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 — Summer, June
June 17, 2023
Record and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Academia
The day of the meeting was sunny, but it did not feel like an ordinary break in the rainy season. The temperature climbed rapidly past thirty degrees Celsius. It was like summer itself. A day reaching thirty degrees is called a “midsummer day,” but perhaps a “fiercely hot day” of thirty-five or more is not far away either. It is still only June. If the heat continues at this rate, by high summer we may pass even that category and reach the next stage. The Japan Weather Association recently named days of forty degrees or above “extremely hot days” (kokushobi). Am I alone in finding the choice of “extreme heat” after “fierce heat” so reasonable as to be unsatisfying? Could they not have found a more distinctive, “showy” expression to convey the abnormality of temperatures over forty? Or would a touch of festivity be considered improper in a word describing potentially fatal heat?
The meeting was held at the Miura Workers' Civic Center from 11 a.m. on June 17. Those attending were the six members 三宅尚道, president of the Miura Tanka Society; 加藤由良子, 嘉山光枝, 嶋田弘子, 羽床員子; and Seishu Hamano, president of Japan Romanticism Academia, together with 河内裕二. 清水和子 of the Miura Tanka Society also sent a poem.
年月の経つのは早く亡き夫の
十三回忌法要子らと 光枝
The author is 嘉山光枝. The meaning is easy to understand. Thinking of the feelings with which she composed it, we imagine what her husband was like in life and what their married life was like. The mention of being with the children broadens the imagination further: what kind of father was he? The words about how quickly the years pass bring us back to reality. According to 三宅, her husband was a member of the Miura Tanka Society and continued composing tanka until a few days before his death. How would he evaluate this poem by his wife?
高層ビル住まいし友を訪れば
ビル風うなり我をこばみぬ 由良子
The author is 加藤由良子. She writes about visiting a childhood friend who had moved into a high-rise building. Everyone has probably experienced the sudden strong gusts known as “building wind” around tall structures. Its force does indeed “roar,” as the poem expresses it. To someone who does not know the mechanism, it also seems somewhat mysterious. Her view of the wind as rejecting her visit is excellent. Her old friend is surely waiting eagerly for her arrival, yet the new, “cutting-edge” urban life symbolized by the building seems to keep her at a distance. There is even humor in it.
処方されし薬の効きて亡き父に
飲ませたかりし小さき一粒 和子
A poem by 清水和子, absent today. Scientific and technological progress sometimes makes possible what was impossible in the past. This occurs in many fields, but is particularly marked in medicine. When she herself became unwell, the prescribed medicine proved effective. Rather than simply feeling glad or relieved, she thought that the medicine helping her now might also have worked for her father's illness long ago. That thought touches the reader's heart: if only this medicine had been available then. And it is only one tiny pill.
しんとした耳にジンジン事も無し
誰か言ひつる宇宙の呼吸と 弘子
The author is 嶋田弘子. When she began to hear ringing in her ears, she remembered something she had read about tinnitus. Thanks to that memory, her anxiety eased a little. According to her, the book said that the sound of tinnitus was “the breathing of the universe.” It is certainly a memorable expression, one not easily forgotten once heard. What “the breathing of the universe” actually means is not very clear. Perhaps we should call it the magic of words: their sound and atmosphere make it feel like something wonderful and certain. Without exactly saying that illness is all in the mind, those words bring reassurance. It is strange.
押し寄せる電波に乗りて脳内に
サプリメントの広告入り来る 員子
The author is 羽床員子. Even the tiresome advertisements overflowing our everyday surroundings can become a poem through distinctive language. There is humor as well. Compare it, for example, with an ordinary poem about ships entering a bay on surging waves, and the interest of her poem becomes clear.
紫陽花の名前のひとつ「ダンスパーティー」
知らぬ間にわが庭に咲く 尚道
The author is 三宅尚道. Having seen hydrangeas of different colors and shapes, I knew there were several varieties, but the others told me there are a great many. The “Dance Party” variety in the poem had apparently been introduced on television the other day. Could a hydrangea of a variety rarer than the ordinary kind really suddenly flower in the garden one day without his knowing? Perhaps a family member planted it and only he was unaware. Yet there is also something of the atmosphere of a mysterious wonder of nature.
ひとり咲きひとり墜ちゆく寒椿
五月の地べたに濡れて重なる 成秋
The author is President Seishu Hamano. The scene rises before one's eyes. As the use of hitori, “alone,” rather than hitotsu, “one thing,” suggests, a human being is being compared to a winter camellia. According to the author, the theme is life and death. Every flower will eventually fall, but the way a camellia falls is striking: its whole blossom drops from the base. In the case of the winter camellia, the petals fall. If they lie wet and overlapping, it must indeed be a winter camellia, but the place where they land is 「地べた」. He chose this word, with its more negative feeling than the ordinary word for “ground,” to express that no one wants to fall to such a place.
変わりゆく街に響ける烏鳴
高層ビルは雨に濡れをり 裕二
My own work. Recently I often see old buildings being demolished in city centers and high-rises built in their place. Perhaps because I take little interest, the buildings all seem impersonal and alike. Or perhaps similar kinds simply happen to be going up in the places I see. The crows gathering in the city usually perch on older buildings, although that too may be coincidence. Moreover, I cannot help hearing their cries as expressing exasperation with the humans erecting one building after another. I meant to write about a scene I had seen, but came to feel that I had also made the crows speak for my disappointment in the changing city.
After submitting my poem, I regretted a little that, expecting many poems about rain in the rainy season, I had also written about a rainy day. Perhaps I should have chosen a different subject. Yet I never imagined that “high-rise buildings” would overlap with another work. Conversely, perhaps this demonstrates how close to everyday life they have become. Tokyo Skytree is probably the best-known tall structure. As its name suggests, treating tall buildings as urban trees might make for an interesting poem.
Original wording, author credits, notes and source materials are preserved there.