Sakutarō Hagiwara Quotes

I have no more hope no more honor no more future.
And irretrievable remorse alone
scurried away like a field mouse.

Where is our happiness?
The more we dig the sand in the mud
the deeper the fountain of sorrow becomes, doesn't it?
The spring wavering in curtains' shadow
has gone away into the distance, rocking on a rickshaw.

Ah in this landscape that trails shadows
my soul clutches an itchy terror
like a ship that has come from a harbor it has come
crossing the islands with wraiths in the distance
it's neither wind nor rain
all of it a dark fear clinging to the sufferings of love and lust
and at the dull flute-sound that a snake charmer makes
my crumbling shadow wept lonely.

In a field where bats swarmed
I watched a pillar of crumbling flesh
it trembled lonely in the evening darkness
smelled raw like dead-man's-grass that flutters at a shadow
and was as ugly as rotting meat with throngs of maggots crawling on it.

Ah lukewarm as this spring night
you who wander in a vermilion florid kimono
you who are as gentle as a younger sister
it's neither the cemetery's moon nor phosphorescence
nor shadow nor truth
and how simply so sad it is.
And so my life and body go on rotting
and in the shadow of the hazy landscape of "Nihilism"
are sensuously yet stickily reclining you see.

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

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.

Now I sit in my room alone
and gaze at the shadow of my fading soul
its sighs are lonesome
and as feeble as a fly that stays
in the spring evening sun that fades quietly
my life roams feebly
my life staying at the windowglass
heard helpless children's sobbing schoolsongs

And my heart senses tears
it's the heart that always plays quietly alone
the heart is lonesome
the heart, early in its youthful boyhood, cast a shadow on my life
the gradually enlarging shadow of solitude
the shadow of terrifying melancholy grows.

Longing for whatever shadow
I longed for Tokyo even on sleety days, I thought,
but leaning there on a wall in backstreets, and cold,
what dream is this man, a beggar, dreaming?

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.

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.

Poetry always looks down on vulgar folk, transcends the air of the age, and honors the most noble and clear spirit—that is utterly natural in its essence.

Poetry always stands at the head of the currents of time, and most acutely feels and touches the feelings of the coming century. That being the case, the true value of a collection of poetry should be determined at least five years, ten years after its publication. Five years, ten years later, vulgar folk in general will catch up for the first time with the position where poetry now stands. That is, normally poetry is best when it is published sooner and understood later. We poets can only despise things like pursuing fashionable thoughts and adopting ourselves to things that are favored for the moment but shallow.

[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.