Romantic Poetry Forum: Winter, January 2022

English translation of the prose

AI-assisted English translation of the prose; quoted poems remain in Japanese. The Japanese original remains authoritative.

Originally published: 31 January 2022.

A historical report from the Japanese website. Weather, health, and event references reflect the original text and its time. Quoted poems remain in Japanese.

Japan Romantic Poetry Forum: Winter, Mutsuki

Recorded 29 January 2022
Record and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Society

January is the coldest month. According to the Japan Meteorological Agency, Tokyo’s average temperature last January was 5.4°C, but this winter temperatures nationwide are forecast to be below normal. Disliking cold, I shiver merely seeing a single-digit forecast maximum. Hokkaido is in another category: at such times its temperatures are negative across the board. Japan’s lowest recorded temperature was −41.0°C in Asahikawa on 25 January 1902, the only occasion it reached −40°C. I remember a television commercial from childhood demonstrating engine oil remaining fluid in that extreme cold. Its unforgettable scene showed a frozen banana hammering a nail. It is astonishing that Japan really experienced a −40°C world. This year’s first gathering enjoyed calm sunshine and temperatures above 10°C. Warmth even just in the daytime is welcome.

The joint gathering of the Miura Tanka Association and Japan Romanticism Society began at 13:30 on 29 January at the Deguchiso guesthouse. From Miura came president 三宅尚道, 嘉山光枝, and 玉榮良江; from our Society, President Seishu Hamano, the married couple 岩間節雄 and 岩間滿美子, and 河内裕二. 加藤由良子, 嶋田弘子, 清水和子, and 櫻井艶子 of the Miura association, and Kato’s friend 田所晴美, also sent poems.

コンビニのバイクの横で仁王立ち

　　　　　飯食む若者吐く息白し　由良子

The poet is 加藤由良子, absent today. This depicts a young person eating in a convenience-store parking lot, a scene she actually witnessed on a cold morning. She thought how wonderful youth is.

First we picture a vigorous young person biting into a rice ball or bread beside a parked motorcycle; white breath then suggests a cold early morning. Perhaps the rider stopped while touring with friends. Young people enjoying a ride are untroubled by morning cold. This is youth. The word selection and ordering are outstanding, creating a development and feeling like watching a film.

房総の山並み眺む人多き

　　　　　初日昇れば拍手し拝む　光枝

A work by 嘉山光枝. She knows a magnificent viewpoint for sunrise over the Boso Peninsula’s mountains and goes each year to greet the first sun. Once known to a few, it has gradually become better known, attracting New Year’s Day visitors. This year was clear and cloudless, with a beautiful first sunrise. Where cheers would once have risen, applause came instead because everyone wore masks against COVID-19. A fitting poem for the year’s first gathering.

古里に帰りて思ふは繰り言ぞ

　　　　　時世（ときよ）の渦に浮きつ沈みつ　成秋

A poem by President Hamano. Returning home brings memories, easily turning into repeated regrets about what one should have done. He reflects deeply on all that happened amid changing times. His hometown has become entirely urbanized and transformed; only the graves now feel familiar. Both he and the place have changed, leaving him unsure where to find an anchor for memory. His lonely remark was memorable. Kayama, born and raised in Miura and still living there, said she envied having a hometown to return to. Hamano offered another hometown poem.

古里の盆の太鼓は哀しけれ

　　　　　路ゆく人のみな変わり居て　成秋

Kawachi Ondo in his hometown once had vigor, Hamano said, but now no one can sing it as before, and organizers somehow keep it going by bringing professionals from afar. As someone who moved to Tokyo, I too wish my hometown would never change.

太陽の電池に動くパンダたち

　　　　　冬日を受けて活動開始　尚道

The poet is 三宅尚道. With Ueno Zoo’s pandas in the news, I thought he was likening pandas to toys, but these were actual panda figures at home. “Pandas” and “winter sun” are the key words. Dogs or cats would be less interesting. Imagining several pandas, unique in appearance and presence, moving slowly or stopping from insufficient power in weak winter light gives the mechanical figures pathos as well as comedy. His calculation of that effect shows his skill.

ふるさとの駅の静寂（しじま）に降り立たば

　　　　　名残の空に風花の舞ふ　裕二

My own poem. The pandemic had long prevented visits to my family in Aichi. On New Year’s Eve I returned for the first time in several years and spent the holiday with them. Snow is rare in southern Aichi, but it was unusually fluttering when I reached the station. 名残の空 means the sky of New Year’s Eve; the following day’s sky is 初空 or 初御空. Hamano remarked that, though his poems also concern home, they were contrastingly complex and twisted beside this one.

「さあ打つぞ」旗をめざして心飛ぶ

　　　　　ボールはオレンジラッキーカラー　和子

A poem about ground golf by 清水和子, absent today. She joined a group about a year ago and eagerly anticipates practice twice weekly. Reading, I picture her energetically pursuing the ball, feel like a spectator, and want to call encouragement. Its vitality makes it hard to believe that the association’s oldest member wrote it. Orange, an invigorating “vitamin color,” is a fitting lucky color for her. I know nothing of ground golf, but Miyake calls it a simplified form of golf, so presumably individuals compete rather than teams as in the gateball I sometimes see in a nearby park. It looks enjoyable.

沖縄の海岸に住むアヒルの子

　　　　　ラインにて観る名前はガーコ　良江

The poet is 玉榮良江, originally from Okinawa. Ducks settled on the beach before her family home; one somehow became three. I associate ducks with freshwater ponds and rivers, but being omnivorous perhaps they manage on the coast. Calling the duckling Gako seems conventional, yet effectively brings out the duck’s comic, guileless character. Ducks imprint on the first moving thing they see as a parent. Imagining Gako following the parent duck makes one smile.

来し方を想い眺めるわが心

　　　　　清々（せいぜい）とした天に預ける　滿美子

A poem by 岩間滿美子. New Year’s Day was beautifully fine. Considering whether to affirm everything she had done, she felt that she could henceforth entrust it all to the pure heavens and live. Like the blue sky before her, the clouds over her heart seem to clear. Rather than resignation, she probably felt that doubts were resolving and she could accept things as they were. Yet is it only I who sense something unsettled in this state, as though she were trying to persuade herself?

Takuboku Ishikawa’s Kanashiki Gangu contains this poem:

年明けてゆるめる心！うつとりと

　　　　　来し方をすべて忘れしごとし　啄木

The past is part of life and cannot be erased. I understand both Iwama’s wish to accept it and Takuboku’s wish to forget it at least over New Year. Perhaps everyone moves between the two.

あの頃の「任せておけ」というガッツ

　　　　　いつのまにやら空の彼方か　弘子

The poet is 嶋田弘子, unfortunately absent. Some read this as about herself; others, someone who once said those words to her. We wished she were present to ask. Readers may interpret either way, but I favor the latter because she is a woman and “leave it to me” and “guts” sound masculine. I have heard that her husband was ill, so perhaps it concerns him: once vigorous and strong, now weakened in spirit by illness, leaving her lonely. I read “beyond the sky” as lament.

はらはらと初雪の降る嬉しさに

　　　　　八十路超えても幼子のごと　艶子

A work by 櫻井艶子, absent today. In snowy regions people may be weary of it, but elsewhere snowfall gives many a fresh, happy feeling like this.

The opening mimetic word はらはら prompted discussion. Snow suggests ちらちら, はらはら, しんしん, or こんこん. Hamano mentioned a poem by Mokichi Saito:

現身のわが血脈のやや細り

　　　　　墓地にしんしんと雪つもる見ゆ　茂吉

Mokichi’s poem, watching snow fall deeply while thinking he too will enter a grave, is outstanding but dark. Hamano found Sakurai’s bright and consoling. Side by side, it is clear that the same snow needs はらはら in hers and しんしん in his. Some found はらはら slightly odd, perhaps because of collocation: it more often goes with 舞う, dance, than 降る, fall.

コロナ禍に追い打ちかけるオミクロン

　　　　　備えし武具の盾にて守る　晴美

A work by 田所晴美. Words evoking the age of warring states are thoughtfully used, giving individuality. Does the prepared shield mean vaccination? “Striking another blow” is also a war expression, linking both halves. Too small to see without an electron microscope, the coronavirus has countless surface projections called spikes; its prickly form can indeed resemble armor. A battle, then? Perhaps the poem expands that visual image.

Afterward we moved to another room for a New Year feast. Deguchiso’s cooking with local ingredients always impresses me. We learned that nothing is ready-made; everything is prepared by hand. Even the pickles taste gentle. We had a fine live abalone grilled in butter, a whole one being a rare treat. I prefer grilled abalone’s tender texture to sashimi—an exquisite flavor. Sashimi, sea cucumber in vinegar, a hotpot containing golden-eye snapper, oysters, turban shells cooked in their shells, fried prawns, and savory steamed egg custard were all delicious. Even simple simmered daikon was superb. The many dishes were abundant, and the thoughtful provision of takeaway containers for anything unfinished was welcome.

Leaving with stomach and heart satisfied, we found the western sky red and the sun about to set. In the childhood song “Yuhi,” the mimetic expression for the sunset is ぎんぎんぎらぎら. Sunlight reflected on rippling sea might indeed look that way, but one is not always looking at the sea. What expression would be better? Unfortunately none came to me. This gathering taught me how skillfully used mimetic and sound-imitating words can color a poem effectively.