Pathway to Japanese Literature

De lamusiqueavant toute chose ――

Paul Verlaine.

Poetry must be musical above all else.
Paul Verlaine

Preface

Laugh not in scorn; wonder not in doubt.

You who open this collection.

The poetic pieces contained in this collection.

May it be known that there exists nothing without words of memory.

A thing, once gone, never returns.
Are not things that never return worthy of longing?
Even this radiant daylight of today,
When dusk falls, becomes the past in an instant.
The ceaseless clock's chime—
Forget not.
Remember.
Ceaselessly it proclaims to me.
Memories are threads bound to life’s string.
Do they not resemble a string of beads?
When the thread of life is severed
Tumbling down, the beads shall shatter.

Admire and lament.
Treasure memories.

Opening the lid of the tamatebako
Like a maiden extracting pearl ornaments
Like Marguerite.

Summer Bush Warbler

Under sheltering oak leaves, twilight.

The summer bush warbler's weary melody—

What did it sing?

Left behind in the village,

Was it sorrow wandering through desolation?

Was it memories of a hometown never returned to?

Let me lament old age.
I too.

Those who were dear have all departed.

Having lived on, I alone remain.

I yearn for the past.
Is that not it?
The summer bush warbler's weary melody.

Under sheltering oak leaves was twilight.

Crow

Crow.

Bird of Hell.
Having come to the garden where even the moon wanders,

Do not chase the cicada.

The leaves of the silk tree now slept quietly.

Dew glistened on the silk tree flowers.

In the summer melody that continued to play,

The cicada grew weary and ceased.

Crow.
Bird of Hell.
If thou hungerest, then the muddy sea’s—
Scavenge the tidal flats
Peck at the rotten offal.
In the moonlit garden,
The bright summer's every plant and tree
Rested together with their shadows.
Begone.
Begone.

Crow.

Bird of Hell.

Styx's riverbank far away.

Old Melody

The Years Since Parting

Another tryst in this world
Since I had learned why it could not be fulfilled
I learned the path of enlightenment.

Having attained enlightenment once more,
the loneliness pierces deep into my flesh.
Unable to bear its weight,
I turned toward those bygone days—
nights when I remained unawakened still.
How strangely dear now seem those torments,
those writhing agonies of old.

If only through dreams...

I dreamt of dream-trysts.

While life persists, bitter thoughts refuse to cease.

Enlightenment tolls with lonely bells.

Unenlightened, how cruel the rain's sound.

This is the floating world.
This is the world of men.

Despair

Despair was deeper than the hollow of an ancient tree's trunk.

Years upon years of sorrow. Years upon years of tears.

Spontaneously, in the unfathomable depths of the heart's recesses,

it had hollowed out an empty cavity.

Yet the ancient tree still did not wither.

Upon remaining bark and bones

ah, it laid bare its pitifully unsightly form beneath the sun.

The old body crushed by humiliation,

writhing in righteous indignation, agonizing in resistance,

ah, it laid bare its pitifully wretched form to the world.

Death was the saving hand; nihilism was grace.

Blow, tempest, upon the ancient tree.

Die, mortal flesh.

Yet what I longed for did not arrive.

What is desired departs.

Ah, tempest and death!

Cricket

Why do you cry?

The cricket in the garden cried all night long.

As the rain added its voice, only more—

As dawn approached, it cried without cease.

"Why do you cry?"

I asked the cricket, yet it did not answer.

Not only at night,

as autumn deepened, it cried even by day.

Not only in the garden, but within the house itself

it came even to the kitchen corner and cried.

I remembered youthful days.

She had clung to me,

my lover had merely cried.

When I asked comforting questions, she had only wept harder with sobs.

Sobbing and sobbing, she merely cried.

Why do you cry?

The cricket in the garden.

"Why do you cry?"

"My lover."

Autumn ended all at once.

Winter too came.
Time passed.

Thus youth departed.

Eternally it departed.

Why do you cry?

The cricket in the garden.

Why do you cry?

My lover.

I now weep utterly alone.

The cricket has died.

The winter wind has ceased.

The light has gone out.

Throughout the Winter Night

I only cry; I cry alone.

Late Autumn Warmth

The sky of late autumn warmth remained clear.

Upon the reblooming kerria, butterflies too danced.

False summer.

The lingering traces of departing autumn.

Traces of unconsoling memories.

The shadow of a cooled dream vanishing.

Though all were but momentary illusions,

The desolation of nihilism surpasses all.

Thus the unbearable regret and torment of lingering attachment—
To me it brings joy; to me it brings tenderness.
When I consider them remnants of joy that will not return.

Dark Days' Refrain

While knowing this existence to be worthless,

Why do I yet live?

For in the world of men there exists that which we call beauty.

Whence comes beauty?

Beauty comes from poetry.

Poetry comes from skillful words.

Whence come skillful words?

That comes from Melody.

Whence does Melody come?

That comes from sorrow.

Sorrow comes from human nature.

Human nature comes from tradition.

Whence does tradition come?

Tradition comes from the ceaseless flow of human existence.

Therefore I,

While knowing this world to be not worth living in,

Still, I do not die.

Winter days are cold.

Winter days are dark.
Grant me.
A meager warmth.
A fleeting light.

Winter Grass

The wind had calmed; someone went out into the garden,

While gathering fallen leaves, when suddenly looking—

Beneath winter trees and stones

Only nameless grass sprouts

In the winter sun glistened blue.

The chrysanthemums withered; the fence lay broken.

Pigeons voiceless; even sparrows—

A winter garden starved and shivered.

While being trampled, the grass sprouts'

Smoldering life—how wondrous.

Though they probed the fountain of life,

How might one solve the enigma of this world?

Unlike a mystery—the floating clouds'

While tracing their course,

The clouds would vanish without a trace.

Humming

The sunset sky’s

After the rain—
glowing clouds—
when gazing—
something was awaited
in tomorrow's sky.
Long since abandoned—
the world—though—

Hope had ceased.
This body remained.
Chased by the wind,
The crescent moon
Descended into water.

Gazing at the shadow,
Why tears
were drawn forth.

Resignation consummated

This body, though.

Exhausted and weary,

The world, though.

Wolf

Wanting firewood from wayfarers,

The old innkeeper related.

"On cold nights, all things starved.

Go cautiously,
young traveler.

On the night path of the dark mountain pass,

there dwells a creature called the Sending-Off Wolf.

It follows behind wayfarers,

waits for them to turn about before springing,

and strikes at the throat—so it's said.

Therefore, O traveler,

when day fades on mountain paths where feet stray,

though you hear suspicious footfalls,

never deign to glance behind—this I entreat."

He slowly gazed at the path ahead,

“Simply proceed.”

As the dawn sky paled,

Creatures thriving in the dark night
They will naturally slink away and hide.
Gazing at the fading flame,
the young traveler replied.
"The old man's compassion, the old man's teachings—
how could I ever forget?
Even at the edge of the wandering path,
to hear teachings is indeed a joy.
Even at the end of this human world, may there be teachings.
I must tread the endless path.
What purpose in looking back upon the path I have trodden?"

Beyond the path I had come,

Only terror, remorse, and humiliation lay spread out.

There I was—the snake gnashing fangs of envy and resentment,

The dog sharpening claws of condemnation I saw.

“Old man.”
“Set your heart at ease.”

I do not look back upon the path I have trodden.

I must simply go.

Gazing up at the boundless sky of longing,

I scoop from the spring of melancholy,

Resting in the forest of forgetfulness,

I must simply go.

“Farewell, Old man.”

The fire went out; quickly go to sleep.

I shall go—come now, I shall go.

Sunday

Drenched in last night's rain,

The lovelorn cat, alone, trudged dejectedly.

Upon returning and looking, its home’s
The windows were shut, even the door—
The lock was fastened.

In hunger that made even love forgotten,
Though it cried out with all its strength,
Within the house no human trace remained,
Only the noise of scurrying mice,
And no hint that the door might open.

When at length the sound of mice could be heard,

The people of my house were all gone.

The master, the wife, even the cook—

The Sunday when they went forth to play

The tranquil sun still climbed high.

The cat, having exhausted all means,

Memories of a broken love—

At least in dreams and under the eaves

Exhausted, it slept on the roof.
The laughing voices of husband-and-wife crows.

On the Ship

For Madame ×××, the Vocalist

Of wandering

Do not lament your being

The human world—

Dreams swaying—

Without fixity

In childhood,

In mother's hands

Swayed to sleep

On the lap

Now a woman,

When you know love,

Dreams are swayed.

The wind at the window

Hometown distant

Of wandering

Do not weep over your wandering

One’s being—

Dreams are always swayed—

The shadow of dreams
Whither has it vanished?

The shadow of clouds

Tears

For Madame ×××, the Vocalist

That which makes you want to weep—

These sorrowful things—

If you must cry, then let it be

The two of us together

Should we two cry, even sorrows—

Memories lingering in the heart

Memories that never fade—

In time become dreams of joy

That which makes you want to weep—

These sorrowful things—

If you must cry, then let it be

The two of us together

Should we two cry, even sorrows—

Are forgotten through weeping

At least obscured and forgotten

Do not wipe your tears though they overflow

Winter Window

For Mr. ××××, the Composer

Lured by the falling rain, leaves scattered.

As leaves scattered and drifted ceaselessly above,

The rain poured unceasingly.

Abruptly perceived—even the lamplight,

The winter window forgotten to be lit.

Submerged in twilight's depths - alone.

Memories unchained.

To dripping water's rhythm,

Longings preserved pristine.

To whom speak? To whom confess—

The loneliness and joy of memories.
That in the balcony’s evening gloom—
Two people took each other’s hands and drew close.

Where now is the town I gazed upon until dawn?

Lamps glimmering between oak trees

The coming and going of carriages, the figures of people.

In our youth, both of us.

The crimson light of the town's lamps was a surging tide of blood.

The reverberation of carriages was roaring waves in the chest.

In the river wind sweeping across the plaza

The scent of the flowerbed's flowers drifted.

A faint melody of strings was heard.

Harmonie de soir

Twilight's music

Valse melancolique

Langoureux vertiges

Sad Waltz

Vertigo's fatigue.
That person at the southern edge,
I from the eastern verge
To walk art's path—

The western sky where my hometown lies distant.

The yearned-for capital's transient lodging.

Ideals soar high with the larks

A clear and expansive spring sky.

Hope shines—autumn night’s

stars grown more numerous than counting.

In one night, suddenly—the tempest of this floating world.

Before even migratory birds could cross,

adrift in rains of tears,

on shores of parting upon parting.

In despair’s desert, no oasis casts its shadow.

The wordless mountain solemnly towered like divine decree.

Three years had passed.

Worthless, I now—

Bound by the world’s conventions—
The heart was split in two.
The body in false guise,
Time lay tranquil within the house.

He suddenly heard rain and wind.
Standing at dusk-dimmed windows,
A sea-roof expanse beneath clouded rows,
Peered through shadows at lamplit towns.

Memories of times past
He secretly surrendered to brooding contemplation
To whom should I speak? To whom should I impart?
The loneliness and joy of memories
Harmonica

Even the lights of the night market district

The two subtly avoided,
Along the riverbank through the side street,
A sand depot far removed even from the bridge -
They sat on a stone and talked.

The heavily clouded summer night
had deepened prematurely since evening.
A canal delved into darkness's depths,
the boat's light amidst the detritus—
was it fireflies at the tips of grass blades?
Whose child was this, playing now
on the opposite riverbank beyond warehouses,
repeating a single melody from
a forgotten old movie's song?
The harmonica played on and on.
"Oh! That melody—don't you remember?
Last summer was around this time too.
That movie we saw on our way back—"

The rain began to fall on the riverside at night.

“You won’t forget me, will you?”

“I will never forget you my entire life.”

That night's commemorative program

He kept it stored away with care.

“If parting should come,”
“let this at least become a fleeting memory.”

“You,”
“my truth—”
“let us believe firmly in one another.”

He resolved to live with a strong heart.
Yet somehow felt sorrow rising—
“Why do these tears keep coming?”

The waxing crescent moon ceaselessly emerged.

Even as moonlight illuminated the teardrops on the sleeve,

The harmonica from the unseen beyond

Broke off, then continued again.

Swallow

Yesterday's wind, today's rain.

The riverside willows were scattering.

O flock of swallows, are your journey preparations complete?
Before winter arrives, you all head south.
The seasons change; the world changes.
When I look back, paulownia flowers
When the wharf bore its fragrance,
Beneath the eaves of my house’s storehouse
A temporary abode where they come to build their nests.
Raising chicks together,
They head back southward.

The seasons change; the world changes.

O swallows, are your preparations already complete?

The riverside willows are scattering.
Do you not see how fiercely the winds of this fleeting world blow?
After you had all gone,

I will close the shop.
The storm only grows fiercer.
Both the time-honored shop and the storehouse established by ancestors...
This year's wind will prove unbearable.
O flock of swallows, you all head south.

Where were we going?
The seasons changed; the world changed.
O flock of swallows—in the spring that would come—
At the time of your return again
This year’s old nests would likely be gone;
The shop had been closed and the storehouse had collapsed.
Farewell, swallows;
Farewell, old nests.

Farewell, my home; farewell, my family shop.
The seasons change; the world changes.

The riverside willows are scattering.

**Earthquake Disaster**

**The Youths of This Age**

Ask me not of this present age

Nor of the coming era's art.

Am I not indeed a child of Meiji?

When that culture had become history and was buried,

My youthful dreams too vanished.

Danjūrō withered; Ōgai scattered.

A single leaf fell, and maples withered.

Ryokuu's voice too fell silent.

Enchō had departed; Shichō had departed.

The wellspring of my passion had swiftly dried up.

I was indeed a child of Meiji.

A certain year, the earth suddenly quaked,

Fire destroyed the capital.

Professor Yagimura was already gone.

Ōgai Gyoshi too had vanished from sight.

The remnants of Edo culture had become smoke.

Meiji culture too had turned to ash.

The Youths of This Age

Speak not to me of this present age
And of the art of ages yet to come.
Even if I wiped my clouded glasses,
What could I now hope to perceive?
Am I not indeed a child of Meiji?
Am I not indeed a child of the departed Meiji era?

Bird at the Window

The bush warbler came again and sang at the bamboo by the window.

Is this the same bird that came singing last year?

Every spring returns - last year,
The year before that too at my window,
Its song remaining unchanged through seasons,
Yet when I count twenty years in this house,
I who read books have changed.

Not I alone - the world itself transforms,
Layer upon layer altering what once was,
The ancient things now fading without trace.

Ah, bush warbler,
From what realm do you come? To what void depart?

Though I was a wanderer of unknown fate,

Year after year, the same melody sung,

Unchanging was indeed praiseworthy.

People's hearts were also thus.

My heart, the heart of my beloved.

I prayed that it might be thus.

Like the small bird singing at my window.

Door-to-Door

I am door-to-door.
The ephemeral existence of door-to-door life
How poignant!
This ephemeral existence—
When I comprehended this door-to-door path, how simple became
O worldly sojourn!
“Though trampled upon,
Embankment grass
By dew’s blessing
Flowers also bloom.”
I am door-to-door.
Even this ephemeral existence of door-to-door life—

I shall not resent.

"The medaka swim
stagnant water
Medaka pass through
the net’s mesh."

I am door-to-door.
Even this ephemeral existence of door-to-door life,
I shall not fear.

"As soon as they flee,
village sparrows
gather, and at once
they dance again."

I am door-to-door.
The ephemeral existence of door-to-door life indeed—
how uncanny!

"In daytime they hide"

In the night darkness,
They crawl out and sing
“The toads return.”
The wind was cold,

Again tonight I would go wandering
To the backstreets.
Passing through them,
I would wander into the pleasure quarter—
Alone.

Pigeon.
How precious Asakusa’s
Great Mercy and Compassion Kannon Bosatsu’s divine grace.
Hundreds of years in this transient human world—
An unending crowd ceaselessly gathering.
A flock of pigeons.
When I thought back—I too had lived through several decades—

Though the world decayed, still it persisted—
Like pigeons unstarving through winter's dearth
I watched their circling on spring's dimming earth
When first my hand reached out with trembling mirth
To cast dry beans where wings beat close beneath
Our shared delight beneath those fluttering veils
Grandmother gone too soon—then mother fails

She too had passed from this world.
And then I grew up to walk
love's shadowed path with another,
our unfulfilled aspirations
sealed in prayers at the temple hall -
a dream as fleeting as morning dew.
Now coming to see, at the purification fountain
with the sound of overflowing water,
countless memories of days gone by
rose with the temple gong's resonance
to console this aged body without hope.

How precious, Asakusa's
The divine grace of the Great Mercy and Compassion Kannon Bodhisattva.
This aged body of mine, up to now,
Deign to protect
In the profound depths of my chest,
Deign to protect
The memories of this transient world that must not vanish.

Pilgrimage to the Tomb

A moth-eaten tome from ages past
As I happened to read it, I grew nostalgic—
the author too was recalled
in the deepening autumn afternoon
When I sought out that tomb:
the winding alleys of a shabby town
at the end of a path lined with small houses
Jōdoji Temple with clamoring children
buried under moss and fallen leaves
together with erected Jizo statues
a single stone remained ephemeral
Bamboo for placing offering flowers
their tubes were decayed
the characters too were erased with passing days
Namu Amida Butsu
Namu Amida Butsu
O you who dwell in the peaceful land of oblivion

Deign not to lament the loneliness of having none to mourn you.

Rather, you should rejoice.

Your works, your life—

Not damaged—all remain just as they were,

the research of modern literati

they cannot avoid becoming terrible sacrifices.

The research of modern literati—

Do you not know?

For my name, another’s name—

For they crush and consume them.

Morning glories, dew grass, cat's tail grasses—

Flowers of unsown grasses

These indeed are the offering flowers!

Bush mosquitoes and crickets ceaselessly

I chanted "Extinction is bliss."

Ah.

O forgotten tranquility of your tomb.

May it swiftly come upon me as well.

May this tranquility and this boldness swiftly come.

May it come even a single day sooner.

Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.

Shadow Figure

The night was cold and the lamplight dim.

My shadow figure asked me:

"You who have read books for sixty years—
What have you gained?"

“You who have sold writings for sixty years—what have you gained?”

I answered.

The world's hatred and people's slander

Beyond this, what I have gained I do not know.

When I reflect, how fleeting this world proves.

My teachers and friends—all long departed.

The envy and spite of youth,

Contempt and scorn.

This was my sixty years' harvest.

Return! Oh return!

Those who follow me now are you alone.

Return! Oh return!

When I try to rise,

The lamplight would not go out.
The lamplight went out.
The shadow figure also departed.
Abandoning me, it departed once more.

Torture

The human world was a prison.
A demon came and tormented me.
My entrails ached and would tear away to waste.
My chest was about to split.
My head would be shattered.
My whole body was at times like ice.

At other times, it was like flame.

White-clad men and women veiled their faces.

They came in multitudes and captured me.

They cleaved my flesh with blades.

They pierced needles deep and pumped medicinal fluids.

They injected them time and again.

My hair was shorn away and cast aside.

When winter came - a simian gag clamped shut,

When summer came - a stifling shroud where sweat's cauldron seethed.

Ah, in this court of judgment

What testimony could they seek?

O our God

Why must you torment me so?

A Stroll Along the Canal

With the tide's ebb and flow, the great river's
The water flowed without rest—

Within the town, the canal’s
The water was turbid beneath the bridge.

At the bank it stagnated, congealing—
Floating debris together with all,

Steeped and rotted
Rotten, they sank away here.

The color of water rotting and sinking.
Even the artist knew not.

From the steaming water welled a stench.
Even the pharmacist knew not.

The color of water rotting and sinking
Who would find joy in seeing this?

The scent of refuse steeped and released
Who would dare inhale without fear?

Stagnation was the source of decay.
Decay was a fountain of foul odors.

The splendor of an era reached its peak and rotted.

Rotted, and the storm of revolution arrived.

Ah, the fate of this ephemeral human world!

Both joy and sorrow—

Once they stagnated in weariness's shallows,

Rotted and sank—the abyss of nihilism.

Soundless voices arose from here,

Cursing the world,

A scentless scent arose from here

To afflict people.

I was born and dwelled in the town,

A child of this stagnant era.

Morning and evening by the canal's

Bank, I had become one who leaned on a cane.

The filthy prospect of winter-blighted ditches

Had been the world of my memories.

The anguish of garbage boats immobilized by their own refuse's weight—

Is this not my self tormented by regret?
Do not listen to the songs I sing.
Young maiden.

Do not listen to the koto my hands play.
O valiant one.

My song is heard beneath the bridge
A beggar lies upon a bed of refuse.
Those who hear my koto must be Tsuji-kun
Waiting for passersby in the interval.
Do not listen to my songs, O young maiden.
Do not listen to my koto, O valiant one.
I was born and dwelled in the town
Where muddied waters rotted away -
I had become one leaning on a cane by the bank.
Wind carrying fallen petals
The garden nightingale
Sings remembering its homeland valleys.
I lamented, yearning for the irretrievable past.

The nightingale of the garden—
The day when it might yet return to the valley.
Its melody flowed smoothly, imbued with joy.
In my lament,
Where no channel remained for hopes long extinguished,
That voice withered, with none left to hear.

The koto strings

Once severed,

Who will mend them?

The joy of youthful days
Once passed,
When shall they return?
Do you not hear?

Today, graying temples by the Zen couch;
Tea smoke drifts light in blossom-scattering wind.

The midnight wind—
Why did midnight's wind
Shake the resting grove?
Why did the grove
Lament so mournfully?

Why do I lie awake alone,
seeking what in night’s darkness?
Loneliness dwells in the sky;
sadness lurks in the night.
The sky whispers,
the earth mourns.
Night’s soul perceives the grove;
the grove’s spirit summons people.
A voice—quiet,
resonant softly.
A dog’s cry.
Through the deepening dark night—
Is it loneliness—
that makes it bark?

A dog barked.

To the fading torchlight,

Should I then weep?

In muffled tones.

If a dog barked from afar—

Its companion heard this,

Answered in response.

Why on earth do I,

If only people would hear,

Not cry out?

The song scorned by people,

The world as fearsome—

Knowing it well.

Sparrows

I resolved persistently to tame sparrows at the kitchen door—
Bread crumbs and rice grains
Morning and evening never found me failing to scatter food for them.
Yet even when I scattered offerings daily,the wild things never softened—
At each creak of wood,a human shadow
Would send them fleeing through split-second instinct
Their every escape only hardening my resolve
This stubborn curiosity to domesticate—
What awareness flickered behind those black-bead eyes?

Late spring garden
The spring sky cleared completely
The distant sound of fireworks and people’s voices could be heard
The sound of carriages too mingled among them.

Today was a festival day.

Shut the gate and do not venture out.

Do not go into town.

In town，drunkards jostle each other.

It is a day when people scramble for carriages.

Stay home.
I shall walk in the garden.

Surrounded by a hedge of young shoots，

The garden lies quiet，its moss grown deep.

The lingering blossoms of spring fall scattered.

The fallen leaves of the chinquapin tree have piled up.

Scattering blossoms alongside evergreens'

When fallen leaves scatter untimely，

In the melancholy of an autumn evening

The colorless moon hangs in the sky.

The melancholy bell tolls of its own accord，

The melancholy bell tolls out the Lament for Spring’s Passing.

I alone listen to that melody.

I stand alone in the garden’s corner.

Lonely thoughts resemble fallen leaves.
I sweep and sweep,
They pile and pile, with no end in sight.

Untitled

If you possessed a heart and pitied me,
I besought you: come not to knock upon my gate.
Though I lived alone,
The countless months and days that had passed—
The dreams of memories piled upon piled, their limits unknown.
The fallen leaves at the window that scattered in summer and winter
Communed with me through speechless speech.
The nightingale at spring's departure
Told me of feelings with no outlet.
When autumn rains chilled the night
With all its voice, the clam
Voiced its death throes' agony unto me.
Was I truly friendless?
Was I truly lonely?
If you did not rage at my obstinacy,

I beseech you: come not to knock upon my gate.

Song of the Jellyfish

The four pieces beginning with Song of the Jellyfish were composed around Taisho 2 when I lost my father.

Though I desired to sing,

In this language acquired from birth,

There was neither rhyme nor melody.

With words devoid of melody and rhyme,

The futility of attempting poetry

Became the lament of a jellyfish without bones or fins.

As waves of the heart stirred from some unknowable source,

It merely floated onward.

It merely flowed onward.

Yamanote

Yamanote's noon was bustling.

The flowers blooming on the fence of my house in Yamanote

Under the earth-shaking rumble of gravel-crushing carts,

Scattered restlessly and fell.

Yamanote's night was dreadful.

In the Yamanote sky, to the resounding toll of bells,

The lamp on my desk

It flickered and trembled, about to vanish.

The years and months of Yamanote were lonely and sorrowful.

Should one speak, in the wind that chilled lips—

The window remained firmly closed.

Tapeworm

Since my father had never failed to provide the sustenance he required,

For many years I was able to sing like a bird.

Since my father was never sparing in purchasing fine garments,

I was able to live luxuriously like a court poet.

I burrowed into my father's flesh.

O my self, a tapeworm without ears or eyes.

My father suddenly fell ill.

Alas, I ran through the town—

Should I seek out a renowned physician?

Should I climb the mountains in search of an elixir?

If my father remained healthy,

this tapeworm self might never starve.

Might grow fat forever.

How dreadful this filial piety I conceived!

Dreadful!

Wretched!

Appalling!

Impure Tears

When I lost my father,

Under the name of my strict and pure father,

They wantonly paraded and extolled my sullied name.

People,
Do not condemn me.

At my father’s deathbed—unlike others—

Easily,
Promptly,
And loudly—

That I could not cry out.

I was too afraid.

Indulging in wicked artistic dreams,

With this accustomed impure heart,

Wantonly as I desired—

To mourn my father’s death,

I was too afraid.

“O Savior Lord Yeusu.”

Do You bid me love Your divine self?

That is too august.

How could I ever dare presume?

"How could I now presume to love Your divine self…"

I remember.
A passage from Verlaine's poem.

I am within a house of remorse

All alone with stifled sounds—

I fear they might leak out.

Seigneur, c'est trop !

Vraiment je n'ose……

蛼

No matter how much I cried,
Yet my tears remained insufficient,
Through endless nights,
Even in daylight,
The centipede that still would not cease weeping

That sorrow—
Though I knew not,
All possible
sorrow

With all its voice
it weeps ceaselessly—
How enviable this centipede’s existence.

O centipede.
O centipede.

To weep yet remain unwept—

In sorrow,

In this human world where some do not weep,

That sorrow—

Do you know?

Teach me.
O centipede.

To weep yet remain unwept.

This sorrow—

If there exists a path to forget without weeping,

Teach me, O centipede.

In your weeping voice

Again tonight,
in this human world where I lie awake through sleepless nights,
my anguish—
consider this.

Tree Frog

The tree frog is blue-green, blue-green.

More verdant than grass,

More blue-green than tree leaves.

A scientist states:

This is an animal's protective coloration.

It is the garment that protects its body.

I humbly inquire: In this human world,

Do we have any protective garb?

If there is any, quickly don it.

Don it swiftly and march forth.

Along Chang'an's grand avenue.

If all people go holding umbrellas,

You too must go holding an umbrella.

Though the sky may blaze,

Though it may cloud over.

Weapons

All living things possessed weapons.

It was to obtain food.

It was to protect oneself.

Cats had claws.
Dogs had fangs.

Weak beings dwelt in the human world.

Songstresses.
O poet.

Weak beings dwelling in the human world

What, pray tell, did ye possess?

They possessed beguiling words.

They flattered the world and curried favor with people.

They deceived themselves

They had mastered the artifice of beguilement.

Laugh not, despise not.

Preaching virtue to others

Those who secretly drank alone.

Autumn Window: Evening Wind and Rain

Original work: Dream of the Red Chamber, Chapter 45

Ah, pitiful! The autumn grasses and flowers had withered away completely.

Those leaves too had now turned yellow.

Under serene lamplight, the night deepened readily.

The view from the window that one never tired of gazing upon had come to an end.

In the desolation of the wind that blew alongside and the rain that fell in accompaniment,

Coldly indifferent, autumn's hues shifted as of yesterday.

The dream beneath gentle green boughs had swiftly faded,

Countless sleepless nights of bitter sorrow.

When the lamplight flared in the shadow of folding screens being drawn around,

By the tears the candle shed, the surroundings brightened.

Beloved, my longing only grew stronger.

The loneliness after parting—oh, this heightened poignancy!
Ah, is there no inner garden where the autumn wind does not blow?
Would that there were a window where the sound of autumn rain cannot be heard.
Even layered again and again, the night's bedding grows thin against the skin.
As the clock's advancing sound deepens, ever fiercer grows the voice of the rain.
Since night after night it comes pouring down,

Night after night, only the loneliness grew deeper.

Days came when rain fell without sound in the garden—mist or smoke.

At the lonely window, bamboo leaves rustled dryly—there were such nights.

Waited as I might, endured as I might—the sky remained unclouded.

Falling, splashing—endless rain and tears engulfed my heart.

If decay it must, then decay—the window’s bamboo blind—utterly together.

Eternal Parting

Original work: Lucie ― De Musset

When I am gone, my friends, I beg you—

Plant a willow tree at my grave.

Ah, what fragile forms—the grove of willow trees.

The beloved pale hue of leaves

Ah, the tender shade taking form—

Before long, this body too shall sleep at its grave.

The maiden and I were there.
That night, there were only the two of us.

We clung tightly together.

The maiden tilted her head and moved her white fingertips.

While lost in deep thought, she began to play the clavichord.

But that melody was like a murmuring voice.

A gentle breeze passed through a distant thicket of reeds.

As though careful not to rouse the roosting birds, all was hushed.

The lonely yet deepening midnight's warmth—a sweet sensation welled forth from the flower stamens and enveloped the two figures. In the wide garden stood oak trees that grew thick and a grove of aged Japanese oaks. Dew-drenched, their leaves swayed quietly. The maiden and I, with purified hearts, listened intently to the depths of the night. From the half-opened window came the heady fragrance of a spring night. It wafted in without pause. The wind subsided, leaving no sound; the pasture lay desolate and still. The maiden and I—the only two people—sat close together without speaking. The maiden and I were fifteen years old at that time.

I watched the maiden Lucie's face.

Lucie was pallid; her hair was blonde.

Her gentle eyes were clear like the blue sky,

They were mystical like the blue sky.

Ecstatically, I was struck by that beauty.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than this person?

Yet from the maiden’s very being welled a nobility—

My love was a love that thought of a sister.

The two remained silent for a time, wordless.

My hand had touched hers before I knew it.

I was sorrowful yet gentle as in a dream.

I gazed only at her forehead.

I came to understand for the first time that what comforts the sufferings of this world

The youthful freshness of description and sentiment.
The youthful freshness of peace and happiness.

I came to realize there were only these two things.

The moon rose in a cloudless sky

The maiden's face was immersed in the platinum glow's elongated light.

Did the maiden know that visage dwelled in the depths of my eyes?

Smiling like an angel,

She began to sing a verse of the song.

………………………

………………………

Ah, O Melancholic Woman.

HARMONIE HARMONIE

Originally created by the poet for love’s sake,

This word called Harmonie.

It arose from the unknowable beyond the sky,

descended upon the land of Italia and transferred from Italia,

a word that resounded all the way to my France.

The fragile maiden concealing her heart’s secrets

simply opened up without ceremony.

O gentle silent word that connects heart to heart.

The breath gushing forth from my chest

mingling with the maiden's unstained breath,

that sadness became one with that heart,

that gentleness became one with that resonance.

It resounded clearly, solely to the tormented self.

A silent voice communicated clearly.

Even should these tears spill forth and meet another's gaze,

The profound heart remains the forest's secret, the night's secret.

Like the sea's secret, it would stay unknown to others.

The two sank into deep thought and sat close together.

I gazed intently at the maiden's face.

A passage of romance being played.
Its resonance

Penetrated their very beings as if calling and responding.

The maiden rested her face heavily upon my body.

As if she had become the "Trembling Desdemona" from the piece.

It must have been comforting.
The maiden wept.

Ah, the maiden sorrowfully allowed my kiss.

That she allowed my kiss as I gave it—

That was due to sorrow.

I soon turned chillingly pale

I became one who embraced the maiden.

After two months passed, the maiden was carried to the grave.

Thus did the unstained flower of my love wither away.

That death which resembled a smile—her life’s

Gentle as her life’s own gentleness it was.

The maiden’s mortal form, with a heart still childlike,

It had been returned to God's divine hand.

where dwelled the unstained one

O mystical gentleness of that house!

Song and dreams of love and joy

And innocent stories.

Marguerite at the house's entrance

Faust too had hesitated, finding it difficult to enter.

The innocent loveliness of a heart laid bare.

The nostalgia for the unstained heart of youthful days.

“Alas, O maiden.
In that breast, in those memories,

May deep peace dwell.
Farewell.

Farewell.
On summer nights she would move her slender fingertips,

The ivory clavichord she played.

That melody has now vanished forevermore.

After I am gone, my friends, I ask that

You plant a single willow at my grave.

Ah, the frail figure—a grove of willow trees.

The loveliness of pale leaf hues

Ah, the gentle shadows may form

Eventually this body too must sleep in its resting place.”

[September 5, 1946 (Showa 21), Chikuma Shobo’s *Visitor*]