English translation of the prose
AI-assisted English translation of the prose; quoted poems remain in Japanese. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
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Japan Romanticism Poetry Forum — Summer, Fumizuki
July 22, 2023 (Reiwa 5)
Report and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Academia
The world swimming championships are taking place in Fukuoka, Japan. Competitive swimming often draws the most attention, but there are other events, including diving and water polo. A few days ago, a Japanese athlete won gold in artistic swimming. When the television news announcer used that unfamiliar name, I wondered whether it was a new sport; it turned out to be none other than synchronized swimming. Apparently, the name was changed to artistic swimming in 2018. When I watch the perfectly coordinated performances of a duet or team, I feel that “synchronized” conveys the sport's defining feature clearly and precisely. Is that merely an amateur's view? The abbreviation “synchro” was also convenient to say, but apparently it is now called AS, from its English initials. I hope the name change benefits the sport, but will it?
The poetry gathering was held at Miura Workers' Civic Center from 11 a.m. on July 22. Those present were 三宅尚道, chairman 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, chairman of the Japan Romanticism Academia—these six, together with 河内裕二. 清水和子 of the Miura Tanka Society also submitted a poem.
今時は暑中見舞いもスマホなり
私まだまだ手書きで便り 光枝
The poet is 嘉山光枝. She says that lately even summer greeting cards from friends arrive on her smartphone as “digital” versions with music and video. Those are enjoyable in their own way, but she still sends traditional handwritten postcards. Describing herself as an “analog” person, she says she writes by hand because she feels that actually writing something herself may communicate her feelings better. Now that so many errands and messages are dealt with by email, the recipient must surely feel something special and be pleased.
「人工骨入れている間に夫逝きぬ」
友の言葉に相づち打つのみ 由良子
The poet is 加藤由良子. A friend contacted her to say that she had left hospital and returned home. When 加藤 visited, she learned that her friend had been readmitted because her leg was not recovering well. The account of having an artificial bone inserted and the rest of her treatment was painful to hear, and 加藤 felt deeply sorry for her. Finally, when she asked about the friend's husband, she learned a terrible fact. Her friend had arranged for her husband to stay in a care facility while she underwent surgery; at the very time she was having the operation, he died at that facility. Hearing this, 加藤 could find no words and could only nod in response to her friend's account. When I first read the poem, I mistakenly thought the husband had died while having an artificial bone inserted. Once I understood that this was not so, the shock of what had happened left me, like the poet, feeling speechless.
梅雨晴れの嬉しさかくせず夕空に
二羽のとんびが追いつ追われつ 和子
This poem is by 清水和子, who was absent today. The scene comes vividly to mind. I have the impression that black kites live in large numbers along the coast; why is that? Is it because of their food? With wings spread, they are surprisingly large, and there is even something graceful about the way they circle high above on the wind. These two seem to be playing happily together, perhaps because the rain has cleared during the rainy season. With all the rain, they surely had not been able to fly freely for some time. It is wonderful that the poet chooses an evening sky, rather than a blue sky. The colors of evening have warmth and a tranquil feeling; watching the kites fly freely somehow soothes the heart.
炎昼の日差し照らせる停留所
汗をぬぐひて待つ人の列 裕二
This is my own poem. Ordinarily, good weather makes people happy. But when, as in this poem, one waits for a bus under a blazing sun every day on the way to work, one comes to welcome cloudy skies or light rain instead—weather in which the sun is hidden. Prolonged rain and insufficient sunshine would cause problems for crops, but a succession of nothing but clear days gives one pause too. This summer is predicted to be severely hot. Lately I often encounter ambulances responding to emergencies; are they carrying people with heatstroke? We should take great care in the heat.
朝咲きて夕べに散りゆく沙羅双樹
儚く愛し白き小花は 員子
The poet is 羽床員子. On a visit to the hydrangea temple, she noticed white flowers of the sarasōju blooming quietly amid a dense mass of blue hydrangeas, and wrote this poem. My own knowledge of sarasōju went no further than its being a sacred Buddhist tree whose flowers appear in The Tale of the Heike. I had not imagined its flowers blooming somewhere close at hand in Japan. I was told that the summer camellia, with its white summer flowers, was this sarasōju.
葉月待つ麦酒旨しと友柄の
一人没すと言の葉届く 成秋
The poet is Chairman Seishu Hamano. He and his friends had been looking forward to drinking cold beer together again when hot August arrived, but a postcard came telling him that one of them had died. It leaves one feeling helpless. Yet as one grows old, one's friends gradually pass away too. The chairman apparently returns to his hometown quite frequently and meets his friends there. The unforced verbal sensitivity of having “言の葉” arrive in “葉月” is wonderful: both expressions contain the character 葉, a leaf. It even holds within it the sad image of falling leaves. Such an expression would not be easy to achieve simply by deliberately trying.
初穫りはシシトウ十こナス三つ
夏の福分け夕餉を飾る 弘子
This is a poem by 嶋田弘子. Just as it says, she enjoyed the first summer vegetables harvested from her kitchen garden at dinner. The phrase “福分け” usually suggests sharing with others something received from someone else. Yet adding the three characters “夏の” expresses gratitude for a gift received from something greater than a person—nature itself—and the poet's modest feelings. Sun, soil, water, shishito peppers and eggplants: it is wonderful, too, how the garden scene rises before us in color.
真夏日の昼はソーメン菜園の
茄子と青紫蘇加えて食べる 尚道
The poet is 三宅尚道. Elaborately prepared food is fine, but in the heat of summer nothing beats a light, refreshing lunch like this. Vegetables one has grown oneself are in season, freshly picked and unquestionably safe. One would naturally want to make a poem of them.
Somen and hiyamugi noodles make us feel that summer has arrived. Both are what we call characteristic sights or tastes of summer. Some associations, such as somen and fireworks, are perennial favorites, but do the things that come to mind as summer's hallmarks not differ a little from person to person? I immediately think of sea bathing and high-school baseball, for example. But there were no fireflies at all where I grew up, and I had only seen them in places like zoos, so firefly viewing never comes to mind as a hallmark of summer. Summer creatures, for me, are rhinoceros beetles and stag beetles. Even these could only be found by going to mixed woodland on the edge of town or the wooded hills near villages, but as a child I searched for them with passionate enthusiasm. Such places have now disappeared from my hometown too. Might it not become increasingly difficult to compose summer poems that everyone can respond to, especially when nature is the subject?
The eight tanka are retained in Japanese. This English version translates the report and commentary.
Original wording, author credits, notes and source materials are preserved there.