English translation of the prose
AI-assisted English translation of the prose; quoted poems remain in Japanese. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
AI-assisted English translation. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
Originally published:
This material was published on the Japanese website. Dates and notices in the text reflect the original publication.
This is a prose translation. The nineteen tanka and the quoted poetic line remain in Japanese.
Tanka Drafts: A Journey through Shonai
March 18, 2020
河内裕二, Fuchū, Tokyo
In March 2020 I visited a close friend living in Shōnai, Yamagata. During the visit I toured Fukura in Yuza and Mount Haguro in Tsuruoka. Twenty-two Buddhist figures are carved into the rocks along Fukura's Nishihama coast. According to the explanation there, 寛海, the head priest of the local 海善寺, had them carved to pray for fishermen who died in the Sea of Japan and for safety at sea. He is said to have thrown himself into the sea in Meiji 4, 1871, to become a guardian Buddha himself. Standing on the rocks, I found the stone figures' eyes all directed toward me. Ashamed of my own vulgarity, I quietly put my hands together. Yuza also has Mount Chōkai, called the Fuji of Dewa and proud of its status as Tōhoku's second-highest mountain. Its magnificent, graceful shape even inspires a sense of the divine. On Mount Haguro in Tsuruoka, the deities of Mounts Haguro, Gassan and Yudono are enshrined together. I paid my respects to the three at their joint worship hall. Traveling through places of faith made me acutely aware of my own immaturity. I composed four tanka in Shōnai.
波しぶく吹浦の磯の磨崖仏目前のわれに何思ふらむ
出羽富士の白き頂眺むれば貧しき心露わとなりぬ
勇壮な出羽三山の神々よわれに与へよ生きる力を
山あいの湯壺に浸かり貪欲を洗い落として友と語らふ
I met my friend in Tokyo before he took a job in Shōnai. I come from a small country town on the Chita Peninsula in Aichi Prefecture. I moved to Tokyo to study American literature, and a quarter of a century has now passed since I began living in Fuchū in Musashino. I have already lived here longer than in my hometown. I like this town. Yet sometimes I feel it is not where I belong. On the other hand, even when I return home to see my family, I cannot feel that I belong there either. In Tokyo I am an “outsider” who moved in; at home, a “fugitive.” It is an oddly incomplete and unstable position. Did first-generation immigrants to America feel something like this too? Now I live in this town, thinking of home and feeling anxiety, solitude, uncertainty, irritation and emptiness day by day. These are poems about my life in Fuchū.
とめどなく冷たき闇が絡みつく病むは世間かわが魂か
荒天に風にあおられ河川敷水に流さむ弱き自分を
わが命何を恐れる今更に線香花火玉膨らみて
街灯の明かり滲んだ並木道暗闇空に蝙蝠の群れ
A single flower is always placed at one corner of an intersection on my way from home to the station. It must be an offering to someone who died there. Once, hurrying home from work because it was raining, I noticed light reflecting beneath a streetlamp. Looking closer, I saw a mound of flowers at the corner. It was probably the anniversary of the person's death. I crossed the road too, stood before the flowers and quietly put my hands together. I know neither the person's sex nor age, but with so many flowers offered, they must have been loved by many. Why such a person? I use this road too; it would not have been surprising if it had happened to me. Why did God not choose me? The rain that had begun to fall seemed like the dead person's tears. Surely they wanted to see the people who had brought the flowers. At least let these flowers not scatter. I felt I must live for this person too.
雨もよに帰路を急ぎし十字路の静かに光る花な散りそね
Living alone is easy and carefree, but there is no one to talk to at home, and sometimes I feel lonely. Then I eat with friends or go somewhere lively. Unlike loneliness, existential solitude is troublesome. Being with family or friends does not make that sense of isolation disappear. I think human beings are fundamentally alone, but what on earth should we do about it?
多摩川の岸にたたずむ水鳥がわれに語りし君も独りか
痛むひざかばひて登る石段にやおらころころ一粒の豆
紅の梅の林に目もくれず帰宅する君スマホ片手に
友撮りし写真のわれは楽しげとひとりアパートおでんつつきて
I grew up near the sea. Summer is the season I most strongly associate with it. These days I mostly walk by the nearby Tama River and rarely go to the sea, but when I look at the winter sea I remember that day spent with a lover.
うたかたの君の笑顔と笑ひ声ひとりたたずむ厳冬の海
冬の海山で育った君の手を引きて裸足で波に駆け出す
With advances in transport and communication, physical separation through distance has lately disappeared: if I wish, I can return home or make contact at any time. In the end, what matters is the feeling with which one thinks of home. Like 室生犀星's famous poem 「小景異情」, which begins 「ふるさとは遠きにありて思ふものそして悲しくうたふもの」, those who have moved to Tokyo may go on wavering between home and Tokyo in search of a place to belong. In my case, whenever my awareness happens to turn west in daily life, I remember home. Here are poems composed when I turned west.
いざ行かむバス待つわれも西の地に夕焼け空に飛び立つ鳥と
旅立ちに母にもらいしアンブレラ使うことなし眺めるばかりで
夕闇の窓に映りしわれを見てむかしの父に見えた衝撃
雨降るか天気予報で確認しなぜか目が行く故郷の天気
Fortunately, in Tokyo I have met good teachers and good friends. Both my parents are still alive, and in a few years I too will reach fifty. Confucius says that at forty he had no doubts, but I am still full of uncertainty. Will I really be able to know heaven's mandate at fifty? Japan has a long history and the rich culture nurtured within it, and we can learn much from our predecessors. Only recently have I discovered the wonder and pleasure of tanka. My teacher says that literature means living. I want to go on composing poetry in order to live.
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