#i read three collections but only knew the name of one which was depilautumn—a collection of poems that had a seasonal theme he describes

[neo-shitty]

it has been weeks and my chuuya brainrot has not ceased, in fact i felt it get worse yesterday. so in my attempt to appease this need to inhale anything related to chuuya, i decided to read nakahara chūya’s poetry and here are a few that made me want to scream cry and jump off a cliff (long post bc i wrote down so many 🤕)

“i’m oppressed with an insistent lonesomeness.” - voice of life 

“evening, under the stars, when i consider my being as one point among many, among all things, i have no complaint.” - voice of life iiii

“mary mother of god! i’ve just been spitting blood... you won’t let my feelings in, i don’t know where i’m coming from... of course, it may be that i wasn’t obedient, it may be that i had no will, i loved you in the most natural of ways, and you loved me, but so... oh mary mother of god, more than ever, there’s nothing i can do, but at least it’s better to know this... that to love naturally and be loved in the same way is not all that common a thing and knowing this is not permitted to everyone.” - blind autumn

“there was a nine-year-old child the child was a girl and as if the world’s atmosphere were hers as if she could lean on it she tilted her head when she spoke with me i warmed myself at a kotatsu she sat on the tatami an exceptionally mild winter afternoon my room aglow with sunlight when she tilted her head her earlobes seemed translucent trusting me, fully at peace the girl’s heart was of an orange color its warmth neither overflowed nor shrank like a deer i forgot about everything then and gently contemplated time.” - sheep song iii

“even so, my heart is lonely, every night, alone in a boarding room, thinking thoughtlessly about thought, a monotonous and wretched heart’s duet... i hear the sound of a steam whistle and think of travel, my childhood— no, no, i don’t think of childhood or travel, but see what looks like travel, what looks like childhood... my heart, which thinks thoughtlessly about thought, is closed, like a casket fuzzy with mold, white lips, dry cheeks, fade into the cold stillness... the more i get used to it, the more i endure. this painful solitude. without my realizing it they fall, sudden and strange, tears which are no longer tears of love...” - sheep song iv

“once i believed love poems were foolish now i read love poems just for the sake of it and yet perhaps i want to reach a higher state of poetry i don’t know if that’s right or wrong but such a feeling persists anyway and something irritates me provoking outrageous desires once i believed love poems were foolish yet now i do nothing but dream about love.” - exhaustion ii

“how strange we are before we die.” - autumn poem

“‘in the woods was a very strange park, where women, children and men would stroll by smiling wildly. they spoke a language i didn’t understand and showed emotions i couldn’t unravel.” - prose poem: never to return