Romantic Poetry Forum: Winter, February 2026

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 April 2026.

Japan Romantic Poetry Forum: Winter, Kisaragi

21 February 2026
Record and commentary: 河内裕二, Japan Romanticism Society

The Milan–Cortina Olympics are being held in Italy. Japanese athletes have performed strongly, winning the country’s largest number of Winter Olympic medals. Global warming has been affecting recent Olympics: extreme heat troubles the Summer Games, and insufficient snow the Winter Games. Less than at the previous Beijing Winter Olympics, which used entirely artificial snow, artificial snow is nevertheless being used in some areas this time. Consuming energy to make it emits greenhouse gases, creating a vicious circle. A research team at a Canadian university predicts that, if things continue this way, Sapporo will be the only previous Winter Olympic host able to hold the Games at the end of this century. What will become of the Olympics?

The gathering took place on 21 February at Hatsuse Civic Center; the source states a starting time of 01:30. Present were 三宅尚道, president of the Miura Tanka Association, 加藤由良子, 嘉山光枝, 羽床員子, 安田喜子, Seishu Hamano, president of the Japan Romanticism Society, and 河内裕二. 嶋田弘子, 清水和子, and Jun Hayama, who could not attend, also sent poems.

今日もリス走りぬけてく窓際に

　　　　　お忘れ物の樫の実一つ　光枝

The poet is 嘉山光枝. This is a heartwarming poem. Some may regard squirrels as pests that eat their crops, but she sees them affectionately. Accustomed to people, the squirrel comes almost daily and runs along the window. One day, on opening it, she found a single acorn standing there. The poem concerns a small everyday event, yet the contrast between the dynamic first half—the running squirrel—and the static second half—the single remaining acorn—is exquisite. The courteous お忘れ物, “something you have left behind,” addressed to a wild squirrel, conveys humor and affection and gives the poem intimacy and depth.

病にて家に戻りし息子（こ）が朝に

　　　　　マイ針箱でほころびを縫う　由良子

The poet is 加藤由良子. This records a moment with a son who has returned home because of illness or similar circumstances. His action one morning carries deep meaning. The literary diction of the first half contrasts with the modern, colloquial マイ針箱, “my sewing box,” in the second. Generationally, the first half can be read from the mother’s position, then shifting toward the son. Men of her generation did not commonly sew, but her son has his own sewing tools and mends a tear himself. One can read surprise and a touch of pity in her response. Yet that alone does not capture the poem’s layers. Sewing a tear is not merely repairing clothes: it symbolizes mending with his own hands the rents in his life caused by illness. The fact that it happens in the morning, a symbol of beginnings, supports this. The poem contains the mother’s affection as she quietly watches over him and hopes for recovery.

春の陽をいちまいいちまい包み入れ

　　　　　畑のキャベツまるくなりけり　喜子

The poet is 安田喜子. The instant one reads it, a spring field opens before one’s eyes. The conception of a cabbage’s growth as wrapping in spring light, leaf by leaf, inspires admiration. Plants are usually described passively as bathing in light. Here the active expression makes the cabbage a subject with a will of its own. Writing いちまいいちまい in hiragana delicately conveys its soft, airy texture. The exclamation of the closing まるくなりけり also carries discovery and emotion: before one knew it, it had grown so round. The reader quietly shares that surprise and joy.

お麩のみの会席料理に満腹す

　　　　　くるま麩、巣ごもり、唐揚げ、治部煮　員子

The poet is 羽床員子. This humorous poem brings an involuntary smile. She wrote it about a meal eaten while traveling in Kanazawa. Its bold structure lists four dishes in the second half, making the reader feel present and reading the menu. Placing jibuni, a representative Kanazawa dish, last shows that the order of the four was calculated. The eye inevitably goes to the second half, but the observation in the first—an entire kaiseki meal made only from fu, wheat gluten—is its core. The unexpected idea that a meal associated with luxury and variety consists solely of an ingredient usually seen as supporting material gives it distinctive humor and heightens its appeal.

冬の夕明かり灯してママを待つ

　　　　　吾子を母にしてくれた君居り　弘子

A poem by 嶋田弘子. “My child” is her daughter, and “you” is her grandchild. Time across three generations and the poet’s love live within it. Its heart is surely the phrase about making her child a mother. To the poet, her daughter will always be her child, but the grandchild’s birth gave that child a new face, that of mother like herself. The quiet emotion of recognizing this while looking at the grandchild is expressed here. してくれた conveys gratitude toward the grandchild. It makes one reconsider the meaning of family.

申告をすませて帰る海の道

　　　　　令和七年の夕日が落ちる　和子

The poet is 清水和子. Anyone who files a tax return can sympathize. Finishing brings relief, as though a weight has lifted from one’s shoulders. That release is expressed by the open seaside landscape of 海の道 and by the setting sun belonging to Reiwa 7, or 2025. In her heart, that year probably did not end until the return was filed. Only then is it over. The sun “falls” rather than “sinks,” so the ending is instantaneous. She has splendidly made tanka from a subject as seemingly unpromising as a tax return.

国会に提言者要るこの国に

　　　　　五輪の夢も空しからずや　成秋

A poem by President Seishu Hamano. Placing a political question beside the dream stage of the Olympics, it reexamines the condition of Japanese politics. The emptiness of a situation lacking politicians who seek to improve the country beyond party advantage is sharpened by comparison with athletes competing with all their strength. The message that Olympic dreams gain meaning only when politics is sound carries weight and resonates with the reader.

散りぬとも花また匂ふ春の世に

　　　　　あらたな色がまたかさなりぬ　裕二

My own poem. In February, plum blossoms and many other flowers begin to open. As one flower falls, another blooms. Physically, fallen flowers disappear and new ones replace them. Yet I feel that the fallen flowers still leave something there; new blossoms do not supplant them but overlap them, enriching the colors further. Might human life be the same?

老い知らず二度の手術も乗り越えた

　　　　　生きるお手本卒寿の父は　潤

The poet is Jun Hayama. Plain words express love and respect for a father directly. Calling a ninety-year-old father “unacquainted with aging” is not exaggeration: his strength in overcoming two operations must truly appear astonishingly undiminished to the poet. Choosing 生きるお手本, a model for living, instead of commonplace words such as “great” or “admirable” demonstrates exceptional poetic expression. This warm, refreshing poem conveys pride and gratitude in having such a father.

二階にて一人眠れば家猫は

　　　　　階下に来たりて朝を告げをり　尚道

The poet is 三宅尚道. An everyday scene reveals the relationship between the poet and a pet cat. Nothing major happens; the event probably repeated yesterday and today and will repeat tomorrow. Yet literary expressions such as 来たりて and 告げをり give it something of a morning ritual beyond everyday life. According to the poet, “announcing morning” is actually only the cat asking for food. Seen another way, however, the cat can be understood as a presence giving daily life a small measure of meaning.

The poem that impressed me most this time was 羽床’s kaiseki poem. I sometimes see verse that breaks the regular meter, but listing dish names was new and refreshing to me. If it produces such an impact, this too is a valid approach. Unfortunately I do not know these dishes, but readers who do may have their sight and taste awakened by the specific names. With care to preserve the poem’s unity, one need not be too bound by fixed form; the range of expression may expand further.