Pathway to Japanese Literature

Poetry Collection

To Horiguchi Daigaku

Preface to the Poetry Collection

How strange and wondrous is the fate of my songs!
What once moved people to tears now finds welcome in this world.
Yet critics point and sneer, dismissing them as mere diversions.
Perhaps they are right.
Foolish as I am, I have devoted my life to these diversions—twenty years of dawns and dusks since first resolving upon this path.
Thus remains to me but a single volume of poetic grasses as keepsake of my youth.
When my heart stays pure, childish words still falter upon my tongue; when I labor to lengthen phrases, vitality deserts my spirit.
Why should transient things belong solely to beauty's realm?
Even counting these new verses—like maple leaves clinging low—my songs number fewer than a hundred: how bitterly frustrating!
The ancients spoke of firefly-lit snow; truly, moments worth cherishing extend beyond spring nights alone.
Or perhaps through talent's abundance—like silkworms spinning silk in spring—a thousand poems might scorn even lords of ten thousand households.
Though each recitation might draw twin tears, what becomes of these evanescent songs not yet a hundred strong?
That people point at me and laugh—I now recognize this as fitting.
Were I to wish one song might endure a hundred years hence—would that not merely add further proof of my own folly?
Having steeped myself in endless musings awhile, I now set down my brush.
On this rainy evening of March 1st, Taisho 15, returning to my ancestral home to tend my ailing father,

Written by Sato Haruo

North Wind, arise; South Wind, come; blow upon my garden that its fragrance may rise. May my beloved enter his own garden and eat its choice fruits.

Song of Songs Chapter 4 Verse 16

Childhood Songs

Looking at the Evening Star

Purely

Radiantly

Loftily

For one alone

You

Like a star.

Song of Traveler’s Sentiments at Inubōsaki Cape

Having come here

Imitating maidens,

Picking nameless wildflowers,

I who tread upon my own shadow

do not know the lighthouse's height

unless I look up.

The waves' undulations

cannot compare to those of my hometown.

I can only think

On rugged shores grow pines whose hue

Blackened by rust.

My heart

Blackened by rust.

Autumn night
The glass-paned shoji，
Rattled，
The deepening night wind，
I resented．
The futile one—
Of unrequited love—
To mock me．

O blowing wind.

Your sharp
mockery—
You as fallen leaves
Would you have me think?

To One Departing for Marriage

The girl from those well-curb days of childhood playmates—that she should age so swiftly and be wedded away was sorrowful indeed and futile.

How short are the sleeves of a married woman! Ah!

Heartbond Grass

Song of the Pale Moon and Pear Blossoms

This is an image from when I still dwelled in maidenhood.
Farewell—truly it is you I must leave behind.
Do not mock your own beguiling form.
Never reveal it to others.
Take heed, you who are my divided self.
Having spoken thus, on a sheet of paper someone had stealthily given me stood your likeness—a dancing girl holding a round fan.
As I gazed upon it, those words I had uttered proved foolish yet songlike in their cadence.

Sorrowfully pale and beautiful

My heart grows ever more restive.

Unfulfilled, it has passed away in vain.

Your past alone bears regret.

The evening moon through pale pear blossoms -

Your standing alone pierces my heart.

Ah, to see you on such a day

How enviable seemed the one who spoke.

Bush warbler.
The bush warbler on days he did not see you.

The bush warbler of the seaside inn.

Unmixed with the sound of waves.
Bush warbler.

All day long he listened.
Bush warbler.

Bush warbler.
Bush warbler.
Bush warbler.

Autumn Cicada Notes

Near to the heart,

Distant to the eye,

The visage now

Has become a withered willow.

Faint.

Through you it existed.

My Autumn Cicada's Song

Lyric to the Drizzle

Drizzle

Drizzle

If

that village

if you pass through

please tell them

to that person

I

Tonight again I did not sleep—
—
To that person
Please tell them.
Drizzle

O Autumn Woman
Soaked in tears, O Autumn Woman
Within my fantasy comes
The Autumn Woman drenched in tears
I think it is drizzle
Soaked in tears, O Autumn Woman
You depart along the path of the old castle
Willow leaves scatter upon the neck
She does not look at the withered lotus
Soaked in tears, O Autumn Woman
Your steps, one by one

You grow distant from those you love.

Soaked in tears, soaked in tears,

Soaked in tears, O Autumn Woman,

She departed into my vision,

The Autumn Woman drenched in tears

I think it is drizzle,

She made me weep for a time,

Comfort me again, O Autumn Woman,

The fiercely withered path of the old castle

I think it is my heart.

Leisure Diversions: Miscellaneous Poems

Distant Fireworks

He was with a modest married woman,

watched fireworks beyond the rooftops—

discovered in an instant—vanished away.

They spoke of fireworks most distant.

From Chinese Poetry

Even on days when flowers bloom, I am alone.
Even on days when flowers fall, I am alone.

What of those two—how might they
What flower could they behold?

With the Music Box: For My Younger Brother

With money obtained through writing a shame-laden tale—

To place by your pillow as your illness begins to heal—

Having bought and brought back the music box late into the spring night,

First I sought to console myself...

This, this being the poet's heart-core,

The wondrous box from which songs surge forth!

As I listened while lingering, the spring night grew restless—

My heart became curious like a young child's—

Suddenly brushing my hand across its surface—

Could I have imagined—this being a dream? The ancient recollections'

Concealed within the young girl’s fluttering heart’s core,

The faint trembling that resonated through my hand—

Mystery! Wondrousness! Dearness!

Truly excellent was this box from which songs welled forth!

“Do not speak so, my brother—now your life wanes—

A single small box placed by the pillow amidst mortal joys.”

Know this: your brother, even in days when his life was vigorous, still moreover—
The human world's joy is naught but a single small box within my heart.

Solitary Desolation

The moon knows not the place of my yearning.

Song of Late Autumn in the Old Garden

In my old hometown’s aged house, the autumn hedge had grown pitiful—white chrysanthemums someone planted long ago had passed their prime; the mulberry fields ran wild with none to tend them, along ridges where paths went untrodden, bellflowers withered away.

On the stone pavement of the old well, unknown cockscomb flowers lay fallen face-down; alone I wandered through the garden, consoled distant clouds and pitied autumn butterflies of the waking world—when I stood still, mountains drew near and the setting sun hastened.

Envoi

In the garden of the aged house in the hometown, listening to insects ceaselessly through the day, how faint they were.

Zhangzhou Bridge Bank Sorrowful Night Song (漳州橋畔愁夜曲)

The moon emerges,

When reflected in water
On the covered boat
Whose child is this?
Plays the flute
Swaying, swaying.
A lone wanderer
Strolling on the bridge
In the cool breeze

Taking off his hat,

Pale clouds—

Thoughts—scattering.

Violets of Late Spring

Spring all too profound, already—

White sun-baked violet flowers...

All aged, faint...

Violets the color of memories...

The delicate violet affections—

Were they no longer in the fields...

And here was another—these unforgettable things

Enclosed in a vessel, the flowers bore fruit...

May grown hollow

In the world there were beautiful sisters.
When he had become my good friend, he soon came to inform me that circumstances prevented us from meeting again.

Without seeing you—what was May?

The sky that glittered in vain

Even if one opened the stifling window

The light blue robe that seemed to flutter was nowhere to be seen.

Without you—what rose?

The green tree shade in vain

Even if one sought and wandered on

The laughter of that cool breeze went unheard.

In a hollow heart all day long
Sketch your shadows and ponder,
My scentless cheap tobacco—
The sight of it vanishing vainly into the sky.
Being able to give my heart to others,
Being able to give my heart to others,

On this day, I alone

Walking through a flowerless garden,

I opened a moonless window.

Dedicated to Horiguchi Daigaku

You should be pitied.

Your friend
I have aged.

The rain has cleared.

On a May morning,
A new love
Unintentionally,

an old friend

To remember.

Pigeon

A single white feather drifted in.

Then it uttered a cry to be heard.

On my window sat a single pigeon.

O perplexing pigeon—what on earth do you mean?

From the woman who set out on a journey and left no word—

If that’s the message… this troubles me.

Even your well-meant words,

just like a woman’s heart, remain beyond my grasp.

There’s nothing written on the feather you dropped.

O pigeon—solitary bird beneath clouded skies,

O unfamiliar pigeon, O white one—

I must reply to her… yet languor weighs upon me.

Poetic Discourse

Ephemeral joy—why
would there be time to sing of it?
Who would bite into ice cream?
Sorrow is hard—because it’s too hard.

(Swallowing, chewing, digesting)

From a single sorrow,
They devise many songs.

Inscribed on a Courtesan’s Fan

Fan, I envy you.

What care I for the autumn fan’s tomorrow?

Night after night, you are

Laid upon her breast.

In the sound of the wind chime

When you fall asleep.

Fan, speak.

How soft lies your breast?

In the depths of that bosom,

How do I exist?

What are the dreams you have night after night?

From Suzhou Bamboo Branch Songs

楊柳青青楊柳黄

青黄變色過年光

妾似柳絲易憔悴

郎如柳絮太鎭狂

The river willow with verdant sprouts

Spring being but a dream of old,

With each passing day shifting,

Autumn has yellowed the river willow,

If you would make me a withered leaf,
Were you to become a down-like flower,
For you in such wild disarray,
Wither away doth my life!

Young Man of the Sea

The young man was born in the sea.
He was raised at the wind-pregnant breasts of sails.
He grew remarkably large.
One day, he went out to the sea.
He will never return.
Perhaps with that heavy, steady gait,
he must have strode into the sea with great steps.
Those left behind
they wept and built a small grave.

My Grandfather Clock

One day, I bought an old, peculiar clock from a clock shop in the outskirts and brought it home.
After hanging it on the wall and gazing at it for over three hours, I played.
After the electric light was turned on, I wrote something like the following――

The characters are vivid gold like joy.
The dial is jet black like death.
Around it is a decoration of flowers and grape leaves.
As for the pendulum—just a single cluster of
sweet grape fruits swaying in the wind—
The craftsman of this fine grandfather clock,
though he was indeed unnamed, must have been
a sage on par with Epicurus.
Because beautiful teachings are modest,
for thirty years, unknown to people,
it was covered in dust at a shop in the outskirts.
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock.

Thirteen o'clock

O guest, do not be startled.

Thirteen o'clock.
At times,

Twenty-three o'clock also strikes.

But look at the hands—it's eleven o'clock.
This very eccentric clock—
It is just like the room's master.
The workings are nonsensical,
Disorderly through and through,
Yet the rational needle stays true.

Comedy

The woman, having obtained a husband, reigns supreme.

The man obtains a wife and withers.

Because she reigns supreme, she loves him.

Because he withered, he hated her.

All philosophers' wives are Xanthippe,

All iron kettle handles are iron.

Nothing makes people as melancholy as comedy does.

'Seeing Don Quixote makes one cry,'

Anatole France said.

Riddles, riddles.

What answers the riddle of a jealous woman?

The solution lies in a pup that cowers and bays in darkness.

The meaning?

Shut up.
Ridiculous.
I'm furious.

I can't sleep.
And yet so pitiful.

Defense

If one dreams, let them speak deliriously,
If one grows bored, let them yawn,
If one gets angry, let them shout,

"But, Mr. Hagiwara Sakutaro,
should one attain an ancient heart, let us speak in archaic words.
Is that not so, Mr. Hagiwara Sakutaro?"

Prayer

Crude and meaningless,
Limited to the moment,
Yet truly genuine—

One truly genuine song

I want to write it someday.

The feeling with which God created the clouds
Now I understand.
Mother—
At that time—that which she sang for me to hear—

The lullaby—

I want to recall it exactly as it was.

That song—if one listens,

even Mother no longer knows it.

It seems she sang it quite haphazardly.

By all means, I want to compose in my lifetime—

a song like air—just one

Freely and unobtrusively

existing wherever people exist

suddenly flowing into the depths of the heart

Only what's futile can I immediately spit out.

Such a song—by all means, I want to create one...

The Ballad of Itoman

Itoman was a fishing village in southern Ryukyu.
The people were brave, loved the ocean deeply, and delighted in sailing small boats into distant seas.
I had returned to my hometown and resided on the shore of the South Sea; one evening, hearing the roar of raging waves, I felt a stirring of inspiration.
Suddenly recalling Richard Dehmel's song "The Sea Bell," I took up my brush and attempted to create this ballad.

Ye children,

At morning and evening's awakening,

The surf's roar—

Would they think it the sea?

In the ocean depths,

Profoundly resounding,

Truly dreadful,

The bell's resonance,

Rowing out to touch the water's heart—
When touching the heart of the waters,
The chosen mariner!
He staked his life to hear it.
The waves—how beautiful they were!
The waves—
Valiant.
The waves—
Terrifying.
Terrifying.
Beautiful, lovely.
Terrifying times ever more.
Beloved, O waves!
Life.
I became a brave fish.
At the mercy of the waves.
Friends—seven
On this day, being swallowed by the waves,
Above me, being a brave fish,
A single star appeared,

The clouds split, the moon bared.

Hear, the bell has rung out,

The sea bell alive—I
A beautiful body trembling.
Drawing near to speak, whispering:
Lo, the bell in the sea's bosom—
True sincerity revealed
From bottomless depths.

To the seven friends
I prevailed—
the sea from this day
surrendered itself to me.

"Husband of the Sea, Friend of the Typhoon,

Friend, mankind's brave fish."

Being called thus, my

My hair has turned white.

The ageless sea—

The ageless sea does not favor white hair,

My remains now—

I entrust my remains to the land's wife.

I have heard it.
In days of yore.

In the sea's profound depths
resounded and echoed
the bell's profound resonance!
Though it resounded high,
though it made chests pound,
know—the tide's roar was merely
the mocking woman's mocking song.
Children, prevail over your friends,
conquer the wind, wed the sea—
profound compassion how intense!
Hear the sea through its bell.
The capsized dugout canoe—

Hold in your arms
the one and only sea bell—
stake your life and listen.
My teachings alone shall remain beloved,
to be left for the children,

The remains—in vain—

The remains were entrusted to the land's wife.

Winter Night’s Whispered Verse

People have quieted,
The wind has calmed.
The lamp and
the heart and

They had grown old.
Proclaim.
What being,
From ancient times it came,
Now passed me by,
It went onward behind.

Alas,

Like boiling water

How joyful!

My winter night.

——The piled-up charcoal's

In the interval of becoming ash.

When Keats's amorous letters are put up for auction

(Oscar Wilde)

All of this—every last bit—is Endymion’s

A letter written to a secretly cherished beloved while apart.

Now, the clamor of the auction house—

They conduct transactions with shamefully grimy banknotes.

Truly—do they invoke dilettantes' evaluations upon each pulse of the poet's passion?

They invoke the merchants' evaluations.
They do not love art.

They smashed the jewels of the poet’s heart.
Through this, they triumphantly made their small and ailing eyes shine.
Have you not heard of that ancient time—

In a certain town of the distant eastern land, there were soldiers
who held aloft torches and ran through midnight,
clamoring with curses as they tried to seize the pitiable one's garment.

Then, using that garment as a stake, they drew lots.

That God showed neither surprise nor gave thought to the grief in this matter.

Translator’s Note

And so they nailed Jesus to the cross, then cast lots to divide his garments (Gospel of Matthew).

After they crucified Jesus, they cast lots to divide his garments (Gospel of Mark).

They cast lots to divide Jesus' garments (Gospel of Luke).

The soldiers crucified Jesus, then took his outer garment and divided it into four parts—each taking one—and also took the undergarment. Since this undergarment was woven seamless from top to bottom without stitching, they said among themselves: "We should not tear this, but cast lots for whose it shall be." This was to fulfill the Scripture that says: "They divided my garments among themselves and cast lots for my undergarment."

The soldiers did this (Gospel of John).

Secretly Titling My Own Poetry Collection

Regret alone creates sin.

Memories are the dregs of forgetting.

Only tangled emotions become poems.

He inhaled yesterday’s bouquet deeply.

Pitiable readers sighed three times.

Kerria

Though I long to draw from the mountain spring where kerria grows thick, I know not the path.

*Man'yōshū*

Cherry blossoms
Edward Thomas
Cherry trees arched over, their flowers cascading down in showers.
All who once frequented had already vanished around the ancient path—
The way they scattered and fell upon the grass resembled wedding blossoms strewn at nuptials,
This early May morning—who remained unwed?
Old woman
Joseph Campbell

That which is holy,

Like a white candle,

Such beauty—

It is an aged face.

Winter sun’s exhausted sunlight—

Exhausted sunlight—

Such is

A woman who has ended her journey.

Lifeblood has departed from within the body,

That thought lies in stillness

The broken waterwheel’s beneath,

Like water.

Tired person

Anna Wickham

I am a quiet gentleman,

I am always sitting and dreaming.

And yet my wife is on the mountainside
She is as wild as a mountain stream.
I am a quiet gentleman,

I am always sitting and contemplating,

And yet my wife becomes a whirlwind and dashes,
Amidst the ink-black night.
Ah, give me a woman of my kind—
One who is reserved like me,
We sit patiently by the fire,
May we stay still until we die.
If June comes—
Robert Bridges
If June comes—all day long
I would sit together with my beloved in fragrant hay.

Now, in the serene sky, white clouds seem to pile up as if—
As sunlight pierces through, how I would gaze in wonder at the lofty palace.

You sing, and I sing of you—
I would have you let me hear songs of joy all day long.

People would not know, if we were to hide away in a thatched house.

Oh, how delightful life would be were June to come!

O golden-haired one

James Joyce

I lean against the window.

O golden-haired one—

Entranced, your singing

Reaches me.

I close the book

"I won't read anymore,"

The flames dancing on the stove's floor—

I gazed.

I discarded the book.

The room emerged.

Through the twilight, your singing voice—

The sounds reaching me—
Singing and singing
Entranced,

Leaning my body against the window
O golden-haired one