by Donald Keene
Ragetsu felt intuitively that Chokichi’s illness after walking in the flood waters had resulted from a deliberate plan, and that all hope of his recovery was at an end. He was assailed by remorse as he wondered how he had been able to give Chokichi advice which was not really what he believed and thereby frustrate the boy’s hopes. Ragetsu recalled once more how in his youth he had been driven from his parents’ house because of his infatuation for a woman. He of all people should have shown himself Chokichi’s ally. Unless he could make an actor out of Chokichi and give him Oito for a wife, it would render meaningless his own destruction of his father’s business and his life of hardship. He felt dishonored in his pretensions of being a man of the world.
Another mouse suddenly raced over the ceiling. The wind was still blowing, and the flame in the hanging lamp quivered continually. Like some illustrator of romances thinking of pictures for a book, Ragetsu over and over drew in his mind the portraits of the two young, beautiful people—Chokichi with his fair skin, delicate face, and clear eyes; and Oito with her charming mouth and tilted eyes set in a round face. And he cried in his heart, “No matter how bad your fever is, don’t die! Chokichi, there’s nothing to worry about. I am with you.”
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
MODERN POETRY: I
Song on Traveling the Chikuma River
1
By the old castle of Komoro
In white clouds, a wanderer laments.
The green chickweed has not sprouted,
The grass has not yet laid its carpet;
The silver coverlet on the hills around
Melting in the sun, the light snow flows.
There is a warm light
But no scent to fill the fields;
Thinly the haze lies on the spring,
The color of the wheat is barely green.
Here and there little groups
Hurry along the road through the fields.
As it grows dark, even Asama cannot be seen,
A Saku reed pipe makes doleful music.
I entered an inn near the bank
Of the Chikuma River of hesitant waves,
Drank the cloudiness of cloudy sake
And rested myself for a while.
2
Yesterday again it was that way;
Today again it will be that way.
In this life, what do we fret about,
Worrying only over tomorrow?
How many times descending into the valley
Where lingers the dream of glory and decay,
Have I seen in the hesitation of river waves
The water mixed with sand swirl and return?
Ah, what does the old castle tell?
What do the waves on the banks reply?
Think calmly of the world that has passed,
A hundred years are as yesterday.
The willows of Chikuma River are misted,
The spring is shallow, the water has flowed.
All alone I walk around the rocks
And bind fast my sorrow to these banks.
Shimazaki Tōson (1872-1943)
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
My Songs
Because my songs are brief,
People think I hoarded words.
I have spared nothing in my songs.
There is nothing I can add.
Unlike a fish, my soul swims without gills.
I sing on one breath.
One Night
In every room
Light a brilliant light:
In every vase
Arrange poppy and rose:
Not to comfort
But to chastise.
For here a woman
—Forgetting to praise,
Forgetting to respond—
Suddenly wished to weep
Over a trifle.
A Mouse
In my attic dwells a mouse.
The creaking noise he makes
Reminds me of a sculptor who carves
An image all night long.
Again when he dances with his wife,
He whirls like a race horse, round.
Though the attic dirt and dust flutter down
On this paper as I write,
How would he know?
But I stop to think:
I am living with mice.
Let them have good food
And a warm nest.
Let them drill a hole in the ceiling and,
From time to time, peep down on me.
Yosano Akiko (1878-1942)
Wake Not
There are some lives duller
Than dusty glass
Of windows, hot in the sun past noon.
Emptied of thought, senseless,
A young man sleeps, sweating, snoring.
Yellowish teeth protrude from his mouth.
The summer sun through the windowpane
Shines on his hairy leg,
And a flea crawls on it.
Wake not! wake not, till the sun goes down . . .
Till a cool still evening comes into your life.
From somewhere the sensuous laugh of a woman.
A Fist
Pitied by a richer friend than I,
Taunted by a stronger one,
Flushed with wrath, I raised my fist,
When in a chink of my mad soul,
I found a soul that was not mad
Crouching, blinking, meek, and guilty—
Miserable one!
That distress!
Who will you strike
With that luckless fist—
Your friend? your self?
Or the innocent pillar at your side?
lshikawa Takuboku (1885-1912)
TRANSLATED BY SHIO SAKANISHI
Secret Song of the Heretics
[This poem is filled with curious old words dating back to the late sixteenth century, when Portuguese and Spanish priests propagated Christianity in Japan. The references in stanza two to the microscope and telescope are, of course, anachronistic. The magic lantern of stanza three is puzzling, as is the “white blood of marble”: it seems likely that the poet was more interested in the exotic sound of the words than the meaning.]
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I believe in the heretical teachings of a degenerate age, the witchcraft of the Christian God,
The captains of the black ships, the marvelous land of the Red Hairs,
The scarlet glass, the sharp-scented carnation,
The calico, arrack, and vinho tinto of the Southern Barbarians:
The blue-eyed Dominicans chanting the liturgy who tell me even in dreams
Of the God of the forbidden faith, or of the blood-stained Cross,
The cunning device that makes a mustard seed big as an apple,
The strange collapsible spyglass that looks even at Paradise.
They build their houses of stone, the white blood of marble
Overflows in crystal bowls; when night falls, they say, it bursts into flame.
That beautiful electrical dream is mixed with the incense of velvet
Reflecting the bird and beasts of the world of the moon.
I have heard their cosmetics are squeezed from the flowers of poisonous plants,
And the images of Mary are painted with oil from rotted stones;
The blue letters ranged sideways in Latin or Portuguese
Are filled with a beautiful sad music of heaven.
Oh, vouchsafe unto us, sainted padres of delusion,
Though our hundred years be shortened to an instant, though we the on die bloody cross,
It will not matter; we beg for the Secret, that strange dream of crimson:
Jesus, we pray this day, bodies and souls caught in the incense of longing.
One-sided Love
The acacia blossoms gold and red are falling,
In the dusky autumn light they fall.
My sorrow wears the thin flannel garb of one-sided love.
W
hen I walk the towpath along the water
Your gentle sighs are falling,
The acacia blossoms gold and red are falling.
Kitahara Hakushū (1885-1943)
The Land of Netsuke
Cheekbones protruding, lips thick, eyes triangular,
Face like a netsuke carved by the great Shūzan,
Expression vacant as though the soul were removed,
Ignorant of himself, jumpy,
Cheap-lived,
Show-off,
Small-minded, self-satisfied,
Monkey-like, foxlike, squirrel-like, gudgeon-like,
Minnow-like, potsherd-like, gargoyle-faced
Japanese!
Winter Has Come
Suddenly, sharply, winter has come,
The white flowers of the yatsude have vanished
And the gingko trees have turned into brooms.
Whirling, the winter has come boring in.
Winter, that people hate,
Winter, that plants turn from, that insects flee, has come.
Winter!
Come to me, come to me.
I am the winter’s strength; the winter is my food.
Soak through, thrust in,
Start conflagrations, bury in snow—
Winter like a knife has come.
Takamura Kōtarō (1883-1956)
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
MODERN WAKA
Kimi kinu to
You have come at last,
Itsutsu no yubi ni
And so I let go the dragonflies
Takuwaeshi
Which I have held captive
Tombo hanachinu
In my five fingers
Aki no yūgure
This autumn evening.
Kazu shiranu
Of the numberless steps
Ware no kokoro no
Up to my heart,
Kizahashi wo
He climbed perhaps
Hata futatsu mitsu
Only two or three.
Kare ya noborishi
Yosano Akiko (1878-1942)
Song of My Youth
[The following sequence has been put together by the translator from a much larger number of waka.]
Ishi hitotsu
Like a stone
Saka wo kudaru ga
That rolls down a hill,
Gotoku ni mo
I have come to this day.
Ware kyō no hi ni
Itaritsukitaru
Ono ga na wo
There is no way of returning
Honoka ni yobite
To the spring of my fourteenth year,
Namida seshi
When, whispering my own name,
Jūshi no haru ni
I wept.
Kaeru sube nashi
Yoru nete mo
Even in sleep I whistled.
Kuchibue fukinu
Whistling indeed
Kuchibue wa
Was the song of my fifteenth year.
Jūgo no ware no
Uta ni shi arikeri
Uree aru
With the troubled eyes of a youth
Shōnen no me ni
I envied
Urayamiki
Birds flying—
Kotori no tobu wo
Flying they sang.
Tobite utau wo
Akiya ni iri
Going into a vacant house once,
Tabako nomitaru
I smoked a cigarette,
Koto ariki
Only because I longed to be alone.
Aware tada hitori
ltaki bakari ni
Kagiri naki
Fearing I loved someone,
Chishiki no yoku ni
My sister pitied my eyes
Moyuru me wo
That were burning
Ane wa itamiki
With insatiable thirst for knowledge
Hito kouru ka to
Kyōshitsu no
Running away
Mado yori nigete
From the window of a classroom,
Tada hitori
Alone,
Kano shiro-ato ni
I lay down among the ruins of a castle.
Ne ni yukishi ka na
Hotobashiru
How pleasant
Pompu no mizu no
Is the water gushing from a pump!
Kokochi yosa yo
Awhile with the soul of a youth
Shibashi wa wakaki
I watch it.
Kokoro mote miru
Nagaku nagaku
With the joy of meeting
Wasureshi tomo ni
A long-lost friend,
Au gotoki
I listen to the sound of water.
Yorokobi wo mote
Mizu no oto kiku
Yume samete
Awaking from a dream
Futto kanashimu
I grieve.
Wa ga nemuri
My sleep no more is so peaceful
Mukashi no gotoku
As in the olden days.
Yasukaranu kana
Ito kireshi
Like a kite
Tako no gotoku ni
Cut from the string,
Wakaki hi no
Lightly the soul of my youth
Kokoro karoku mo
Has taken flight.
Tobisarishi kana
lshikawa Takuboku (1885-1912)
TRANSLATED BY SHIO SAKANISHI
Mono no yuki
The ultimate impasse!
Todomarame ya mo
From the immense gorge-choking cedar
Yamakai no
Reverberations of the cold.
Sugi no taiboku no
Samusa no hibiki
Furisosogu
By the downflooding light of heaven
Amatsu hikari ni
The invisible black cricket
Me no mienu
Is driven and cornered.
Kuroki itodo wo
Oitsumenikeri
Shimashi ware wa
As I close my eyes
Me wo tsumurinamu
The high sun falls . . .
Mahi ochite
I hear crows cawing on their way to sleep.
Karasu nemuri ni
Yuku koe kikoyu
Muragimo no
Straining my taut-stretched mind
Kokoro haritsume
For this moment I confront
Shimashiku wa
A man with hallucinations.
Genkaku o motsu
Otoko ni tai-su
Saitō Mokichi (1882-1953)
TRANSLATED BY HOWARD HIBBETT
THE ROMAJI DIARY
[Rōmaji Nikki] by lshikawa Takuboku (1885-1912)
The Romaji Diary was kept by Takuboku from April to June of 1909. For him to have written his diary in Roman letters (Romaji) instead of the usual mixture of ideographs and kana was as unusual for his day as a diary in Esperanto is today. The fact that he could be sure that no one would read his words permitted him to set down his feelings freely and fully. It is an amazing document, particularly when one considers that it was written a bare thirty years after the Meiji Restoration. It reveals a man of a depth, complexity, and modernity of thought and emotion that could not have been predicted from earlier literature. This diary was almost unknown until its full publication in 1954.
Words in italics are in English in the original.
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