by Неизвестный
the mountains arrayed. namiyorou yama
I was standing there mukō yori
by the Tenryū River se no shiranami no
where white-capped waves tagichi kuru
of the river rapids Tenryūgawa
came cascading from beyond. oritachinikeri
In my calling nariwai wa
there is not a single itoma sae nashi
moment of respite: monogurui no
I think about insanity koto o zo omou
both waking and sleeping. nete mo samete mo
To see the charcoal akaaka to
flourish into flame– okoreru sumi o
brightly, brightly!– mire toki zo
a sudden tranquillity, hayamo yasuragu
yesterday, today . . . kinō mo kyō mo
Is this what shizukesa wa
quietude is like? kaku no gotoki ka
on a winter night fuyu no yo no
the sounds of the air ware o megureru
which surrounds me kūki no oto su
No words are left Kuyashimamu
to tear at my heart– koto mo taetari
the flames frolic ro no naka ni
in the hearth hono’o no asobu
evening in winter fuyu no yūgure
Translated by Amy Vladeck Heinrich
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— harusamu ya
round a young chrysanthemum leaf kizami surudoki
how sharp the teeth! kogiku no me
gums itching haguki kayuku
the baby bites my nipple— chikubi kamu ko ya
spring’s hazy sky hanagumori
home from blossom-viewing— hanagoromo
as I disrobe, many straps nugu ya matsuwaru
cling to my body himo iroiro
sewing in the lamplight hi ni nūte
I teach spelling to my child— ko ni oshiyuru ji
autumn rain aki no ame
reading a play gikyoku yomu
dishes left in the sink fuyu yo no shokki
this winter night tsukeshi mama
she mends socks tabi tsugu ya
not quite a Nora Nora1 to mo narazu
this teacher’s wife kyōshizuma
air-raid sirens— kūshū no
the last to turn off the lights hi wo keshi okure
is a temple with blossoms 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 Basho and his own contemporary, Ozaki Hōsai.
the deeper I go wakeitte mo
the deeper I go wakeitte mo
green mountains aoi yama
sleep on the ground izure wa
sooner or later tsuchikure no yasukesa de
peaceful as a clod of dirt tsuchi ni neru
came along yamaji kite
a mountain path hirorigoto iute
talking to myself ita
edge of town machi-hazure wa
all graveyard bochi to naru
and the sound of waves namioto
somewhere doko ka de
inside my head atama no naka de
a crow is cawing karasu ga naku
dawn coming on akete kuru
honing the sickle kama o togu
no desire to die shinitaku mo
no desire to live ikitaku mo nai
the wind blows over me kaze ga furete yuku
road running straight ahead michi ga massugu
rolling a big thing ōkina mono o
down on me korogashite kuru
Heaven ten
doesn’t kill me ware o korosazu shite
it makes me write poems shi o tsukurashimu
valiantly—that too isamashiku mo
pitifully—that too kanashiku mo
white boxes shiroi hako
nothing left of the house umareta ie wa
I was born in atokata mo nai
fireflies hōtaru
the mountain’s stillness yama no shizukesa wa
white blossoms shiroi hana
this trip kono tabi
likely the one I’ll die on shi no tabi de arō
dandelions gone to fuzz hohoke tanpopo
autumn wind aki kaze
for all my walking— aruite mo
for all my walking— aruite mo
waiting for what? nani o matsu
each day each day
hi ni hi ni
more fallen leaves pile up ochiba fukō naru
Translated by Burton Watson
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 play is an example of what was still, at this time, an experimental form of twentieth-century Japanese literature. It is 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 than 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 time 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 ju
st 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.
WIFE: If the scallions are overcooked, don’t blame me.
HUSBAND: Scallions. We having scallions in the soup today?
The sound of Husband washing his face. In a moment he appears, wiping his face with a towel. Passing him, Wife brings the rice pot from the kitchen.
WIFE: We’re going to buy another serving tub for rice, aren’t we?
HUSBAND (hanging the towel on a peg and sitting in front of the rectangular brazier): I could use a cigarette.
WIFE: It’s all right with me. Take it up with the clock.
HUSBAND (lighting a cigarette): I still have time. (Looking outside.) What great weather! (Pause.) The point is my interest in dreams has to do with the dreams themselves.
Wife places individual bowls filled with rice on the table.
HUSBAND: Dreams save me from boredom. They show me the shadings in life.
Wife ladles miso soup into bowls.
HUSBAND: Yesterday and today, today and tomorrow, in the spaces between I take these free trips. The trips are fun. Dreams for me are a part of reality. They’re not fantasies like hopes and ideals.
WIFE (picking up her chopsticks): It’s amazing you have the time to dream like that.
HUSBAND: Jealous? Anyway, the dream I had last night. . . . (He also picks up his chopsticks.)
WIFE: Before that, would you hurry up and claim the travel allowance for your trip the other day?
HUSBAND: Right, of course. Nine yen, seventy sen. I wish that were a dream! . . . Which is not how I should be thinking, of course. I’ll be sure to claim it today.
Silence.
WIFE: No eggs this morning.
HUSBAND: How come?
WIFE: I forgot to buy any.
HUSBAND: There you go! See? “I forgot.” What wonderful words. They conceal all ugliness, gloom, pain, and fear. Go ahead, forget . . . forget everything!
WIFE (uncomfortably): But I really did forget.
HUSBAND: Even better. (Pause.) And on top of that, the breakfast today is delicious!
WIFE (forcing herself to smile): The charcoal, we . . .
HUSBAND (noticing her expression): I’m serious!
WIFE: Really? (A tear runs down her cheek.)
HUSBAND: You’re such an idiot. The problem is you don’t dream enough. If you dream only once in a while, you have only crummy dreams.
WIFE: But I haven’t got a clue which dreams are interesting.
HUSBAND: I see. The ones I’ve told you about were too complicated, and you didn’t understand them. You didn’t understand them, so they didn’t appeal to you. The one I had last night, you’ll understand that one. I’ll explain it so you’ll understand. You’re my wife. A wife should know her husband’s dreams.
WIFE (refilling husband’s rice bowl): Here’s a little extra.
HUSBAND: Hey, take it easy!
WIFE: You’ll be hungry again before lunch.
HUSBAND (taking the bowl): In the dream, it seems I’m still a child. I say child, but I’m sixteen, maybe seventeen. The time when the world seems strangely lonely. (Pause.) As I always tell you, I had no friends. For fun, I’d hunt dragonflies by myself. In winter, I’d spend days drawing the faraway forest from the sunny slope of the hill behind our house. That’s how I amused myself.
WIFE: Don’t use so much soy sauce!
HUSBAND: When I was a child, I used to put soy sauce on rice all the time.
WIFE: It’s poison.
HUSBAND: You turn everything into poison. Anyway, about my dream. I wander into this forest. The forest I used to draw every day. It’s night, and . . .
WIFE: These pickles are better.
HUSBAND: It’s night, and . . . I go into the forest, and the forest, the one I’ve been drawing, is this vast, endless expanse. Russia or South America. It’s the kind of forest you’d find in a place like that, where no human being has ever set foot before . . . (Wife starts to say something.)
HUSBAND: Just be quiet and listen. It’s night. I’m not scared. Not in the least. Just sad; desperately sad. I decide to commit suicide.
WIFE: That’s enough! Are you sure you have time for this?
HUSBAND: I’m fine. Just listen. I decide to commit suicide. I find the branch of a tree. I toss my sash over the branch and tie the ends above my head. I’m all set to hang myself.
WIFE (looking away): Please!
HUSBAND: Listen. Just then, see, just then, I’ll be damned if someone doesn’t tap me on the shoulder.
WIFE: Somebody was there?
HUSBAND: Not someone, a beautiful young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen. She’s laughing and staring at my face.
Pause. Wife picks up the rice bowl that Husband has replaced on the tray, fills it with rice, and puts it back in his hands.
HUSBAND: She’s staring at me. I’ve met her someplace before. That’s what I think to myself, but I can’t remember where.
WIFE: Did you figure it out later?
HUSBAND: Wait, wait. (He shovels the remainder of the rice into his mouth.) Then she asks me what I’m doing, as if we know each other. I say I’m making a swing, and she says, then let’s play on it together. I answer that the sash is too short.
WIFE (bursting out laughing): How lame!
HUSBAND (seriously): That’s what I said. (Pause.) So then she replies, let’s tie my sash on, too, and she undoes her red, muslin sash.
WIFE (laughing): That’s enough!
HUSBAND: No, she undoes it. (Pause.) I have no choice, so I make a swing, and the two of us get in together. (Pause.) The trunk of the tree sways. There is the loud sound of wings flapping abruptly overhead, and all of a sudden every bird in the forest is in an uproar. Before you know it, the two of us are embracing on the swing.
WIFE (her face darkening slightly): Tea?
HUSBAND: Tea, yes. (Pause.) Tea, but the interesting part’s still to come.
WIFE: All right, I’ll hear it tonight. Now it’s time for me to shine your shoes.
HUSBAND: I’ll wear the Bulldogs. They’re already polished.
Wife stands and takes out Husband’s business clothes.
HUSBAND (watching wife): That’s when I really look at her face for the first time. I’m not sure, but she reminds me of someone. I’ve seen her, met her, spoken with her somewhere before.
WIFE (picking out socks): You’re not visiting anybody today, are you?
HUSBAND: No. I don’t plan to, anyway. Wait. No, I won’t have to. Anyway, she’s a girl I’ve met sometime, somewhere before. You know who she was?
WIFE: Of course. Now, come on, it would be a shame to keep him waiting.
HUSBAND: Who, then?
WIFE: Anybody. It doesn’t matter. You’re always like this. Especially in the morning when there’s no time. If you wait till evening, we’ll have more time.
HUSBAND: More time, yes, but the impression won’t be fresh anymore. This morning feeling, when your head’s filled with the dream, that won’t last till evening. Once I’ve breathed the dusty air of the office, I’m finished. It’s frightening. I come home and see your face, and of course, I feel good. I feel good, but that’s it. I can see you too clearly. (Pause.) But I’d better change. The Mantis is late today.
He empties his teacup in one gulp, stands, and begins to remove his kimono.
WIFE (helping him): This is already too warm, isn’t it?
HUSBAND (singing in a strange voice from deep within his throat): Tra-la-la-la-la!
WIFE (not unkindly, as she brushes the lint from his clothes): What a silly song!
HUSBAND: Silly? Just because you don’t know it, does that make it silly? (Pause.) But you said you knew who she was, who that girl looked like. Isn’t that strange, though? I mean, how old were you the first time I saw you? Nineteen? Twenty, maybe? That’s right. I have no way of knowing what you looked like when you w
ere twelve or thirteen.
WIFE: You’ve seen photographs.
HUSBAND: Right! That must be it. You’re awfully calm, though. It’s amazing! But . . . if all doubts disappear, then. . . . While you’re at it, though, I also want you to believe how happy I am.
WIFE: I’m . . . I’m happy, too.
HUSBAND: Bravo! Well said! Well said! (Pause.) All right, so the girl resembled you somehow. In fact, she was your spitting image. In other words, she was you. But that’s what’s so interesting about dreams. I realize this, but it doesn’t surprise or shock me in the least. There I am, sixteen years old, with my arms around a twelve-year-old you on a swing, whiling away the night.
WIFE: Your vest.
HUSBAND: Swinging takes no effort at all. (Pause.) Your soft hair brushes against my face every time you lean forward. You say it’s amusing and intentionally bring your face close to mine.
WIFE (laughing): How shameless!
HUSBAND: The swing seems to sway back and forth of its own accord. (Pause.) The soft light wetting the leaves of the trees dyes your face silver each time we look up. I stare into your eyes, devouring them. You’re laughing!
Wife rests her cheek against his shoulder.
HUSBAND: But finally you drift off to sleep. I drift off with you. (A long silence.) You already know the rest. Of course, the world’s nothing like that. (Pause.) Do you remember? The next morning, we moved straight into this house. And what a house! (He surveys the room.) Is this any place for human beings to live? For human beings to love? (Pause.) But last night was different. What I thought was a forest was actually a palace. What I thought was a swing was really a soft, warm, velvet hammock.
WIFE: What’s a hammock?
