English translation of the prose
AI-assisted English translation of the prose; quoted poems remain in Japanese. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
Originally published:
This is material published on the Japanese website. Dates and notices describe circumstances at the time of its original publication.
Japan Romanticism Poetry Forum — Autumn, Kannazuki
October 21, 2023 (Reiwa 5)
Report and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Academia
There is a municipal local-history museum near my home. It also houses a planetarium, but the planetarium has been closed for renovations since last month. It is scheduled to reopen in July next year. It is unfortunate that the work should take place at this particular time. The world's first presentation of a modern planetarium, projecting starlight onto a dome as today's do, took place on October 21, 1923. Made by Germany's Carl Zeiss company, it was shown to those concerned at the Deutsches Museum. It feels distinctly sad that our planetarium should be closed at the very time that marks exactly one hundred years since the planetarium's birth. Surely the town's history and cultural galleries are housed together with the planetarium because history and the universe both possess romance, and that romance is valued? Japan has the world's second-largest number of planetariums after the United States, with around twenty in Tokyo alone. I could go to another one, no doubt, but this “neighbor” a few minutes' walk away inspires a special affection. I wanted to see the stars here.
The poetry gathering was held at Miura Workers' Civic Center from 1:30 a.m. on October 21, as the original states. Those attending were 三宅尚道, chairman 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; and Seishu Hamano, chairman of the Japan Romanticism Academia—these seven, together with 河内裕二.
彼岸過ぎ扇風機等しまい時
暑さ和らぎ秋風の吹く 光枝
The poet is 嘉山光枝. Each year, the poet makes a habit of putting away summer things around the equinoctial week, and here an electric fan represents summer. A fan might seem rather commonplace. Yet the final phrase is “秋風が吹く,” making wind the poem's key word and the electric fan an indispensable term. The invisible wind is used skillfully to express changes in the season and in the poet's feelings.
来年は着ることなしかと迷いつも
好きなブラウスハミングに浮く 和子
This is a poem by 清水和子. “Humming” is the brand name of a fabric softener sold by Kao. Launched in 1966, it is a long-selling product that would probably still be the first name to come to mind when fabric softener is mentioned. The poet apparently sometimes wonders whether next year they may already have died and no longer be in this world. That feeling arose while washing a favorite blouse worn often this year. Living in a care home, the poet could have all the laundry done without doing it personally, but chooses to hand-wash treasured things. The content is weighty. Yet “Humming,” a bright-sounding word that is both a product name and a musical term, softens the reader's feelings a little.
愛孫の中三女子はお年頃
切れてイライラやがてメソメソ 弘子
This is a poem by 嶋田弘子. The granddaughter, in her third year of junior high school and preparing for entrance examinations, must find things difficult. Yet the humorous expression makes us smile in spite of ourselves. Readers can laugh happily at this poem because the poet's tenderness toward the granddaughter comes through so strongly. The rhythm of the words is wonderful too. It ends with the crying sound “メソメソ,” but imagining the granddaughter, we feel sure that the sound of laughter, “ゲラゲラ” or “ケラケラ,” will follow. That thought makes us happy.
ゴーヤーは実をみのらせて気付かずに
黄色くなりて秋空にあり 尚道
The poet is 三宅尚道. This poem concerns bitter melons actually grown in the garden. One fruit went unnoticed, ripened and turned yellow. I did not ask what was done with it, but if I remember correctly, yellow fruit can also be eaten and is less bitter than green fruit. The word for sky in the final phrase, “秋空にあり,” gives a sense of height. The poet explained that the vine had climbed up a tree and borne its fruit high up, which was why it went unnoticed. Hearing that, I understood.
ヸオロンのひたぶるに恋ふ若き日は
いずこに去りしと駅に降り立つ 成秋
This is Chairman Seishu Hamano's poem. Autumn reminds him of Verlaine's “落葉.” “ヸオロンのひたぶる” draws on 上田敏's translation. In that poem, “ヸオロンのためいきの” follows, but he finds himself inevitably skipping “ためいきの身にしみて” and continuing with “ひたぶるに,” so he deliberately composed it that way. Since his poem uses “恋ふ,” it has more flavor in this form. In his days as a literary young man, the poet used to commute to university by train. Every autumn he remembers this. Recently, when he stepped off at that station again, he wondered where those young days had gone.
道の駅「おらほのめへ」とレシートに
甘い煮豆のおこわを求む 由良子
The poet is 加藤由良子. This is a travel memory. “おらほのめへ” was printed on a receipt received after shopping at a roadside station visited on a trip. Neither the poet nor anyone at the gathering had any idea what it meant. Looking it up, we found that in the Tsugaru dialect it means “our shop.” It is the name of a direct-sales shop selling agricultural produce grown by local farmers. Since “おら” means “I,” “おらほの” would mean “our,” and “めへ” is probably a dialectal form of “みせ,” shop. As with a quiz, once one knows the answer it makes sense. 加藤 confirmed that this was indeed during a visit to Aomori. Apparently, sweet red-bean rice is a local Tsugaru dish; perhaps that was what the poet bought.
時たゝば街のなじみも消えゆけど
移ろひぬるは世の常ならむ 裕二
This is my own poem. Revisiting places I used to frequent after an interval of about ten years, I find them changed. This has happened repeatedly lately. Large apartment buildings have appeared, or sites have become car parks; in some places I cannot even remember what stood there before. An eating place I once visited almost weekly at the busiest times has become a different shop. Where has that kind proprietor gone? Everything changes eventually, but has the pandemic not accelerated the pace of change recently? Looking back, how many of those changes can we say were for the better?
年を取りわからぬ言葉の増えゆけど
答の詰まったスマホが手にある 員子
The poet is 羽床員子. These days it is convenient to be able to look up something unfamiliar on a smartphone immediately. Sometimes, however, we forget what we looked up and search for the same thing again. Still, if the smartphone helps us manage, that is fine in its own way. Everyone experiences aging. The virtue of this poem is its positive attitude, free from pessimism about that fact. We can almost hear the poet saying: let new words come one after another; they will be dealing with my smartphone, not with me.
When a poem contains a word we do not know or do not ordinarily see, it inevitably catches our attention and draws us toward the poem. At this gathering, 加藤's “おらほのめへ” had a particularly strong impact. It was something we had never seen or heard, did not seem to be a place name, and could not possibly be guessed from the surrounding words. With apologies to the people of Aomori, I even wondered whether it might be a play with written characters like “へのへのもへじ.” Using a word of this “unknown identity” is, so to speak, a breaking ball: readers expecting a fastball take a mighty swing and miss. Yet if the pitch is a splendid one, even swinging and missing feels good.
The eight tanka and quoted fragments of poetry remain in Japanese. This English version translates the report and commentary. The source's “午前一時半” is retained as 1:30 a.m. rather than silently changed.
Original wording, author credits, notes and source materials are preserved there.