The Diseased Face in the Depths of the Earth
From the depths of the earth a face appears,
The face of a lonely invalid.
In the darkness below the surface of the earth,
Everywhere fingers of grass burst forth like a stain,
Then nests of mice sprout up,
The nests entangled hopelessly
In countless hairs quivering as they emerge.
From the lonely diseased earth of midwinter,
Slender roots of green bamboo grow,
Grow and spread.
How absolutely miserable they look,
Like a thickening fog,
How horribly, horribly pitiful they look.
In the darkness below the surface of the earth,
The miserable face of a lonely invalid.
Stems of Grass
Behold the stems of grass
Enwrapped in fine, thin hairs
In the winter cold.
The stems, turning a deeper green, are lonely
Encased on one side in thin hairs
But behold! These stems of grass.
Far off in the sky preparing for snow
Stems of grass burst forth.
On the shining earth bamboo grows,
Green bamboo grows,
Beneath the earth its roots spread,
Growing thinner, and thinner,
From the tips of the roots emerge fine hairs,
Spreading imperceptibly like smoke,
On the hard earth bamboo grows,
Grows straight up from the surface of the earth,
Bamboo grows restlessly,
Dignified the rigid joints,
Beneath the clear blue sky they grow,
Bamboo, bamboo, bamboo grows.
There is a wood,
And there is a marsh,
And an azure sky,
Its weight felt on the human hand,
The turtle of pure gold sleeps quietly.
Sad nature’s pain endured,
It sinks into the hearts of the people,
The turtle sinks into the depths of the azure sky
From below the ground upon which I gaze,
A queer row of hands emerges,
Then necks are thrust out.
Oh my people!
For God’s sake,
What kind of geese are these?
From below the ground upon which I gaze,
With stupid looks on their faces,
Then the necks are thrust out.
Doubtless with your pretty teeth
You’re a woman who’d bite right through the green of this grass,
With the pigment from this pale blue grass
Paint your face, get all dolled up,
Inflame your feelings of desire
Let us play secretly in the overgrown thicket,
The bellflowers are shaking their heads
And over there, the late-flowering perennials are moving softly,
Now I hold your breasts firmly
And with all your strength you press yourself against me,
Then, in this desolate field,
Let us play like snakes,
Let me love you till it hurts,
Let me rub the oils from the blades of blue grass all over your beautiful skin
One Who Loves Love
I painted rouge upon my lips
And kissed the branch of a young birch tree.
Even if I were a more handsome man
I have no breasts like rubber balls upon my chest
And there is no scent of fine white powder on my skin
I’m just a shriveled up man with no luck
Ah, what a pathetic man am I
And so in a fragrant field of early summer
In a glistening grove
I fit my hands into pale blue gloves
And slipped a corset around my waist
Then I put white powder on my neck
And secretly put on coquettish airs
Like the young women
I leaned in with both heart and nipples
And kissed the branch of a young birch tree
With rose-colored rouge upon my lips
I embraced the tall white tree.
The Blue Cat
It’s good to love this beautiful city
Good to love the buildings of the metropolis
To woo all the sweet women
To pursue all that is exalted in life
It’s good to come to the capital and pass along its bustling streets
In the rows of cherry trees lining the boulevards
There too sing numberless sparrows.
Ah, but the only one who can sleep through these big city nights
Is the shadow of one blue cat
That shadowy cat who speaks of humanity’s sad history
The blue shadow of fortune I pursue ceaselessly.
Even on wintry days of sleet I love Tokyo and think of it
Seeking every kind of shadow
What kind of dreams do beggars like this one dream
Hanging cold to the walls of the back streets.
Poems of Love and compassion
The Midnight Train
Faint glow of dawn shows
Coldly on door’s glass
Mark of finger lingering there
Delicate the whitening of mountains far
Somber like quicksilver
The traveler’s sleep yet undisturbed by
Spent electric lamp whose numberless sighs
And smoke from an imported cigar
Whose smell makes one feel faint
In a midnight train where wearily despair
Kept in so long now speaks in tears –
For she is another man’s wife.
The train has yet to pass through Yamashina
So she loosens the cap on the air cushion
Gently heaving a sigh as from a woman’s heart
Then suddenly the two of them in sadness
Move their bodies closer and embrace
And as daybreak nears gaze out the window
At unknown mountain villages
Columbine blooming white all around.
I think I’d like to go to France
But France is so far
I should at least buy a new suit
And wander, carefree, on a journey to nowhere.
When the train starts up a mountain incline
I’d lean out the window and stare at the clear blue sky
And think how pleasant it is to be alone here like this
On an early morning in May
The feel of young spring grass in my heart –
I’ll do what I please.
Two Haiku (1942)
A pair of horns now appears
From out of the shadow
Of the black curtain
The procession ends
In a hell full of
Notes on translating Hagiwara Sakutaro:
A poetry which is impossible to translate. That is, impossible to translate completely in a way which successfully brings across the entire effect, the entire experience. It seems one would have to be able to enter completely into the mind of the poet and reify his process, thereby repeating the poet’s own experience and rewriting it in one’s own language. Yet this is a process from which the translator recoils – for Hagiwara takes us to a place where we cannot follow. And even if it were possible, it would mean entering a region from which there is no return.
Modernism’s global zeitgeist
It is well-understood that poetry constitutes a performative utterance. However, Hagiwara Sakutarō’s famous sequence of bamboo poems is so much of a performative nature that translation ultimately robs it of all content. This is of course because its significance is in the event of the utterance itself. The poem has a rhythmical or musical value. Here translating meaning in the conventional sense completely misses the point. Even an approach toward meaning that accepts the need to try innovative translations rather than sticking wholly to the dictionary misses the mark. For Sakutarō’s bamboo poems have nothing at all to do with meaning [i.e. discursive meaning]. Not even a little bit.
Translation reveals the non-semantic nature of Sakutarō’s bamboo poems especially, and this indicates that a translation based on conventional meanings is not possible.
The mirror image in Sakutarō – ground as mirror (Nomura).
“The transition from the elegant literary language to the vernacular as the vehicle of poetry was by no means easy.” [Hosea Hirata, The Poetry and Poetics of Nishiwaki Junzaburō: Modernism in Translation]
“The anxiety one senses in Hagiwara may be called the anxiety of translation, or the anxiety of the language of modernity. I suggest here that the anxiety of translation lies at the nucleus of modernism in Japan.” [ibid.]
(Hirata then quotes the early poem “Travelling” which I have also translated)
“In this conflation of origin and foreign, we must seek the beginning of Modernism, or even the essential constitution of Japanese Modernism.” [ibid.]
“Japanese modern poetry thus begins from an aporia, an impasse, or the anxiety of being unable to reach its origin…” [ibid.]
“It is the modern text itself which demands the author disappear.” [ibid.]
“It is the porous text. Many gaps are opened by the force of translation.” [ibid.]
We also must keep in mind in this comparison that translation both enhances and in certain ways diminishes or undermines our observations. Suffice it to say, therefore, that we must ultimately rely on the awareness that the problem of indeterminacy of meaning resides not only in the translated text, but in the so-called original as well.
Sakutarō’s bamboo sequence tends to make use of the suspended form of the verb. In other words, no verb, and therefore no action, is ever completed. The things described in the poem always remain in process, always active, dynamic, but never complete. The poem and its “meaning” remains completely open at all times. The suspended form of the Japanese verb unfortunately does not translate into English (the verb in English simply remains in present perfect tense) so this fact is not immediately recognizable. But on the level of grammar, this is one of the most important poetic techniques that Sakutarō uses in these poems.
The non-semantic nature of Sakutarō’s bamboo poem works on the level of sound and rhythm. There is ultimately very little provided to the reader in the way of meanings and meaning relationships (which normally would be thought elements communicate to the reader) by the poems in the bamboo sequence, but the reader is “fooled” into feeling that the poem provides a deep or meaningful experience because the rhythm created by meaningless repetition just “sounds right”.
Sakutarō uses rhythmical repetition of simple, fundamental words in the language (i.e. the colloquial language – this would not be possible if the poet were to use difficult kanji compounds with dense meanings).
As for the question of whether or not Hagiwara Sakutarō was a Modernist, it may help to offer a definition of Modernism. This is a term which has been notoriously difficult to define. Moreover, definitions have changed and developed over time. For our purposes here, the writings of Susan Stanford Friedman are most helpful. She argues that Modernism across the arts must be linked to modernity (much as I have suggested by the mentioning of socio-economic conditions contributing to the world of the poet in early 20th century). Modernism, thus, can be seen as encompassing “any cultural response to accelerated societal change brought about by a combination of new technologies, knowledge revolutions, state formations, and expanding intercultural contacts that contribute to radical questions and dismantling of traditional ontologies, epistemologies, and institutional structures.”