Wearing glasses was not for the purpose of seeing things more clearly. Which is to say, if I limit what I see to the width of my face, having been deceived only by that which is visible, it is often the case that I am led astray by the sparks of the phenomenon itself, before I am able to understand just what kind of spread or permeation is to come. Seeing is not equivalent to knowing the result; the point is to arrive at the end of one part of the phenomenon. I contemplate these things as I walk through the wheat field. The wheat grows vigorously like a victor, shining in white rows against the black earth. I wonder if the sun in May isn’t a little too bright for the Japanese poets of today. They speak only of dreams and illusions, failing to harmonize with this all-too-French air. What relationship could there be between their imagery and the row of trees on the other side? The error of having only introduced the world of Leica into poetry might simply make us dizzy; neither the sweetness of pastry, nor a string of words, could be said to have the freshness of the new zelkova leaves on the trees on the side of the path I walk. They lose themselves in the moment of imitating others, and feel tired after chipping away at that mass. There is a clear beauty in the hazy scenery when I have removed my glasses, and there is also a hazy goodness in what I see clearly when my glasses are on—but it is foolish to believe that everyone must gaze into a single mirror and distinguish black from white. It is not so much about searching for boundaries, but rather the precise snapping together of infinite allusions on either side of that single line, to the cross-sections of a leap in the field of vision. And whether that field of vision is near or far determines the highs and lows of artistic rhythm. I believe poetry is the study of language. Unlike spoken language, it is a language of the heart, not visible from the surface. Words are selected out of deep contemplation and fill the air. It is not a collection of words for the sake of speech, but an attempt to say something, or to reflect something. Very sparse and most strict, it is a skillfulness precisely on the brink of burning out like a flame. It can mean to say one single real thing within a long conversation, or to go chasing after it from behind.

I step on a still-lit cigarette stub. Someone has already gone ahead of me. His failure, and her error, was in the search for something man-made in the discontinuities of this endless nature. As I walk into the woods, I become aware of the roaring wind. I find it hard to believe that Kashiwagi Shunzō, many of whose poems sounded just like this wind, was in love with treetops, as well as inorganic substances like the air and the wind. Rather, I imagine it was quite the opposite. He must have written those useless things out of a desire to portray people in the moment the wind passes through their bodies, or to describe the sight of himself gazing at the ponies whinnying in the woods. Am I the only one who senses suffering in the poetry of this man who longed to portray the human, stripped bare, but simply could not depict a person shouting as much, and so instead portrayed the echoes, and the footprints, left by those who had gone ahead? This intensity is best felt in his poem called “Lightning” in the April issue of Shii no ki, rather than the one called “Early Spring” in the May issue. Kashiwagi-san understands the language of trees, and is quite infuriated—he emerges before us by breaking through the scenery. “Life in the Countryside” by Ema Shoko provides the usual inexplicable pleasure that is like listening to music that is out of focus. No matter what the situation, she never tries to put things in focus. We feel a bit lost. And then just at that moment, she makes a vividly beautiful curve. I always expect great things from Hirano Jinkei, and he has never disappointed. “Dissociation” is a deftly constructed poem. In “A moment with an old friend,” Uchida Tadashi depicts the fragility of emotions toppled like dominos as a result of kind words. No real object is visible, but its projection casts blurry rings at our hearts. These are the things I feel from the poems of Uchiyama Yoshio. In both “Daily Life” and “Contemplation” in the March issue, he seems to express an interior symmetry using only straight lines. “Roof Mechanic” by Abe Tamotsu is a sweet lyric poem. It makes us imagine a picture of a girl with a flower bouquet. We feel it might be a bit distant in terms of music; the thorns on the roses shine like clear crystalline needles. “Song of March” by Takamatsu Akira seems rather gentle. But the seasonal winds are no longer pastoral. Like those footsteps, they slap our faces as they pass us by. Walking through the woods, I discover a single tree with very smooth bark. It is unfamiliar to me and I wonder what it is. I read Odakane Jirō’s work for the first time. “Song of Stone” is like looking at the jagged breaks in refracted light. Something akin to viscosity indicates a faint brightness.

The trees stand silent. As if to conquer time, for the sake of a thousand years. Purity was not the difference between water and beer. I find it suffocating to be unable to see the sky from between the trees.