English translation of the prose
AI-assisted English translation of the prose; quoted poems remain in Japanese. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
Originally published: 1 September 2022.
A historical report from the Japanese website. Accounts of illness and public-health conditions reflect the original text and its time. Quoted poems remain in Japanese.
Japan Romantic Poetry Forum: Summer, Minazuki
Recorded 18 June 2022
Record and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Society
The train to the gathering was crowded. COVID-19 cases have fallen below the same weekday of the previous week for over a month, so many people must be visiting tourist spots on their days off. Most passengers got off at Kamakura. Thinking back, cases also fell around this time last year, and the state of emergency was lifted. Yet they surged again at the end of July, prompting another declaration. What will happen this year? I hope the waves of infection do not repeat. The gathering began at 13:30 on 18 June at Miura Workers’ Civic Center. Present were 三宅尚道, president of the Miura Tanka Association, 加藤由良子, 嘉山光枝, 嶋田弘子, 清水和子, 櫻井艶子, 羽床員子, Seishu Hamano, president of the Japan Romanticism Society, 岩間滿美子, and 河内裕二.
戻らねば我が物顔のどくだみが
君の小径を占拠するかも 弘子
The poet is 嶋田弘子. A friend who cherished a flower-lined path in the garden suddenly had to move, and Shimada took over its care. Returning after a while, she found the path entirely filled with houttuynia. Once people leave, this happens almost at once. She thought of her friend’s feelings, unable to return despite wanting to, and also of people in Fukushima and war-torn Ukraine. Circumstances make it unavoidable, yet unless something is done soon, the houttuynia will take over. That feeling led her to use 占拠, occupation.
お祭りも海も花火もみな中止
夏のたのしみなき三年目 光枝
A poem by 嘉山光枝. It concerns Misaki, but people across Japan must share the experience. Festivals, the seaside, and fireworks—the three emblems of summer—have been cancelled for three years. Since infections increase every summer, one almost wonders whether they will ever resume. If cancellations continue, might they become normal and make restarting difficult? Pleasures help us endure severe summer heat. How long will these flavorless summers last?
螢火の小川の岸に立つ父母の
着物も帯もいづこに去るや 成秋
The poet is President Seishu Hamano. Fireflies were once visible nearby, and family outings to see them, as in this poem, would not have been unusual. He still clearly remembers the kimono his parents wore on such outings. Wondering where those garments went, he composed this. Ultimately, he said, they remain only in memory. The setting is the stream bank because he remembers his father, wearing wooden clogs, stepping on a snake beyond the stream they had crossed. Hearing this reminded me of Soseki’s haiku 蛍狩われを小川に落としけり.
胆管癌三十三年目で完治したと
でんわの老友声トーン高し 由良子
A work by 加藤由良子. A friend since high school telephoned to say that a doctor had told her the cancer was completely cured and she no longer needed hospital visits. As though freed from anxious days, her voice was high and almost singing. The poet was truly glad and made the report into a poem. Thirty-three years is a very long time. I once heard that three is auspicious: through the reading mitsu, it suggests fulfillment or wishes coming true. Thirty-three years—is it coincidence?
現人（うつせみ）はいつか散りぬる宿命（さが）なれど
千紫万紅けふも咲きたり 裕二
My own poem. 現人 literally means people now living. I did not choose 現し身, the body living in this world, because I did not want the suggestion that the soul remains after the body perishes. The poem says that everyone eventually dies but lives differ. It likens life to flowers, somewhat like Saneatsu Mushanokoji’s statement that whether people look or not, he blooms.
二年経ち又脊が伸びたか若き人
吾優先席に埋もれてゆく 和子
The poet is 清水和子. The pandemic had long prevented distant outings. Riding a train for the first time in about two years, she felt that everyone had less emotional room than before. In such a world, young people grow still larger, while she wondered whether she could only sink out of sight, unable to do anything. The poem expresses that sadness.
糖尿の祖母への土産は「白い恋人」
一日一個の制限つきで 員子
The poet is 羽床員子. The grandmother is herself; this is an actual experience. Kayama, whose late husband had diabetes, remarked on the difficulty of restrictions not only on sweets but also on salt and fluids. Hokkaido surely offers savory souvenirs too, but the grandchild’s wish to give the classic Shiroi Koibito sweets even with a one-per-day limit is endearing. The trip must have been very enjoyable. Surely the child wanted to share that pleasure too.
新蛍（にいぼたる）独り飛びたる夏の宵
虚空に向かい心預ける 滿美子
The poet is 岩間滿美子. The first half evokes one firefly slowly dancing in the air with a dreamlike light; the second, the poet alone looking into empty space and entrusting her heart to it. She overlaps herself with the solitary firefly, fragile and lonely. One can read her wish to shine like it while living with a loneliness that cannot be erased. The poem leaves a resonance in the heart.
裏山の枇杷は豊作 忘れてた
「揺籃（ゆりかご）のうた」声出して歌う 尚道
A poem by 三宅尚道. Seeing many loquats, he wondered whether they appeared in a song and remembered the fruit in the second verse of the children’s song “Yurikago no Uta.” He sang aloud to recall it. Looking it up, I found that the lyricist was Hakushu Kitahara.
恋しくて傘にかくれて泣きました
疎開なるもの御存知ですか 艶子
A work by 櫻井艶子. At seven, she and her elder sister were evacuated to relatives for two or three months. Even now rain brings back that time; the people she longs for in the poem are her parents. When the war ended and her father came to fetch them, she recognized him from his footsteps alone.
She explained that, intending to address younger people unfamiliar with evacuation, she used colloquial expression in tanka for the first time. The method succeeds splendidly. The second half is a question, implying a young listener. The two halves thus contrast young people in wartime with those today. Introducing evacuation creates a gap of over seventy years, while asking about it bridges that gap and joins them. A wonderful poem.
This gathering made me consider spacing within a poem. Without a space in Miyake’s work, it is unclear whether the third phrase, 忘れてた, connects backward to the second or forward to the fourth. Both are possible but change the meaning. Normally one would group it with the first half, making 枇杷は豊作忘れてた. Yet he means that he had forgotten “Yurikago no Uta,” in the fourth phrase. Without the space this is hard to read. Spacing can therefore determine meaning, but does more: it creates a pause and rhythm, changes scene or subject, and improves visual readability when kanji follow one another. I have not used it yet, but it can be effective.
Original wording, author credits, notes and source materials are preserved there.