Sakutarō Hagiwara Quotes

Here and there, I see farmers' melancholy faces.
The faces are dark, looking only at the ground.
On the ground, spring, like smallpox, is ponderously
erupting.

I close my eyes
and try to chew the root of some grass
to suck the juice of some grass to suck the bitter juice of melancholy
indeed there's no hope for anything there
life's just a series of meaningless melancholies

I think of a mystery hard to solve
universal life's instinct's solitary
eternally eternally solitary a sentiment ever so flowery.

Body half buried in sand,
still it's lolling its tongue.
Over this invertebrate's head,
pebbles and brine rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle, flowing,
flowing,
ah so quietly as a dream flowing.

During the long illness and pain,
spiders have covered his face with webs,
his body below the waist has faded like a shadow,
a bush has grown above his waist,
arms rotten,
body all over, truly messed up,
oh, today again the moon is out,
the daybreak moon is out,
and in the opaque light like a lantern
a deformed white dog is howling.

The dog that howls at the moon howls suspicious and fearful of his own shadow. To the dog's ailing heart, the moon is an ominous puzzle like a pallid ghost. The dog howls far into the distance.

Sometimes I escape from everyone and become solitary.
And my heart loving everyone becomes tearful.
I always like, while walking on a deserted lonely beach,
to think of the crowds in the distant city.

This utterly unknown dog follows me,
shabby, limping on its hind leg, a crippled dog's shadow.
Ah, I do not know where I'm going,
in the direction of the road that I go,
roofs of tenements are being pelted pelted in the wind,
in a gloomy, empty lot by the road,
bone-dry grass leaves are pliantly thinly moving.

Ah what's asleep in this large city night
is the shadow of a single blue cat
the shadow of a cat that speaks of the sad history of mankind
the blue shadow of the happiness I never stop longing for.

[Poetry] is the voice of a blue heron calling in the marshes of life, the sound of a wind darkly whispering over the reeds on a moonlit night.

In one room of some madhouse there was a man who sat on a chair all day, doing nothing but stare at the hands of a clock every day. Here was probably the most bored human being in the world, who didn't know what to do with "time," or so I thought. But the reality was the opposite, as the director of the house explained to me. This unhappy person thinks life is constant activity. He doesn't want to waste a single moment of his life, and lest he squander valuable time, he's staring at the clock like that, every day. Say something to him, and he'll angrily bark, "Shut up! Now another second of my valuable time passes. Time is life! Time is life!"

ah these terrifying shades on earth
in this forest of sensuous illusion
I gaze at the shadow of melancholy that gradually spread
and my heart flapping its wings
resembles the ugly look of a bird at death
ah this sensation of unbearable sensual sex
ever so terrifyingly melancholy.

Why can't one love with one's body those whom one loves with one's heart?

A person, individually, is always terribly lonely forever and ever.

I have made poetry for a long time but I have less and less confidence in it. Someone like me is no more than a miserable blue cat's nightmare.