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Modern Japanese Literature

Page 21

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.]

  •

  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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