English translation of the prose
AI-assisted English translation of the prose; quoted poems remain in Japanese. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
Japan Romanticism Poetry Circle — Autumn, October
Recorded October 15, 2022
Record and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Academia
I had never paid any attention and thought the October public holiday was “Physical Education Day” (Taiiku no Hi), only to discover that it had become “Sports Day” (Supōtsu no Hi) without my noticing. Startled, I checked November 3 on the calendar and was relieved that “Culture Day” still used the Japanese word bunka, rather than having become “Culture Day” with the English-derived karuchā. But what are we to make of a public holiday with an English name in the first place? Looking it up, I found that from 2023 the National Physical Education Festival would be renamed the National Sports Festival, with its abbreviation changing to Kokusupo. The word taiiku is clearly being avoided. Is it thought an anachronism? In future it will probably be used only in schools.
The meeting was held at the Miura Workers' Civic Center from 1:30 p.m. on October 15. Those attending were the eight members 三宅尚道, president of the Miura Tanka Society; 加藤由良子, 嘉山光枝, 嶋田弘子, 清水和子, 羽床員子; Seishu Hamano, president of Japan Romanticism Academia; and 岩間滿美子, together with 河内裕二.
お互いに檄を飛ばして電話切る
残り少なし貴重な時を 由良子
The author is 加藤由良子. The other day a friend telephoned. As usual, the conversation turned to their health; at the end they said, “Let's keep going,” and hung up. The latter part expresses her feelings directly. The setting of a telephone call—where hanging up returns one instantly to one's own daily life—is also effective in conveying them. The words “precious time” apply to everyone, however different their circumstances. Using them makes this a poem with which anyone can sympathize.
塩強め娘の漬けし梅干しを
食めばなつかし昔の味す 光枝
A work by 嘉山光枝. Her daughter makes pickled plums every year. Eating these strongly salted plums reminds her of those her own mother made, which were equally salty. To her, even now, umeboshi means the old-fashioned salty kind, not the sweet commercial varieties with added sugar or honey. She has enclosed a family's history and memories within a single pickled plum.
大漁か群れ飛ぶとんび窓辺まで
大きな影が食卓を舞う 和子
The author is 清水和子. Living near the sea, she has written of something she actually experienced. It is a splendid poem with the movement of a film. Despite the unusual scene, one feels as though one has seen it directly before one's own eyes. Detailed explanation is unnecessary.
古戦場赤く染めたる夕焼けに
負けじと咲けり曼珠沙華の花 裕二
My own work. The area where I live was a battlefield in the late Kamakura period, in 1333, when the forces of the Kamakura shogunate fought an anti-shogunate army led by Nitta Yoshisada. Victorious in this battle, Yoshisada advanced on Kamakura and eventually overthrew the shogunate. A statue of him stands in front of the station, its face turned toward Kamakura. Probably no one goes about everyday life conscious of living on an old battlefield. But the other day, when I saw red spider lilies blooming here and there and the setting sun reddening the surroundings, the color suggested blood and made me sharply aware that this had once been a battlefield. Both reds were magnificent, as though competing with one another.
「デストロイ」と名付けし孫の作品は
ミサイル握る巨大な拳 員子
The author is 羽床員子. A sculpture made by her grandchild received an award from the prefecture. To my surprise, the grandchild is a girl. When I was shown a photograph, I saw that it was indeed a fine work of art worthy of its prize. The English title “Destroy” and the subject matter suggest a creator of a certain age. She is a high school student, which makes sense when one sees the work.
腸削る手術の日取り傍らに
青い蜜柑をむさぼり喰らふ 成秋
A work by President Seishu Hamano. An operation is not guaranteed to succeed one hundred percent, nor can one know how recovery will go afterward. Thinking of undergoing surgery may make one feel somewhat reckless, leading one to devour green mandarins that are not yet ready to eat. But reading only that much would not grasp the poem's essence. For human beings, eating is precisely living. To devour them is to cling to life, a forceful declaration of an absolute determination to live. When he wrote the poem he intended to have the operation, but subsequently changed his mind, he said.
鴨遊ぶ川面に映る赤柿や
穏やかなりし歳月語らむ 滿美子
The author is 岩間滿美子. The poem resembles a Japanese painting of an autumn scene. Indeed, she said she composed it by bringing together autumnal things as though making just such a painting. In other words, it is symbolic rather than a realistic depiction of nature. The playing ducks and the red persimmons all symbolize what the final part expresses. The persimmons, in particular, do more than indicate autumn. The saying that comes to mind is “Three years for peach and chestnut, eight for persimmon”: persimmons take an especially long time to bear fruit. Their presence thus represents many years of peace. The author mentioned the war in Ukraine. Taking that into account, I read this work as expressing her wish for a peaceful world without conflict, rather than simply describing an autumn landscape.
家猫の二匹が眠る縁側に
秋の日を浴びゴロゴロゴロ ゴ 尚道
The author is 三宅尚道. It is a tranquil poem. Unassuming words follow one another until a striking expression appears at the end. At first 「ゴロゴロ」 seems merely to describe the cats lying about, but it apparently also conveys their purring. Moreover, the final sound is 「ゴ」 rather than 「ゴロ」 because a cat has fallen asleep before completing it. How carefully worked out it is. A single cat might have suggested loneliness; two create an atmosphere of harmony. This, too, is an excellent touch.
足柄は親子三人を包みをり
過ぎゆく四十年祝福ありや 弘子
The author is 嶋田弘子. The “three of us, parents and child” are the author, her husband, and their eldest daughter. When the daughter was born, the three traveled together. Other children were born afterward, so this particular trio no longer traveled alone, but a few years ago they were able to do so again for the first time in forty years. It felt nostalgic and very happy. This year, therefore, the same three went to the same place again. They expected an enjoyable trip, but their daughter was burdened with worries and had no room in her mind to enjoy it. Under those circumstances, the author put her own feelings into the final question, 「祝福ありや」. The natural rhythm created by placing the two numbers “three” and “forty” in that order is a mark of her skill.
One memorable aspect of this meeting was 三宅's use of onomatopoeia. Japanese seems to have a great many such expressions. Used effectively, they can create richly evocative poetry without falling into explanation. Choosing them is difficult, however: a commonplace or ill-fitting expression can have the opposite effect. 「ゴロゴロ」 is commonplace. I take my hat off to 三宅's attempt to fashion an original expression from it.
Original wording, author credits, notes and source materials are preserved there.