or sing out
but seals its grief-laden heart
in a cocoon it weaves
tsutsu mashiku
nakanu utawanu
ko ga kokoro
kanashiku komete
mayu amareken
stark naked
I hold in my hand
a red apple
holding it in my hand
I take a morning bath
hadaka nite
ware wa mochitari
kurenai no
ringo mochitari
asaburo no naka ni
ten years ago
I was a madwoman
with eyes fixed on
fiery red cherry blossoms
inky black cherry blossoms
kyōjin no
ware ga minikeru
totose mae no
makkana sakura
makuroki sakura
as I gaze upon
a bundle of small red roses
with fear in my heart
each and every flower
turns into an eye
osore moteru
waga mite areba
beni kobara
hitotsu hitotsu mina
me to narinikeri
a flower blooms
showing the natural color
it was born with
while I have never known
in what color I am to bloom
onozu kara
naru inochi no iro ni
hana sakeri
waga saku iro wo
ware wa shiranu ni
having let flow
all the blood to flow
in the kitchen
a dead fish lies gleaming
in the stillness of noon
nagaruru chi
nagashi tsukushite
kuriyabe ni
shigyo hikaru nari
hiru no shizukesa
Translated by Makoto Ueda
OZAKI HŌSAI
Although Ozaki Hōsai (1885–1926) graduated from Tokyo University and began working for an insurance firm, a drinking problem led him to abandon his middle-class life. He then entered a Buddhist monastery in Kyoto and eventually took over the guardianship of a small temple on Shōdo Island in the Inland Sea. Here he wrote many of his haiku, which deal unsentimentally with loneliness and solitude. Hōsai’s work was a great inspiration to Taneda Santōka and others.
I have no bowl
I receive
with my hands
iremono ga nai
ryōte de
ukeru
in coughing too
I am
alone
seki wo
shite mo
hitori
Translated by Janine Beichman
All day long
I don’t say a word:
A butterfly casts its shadow.
Ichinichi
mono iwazu
chō no kage sasu.
When I wash the soles of my feet
They become white.
Ashi no ura araeba
shiroku naru
Translated by Donald Keene
Splendid breasts—
there is a mosquito.
Subarashii chibusa da
ka ga iru
Translated by Makoto Ueda
SAITŌ MOKICHI
To many people, Saitō Mokichi (1868–1953) is the best and most representative of all twentieth-century tanka writers. He pursued both a literary and a medical career at the same time. One of the first physicians to study psychiatry in Germany, he later became the director of a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo. His son, the writer Kita Morio, whose work appears in the second volume of this anthology, loosely based the character of the protagonist in his novel The House of Nire (Nireke no hitobito) on Mokichi.
Crimson
the crape-myrtle
had bloomed
and yet this madman
said not a word
kurenai no
sarusuberi wa
sakinuredo
kono kyōjin wa
mono wa iwazukeri
As I lie beside my mother
who is close to death,
piercingly the call
of frogs in distant fields
echoes in the heavens.
shi ni chikaki
haha ni soine no
shinshin to
tōta no kawazu
ten ni kikoyuru
At daybreak,
the great steam horn
sounds from the ship,
its echo lingering;
the mountains arrayed.
asa akete
fune yori nareru
futobue no
kodama wa nagashi
namiyorou yama
I was standing there
by the Tenryū River
where white-capped waves
of the river rapids
came cascading from beyond.
mukō yori
se no shiranami no
tagichi kuru
Tenryū gawa
oritachinikeri
In my calling
there is not a single
moment of respite:
I think about insanity
both waking and sleeping.
nariwai wa
itoma sae nashi
monogurui no
koto o zo omou
nete mo samete mo
To see the charcoal
flourish into flame—
brightly, brightly!—
a sudden tranquillity,
yesterday, today . . .
akaaka to
okoreru sumi o
mire toki zo
hayamo yasuragu
kinō mo kyō mo
Is this what
quietude is like?
on a winter night
the sounds of the air
which surrounds me
shizukesa wa
kaku no gotoki ka
fuyu no yo no
ware o megureru
kūki no oto su
No words are left
to tear at my heart—
the flames frolic
in the hearth
evening in winter
Kuyashimamu
koto mo taetari
ro no naka ni
hono’o no asobu
fuyu no yūgure
Translated by Amy Vladeck Heinrich
SHAKU CHŌKŪ
Shaku Chōkū (1887–1953) is the Buddhist name that the scholar and anthropologist Origuchi Shinobu chose when writing poetry. A sample of his prose appears elsewhere in this anthology. Shaku’s continuing interest in ancient Japanese myth and legend is reflected in his poetry through his use of archaic words and other devices. The Anthology of a Thousand Leaves (Man’yōshū), the first collection of Japanese poetry, dating from the eighth century, was a particular interest, and Shaku made a highly regarded, complete translation into modern Japanese of the lengthy and difficult-to-read original.
imagining
the grassy ground not shown
in the newsreel
of a victorious battle
I grieve
isamashiki
niusu eiga ni,
utsuri konu
kusamura-zuchi wo
omoi kanashimu
somewhere around
Lord Buddha’s eyes
I keep seeing
the sadness of a weary man
mihotoke no
bimoku no hodo no
unjitaru
sabishisa wo omou.
as I trudge along this road
kono michi no aida
VULTURES
—in the midst of war
flocking together
crying and swooping down
vultures in the sky
underneath
muragarite
nakitsutsu kudaru
ōzora no
shichō no shita wo
<
br /> I keep walking
ware wa yukunari
Translated by Makoto Ueda
SUGITA HISAJO
Another noted writer of haiku, Sugita Hisajo (1890–1946) was an early disciple of another well-known haiku poet, Takahama Kyoshi (1874–1959), an early associate of Masaoka Shiki. Sugita characterized herself as passionate and idealistic, and many of her poems are highly personal.
spring cold—
round a young chrysanthemum leaf
how sharp the teeth!
harusamu ya
kizami surudoki
kogiku no me
gums itching
the baby bites my nipple—
spring’s hazy sky
haguki kayuku
chikubi kamu ko ya
hanagumori
home from blossom-viewing—
as I disrobe, many straps
cling to my body
hanagoromo
nugu ya matsuwaru
nimo iroiro
sewing in the lamplight
I teach spelling to my child—
autumn rain
hi ni nūte
ko ni oshiyuru ji
aki no ame
reading a play
dishes left in the sink
this winter night
gikyoku yomu
fuyu yo no shokki
tsukeshi mama
she mends socks
not quite a Nora
this teacher’s wife
tabi tsugu ya
Nora1 to mo narazu
kyōshizuma
air-raid sirens—
the last to turn off the lights
is a temple with blossoms
kūshū no
hi wo keshi okure
hana no tera
Translated by Makoto Ueda
TANEDA SANTŌKA
As a young man, Taneda Santōka (1882–1940) lived a life of extreme poverty and was forced to abandon his family. In 1924 he entered a Zen temple, and in 1927 he began his celebrated wanderings around Japan as a mendicant monk. Santōka cited his major influences as the Tokugawa-period haiku poet Matsuo Bashō and his own contemporary, Ozaki Hōsai.
the deeper I go
the deeper I go
green mountains
wakeitte mo
wakeitte mo
aoi yama
sleep on the ground
sooner or later
peaceful as a clod of dirt
izure wa
tsuchikure no yasukesa de
tsuchi ni neru
came along
a mountain path
talking to myself
yamaji kite
hirorigoto iute
ita
edge of town
all graveyard
and the sound of waves
machi-hazure wa
bochi to naru
namioto
somewhere
inside my head
a crow is cawing
doko ka de
atama no naka de
karasu ga naku
dawn coming on
honing the sickle
akete kuru
kama o togu
no desire to die
no desire to live
the wind blows over me
shinitaku mo
ikitaku mo nai
kaze ga furete yuku
road running straight ahead
rolling a big thing
down on me
michi ga massugu
ōkina mono o
korogashite kuru
Heaven
doesn’t kill me
it makes me write poems
ten
ware o korosazu shite
shi o tsukurashimu
valiantly—that too
pitifully—that too
white boxes
isamashiku mo
kanashiku mo
shiroi hako
nothing left of the house
I was born in
fireflies
umareta ie wa
atokata mo nai
hōtaru
the mountain’s stillness
white blossoms
yama no shizukesa wa
shiroi hana
this trip
likely the one I’ll die on
dandelions gone to fuzz
kono tabi
shi no tabi de arō
hohoke tanpopo
autumn wind
for all my walking—
for all my walking—
aki kaze
aruite mo
aruite mo
waiting for what?
each day each day
more fallen leaves pile up
nani o matsu
hi ni hi ni
ochiba fukō naru
Translated by Burton Watson
YAMAGUCHI SEISHI
It is difficult to know in which period to place Yamaguchi Seishi (1901–1994) and his accomplishments as a haiku poet. After studying law, Seishi began working in Osaka, but because he was so often sick, he was forced to stop working regularly and moved successively to a series of small towns on the Japan Sea. By the early 1930s, Seishi had become famous for his unconventional poems, which combine a sensitivity to nature and the use of unusual and modern subject matter.
Up to summer grass,
wheels of a locomotive
coming to a stop.
natsukusa ni
kikansha no sharin
kite tomaru
The summer river
immersing the scarlet end
of an iron chain.
natsu no kawa
akaki tessa no
hashi hitaru
Cleaning yellowtail
in water turned vermilion
by their flowing blood.
chishio koki
mizu ni shi nao mo
buri arau
Miserable ant
climbing up a house pillar
higher and higher.
aware ari
ie no hashira wo
takaagaru
On a hook he hangs—
the wild boar, much as he lived,
with his dirty tusks.
shishi tsurusu
ikite ishi kiba
kitanakere
Translated by Takashi Kodaira and Alfred H. Marks
DRAMA
The art of a new drama was slower to develop in Japan. The traditional form of kabuki continued to attract some writers, and a new form of drama called shinpa, a sort of cross between kabuki and modern theater, maintained a certain vogue. The composition of a superior spoken drama (shingeki) in Japanese, however, began only around the time of World War I. One of the reasons for this was that such drama could not be performed without actors, directors, and appropriate theater spaces. As these became available and more professional, more and more writers tried their hand at dramas for them. The following two plays are examples of what was still, at this time, an experimental form of twentieth-century Japanese literature. Both are in one act, a less demanding form for writers without experience in the complexities of dramatic construction.
KISHIDA KUNIO
Kishida Kunio (1890–1954) was the most highly regarded shingeki playwright of the interwar period dedicated to artistic rather overtly political goals. While his longer plays are evocative and dramatically effective, his early one-act sketches retain a particular freshness and charm. The Swing (Buranko), of 1925, has long remained a favorite and occasionally is still performed.
THE SWING (BURANKO)
Translated by David G. Goodman
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Husband
Wife
Colleague of Husband, nicknamed “The Mantis”
PLACE AND TIME
A living room. Morning.
WIFE (arranging dishes on a low table): Time to get up!
HUSBAND (from within): I’m up. I’m up. What tim
e is it, anyway?
WIFE: You know perfectly well what time it is.
HUSBAND: That late?
WIFE: What time did you think it was?
HUSBAND (apparently jumping up from his bed): Really? (Pause.) The Mantis isn’t here yet, is he?
WIFE (concerned about the neighbors): Keep your voice down, will you please?
HUSBAND (entering): I had the most fantastic dream last night.
WIFE (ignoring him): The toothpaste tube is leaking, so be careful.
HUSBAND (going toward the kitchen): Any rats last night?
WIFE (still preoccupied with the items on her tray): Where did you put it yesterday morning? You didn’t go out to the bath last night either. . . .
HUSBAND (picking his teeth with a toothpick): I really should get to the bath today, I guess.
WIFE: This burdock from day before yesterday’s no good anymore, is it?
HUSBAND: Beats me. I’ve had a lot of dreams, but this is the strangest one of all. (Pause.) A really nice dream.
WIFE: Did you find the towel?
HUSBAND: Yes. You have to pay attention to dreams. The minute I say that, you come back with, “You can’t put stock in dreams.” Well, of course, just because you strike it rich in a dream doesn’t mean you’re going to strike it rich in real life. Nobody’s stupid enough to put that much stock in dreams. (Pause.) Dreams are just dreams. I accept that. But while I’m on the subject, dreams are different from fantasies, too. After all, dreams are real events in your life. They actually happen while you’re asleep.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 93
