“Mirai” Anthology of Deceased Poets (9): Isao Akimura

“Mirai” Anthology of Deceased Poets (9)

Excerpts selected by Minoru Komeiji

Isao Akimura
He died on 一九九〇年七月四日, at the age of 五七. He succeeded Yasushi Wagatsuma as the writer of “Mirai Notebook,” where he wrote intelligent, polished prose. To a country person like me, he was a distant figure. He and that same Yasushi Wagatsuma edited Kawa.

From the trees gathered close, moisture seems to rise; the chill evening sky gradually clears
My temples numb, I finish work and return home, the pool smelling vivid in the night
Again and again while I eat, I drive away the cat that sidles up, drawn by the smell of my blood
Two lily bulbs held aloft in my palm, sprouting green—in a moment when yearning strangely catches its breath
Each evening I crush the insect boring into the fig in the shadow of its overlapping, rigid leaves
In the woods being felled while still winter-bare, the afternoon rain falls as it freezes
At the station where the branch line forks again, my friend departs, and the train travels long along the coast
At words that boast of poverty I grow agitated; I will endure even that baseness
I have dealt alone with matters concerning me alone; only to that extent may I possess pride
It vexes me that before I knew it my heart had been drawn, but a fact is a fact
The two thousand books burned and discarded under watch now rise visibly as flames, they say
Pursued, concealing his name as he continued writing, the professor departs, leaving one collection of papers
The boy who silently rose from his desk is now on the rooftop calling to the pigeons
Knowing no art of scolding, I have restrained my heart, and how gloomy my expression has become
Ancient Russian history unknown to me, the Russkaya Pravda—to it I devoted my heart through those days of illness