by Chika Sagawa
—Leave dreams to the dreamers. Amidst the grass, the heat haze makes those green tentacles flutter, protecting their easily torn shadows. Moreover, the purple smoke of the madrigal turns the sky to frosted glass.
—I hear the sound of a leaf bud tearing. Sweet fruit of a great joy. The flow of a pace that strikes people in the retina.
—Already lost and returned to the earth under a pitch-black gravestone, endless colors seek to know when it is time to dishevel reality and flower gardens alike.
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—Turning into a battle cry for those who awaken repeatedly while tumbling around the eternal abyss, that sound gives birth to me, and that light shoots me through. The hotel lobby is buried in saffron to properly welcome this feast from heaven.
LATE GATHERING
I whistle and they come back from deep in the sky. So that there is no chance of drowning in the endless colors. Emerald, ruby, and diamond flower petals drenched in a new brilliance roam the fields and mountains. Thin drooping folds of grass send out the slightest breeze. The terrace opens out to the sea, and countless damp conversations spill out. No longer, but at times vividly.
CLIMBING TO HEAVEN
There are socks drying in the station
Hanging from a yurika branch
A fickle wind prays to the thicket
Clouds in the shade of saplings are trampled
And a group of stars migrates to the north
Countless times, winter sets tombstones in the earth
And the rose decorating that chest is burned-out ash
Passion, as it eventually declines
Will report on their absence
And the moonlight in their eyes
Remains absolutely useless.
MAYFLOWER
Full bloom inside the piano
I touch it and the keys begin to move
The impudent grass is food for the calves
Lilas flowers make a crown
Spanish money descends
Between the plants of glass
DARK SONG
Upon the new carpet all abloom
Quietly slowly
Two donkeys push a lorry.
On the street where the proud flower petals burn
Silk feathers are stained by pollen.
And where her toes touch
A white rainbow is portrayed.
AFTERNOON OF FRUIT
Rain drove off the leaves from the trees
The village has no need for music for the cadence of their
brilliant shadows pounding the ivory keys and the dark earth, not even if their trees went naked.
Already the finale is on the roughened grass,
The bruised fruit are scattered atop the hill.
FLOWER
Dreams are severed fruit
Auburn pears have fallen in the field
Parsley blooms on the plate
Sometimes the leghorn appears to have six toes
I crack an egg and the moon comes out
AFTERNOON
Rains like flower petals.
Hit by a heavy weight, insects descend the tree shade.
Gathering at the mast wall, trailing a faint breeze—sounds are killed by the sun, the waves.
My skeleton places white flowers upon it.
Interrupted by thoughts, fish climb the cliff.
MEERSCHAUM
The spotted air grows heavy, the ventilator blows leaves into the sky.
There is a blizzard on the ocean, its purpose to pile layers of flower petals like paper scraps, and then to bury their unfocused music in the pavement. Dried up clouds are pasted on the other side of the display window.
To the nodding grass, the lantern shadows, and then onto a deep slumber—somewhere, cicadas unravel ferns.
As a lump of rotten air leaves behind an indecipherable scream, and as the fervent desires of these old-fashioned ones hoping to return again—as well as the echoes of the dark summer—wander the spaces between the tips of branches, a distant hour is lost, and then, to think that it should shine above us after all.
END OF SUMMER
August, and the leaves have died off early
The sun crawls over the charred hill
There, the rhythms of nature simply help the trees converse
But in the city, forgotten sounds contemplate the colors and shapes of waves
As always, stars are abloom at the ranch
The swarming of which the cows eat in the shape of an arch
Coming in from the frozen port, an invisible season
As well as everyone’s day, are about to come to an end
FINALE
Behind me, an old person sings of a cracked heart, and of the sun
The effect of which collides into a thin wall of ebonite
And is likely to never end
Honeybees were buried in an abundance of fennel pollen
Summer was no longer nearby
Deep in the woods a tree is felled
Attenuated time comes quickly at first, then gently passes by
So as not to fall behind
Leaving brown footprints in the withered field
All earthly marriage ceremonies have come to an end
A PLAIN, MOONLIT NIGHT
A butterfly landed on the pipe organ on the rooftop garden
The unseasonable syllables wrench the lady’s heart
The bouquet is torn away the fire does not burn
Outside the window a deer passes by, trampling on the stars
At the ocean bottom, fish mock the weather people put on their glasses
This year, too, the widowed moon deceives its age
PRELUDE
Out of sight and covered by clouds, the leaves multiply with incredible vigor. Without warning they are carried in, the sycamore and zelkova trees filling up with new leaves—like wriggling creatures they well up and overflow, sparkling. From a distance, I see the air suddenly pull together, the black clusters overlapping to create darkness. Then it gradually expands towards the hill and seems to turn into a thicket, though it is unclear whether there really is a thicket or if it is a row of trees. At times, the sky is so high and distant, you would think it got so dirty because it was injured by something. The hollow below is a field, youthful like the breast of a pigeon, and the ladies from the city exclaim in surprise, Why, it’s just like the Gulf of Spada. And they sit on their picnic blankets eating sandwiches and chocolates, discussing the lovely weather, and how organdy butterflies are going to be fashionable this summer. All this time, the green fountain rotates ceaselessly, glowing like newspapers being spit out of the rotary press.
It makes me dizzy to know how varied are the repeating lives of the endless morning plants. There are no human footsteps, nor the smell of butter or cheese, but nonetheless as I watch over their stifling propagation and battle and exultation, I am on the brink of losing. Outside our home, yet so near to us, they align their footsteps as if to threaten, moaning in inexplicable gloom, forcing me to keep watch outside. I wonder how long it has been since I have been dragged in and ensnared by such surroundings. The only things I can see without cacophony or deception, aside from the air and sky and trees and grass, are their flowing colors and rough, lurid shapes. With a strange intensity, they push me out the door, making me sad, making me angry.
When I slowly open my eyes, as if goaded into it, close to my eyelids there is a simple exchange of greetings with nature. I feel that I have awakened. Then the ceiling stained yellow from the leaking rain, and the walls covered with little nail holes, gradually become absorbed by the weak violet light trying to awaken from sleep, receding further and further away. I feel I have
lost something I should not have allowed to escape. Just like when a child clings to the hopes of being reunited with some lost object. Even as I consider recapturing it, it is only tepid like warm water, there is nothing that returns. As my upper body suddenly grows lighter, I am unable to remember anything, and there is no longer any appeal in the fact of its passing. And then the woods and sun and fence appear vividly as if they were left behind from an early morning dream.
Those nearby will probably continue their usual, gentle repetitions. These clustered shapes of plants should have nothing to do with me, but somehow I feel the need to be cautious of each and every one, as if I am bound to them. I grow drowsy watching over the moving tips of treetops, and every day as I mumble to myself, the day comes to an end.
The elm tree in the center of the garden spreads its stiff branches like a wedding veil, and at the foot of the tree, weeds surround it like the teeth of a saw. The spots that differentiate the unkempt grass—dahlias, columbines, white nettle, rushes and such—spin around like celluloid toys. That’s right, placed atop the tangled mesh, space is unable to detach and fall away from the leafy veins. I ponder how the small activity of ants going back and forth between the stems of grasses occupies most of that space. Was there such a dark, narrow road here—unnoticed by humans, there is this constant business of living by walking across the wires that would disappear into thin air at the slightest touch; if the chestnut flowers should happen to cluster and fall, the less visible insects would likewise move on to the next stalk time and time again. What are you thinking, and where are you going—regardless of how insignificant your beginnings may have been, try not to lose hope before determining your direction.
* * *
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Seasons, returning without a doubt and without any error in their path, and traveling around the world without any warning—when they burst forth with countless sprouted seeds, how we had desired the exuberant construction of plants. With similar speed, the plants share their short feathers with all the fields in this world of avarice, leading people to look in different directions. Because our usual field of vision had been replaced by something unfamiliar before anyone could notice, we came to crave the intensity of color and freedom.
I see the day break through the shaggy, kinky green gates. The dawn that comes from the depths of the atmosphere, flowing gently like the clearing mist, is a beautiful labyrinth. People tend to have unseemly thoughts when they encounter that which is too beautiful. Something bad must have happened while we were sleeping. It appears calm on the surface but only because it conceals a secret, this quiet brimming with eerie uncertainty. If I don’t scream soon I might be killed. Why not rebel, steeped in this stagnant air. We are possessed by humid air rising from thick grass that suffocates and confines us, and yet the plants steal all vitality away from humans, staging a banquet without end.
I believed at once that trees have blue blood running through them. Because they speak in such a prophet-like manner. Because the sap leaves small stains on our skin and muscles, my hands swell up, my heart about to tear from the cold. On farms in the Northern country, it is said that wheat must be quickly harvested and dried, lest the calves come tearing through the fence, and also that wool scarves should be prepared. Soon the snow will come and freeze over the trees.
My friends have started to plan their days around the patterns in the sky and colors of flowers. They worry about the state of the weather, measuring warmth or coldness at the tips of their fingernails. They believe in some kind of promise, or communication, between the color of their clothes or lipstick, for example, or even the placement of furniture, with the scene outside their windows. They believe that they are controlled by these subtle gradations, and feel the need to constantly be in harmony with the landscape. At times they try to bloom more beautifully than a flower. This is why, as they gaze at the colors of flower petals, or watch the growth of a tree, their skin and their movements are changing all of their own accord.
The plants, abundant with change, grow so vigorously that I am no longer able to read books or smoke cigarettes. In an attempt to not miss the slightest movement in their expressions—their branches are swaying, they are fiercely surrounded—my own expressiveness becomes something quite useless. Even raising my hand, or laughing, is nothing but a precise imitation of their expressions. There is not a single thing that is mine, I am simply repeating their movements, stealing their expressions. I can no longer tell which is the shadow of which. There is nothing that I have given them. And yet I have accepted everything they do. Sooner or later I shall transform into a tree and disappear into their fold. All this time I had believed I was alive, and yet perhaps I do not even exist. The mere shadow of a tree, the ghost-like figure that crawls on the ground only in the afternoon—these too will soon grow invisible. Eventually, the wisdom of the trees will pass up and above our heads. People will lose equilibrium, bracing themselves, and stagger forward, pressing their hats against their heads. I learned that the ardor I had long bestowed upon humanity was of little account; it was like the time I regretted the injury to my scratched up finger that scraped only shards of glass.
Even as all the faces and incidents have been forgotten, the first memories to emerge, after all, are the forms of nature, like the shape of a mountain or the size of a tree—and then, like spinning yarn, various events, buildings, food and such are drawn out, and humans only peek in from between, in a confused mess, and then turn into a languishing memory. If the past is to be thrown away like a worn-out piece of air, I wonder what kind of conversation would be the most comforting to the aged. The reason why people look back into the fading distance until their scars shine with brilliance is because we hold in our hearts the belief that our youthful adolescence lies in the direction where the flowers are blooming.
The rain washes the trees all day, and the duet with the earth begins. Out of nowhere, or in bits and pieces, a rhythmical wave surges forward, coloring the plants in reds and yellows. The cheerful music that we desire and arrest seems to be quickening the seasons by quite a bit. I could no longer make out the voices. Autumn has only just begun, but there are coals in the stove, and all the family has come out to the balcony to listen to the simple tune played by invisible strings. A branch like a steel frame hangs down from the sky, and the sunshade fabric is removed. The elm tree is now naked. The time here seems to pass in the direction of the leaves falling. In their hearts, everyone laments their age. Because one ring is a souvenir of a lively day, but also becomes a chain tying us to the past. All that has faded scatters in the sky, waiting for the final cadence. The empty echoes approaching gradually—they wander among trees like desolate melodies. The changing of nature, and the regulated order—do they hope for glorious dreams upon the lips.
SEASONS
September, and the leaves have died off early
The sun crawls along the hill, scorched raw
There, the rhythms of nature simply help the trees converse
But in the city, forgotten sounds contemplate the colors and shapes of waves
As always, stars are abloom at the ranch
The swarming of which the cows eat in the shape of an arch
Coming in from the frozen port, an invisible season
As well as the entirety, this heart’s day, are all about to end
WORDS
Mother spoke as if in song
Those old stories can still melt the ice on our chests
The ocean swells in the lower regions of winter burning with a small noise ringing golden dreams and submerging countless mumblings
Deception and ruin, resembling fallen leaves, will soon block the road
There is no more tomorrow people are simply tired
Demeaned in the distance a twisted wind dries out the snow and in this way, here
Only the betrayed words devour idleness to no end
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Waiting for that final, unrecognized hour
DOWNFALL
—Listen: to the sprouts emerging from within the hurricane.
The garden is now trying to go to ruin.
Will the wind that extinguishes trembling life again relieve its burden on the trees.
The trunks of arrogance and laziness chopped down to the earth brutally torment your thinking.
They are all forms of deception provisional, painted masks.
The ocean of the blazing sun opens entangles with a field of roses only the spoken words beg forgiveness while trying to live.
COMPOSITION IN THREE PRIMARY COLORS
The post office is a mile away.
In front of the butcher shop, a leghorn bends its beak scrounging for feed. Locally grown eggs for sale, it says on the window. A man in a white apron sneezes, with a knife gleaming between the tendons of the beast. Passing by the rear gates of the elementary school, there is a commotion like a swarm of bees, and the national anthem departs from the keys of the organ, one octave lower. When they arrive at a distant wind-like conclusion, the village is completely submerged into the air, and the birds no longer sing in this region of calm. The nandina field is viscous and beautiful like melted lacquer. I see an army fleet on a hill; it is round like a bun of scorched, dead grass. On a sunny day, a brown lizard watches the ventilation tube spin around, kerakerakerakera. What is that! Rows of boots with freshly applied cream. Singing out of tune, I walk down a street with a cedar forest and a bamboo grove and a clothes-drying rack. The soldiers say that the fruit atop the donkey’s back is funny. Which reminds me that the sun is a cheap, gleaming thing that at first shines near the eyes, then slips back and follows people around all day—but it seems to have grown a bit distorted. There is a mental hospital in the middle of the field. They say the flag on the rooftop is a landmark so that people won’t get lost. From the balcony I see the laundry person’s bike detouring around it on its way here. Further above the rooftop where the saffron has bloomed all over, silk slippers are raining down. The river close to my ears always shows me such dreams. Music with loosened strings bursts out through a rift in a boring moment. To anticipate a lighthearted letter on a Sunday afternoon is enjoyable like the feeling of loving the rhythms of a ribbon being teased by the wind, atop the head of a doe. It is also amusing to consider those white thorns touching the heart. The naked trees can be seen transparently into the depths of the sky. A man wearing a wool coat over a blue kimono is up on a tree stump, using his umbrella as a cane, swaggering in front of all the children and adults that surround him. “YOU CRAZY FOOLS. DO YOU, DO YOU KNOW WHEN THIS ROAD WAS BUILT? HOW OLD THIS ZELKOVA TREE IS? I, I, DURING THE PROSPEROUS TIMES OF 1917, YES, IF I HADN’T LOST IT ON THE MARKET, I WASN’T ASKING YOU IF NAPOLEON HAD COME TO CAUCASUS. MY YOUNGER BROTHER HAD TWO THOUSAND HECTARES OF FARMLAND. AND YET THE RICE IS EXPENSIVE. DON’T YOU LAUGH NOW—ANY MOMENT NOW YOU’RE GOING TO STUMBLE. HA HA HA HA HA….” What a cold outcry. His toothless mouth was inflamed and bright red. Let’s quickly shut the windows of the cakebox-like hospital across the way—there is an evil wind blowing from over there. A cold that invades the brains of young people. We don’t make much of an exception for running in order to catch the train.