Pathway to Japanese Literature

People’s hearts—who could know them? In my hometown, flowers still breathe with scents of bygone days.

A kite shrieks.

——In Place of a Preface to Flowers of Hometown

Late into dusk

At the window where late autumn rain beat, already darkening,

What stirred this heart?

In the mid-sky, a kite cried.

The voice grew hoarse.
Three times it cried sorrowfully and lingered.
The waves’ voices grew ever louder.
The day already darkened.
Ah，the earth lay deep in the shadow of peace and darkness.
A solitary voice crying out with beating wings—
I heard something flying far from my rooftop.

Violet

Spring tides chased each other, drawing near to fall upon.

The setting sun—now in the midst of its crimson glow—

I saw

a delicate flower—a single violet blooming,

its fragile neck held high.

Even something small bloomed proudly alone

Passing there,

Where shall I return? I have no hometown.

In the crimson midst of the setting sun—

O distant one

The distant one is distant

When sleeping in deep spring fields,

Even at the sound of a pigeon cooing, I awakened.

The brevity of a dream in a nap

The distant one is distant

Fallen leaves in deep spring fields

If kindled, the flame burns but briefly.

Smoke stinging the eyes—aching smoke,

Spring sorrow

Spring sorrow—my shadow's pine forest stealing through,

a pine forest stealing through in secret

Gathering the pine's twisted needles,

Ah, I think of someone far away.

Spring sorrow—my shadow

Fluttering and flying clouded yellow butterfly

The violet flower sways upright

Without knowing where to go upon the waves

Spring sorrow—my shadow's

A pine forest resting in secret

Upon this sea so blue

Gathering the pine’s twisted needles, ah

Kūkin

Why must you utter empty words?

Life and body both held dear,

Life and body both holding dear,

Where lies the path to return?

Cherishing tomorrow with no destination

Yet still uttering falsehoods

Even to be caught by the spring breeze?

Only cherishing your honorable sleeves

Though floating on water

Floating on water yet flying through the sky

Not to wet these two wings

Seagull of light artifice

The traveler who cherishes his heart

In the poignant, longed-for waters of the inlet

Time flows ceaselessly without trace,

*Floating Clouds*

Since it is a cloud floating in the sky,
it has no place to rest—

Crimson—
dyed crimson,
dyed crimson—

the offshore island’s
floating in the sky,
crimson-dyed clouds—

only in the semblance of a fleeting moment
destroying themselves—

drifting clouds’
such is their fate.
such is their fate—

offshore birds’
even the heartless—

A single cycle
Furakoko
On the calm branches of the pine in my garden
Two hollow Furakoko here—
Hanging them up, I played awhile

The figure of the heavenly child is nowhere to be seen.

Whose window might this be?

Only the soft breeze blowing through.

Where crape myrtle flowers fall

Two Furakoko hang here.

White Graveyard

In the yellowing of autumn fields,

Evening mist trailed far off
On the distant hill，a white cemetery came into view
Green pine shade
Gravestones all white，floating in the twilight

In this landscape now,
there arose a sensation as of quiet music drifting up.
Having once passed through there,

I, though a traveler who knew not where to go—
all things dimly dear—
therefore uncomprehending, I stood gazing at this moment of an unforgettable day.

By the roadside
An autumn firefly wandered low, solitary.
In mornings, I dream.

In an unknown mountain hamlet

Ceaselessly, cherry blossoms scatter hurriedly.

Pale cherry blossoms ceaselessly scattered aslant.

In mornings, I dreamt.

Cherry blossoms merely fluttered down in haste—

Fluttering, the flowers quietly stirred and scattered in the wind to drift away.

After dark, again those flowers scattered faintly—

The cherry blossoms scattering so piteously—the morning’s dream in which I saw them

Vivid to the eye—

Again, more than water, it seeped quietly into the heart and remained unforgettable.

Especially here—the hem of the mosquito net trembled faintly in resonance.

A desolate autumn morning—

Waking from the dream, I grieved
the sorrow of distant days with unknown cause—traces of an ever-receding end

Autumn wind
The pine grove—autumn wind
Falling upon the hat's brim
The sound of pine needles falling—how piteous
Returning flowers desolate
Countless mountains and rivers
Cherry blossoms at the end of Koshi Road
The blue sea through pine branches
Returning flowers bloom in the day's sky
Small birds sing, but their song is lonely
--Sound lonely
Returning flowers though they be—color and fragrance both
Today’s day too fades faintly
In the pine grove, trees darken
Days of blooming—how many?
Those flowers already begin to flutter down in scattering
Circling the hill—countless
Of the perishing day
Only the faintest glimmer remains—

You are the traveler
Yet you are the traveler

O traveler

Rest beneath trees.

This here is not your homeland.

O traveler,

View all things as strangers.

Rest even upon cold stones.

Truly, your homeland remains far in the distance.

Until you return to that distant village,

O traveler,

Be reserved and spare in speech.

Take not the hand of faithless ones.

With mere transient truths, lay not your hand upon their shoulders.

Grow accustomed even to seeing their lonely backs.

Yet you are the traveler.

O traveler

Enter the tree shade

Rest even upon cold stones.

Shelter from the Late Autumn Rain

Faint.

Faint voices faded at once.

The pattering rain now began to fall—the sound of rain.

A night of rain stealthily coursing along eaves.

In the hushed night when late autumn rain fell,
What bird now crossed?
Faint.
Faint voices faded at once.
Voices called out to one another,
They merely pattered low and faintly,
Entrusting wives to one another, exchanging replies—
Like lightning blotting out,
They quickly grazed past the dark night sky and vanished into the far distance.

The wind sank into deep stillness,

Lamps burned dimly; all people slept in the town's streets.

Roof tiles also cold, the roof ridges of houses—

Drenched through and through in late autumn rain

Faint—

Faint voices came back this way.

Truly, on nights such as those days of last year—

In the tedium of shelter from late autumn rain,

In the distant sound of the nearing-winter sea mingling,

Faint—

Faint—

Having heard such cool sounds—

These memories now—ah, how sorrowful—

Ah, thus growing old—merely letting them age—

Leaving no trace—

Whither goes this flock of voices?—

Dragonfly—

Ah, that dragonfly—
Even creatures of brief life—
Might I rest here awhile—
Though clouds coursing through heaven are swift—
The eulalia's tips—how quiet they are.

Crickets

Tonight the rain cleared,

The moon shone clear—

On all surrounding walls

In the kitchen too—

Also in the eaves where dead leaves gathered—

On the roof as well, crickets chirped.

On the roof as well, crickets chirped.

Thus they, all through the night,

Sang of the master's poverty and obstinacy,

Sang of the shortness of talent

Tonight the rain cleared,

The moon shone clear—

Morning Little Sparrow Maiden

Having circled distant mountains—

Every morning come and sing, little sparrow

Clouds tear—

The sun red—
Dew lies heavy—
Fallen leaves decay—only a faint fragrance remains.
Crimson grass seeds—this garden

Come to this garden and sing, little sparrow
Smoke veiling the gable faintly
The sound of drawing water came at intervals.

In this hermitage people dwelt, yet

All day long, the windows remained closed.

Autumn too departed, winter's morning—

The collar of worn-out clothes chilled,

A draft through gaps pierced the heart,

And I grew weary again of wandering beyond this realm.

The season now—

On the thorn hedge,

On the crape myrtle's withered twig,

At the wisteria trellis

On the pine's still branches
Come and sing, little sparrow
Come and sing, little sparrow
Two cloudless crystal beads
Drawing near each other as though touching,
With the coolness of that voice—

Farewell then

The unbearable bleak poverty of the human world

Deliberately, chillingly

Let it enter our bones

Morning's Little Sparrow Maiden

Grass Pillow

Grass Pillow

At the window shutters of the temporary inn
Whose answering voice sounds here?

The inconstancy of Koshi Road's sky—
The pattering sound of hail—
woodpecker
woodpecker

woodpecker

…………

From the branch tip I had bade point,

I abruptly entered the forest.

…………

O lover
Did you too see

…………

crimson chest

song of sorrow

that desolate bird shadow

…………

In your chill heart too

Forget not

This single day of today—

…………

Of the child of man

Lament

Endless—

…………
Or that

suddenly vanishes,

the shadow of the bird that entered the forest

…………

O lover, listen well

The voice of the wind

That bird cries again there—

…………

Now, this...

On the road where I part from you

…………

The tree withered

Fourth-day moon

…………

Seldom flew

Tree leaves

Sakurajima Mountain

Dolphins leaping—spring sea plain

Late autumn rain fell

Soon concealed itself—Sakurajima Mountain

Three planes descended straight from the ninth heaven

Ah, how vivid!

Sakurajima Mountain—the shadow of clouds loomed visible
From the farthest reaches of the war-torn sea they returned
Warship's wake
Sakurajima Mountain

○

The cries of two kinds of katydids arose.

In the garden field
Sunlight's quiet shine
Sea blue
The small pine grove's color—blue
Dragonfly red
The journey endless
Pine blue
The mountain—small pines' color blue

Yonder, silent...

The sea's voice was heard.

The red pine that had stood crimson

Mercilessly cut down

Collapsed indeed.

The sea's sound yonder

The bull-headed shrike rasped its harsh cry.

today’s autumn

wind brushing brows

hill tree-lined path

autumn again

the sound of a horse's hoof—ah, the pathos

suddenly began to appear

the color of the sea—ah, the pathos

○

What I tread
the sand of a journey with no day of return
Five or six crows writhe on white sand
Oshima—ah
Meshima too—ah
the sky's limit stretching across

The autumn wind blows.

Spring has departed; even the Kagome bird—

It does not return.

The wind blowing over Koshi Road—

Nothing but the autumn wind

○

The sun blazes down.

An employee tilling the arrowhead field

the pumpkin field

they ran—ah!

○
Autumn deepens.
The time when the young skylarks cry—

Has come indeed—ah!

At the Nakdong River

In a daikon field of deep autumn, a skylark cries.

Had fallen silent.

At the Nakdong River

Rain-drenched cow

Standing on the embankment—the grass appears.

Here it wanders

Nakdong’s water

Great crow

The shadow has flown off in disarray.

On the river surface

The crying voice—ah, the pathos

A pond exists; a graveyard exists.

A pond exists.

A graveyard exists.

A bush warbler sings.
The soil dries impoverishedly.
Hill red.
The sun stands high.

Even on such days when cherry blossoms scatter—
Emotion had already withered—
Like some wandering beast—
My shadow—shabby—blown by wind—
I pursued imagination’s sinking sail-shadows—
At an aimless path’s end—
Thus directionless—crossed over—

A landscape where all things slant—

Now, at spring's noon repast—
In profound silence, the sea's voice far away,
In the thicket’s shade, a thicket camellia fell.

Ah, the focus of my days such as these has warped sorrowfully—

A pond exists.

A graveyard existed.

A bush warbler sang.

Log bridge

When I cross the log bridge alone

A blue fish abruptly surfaced

O fleeting moment—you who pecked at my shadow and vanished—
Ah, those days when

Good friends too,
My noble mentor once walked this earth.
The world stood bathed in early summer's light,
The field shone radiant,
In the garden red flowers bloomed.

Even the children who waited on that path

Now they all are gone without a trace.

Truly, the human world—

If it be sake—a single cup of dream

The dream vanishes, the cup empty.

So be it.

Farewell then.

Days unreturned

―How all things were filled with pathos and longing―

Wood Rooster Year Impromptus

At the brink of a hill where the moon glimmers dimly—

Flowers are cut down and become firewood.

What reason—

Why then these tears hidden so deeply?

When I came to the sea and picked up beautiful stones,

The old tears I shook off—ah, how they flowed!

I had no way to speak fully.

I paid respects at Mr. Shimazaki Tōson's new grave.

A tranquil autumn morning it is.
Brown-eared bulbuls call out to the sky
Spanning from forest to forest

A tranquil autumn morning it was.

The shrike stretched its high note taut,
Cried out piercingly.
The world held its breath.
The great waves of the cricket-filled shore—

Even they crumbled slowly—

Listening here—how faint it was.

In this garden now sunlight falls.
Dappled so vividly.

Delicately present, it swayed and settled.

Father of poetry in the new world,

He lay sleeping beneath the plum tree.

The resting place of this honorable Father—

According to divine will, serene—

Drenched in dew and frost, fragrant:

Several rings of white chrysanthemum flowers,

The smoke of a faintly blue fragrance

Drifting aimlessly, swaying only—

At the edge of the hill, in the temple garden,

Thus all things awakened.

The morning wind began to blow through.

The sky is blue—
The sea too lies blue in the distance—
All sounds dwell far away—
Here at this boundary—pure.

A landscape of nothing particular—just as it was—

Did it not resemble this poet’s—

The septuagenarian’s ears remained keenly attuned.

Silent, fingers interlaced

In the attitude of one immersed in noble contemplation

A tranquil autumn morning it was.

"What meaning has fame across ten thousand ages?

‘Desolate lie matters beyond life’s end,’"

Was it not fitting to declare?

I merely bow here

I merely returned here

The human world entire as it stands.

Neither approbation nor dispute exists.

A moment in time—

By the pond stands a persimmon tree.

By the pond stands a persimmon tree.

On the embankment where water fell, the trunk tilts

The path I tread is dear.

Beyond the grass-green path
At the schoolhouse where pine trees stood tall and earthen walls lay low
What had I learned through all these years?

Now I do not recount.

All things are swept away by time’s deathly broom.

In the past’s traceless void—merely

Even that already grows dim

O mentor, your noble form…

A broad forehead, a well-defined jaw.

A short beard.

A round face glowing,

His form bore some resemblance to a shallot.

His noble voice was cool as a spring.

Throughout the four seasons, navy high-collared garments with sharp creases.

In hand, a slender whip did he carry.

Ah, I now—as if lending ear to an organ's voice fading far away—

I cherish how your honorable name rises spontaneously to my lips.

You were granted life for one day,

To withdraw to his hometown in Tanba Province's certain county—

On that day, the sky cleared, clouds scudded, and sunlight streamed bright from the lectern.

To the ear of the child questioning this unexpected form of words,
Thunderous words were uttered.
He descended from the lectern with solemn grace,
Placed a hand upon the shoulder of the child whose tear-streaked face bore no voice,
And graciously delivered his farewell address.
The sound of sobbing filled the room.
The ordinarily slow spring day’s moment was but a fleeting instant.
When you pushed open the door, saying farewell—

They rose abruptly—that once, only once—

There was a young woman who called your name in a sharp voice.

That voice still lingers in my ear—ah!

When I reflect—I on such days,

The uncertain human world’s ephemeral picture tales—a single moment

Truly, I must have learned the profoundly deep pathos and longing.

And thus I have passed the midway of human life—

I only wish that this very day too, in the villages of my hometown’s district—

I only wait—may you partake first.

O mentor, how have you aged now?

Days that do not return—the distant past

Days that do not return

Distant past

Days that do not return

Distant past

(Listen well—there again in night’s far reaches,
in the deep distant woods, an owl cries)
A distant past.
Everything and everyone—
The wild goose,
the dove,
the owl too—

They've all vanished.

That child too—where and what became of them—

A fox-eyed daytime lantern—

The sickly one—

They were always a quiet child—

With a pale face,

Chapped,

Frostbitten hands red and chapped—sa

Those hands too since then… there's been no word.
In what land, doing what—
Sa—what has become of them—
Never again—is that all there was? All there ever will be?

In this unforeseen present moment

Suddenly trying to recall on this very day—
What could a child’s heart know?
They bounded lightly.

They leapt nimbly

Distant past

Days that do not return

Distant past

Days that do not return

A distant past.

Everything and everyone

A distant land

An exceedingly distant faraway village

Clatter-clatter

Clatter-clatter

clatter-chatter chow

Clatter-clatter again.

They sang songs too.

They threw stones too.

Even so, those were winter days when everyone was in good spirits.

Only one thing forever.

On the treetops—yellow yuzu fruits.

At the eaves—corn seeds.

That the crow snatched and—

On the Oribe lantern—since yesterday—moss had grown over the bashō plant.

The chrysanthemums now had only their supporting bamboo sticks left.

One evening—

In the corner where a will-o'-the-wisp rested for one night

Pale red plum blossoms bloomed, scenting—

The fragrance filled the sunlit space, filled the garden.

Then waited awhile with ears attuned.

Over the fence—

The well's wheel creaked and rattled.

Then quietly—

Then—whether that person's voice was heard or not………

Morning having ended—sunlight lingering before noon.

I went again from the back gate

to the base of a lone pine by the temple cemetery's earthen wall.

On high branches

the parasitic tree that had shed all vermilion fruit—

The brown-eared bulbul turned its head away.

I briskly bowed my head once toward the mountain.

I tried tapping the trunk of that pine (ah, that texture) again, I suppose.
I always did that, but—
And yet there was no particular reason for it either.
Distant past—
Days that do not return—
It was a distant past.
Everything and all—
It was a distant past.
Everything and all—
Only that—strangely lingered in the ears.

It had slipped into the dawn's dream as well.

Distant forest flutes and drums.

Gongs and drums.

From set-piece fireworks' smoke,

the jester doll leaped out -

sauntering sauntering in carefree guise -

toward the river's opposite bank it fell away.

On festival day,

at the withered zelkova's tip,

a balloon caught caught swaying -

by next day grown wrinkled,

then by noon unseen.

Ox dust.

Horse dust.

A dreary cart clattered along the path between rice paddies.

Distant past

It was a distant past.

Everything and all

Days that do not return
Distant past

Wild skies at dusk.

The heavens raged as dusk fell.

No small boat was seen offshore.

The remaining light scattered and vanished.

That form at the meager lighthouse -

Pale red pupils were sadly kindled.

Evening crows skimmed low over waves,

They all flew soundlessly,

Hurriedly flapping their wings.

By what were they pursued?

In the bleak distant vista of dusk,

Yet still, those who had a roost were fortunate indeed.

The heavens darken once more

The clouds raced once more.

The rows of houses in Kanata Town had closed their windows.

Not even soot flew in the wind.

The long bridge stood vainly erected.

The traces of carriages and horses had vanished.

The row of pine trees hazed in the distance.

Ah, this scene—how utterly desolate it had become!

Masts lay half broken.

The gunwale rusted red—what ship could this have been?

The heavy anchor had been cast into the river mouth.

At times, melancholy machinery released its shriek.

Truly, this was the end of a nation shattered in battle.

Waves submerged the breakwater.

Though spray fiercely rose white,

No human voices were heard anywhere around.

Only sparse patches of grass withered as sand quivered.

Here I stood alone, brandishing my staff
I sang elegies and indulged in sentiment.

Seaside Dusk Chant

In the distance appeared a great ship.

An enemy nation’s ship appeared.

“No no, that is clouds.”

In the distance appeared a blue island.

Two islands appeared.

“No no, that is clouds.”

As the day drew toward dusk

Upon our hearts wearied with grief

Now hung a great canopy—the sunset sky blazed crimson.

At the end of a day of profound sorrow and intense labor

None of these things were even briefly adorned with beautiful dreams.

The voices of the waves spoke quietly.

The sound of oars creaked.

The crows simply flew silently in one direction.

Though autumn had deepened, the mountains remained vividly green.

I was immersed in boundless silent contemplations.

All things so prepared to greet a new tomorrow,

Nostalgic reveries and longed-for silences claimed the entire world.

Ah, the battle had ended.

Many warriors did not return.

The end of a country shattered in battle
The ancient bell fell to ruin once more
The sacred tones that should have resounded in such times—
I could not even hear their enduring pure sound
The clouds already weakened and scattered; even the pale blue hue faded away

In the distance appeared a blue island.

Two islands appeared.

"No no, those are clouds."

In the distance appeared a great ship.
An enemy nation's ship appeared.
No no—those were clouds.

Transverse Flute

In days of yore when young children
What sorrow did these crimson lips—so pure—
Listlessly they must have practiced blowing
Now in the dimly shadowed place of things
A transverse flute buried in so much dust and lying fallen
Yesterday the children donned festive garments
They departed southward
Thus left forgotten—even its vermilion-faded mouthpiece—
To the nostalgic child-heart within the ants' idle play
Though I blow mine, it does not sound
Though I blow, it does not sound
Though it does not ring
When I heavily close my eyes, desolation wells up

My heart alone wandered forth into the autumn wind.
A verse of song to hum.

The nation perishes, yet mountains and rivers remain.

The castle in spring—

Sprouting forth

Sprouting forth

The green of grass

Tread and blaze through

If it were a swallow,

Or perhaps again,

It would return to this wide field.

—would return

Capricious child of the sky,

O traceless dream

spring wind’s

In the swaying of willow threads
quivering leaves
When a sudden gust blew, the leaves faintly rustled
The world—the autumn wind's desolation—
The aged colors of scroll bindings / hollow darkness / scent of dreams—
If they existed—they stirred again in this evening wind
old age trembling the fingers…

quivering leaves

fluttering fluttering

tremulous fluttering

flutter

the distinctions of melody and hues of sound had withered and waned—

exceedingly distant, exceedingly faint, and though not vanishing—falteringly

the song’s advancing tread—

in the roaring of evening-withered trees

the corridor where a blind old woman gropes her way without candlelight

countless shadowed recesses……

Tremulous fluttering

Flutter
Tremulous fluttering
Flutter
Tremulous fluttering

Thus—distant lightning vanishes—evening glory flowers faintly white

In the thicket’s shadow that stirs

Does my very breath tremble—weakly, briefly?

Some cease, others rest

If called again, again there is no answer.

trembling

quivering leaves
tremulous fluttering

Yet here the flute's tone too blended into—
all the more vast and desolate—parched, each node by each node.

To liken it—sinking into silver grass plumes,
migratory birds'
a flock
growing ever more distant
—
sound ceasing

Distant―
A wind with wings?
―Even sound had ceased―
My forehead turned cold yet sweated.
Verily now―
All dreams vanished into the distance.
Bitterly fragrant, the chrysanthemums had withered utterly to ruin.
What sorrow was this that already…
Withered wrinkles, gnarled knots standing―
Tears must be wiped away with hands.
The sorrows of age were but to be hidden away.
Truly, the flute belonged to children―
The vessel of desolation―
At the end of such days―the hands of ordinary days took hold―
Even if forgotten, let it not cling to the hand―
Without shadow, the hue of kinship utterly faded―
Firmly―the door of hollow darkness had closed―the vessel of song―