade away; I remembered the swell waves then forgot them again.

A bird perched; in the shimmering sea-light I watched a single gangway fade as if to vanish.

Soundless sea toward the serene direction—beneath my house lay rows of ripples.

In the soundless midsummer midday—soundlessly—the bird had left the gangway.

How serene—toward this side, this side they came shining, the offshore ripples whose limit remained unknown.

Upon the ripples scattered small waves; above them, the fishing boat—though I gazed upon them, I could not tire.

In the deep noon where ripples shone and glittered—with a plop, I discarded an apple—how.

Boat

Drowsily, drowsily on the sea, the boat makes a sound—what manner of vessel passes by now, I wonder?

Channel Rain

Profoundly, rain falls on the sea; the channel rain has turned to ash-grey—how.

The rain falling upon Jōgashima’s verdure—this morning’s rain that soaked through, how.

In the falling rain, Hokusai’s straw raincoat and hat occasionally spread a casting net.

In the sea, channels that drew circles of light—their branching ends parted ways, their whereabouts unknown.

The hurriedly rowed fishing boat—drenched on both sides and vanishing away—the fishermen’s fishing boat.

The fishermen’s boat split into two directions—how the channels too branched into separate ways.

In the rain falling around Tōri-ya and Jōgashima, the boats entering the inlet parted ways.

Rose Contemplation

A large red rose flower had abruptly burst open in true crimson with a pop—how.

When I opened my eyes and gazed intently—there on the rose bush, a rose had bloomed in true crimson—how.

On the rose bush bloomed a rose blossom—ah, how marvelous—though there was nothing strange about it at all.

When the wind blew, the rose instantly became fire—likely leaping up in the joyous wind.

Startled, my very body shone—the great rose's blossom radiated light in turn.

When I glanced casually, this seemed but a fleeting rose blossom; when I gazed in astonishment, the flower stirred.

As noon passed, the rose blossom grew ever redder; grew ever heavier, tilting downward.

I tried to shake the rose blossom, but upon reconsideration, it shone ever brighter.

The large, utterly ordinary rose blossom crumbled away with a sudden jolt—how.

Teapot and Bowl

When the sunlight reflects back, crimson—the teapot moves and burns intensely—how.

The blazing teapot—steadfast—its breath suffused the nearby bowl—how.

The teapot burned, and the bowl sat curved—the bounds of this kinship remained unknown.

Teapot and bowl sat facing each other all day long—as though weeping—when steam rose between them.

Bubbling—a tiny creature released its fragrance—how exquisite upon the perfectly round tray.

Though I know not when or how or who drew them near, the teapot and bowl move me to tears.

The teapot burned, the bowl billowed steam—their communion burned warmer still.

Overcome by feeling, teapot and bowl revolved secretly about each other like weeping souls.

"Why feign ignorance? Turn here, teapot—day itself grows dark!"

On the tray sat teapot and bowl; this small world too knew no peace.

Ground and Vegetables

Ground and Vegetables

Great feet trampled the ground—human feet overflowing with strength—

When I went out to the field and looked, the rows of cabbage heads shone like white cats.

When I trod the ground, disturbing the green turnip leaves—how dear they felt beneath my feet.

From the ground had rolled cabbage heads—how dear, all like jewels.

How mysterious—a great cabbage I had never imagined nor known now sat before me.

A force welling up silently from within propelled the fresh cabbage outward—how.

The pale green cabbage’s layered leaves burst forth from within their glowing core—how.

The large eyes gazed at the cabbage—how I could not help but shed tears.

Suddenly noticing—how grateful—the shadow of pale green vegetables: a large single foot.

Return from Casting Nets

I maneuvered the heavily soaked casting net over the turnip field’s leaves with my hands.

I hauled in the soaked casting net on turnip leaves and suppressed a wildly flipping pufferfish.

A man dragging the soaked casting net over turnip leaves walked through broad daylight—how.

Noon Rest

A straw hat leaned into the western sun, drenched in vegetables' reflected light.

During noon rest—the farmer's love cast upon autumn ground—how pitiful.

A dark-faced girl with only her eyes large sat amidst silver turnips.

In the shadow of piled straw, pipe smoke welled up thickly; while watching this, he basked in the crimson sun.

In the shadow of piled new straw from autumn rice stalks’ cut ears—someone was there!

When loneliness struck, he drew the girl near—this man embraced her with all his strength—how.

The midday south wind blew upon the completely naked couple beneath the black oak tree—how.

In the field, flying and mingling, the wagtail became a point of white-gold light—how wondrous.

Even the gathering of horse dung by the roadside was brightly illuminated as the autumn wind blew.

Mud Pig

In the pigpen, how dear were the pigs that groaned and rolled—all were alive.

From the split leaves of the palm tree above the pigpen, the sun shone in all directions.

The large white mud pig glowed brightly, its thunderous snoring shaking the ground.

The slovenly pig’s snoring tended to sing as a divine sound.

The mud pig’s pitiful snoring shook the celosia all day long.

The stud boar’s imposing snore resonated, seeping into the udders on the sow’s taut belly.

A person climbed the palm tree and peeled its red fibers—it was broad daylight.

Beneath the palm tree’s stained yet shining canopy, the livestock lay pitifully, their lives listless.

The stud boar fell deeply silent and circled once more around the base of the shining palm tree.

Ah, ah—the white pig’s spirit’s true jewel rolled into the gentian flowers?

The pigpen—the lonely descending path reached its crimson end, and the shining sea came into view.

Having grown fiercely hungry and listless, the pigs then devoted themselves to eating grass.

A clump of piglets shook their heads—how pitiable—on their mother’s eight taut teats.

The incarnate mud piglets cried out, and those mud piglets piled upon one another.

“Bear and multiply! Eat earnestly! Thrive vividly against life’s vitality—O pigs!”

“Gorōsaku! If you truly find them pitiful, then let pigs be pigs—leave them rolling as they are.”

“The evening sun is red—feed them, Gorōsaku! When beasts go hungry, they’ll even eat their own dung.”

In their loneliness, the pigs—true to their porcine nature—rose keenly into the sunset and pissed.

The livestock glowed crimson within the shimmering world, ceaselessly undulating in the light.

Hillock at the Start of Autumn

On Katakoka Hillock, the millet and beans ripened reddened and whispered deeply—how wondrous.

Calmly and deeply breathing edamame plants—the evening sun soaked through them redly, how...

As I plucked beans with keen care—their murmurs—the evening sun soaked deep into the autumn hill.

In the crimson sunlight’s glow, the beans that tumbled out—dazzled—fell silent.

Already deep autumn—the ache of the straw hat’s brim over the bowing bean field.

Dog’s Urine

The evening sun was red; a puppy urinated intently on the green tree at the fork in the road.

On the green tree, a dog’s urine trickled down—how beautiful—on the small green tree.

Before my eyes stood a single green tree—how had I not known it was there?

What solemn devotion! A lone green tree burned crimson in the sun.

After pissing, the dog flew off desolately; like fire it seemed to part the vegetables.

Autumn deepened.

In a basket of withered grass, a baby rode upon a large horse and went off.

Autumn deepened; the voices of birds crying "chirp-chirp-ririri" wandered through fields and mountains today.

Midnight Notes

Millet Field

The third-day moon shone thin over the millet field; millet remained millet as eyes stayed wide awake.

Above the millet stalks in the field—the third-day moon; stars finer than moonlight beyond count.

All creation lay hushed in slumber; only red millet ears stirred—awakened, it seemed.

The third-day moon—though not true darkness—proved lonelier still than true night.

Startled by faint human whispers—the millet sank deeper into midnight.

When the third-day moon peered into valley depths—the brothel’s ranked courtesans resembled bean flowers.

Late at night—others must have made sounds; where through darkness could they be moving?

A cat’s newborn cry

In the crow-jewel darkness, deep within the millet ears, a cat’s sharp newborn cry was heard.

In the dark night, the newborn cry of a pure gold kitten that leapt forth was heard.

The mother cat—a large black cat—sat in the darkness and gave birth to a loudly crying kitten.

In the dark night, a kitten was born—ah, ah—the cat’s voice cried out now.

In the dark night, those who heard a cat’s newborn cry found themselves beneath a thin golden-ringed crescent moon.

Dark night

A breeze through the dark sea at midnight—unfulfilled wishes welled up, their tasks left undone.

Even in the dark night, life had to be endured; the neighbors lowered their boats and rowed out.

When the door opened, the pure gold moon now slipped through the faintly dark breeze.

Upon the dark sea, the pure gold moon—so slender—cast a shadow and vanished into the shore’s edge, ah.

In deep darkness, awakening alone in secret, what I pondered was my own life—so it was.

The sky darkened, the inlet darkened; an island blacker than the sea appeared, its pines swaying visibly.

The voices of insects singing intently on island and shore pierced clear—it was a dark night.

Black Vase

As evening deepened into night, katydids seemed to gnaw at the black vase.

Where the black vase had stood—seen in daylight—no discerning eye could trace it now in the night’s dark depths.

As night deepened, I imagined a faint light glimmering from the black vase’s handle.

Two palm trees

The Milky Way, from between the palm trees, faintly white—now shone clear.

If one listened intently, in the dark night sky governed by unknowable designs, a voice sounded.

Two palm trees—in this night sky, my voice was faint yet true.

Though I know not what pure thing flows, the light of this night sky runs deep.

Ah, wondrous! From between the palm trees and palm trees, a moon of Enbudagon gold emerged.

Seaside Autumn View

Waterside Afternoon

Lush willows shimmered in the desolate distant inlet where sunlight shifted its course.

The shadow-clouded shore's leafy willows—at times shining deeply—I still could not endure.

Ripples—what sorrow made them darken into dull silver only to shine again?

Plovers were there, yet I could not turn my eyes to the bright ripples' pure silver light.

By the water’s edge, riverside willows shimmered with light; crossing the wooden bridge, I too began to sway.
Crossing the bridge, I pondered deeply: this very flow of water—from where had it come?

Two trees with triangular and bean-like leaves, a boat, a row of ripples.

In autumn dusk, pushing aside the reed mat of the boat, Hokusai’s old man revealed his face.

Shimmering silver ripples—riverside willows—even the white moon appeared above them.

When the waves glimmered sparsely, it became unbearable—with a snap, I caught one.

The mesh of the net, spreading like silver at times—this was the eye of solitude.

Reeds and reeds, faintly stirring silver ripples, lamented—today too came to its close.

Upon the sea plain, this and that—silver-gray—shattered into a thousand fragments here and there.

Silver flow

Bird voices—from the shining rounded treetop of the black oak tree—are heard; sunlight fills.

The trunk of a black oak tree on a distant hill—silver flows halfway down—the autumn sea is visible.

Beyond the distant hill shone the autumn sea; there, someone struck a hoe with clarity.

The cape appeared visible—the sea beyond and the sea on this side shone radiantly; this side lay dark.

From the hilltop, the sea was visible; in the sea, a cape emerged; on the sea beyond that, boats hurried along, their forms discernible.

Setting out at dawn, they had gone far; by noon, the fishermen’s boats scattered like black sesame seeds.

The silver dots spreading across the vast sky were the fishermen’s boats rowing their oars.

Thinking they would hasten until this cape was fully traversed, I traced my path.

Golden shone the slender promontory; in that very corner, the sun was about to vanish.

Nichōdani Vignette

In the mesh of the net, a Buddha of Enbudagon gold sits, shining brightly—autumn evening.

In both palms they shine and spill—the fish I scoop and scoop, yet still they glitter and escape.

When the western sun shines from behind, ah, how lonely—the fisherman’s head glows golden.

Looking up at the lofty peak of Fuji in Suruga, they spread out a large net.

When the setting sun blazes intensely, they have now left Kotori Misaki.

The wings of the bird flying headlong into the crimson sun at last vanish without a trace.

The sea’s waves glimmered and overlapped; throughout the day the light layered upon itself until dusk descended.

Mountain Autumn View

Above the trees vanished a flock of birds into light—gathering in the distant sky—ah.

In the mountain gorge where they strove to raise a bridge—what glimmered there? Bodhisattva Gyōki amidst golden radiance.

In the valley depths, as cherished as any human—it was that kumquat aglow.

The autumn sea shone radiantly in two directions; in both those directions, white sails were seen moving.

In the gorge of smoke-rising autumn leaves, a silver inlet opened up, and a boat sailed through.

In autumn mountains where beautiful inlets and sunlight vied in radiance—could this have been smoke rising with such a desolate heart?

The boat hoisted its sails and moved desolate-hearted—its path so sorrowful, for all was radiant.

Golden stars here and there—they traversed the rocky path, children bearing dried grass.

Within the pine grove, a single point of loneliness was the sweet sake kettle of the Golden Tea Shop.

A large red round sun was on the sea; then immediately it descended into the sea.

When I hurried past the teahouse by the drawbridge, I thought autumn had nearly passed.

Fishing Village Late Autumn

Ah, how pitiful—the sun lingered at the water’s edge where a single dead tree stood in crimson evening.

I loved such autumn loneliness—a single dead tree shone faintly.

From yonder I came and go; my head faintly shines aglow.

Autumn colors perhaps now reach their peak; voiceless people cross the bridge like beans, seen.

People, now seeing a crow cawing atop the highest tree, crossed the bridge.

The voices of children playing with single-minded focus resounded—the red thatched hut's autumn dusk. A thatched hut stood where a well-sweep creaked—red paddy fields by the water's edge in autumn twilight. What bird cried in sharp staccato? Had the crimson sunset among the reeds not yet faded? A single golden star faded away—or so I perceived—as a child slipped quietly into the temple.

Aburatsubo Evening Scene

From Aburatsubo, looking out toward Moroiso—a perfectly round red sun was now setting.

In the sunset’s glow, a line of wild geese passed over the great windmill; three crows.

The trailing geese had become the front—ah, how pitiful—the red round sun hung on the cape.

As the evening sun glowed crimson and turned, a person was seen crossing the small hill ahead with a single stride.

Aburatsubo lay still and thickly silent in its depth; still and thickly, light glowed from the bottom.

Spiritual Epiphanies

Sowing Seeds

In the golden triangular field, carrot seeds were sown earnestly.

The pilgrim and the field sowers exchanged words under the golden sun.

Where the celestial golden light shone, three sowers bent their backs.

When the pilgrim uttered faint words, the three sowers bent their backs.

In the evening light that resembled Millet’s devout paintings, the sowers gathered and bent their bodies.

Kumquat Tree

Part One: Pilgrimage

The glinting kumquat tree—a single one—spilled sunlight full in the garden.

Having journeyed far and wide to reach the kumquat tree, the pilgrim changed into pilgrim straw sandals.

The pilgrim gazed up at the kumquat tree—ah, the fruits at its crown had ripened.

Thus, the kumquat tree too was Buddha; humbly, its fruits spilled radiance.

Radiantly shone the kumquat tree; there alone stood the pilgrim’s child.

Leaving the shade of the glinting kumquat tree, the pilgrim then shook a bell.

Part Two: Farmers

Standing in the shade of the glinting kumquat tree, they dug up black clods of earth.

Two people turned over the roots of the golden kumquat tree in the wavering glint of light.

When they dug around the roots of the kumquat tree, there came a crunching sound like large and small gold coins.

“In the shade of this field’s kumquat tree, listen well to what is said—you there, girl.”

Part Three: Autumn Wind

Radiantly, the autumn wind now blew upon the kumquat tree that was not of this world.
The blowing wind fiercely tore at my heart—though I am not of this human world.
Unbeknownst to me, having become one with the kumquat tree, I startled at the autumn wind that blew.

Part Four: Silent Sitting Notes

As evening fell, the light of the Jambunada gold tree wavered radiantly once more.

When I come here and read the *Ryōjin Hishō*, I feel a golden light shining through.

Distant Trees Notes

In the west, two golden distant trees shone deeply—what trees were these?

Brilliantly, golden rays shone in two directions; in the field, two trees were seen.

As evening fell like golden smoke rising, the trees wavered radiantly.

Gazing radiantly into the distance at the golden tree—this was a man cutting grass in the withered field.

In the shadow of that golden tree, something glinted and moved—it could not be a person.

Pious golden steps might continue—Shinran Shonin was seen making his way through the fields.

The tree was indeed the Thousand-Armed Kannon Bodhisattva: the western golden autumn twilight.

Radiantly, the wind blew through the dusk; even the golden trees were steeped in poignancy.

At first glance blown by autumn's poignant beauty—it was a tempest of golden trees.

The trees facing this way were sorrowfully tormented—it was because the golden wind blew.

Would that I might forget myself a while longer and fly beyond the golden trees.

Enma’s Reflection

Enma’s Reflection

Whether rye fields or cliffs—all dripped crimson with the setting sun’s fullness.

Though the withered forest blazed ablaze, that withered forest—somehow lonely—that withered forest.

At the cliff’s base, that madman’s solitary house glowed red, glowing and glowing without cease.

Through the crisscrossed blue striations of rye, the winter sun’s vivid red had soaked deep.

The crimson sun hung like a puppet master’s doll, illuminating the sorrowful man swinging his hoe.

Under that scarlet sky rang the clang-clang of a gong—in winter’s withered field echoed the clang-clang of a gong.

Three palm trees glistened beneath the crimson sun; from that lonely thatched hut reverberated the gong’s hollow toll.

They swung their hoes—the sun cast red reflections on tea sprouts in triangular plots, its glare unceasing.

Under the bloodied light, figures turned holly roots tangled with black thorns, leaves sodden and trembling.

Enma’s vast vermilion face blazed forth, scorching the desolate, desolate field.

When they tilled the soil, Enma the Great King flared into being—crows scattered across two withered trees.

When they swung down the hoe, the winter field turned its back—there lay Enma’s crimson reflection.

As I passed before Batō Kannon, a blind person in the sweet potato field faced this way beneath the blazing sun.

Blind person—O blind person—listening intently to something, your crimson face turned toward the sun.

Sorrowful, sorrowful—Enma’s reflection. In the field, days broke and days ended; they never ceased swinging hoes.

Field-Tilling Dolls

Under the crimson sun, Field-Tilling Dolls tilled the field—the Field-Tilling Dolls were a sorrowful couple.

This human couple were profoundly lonely; without mingling with others, they turned over the field.

This human couple were profoundly lonely; in silence, they turned over the field.

At times of profound loneliness, this human couple turned their backs and tilled the field.

One, spilling tears, turned their back; the other turned over the field under the crimson sun.

At times, the couple faced each other and tilled the field like sorrowful dolls in prayer.

With the great sun rolling at their center, the field-tilling dolls to the right and left turned over the field.

Red Spider Lily Notes

In the autumn field, those overly crimson red spider lilies—take them and cast them away!

The two will come to see the crimson spider lilies! They will enter the small shade of a pine tree and arrive!

A stone for cow memorials faced this way; red spider lilies bloomed crimson by the roadside.

Cultivated Fields

Where Red Spider Lilies bloomed vividly crimson， cows and people tilled the fields．

Autumn deepens．

The children ceased playing, and the red spider lilies swayed ever more crimson.

Country Road

Enormous, enormous—the crimson solar sphere rolls at its reddest: winter.

From beyond the country road climbed to the top, a carriage comes shining brightly.

Blazing sunset keyaki trees scorch the sky here and there—how painful it was.

The thatched hut and the red-glowing gentle slope grew intimate under the full sun's bath.

By the roadside, children at play—their bobbed hair radiated halos spilling over.

Where Batō Kannon stood erected, a horse gazed downward in the winter light.

The golden red horse's tail hair hung luxuriantly—a tranquil evening it was.

Carrot whiskers.

When evening fell, the light spilled delicately—how poignant the carrot whiskers were.

Winter wind.

As withered trees stood sparse and parted in the sweet potato field, a day that seemed to cast down souls was setting.

Eyes strained toward distant storms raging across withered plains; in the sky hung half-crimson sunset.

A lone figure emerged across an earthen bridge—on both banks lay only winter wind.

The winter wind blew off a silk hat upon a crimson bridge beneath blood-red sunset.

An aged gentleman chased his rolling hat across fields swept by winter wind.

Winter gusts buffeted children swirling round prayer bead-linked Enma red as hellfire.

Through bitter winds came an old woman—white hair disheveled—her stone-like babe clutched tight.

Great Camellia Notes

There was a large camellia tree; not a single flower had fallen, each glowing crimson.

The camellia branches—laden with too many blooms—sagged as though dragging themselves earthward.

Beneath the dreadfully glaring mountain camellia at midday, a young boy descended the slope in silence.

Upon piled straw, the great mountain camellia meticulously dropped its flowers—crimson they were.

When overwhelmed, they fell crimson to the earth with a sound—ah, camellias!

A large camellia fell with a heavy thud—do not be startled, children of Tokyo.

They shouldered enormous oars, and those enormous oars propped up the camellia tree—ah!

Wind-blown camellia

Camellias spilled onto piled straw like fire; then wind raced across the field.

The wind raced—shook crimson camellias once—twelve or thirteen dry trees rattled dryly.

The wind raced; as if awakened, the camellias blazed crimson all at once.

A single camellia tree glowed red in the field; the wind raced and leapt over the camellia.
The wind blew crows from withered branches and raced—camellias blazed, blazed crimson.

The wind flipped Carcass and raced; camellias blazed, blazed crimson.

Before blazing camellias I stood—a single camellia tree; blow wind, blow wind—blazing camellias.

Crimson torii gate.

The winter sun struck full upon it—slightly cold yet fiercely glowing—the crimson torii gate, how small it stood.

Having passed this place countless times—how many tears had I shed?—the light of the one-shaku crimson torii gate.
Front and back，farmers were sowing seeds；in the field，mica from the crimson torii gate shimmered.
A withered tree，a crimson torii gate，and two stones—this was where the Yin-Yang gods dwelled.

When evening fell, not a single soul remained; around the crimson torii gate lay the seed-sowing.

Mentōji Notes

Western Sun Notes

At Mentōji, when winter arrived—crimson and intensely lonely in the light—the evening glow enveloped everything.

The shoji screen, filled with the winter western sun, turned crimson—ah.

In this hermitage, having lived three months, five months—the reflection of the western sun had grown ever more familiar.

The evening sky above the cycad burned crimson; beneath the cycad, the earth too turned crimson.

Crimson, the winter cycad repelled the sun’s spray—sadly seeping into the earth all the while.

We again sat silently gazing at the cycad; now we must have settled completely.

Descending into the western sun of the Peach Blossom Imperial Villa’s garden, my heart spoke words to my pilgrim child.

When the western sun shone upon the yuzuriha leaves, in their shade someone struck a pilgrim’s bell.

Crimson sunlight struck the corner of the Go board; in Gomoku, I lost.

The neighboring kitchen

The day darkened; sardines still drying—at the Chandala’s shadowed fence, white chrysanthemums bloomed.

In loneliness, I set aside Akinari’s book and went out to the garden—white chrysanthemum flowers.

Suddenly in the dark, the chrysanthemums shifted greatly; when I looked, flames flared up beyond.

In the midst of the fire resided Fudō Myōō; the flames surged and roared.

In the fire resided Fudō Myōō—how awe-inspiring, how awe-inspiring!

Fishermen shouldered oars and passed before the hearth; those oars were suddenly illuminated red by the fire.

When the fire burned, there was no end to the moving things; the kitchen utensils danced brightly.

A round-eyed child sat before the hearth—ah, the hunger!—the flames danced.

The loneliness: a fish tail overflowing from the pot; the kitchen’s firelight; white chrysanthemum flowers.

The pot's bottom glowed red and flickered—simply delightful—may the good night of the fishing village be peaceful.

Sunset on the Shore

Before the great sea, the young children played; not having played enough, today came to a close.

Under the crimson sun, they played absorbed yet lonely—the child’s head.

Though the great crimson sun rested upon the sea, your father had yet to return.

The children of this world were fighting; when one was struck and cried, how sad it was.

The wailing children were dragged by the hand—their mother returned crimson in the western sun.

Children Notes

What pathos of things did one perceive? Before the great sea, a child wept.

Cast out before the great sea at dusk—the child wept as I did, how profoundly he cried.

When all things under heaven were radiant—why did this child spill his tears?

A perfectly round vermilion sun-disk hung in the sky—still, the pitiful child’s head.

This one who wept—the Buddha’s child—each time he cried, how brightly the hair upon his head shone.

Though the thundering surges came, the radiant waves did not seize the child.

Since it was radiant, the child cried; he simply cried, before the great sea spared not his voice.

When that child cried radiantly bareheaded, the world became sorrowful indeed.

Snowy Night

In this hermitage—where I thought perhaps the true Buddha sat—snow began to fall in such an air.

The sound of snow piling upon holly leaves—ah, how poignant—the blue-green leaves of the holly.

Enduring loneliness, I listened—how the white snow had transformed into peony snow.

Having cleared completely, upon my solitary self fell snow whose end indeed had no sound—how profound!

How rare—the sound of someone speaking; when I considered it, the sky must have cleared at dawn.

I wondered if it was shining brilliantly—when had this become the Dharmakāya Buddha?

The rooster of Mito Temple crowed long—rustling, those that answered—from where did they come?

After the Snow

How brilliantly blue was the cleared sky! Little did I think that beyond the roof tears would come to me.

In the dawn snow, glistening forlornly were the heads of sparrows chirping in the trees.

On a branch, sparrows lined up in a row—each one chattering in turn—ah, how moving.

The sago palm leaves spread outward in all directions this dawn; the snow seeped and dripped with quiet intensity.

The holly trees had shaken off their snow; the chinquapin trees had shaken off theirs—a lonely dawnbreak.

O-saku hung fish and spoke; beneath the holly tree, they glowed resplendently.

Thin wisps of post-snow smoke rose—vividly red, the chimney atop the roof—that chimney.

Now the deep snow had crumbled away, softly seeping and dripping into the vinegar jar in the temple kitchen.

The Horse’s Moxibustion

In the field where light spread everywhere, the spots where moxibustion had been applied to the live horse became visible.

The horse was Batō Kannon; desolately it came whinnying—how sorrowful that was.

The horse’s head occasionally shone as it endured moxibustion meekly—how profound indeed.

Since Kannon existed in this world as a horse, she had been subjected to moxibustion—how profound indeed.

Revering the live horse’s spirit—the Chandala tried to light a fire high in the sky.

Glowing red, someone pressed moxa against the horse’s belly; unable to bear it, the horse let out a whinny.

When they earnestly applied moxibustion to the horse, it must have felt itchy—how profound indeed.

I too was being subjected to moxibustion—when had this become the horse’s heart?

In the end, though a horse too is a Buddha’s form, when subjected to moxibustion and whinnied—how sorrowful it was.

Fuji’s Snow

In the eternal heavens snow fell; Mount Fuji today became white as sacred cloth—how profound indeed.

Resplendent in a flawless sky, Mount Fuji today became white as sacred cloth—how profound indeed.

Venturing forth, someone must have seen—Mount Fuji today became white as sacred cloth—how profound indeed.

Gentian Notes

With each step that parted the undergrowth, gentian lights flickered—winter’s dawn broke.

When I took the dog through the charming dwarf bamboo field—there too were gentians, here too were gentians.

There too, here too, poignant small gentians bloomed, glowing and flickering.

The dog’s eyes moved faintly; it seemed to watch over the life of the gentian flowers.

Having long gazed at the gentians, I turned my eyes deep into my heart—and there too were gentians.

The gentian glowed inside my head—a solitary gentian flower.

When I washed my feet resplendently, how I felt the gentian’s light spilling over.

Misaki Remnant Notes

Oh Sagami—this Misaki of Miura is a place where none forget to gaze upon Fuji.

Oh Sagami—this Misaki of Miura is a place where before one's eyes lies an island called Jōgashima.

Oh Sagami—this Misaki of Miura is a place where Ebisusaburō fishes boldly for sea bream.

Oh Sagami—this Misaki of Miura is a place where turnip paintings adorn bathhouse eaves.

Oh Sagami—this Misaki of Miura is a place where the god of farts is enshrined with red flags raised.

Oh Sagami—this Misaki of Miura is a place where I resided gratefully for over a year.

Oh Sagami—when I think of Miura Misaki, today too my tears flow and flow.

Postscript to the Mica Collection

With wholehearted reverence, as I attempted to present this single volume of the *Mica Collection* to the world, what I now realized were tears of devout repentance.
What proved all the more agonizing was the heartrendingly fresh grief of exile.
While radiant joy overflowed my being, I still felt the irredeemable folly within myself.
I had been at least impure.
Now at last I awakened and took up the humble brush here; truth was what occupied my thoughts.

This collection is the product of my humble life in Sōshū Miura Misaki from May of Taishō Year 2 to February of Year 3.
This rural life of approximately nine months was an exceedingly brief period, but I am confident that for me, it marked the most crucial turning point in my entire life.
For the first time, my spirit revived, and a new life was born from this.

Miura Misaki in Sōshū lay at the tip of the Miura Peninsula, gazing distantly upon Tateyama in Bōshū—the two facing each other—while commanding the precious entrance to Tokyo Bay: a scenic fishing village of picturesque beauty.
The climate was mild, with southern winds blowing gently through all four seasons; moreover, the sea swayed in ecstasy perpetually—a scenic land that recalled the coasts of Italy.

Our new home stood at Mukōgasaki Beach in this Misaki.
What people commonly called—and still call—Mukōgasaki’s Foreigner’s Residence was that very place.
This house had originally been a structure where an elderly Frenchman—once consul in Nagasaki—had secluded himself with his Western concubine; by that time, it had come into the possession of said concubine.
The Western-style garden faced the sea, spacious and blanketed entirely in bluegrass. Before the key-shaped stone parapet lay stone steps and a pier, beneath which a single small boat rocked in the waves.
The house itself was Japanese in style, yet its sea-facing entrance, corridors, and the transom windows of the wing buildings fittingly held panes of red and yellow glass. With crimson pine-leaved daisies blooming in every garden corner, it stood as a residence of exquisite foreign-inspired elegance.
The sea was visible from every room.
And before it stretched the greenery of Jōgashima Island, where small steamers navigated the strait—less than five chō between Tōriya and the island—ferries passed, and countless fishing boats rowed along; while in the distance, beyond the haze, one could glimpse the mountains of Bōshū, as European-route steamships and warships vanished into this vista trailing smoke—truly a stage set from a lucid modern drama.

Here, my family lived a fairly luxurious yet lonely life.

Our life at Mukōgasaki's Foreigner's Residence continued from May through October.
During that time, my father and younger brother—half in play and in an almost dreamlike state of mind—began a business of buying up fresh fish from local fishing boats by leveraging the advantageous location and sending them to Tokyo's fish market.
Though I did not participate at all, I occasionally loaded tuna and mackerel onto the short boat to deliver them to the town's market.
How startled the locals must have been when they saw this fishmonger's short boat with summer hats and white shirts worn aboard, its large black necktie dangling loosely.
This venture ultimately ended in failure.
And regarding how not even a hundredth of the splendid romance from his days as an old Kyushu wholesaler was achieved—I feel nothing more than pity for Father.
For these reasons, our lonely family again grew nostalgic for city life and withdrew to Tokyo as soon as autumn arrived.
Thus I alone remained behind, moving to Nichōgaya's Kentōji (Peach Sanctuary).
And until February of the following year, when I would relocate further to Ogasawara Island, I spent just over four months living a quiet and devout life in that temple's lonely study hall.

As for the substance of this Misaki life, I believe the works themselves prove all; thus I shall say nothing more beyond this.

The path I believe to have taken—where a heart burning with childlike joy gradually became the all-encompassing anguish of desolation, until at last attaining a sudden clarity of spiritual bliss—traces an almost exact progression from beginning to end in this collection, methodically recorded in orderly fashion.
I would be most grateful if you would look upon it.

Once I distanced myself from Tokyo, my life changed completely.
The fresh vegetables surging from the earth and the sea’s fish flipping their scales with vigor became my true companions.
Thus I can say that apart from rowing the short boat, fishing for fish and shellfish, and running through mountains and fields, I read nothing at all during that time—indeed had almost no leisure for creative work.
At the Foreigner’s Residence I managed only to compose dozens of brief poems for *Pearl Notes*, and after moving to Kentōji Temple, mere fragments from *Classic of Mountains and Seas*, *Ground and Vegetables*, *Enma’s Reflection*, and portions of *Three Grades of Spiritual Bliss*.
The remainder were written after returning to Tokyo and Ogasawara Island, where I fortunately regained creative inspiration.
Thus even in their poetic styles these works grow exceedingly complex.
This much I wish you to understand.
Let me add that prior to settling in this Misaki residence, circumstances had compelled me to stay ten days at that same location.
The poems in *Exile Chronicles* derive from that earlier time.

Furthermore, regarding Misaki, apart from these poems, I still possess dozens of poetic pieces.
The above are planned for future publication as part of this sister collection.

Furthermore quoth I:
The four illustrations contained herein are ones I drew a year ago.
Looking at them now, they appear exceedingly crude; moreover, when they passed into the woodblock carver’s hands, each inch was reduced too much in size, resulting in regrettably small illustrations.

In any case, this single volume of the *Mica Collection* is purely a Misaki poetry collection.
And that these poems are entirely my own, and that my beliefs have indeed radiated from the depths of my heart in truth—this fact fills me with nothing but profound gratitude. What saves me is, after all, myself.

What drips is the sun’s drop; quietly pooling, the eye’s tears.

Taishō Year 4 August

Author’s Note

Mica Collection, Completed