In a Dilapidated House - Ayukawa Nobuo

The wind blew hard that day
just after keichitsu¹
the Eastern and Southern windows
made sounds one after the other
the door opened and closed…
this ramshackle house
made a symphony.
It’s too cold to call it spring,
but the temperature was not so low
that by turning on a nearby heater
it couldn’t soon become warm.
Beyond the window
was the bright blue sky spreading like an ocean,
with cirrus clouds of thin torn silk.
Even a life that is beautiful
when spoken or put to words,
is hard to live in reality.
In the end, the problem
could be psychological
but in the meantime,
I thought is was not that serious,
And could be endured.
The house has definitely aged.
Because the wind
blows fresh vitality
into its senescent, flimsy frame.
No one would think it strange
if it fell down tomorrow—
this house is trembling.
The owner, who reads books of all ages
and knows the sorrows of the flesh completely
is leaning on a chair,
his back bent as if a prisoner in Solevetsky²
forced to wear a bag.
In an overgrown garden
the man swinging a club in strong wind
is another him…
How far it is.
Everything is in the distance.
Even the rumbling of the ocean can be heard.
In such a clear air,
there seems to be no evil
but in the voice of the wind
in the rustling trees
even in between the blink of an eye
the valley of the dead—
victims of wars and revolutions—
appears and disappears.
That is why, even now,
the hands of the prisoner in Solevetsky
tremble slightly.

Because of the hardships of his boyhood,
he believed in the miracle of hands
he used to think one line for one word
would change people’s minds…
one modest poem for one line
would change the direction of the light.
So he kept a single room
and endured a long imprisonment
for that single room
until the house began to lean.
Piling books, clothes and things
everywhere like dust.

What objects have you buried reverentially?
The house will never fall
as long as a human being lives in it,
man’s slick sweat will give
endurance to the beams, ceiling and floor.
As long as the smell of human breath
that stains the bed of agony with blood
is there,
the house will not collapse.
That’s what he kept on believing.
But from the corner of his eyes
with his head hung low,
a glint of am
endurable tear falling.

For a while, the wind blew hard
against the senescent faces, walls, mind
covered with rusted metal ivy
pressing against them,
frightening or consoling.
Oh, the dilapidated house on the hill,
the prisoner in Solevetsky,
beloved people,
farewell.
Just as the time we live together
comes to an end some day,
so a very sad fate will come to pass
for the person born into this world
with a cry as a son.
In any case, since a tomorrow that is better than yesterday
will not come, all the books
are just an incurable illness,
eating away at life,
leading your house to collapse.
The least you can do is
make the expiration clean,
quietly wave good-bye to the wind.
Let’s welcome a much better extinction.

---

Ayukawa Nobuo (1920-1986) Japan
Translated by Oketani Shogo and Leza Lowitz
Source: Poetry Kanto

1. Japanese Candlemas, signifying the end of winter and the beginning of spring.
2. An island in the White Sea, where the first “re-education” camp was established in 1923.