by Неизвестный
“and that they are born like turds.”
SHINKAWA KAZUE
When she was a high-school student, Shinkawa Kazue (b. 1929) was introduced to poetry by the popular songwriter and professor of French literature Saijō Yaso. Shinkawa then went on to create a large body of “elegant and sinuous” work, as one critic put it, as well as poems for children. Her collected poems were published in 2000.
THE DOOR (TOBIRA, 1959)
Whenever a deadline approached
I would grow even more reticent
and making my workroom stagnant as the dark bottom of the sea
let my fish scales glow quietly by a rock all day.
At such a time
you would come down the hall with your infant steps,
stop in front of the stubbornly closed door,
and call your mother’s name with a tireless passion:
Mama! Mama! Mama!
Watching silently from inside
the blue-green handle turn, click-click,
your mother’s eyes would begin to see, with painful clarity,
a rabbit caught in clairvoyance,
your small figure on tiptoes holding onto it.
In the end I’d lose
and open the door wide.
You’d quickly run up to me,
brightly scattering the cries of a brave soldier
taking back a prisoner, how innocent of you!
You call the swivel chair covered with faded velvet Mama
and turn my world like a top.
You call a pen Mama
and tell me to draw
on the blank margins of my lined sheet
lots and lots of choo-choo trains.
One day
out of a very gentle feeling
I kept company with you from morning, all day.
You were in a terribly good mood
and were twice as good a boy as usual. Yet,
remembering I don’t know what, suddenly you tossed off your toys,
ran to the study where I wasn’t, that day,
and called out:
Mama! Mama! Mama!
Listening to your voice
I felt oddly lonely.
For you
what was wanted was always behind the door.
The person who’d open the door after your repeated calls
and pick you up had, for you, the reality of mother.
Listening to your voice
I gradually became unnerved.
In time I became inorganic
and standing close behind you
raised a pitiful cry:
Me! Me! Me!
When the two of us
violently pushed the door open
I definitely saw, I thought:
seated in the old swivel chair,
facing a lined sheet spread on the desk,
and drawing one picture after another
of the matchbox choo-choo train you liked, weeping,
a profile of the real me—
“WHEN THE WATER CALLED ME . . .”
(MIZU GA WATASHI O YONDA TOKI . . . , 1977)
When the water called me
my body spilled from the log bridge
and before I took another breath was held in the river’s arms.
I flowed. The water sang.
—Your red clothes, wet, open,
are beautiful like a water flower.
Let me give this flower to the water god
as soon as possible.
But at that moment
with a voice stronger than water’s someone called me.
I opened my eyes a little. It was the riverbed
and a fire was burning.
—We can’t offer this healthy girl
as a sacrifice to the water.
We’ll just give her clothes to him.
Come, burn like me.
Totally naked, you enchant me.
Myself enchanted, I stared at the fire.
My body became hot and my life caught fire.
My girlhood of “shoulder fabric”
flowed away, along with my clothes, in the hometown river;
I left a red flower, first sign of womanhood, abloom on a pebble
and began to walk.
Sometimes even now, far or near,
the water tries to lure me with his sweet song.
And each time I freely release my clothes to him
and become naked.
I make a fire and from near it
start out once more as if for the first time.
POETRY IN TRADITIONAL FORMS
In the past two decades, increasing experimentation with form, combined with less formal diction, has brought a contemporary feeling to the traditional haiku and tanka forms.
TAWARA MACHI
Hugely popular, Tawara Machi (b. 1962) has become the spokesperson for what is termed shinjinrui, “the new human species,” a breed of young Japanese who, to their parents at least, seem to inhabit a whole new country. As a high-school student, Tawara enjoyed acting in plays but took up poetry as an avocation while an undergraduate student at Waseda University. With the publication of her anthology Salad Anniversary (Sarada kinenbi) in 1987, when she was only in her mid-twenties, she became one of the best-known young literary figures in Japan and has continued to write for her large public ever since.
That single word
I let slip the chance to say
floats like a leaf
in hot pepper soup,
so bitter my eyes water.
hitotsu dake iisobiretaru koto no ha no hatōgarashi ga horohoro nigai
Translated by Edwin Cranston
At breakfast
coffee smells so good
on my table—
what’s this about a life
with only room for love?
kōhī no kaku made kaoru shokutaku ni ai dake ga aru jinsei nante
Translated by Edwin Cranston
I remember
your hand, your back,
your breathing,
the white socks left
where you took them off.
omoidasu kimi no te kimi no se kimi no iki nuida mamma no shiroi kutsushita
Translated by Edwin Cranston
“Phone me again.”
“Wait for me.”
Always always
you make love
in the imperative.
“mata denwa shiro yo” “mattero” itsu mo itsu mo meireikei de ai o iu kimi
Translated by Edwin Cranston
Your room—I’ll never be here again
don’t let them spoil the milk the onions
mō nido to konai to omou kimi no heya
kusarasenaide ne miruku tamanegi
Translated by Edwin Cranston
This is how it starts—
but perhaps I had it wrong:
this is how it ends,
the night that let itself be held
so lightly in our embrace.
hajimari to omoitakeredo oshimai to naru ka mo shirenu yoru o dakareru
Translated by Edwin Cranston
Out of paper and writing I construct my heart;
you’ll probably get it in the mail.
kami to moji de boku no kokoro o kumitateru
kimi ni wa tabun todoku to omou
Translated by Edwin Cranston
Heart turned clear as ice
by a conversation I had no desire
to hear
I kept the washing machine going deep into the night.
kikitaku wa nakatta hanashi ni kokoro saete
shin’ya mawashite iru sentakki
Translated by Edwin Cranston
Your disappearing figure,
a little too cool—
it’s always the man
who sets off on a journey.
Tabidatte yuku no wa itsu mo otoko nite kakko yosugiru senaka mite iru
Translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter
Changing trains
as if folding up
an umbrella—
I return
to my hometown
oritatamigasa o tatande yuku fū ni kisha norikaeta furusato ni tsuku
Translated by Leza Lowitz, Miyuki Aoyama, and Akemi Tomioka
Fireworks, fireworks
watching them together—
one sees only the flash
the other,
the darkness
hanabi hanabi soko ni hikari o miru hito to yami o miru hito narabi ori
Translated by Leza Lowitz, Miyuki Aoyama, and Akemi Tomioka
DRAMA
Since the 1970s, performances of contemporary drama have continued to be popular, not only in Tokyo, but also in Osaka, Kyoto, and Nagoya. Dramatists like Kara Jūrō, who began on the fringes and whose work is included in this section, has now found himself part of the mainstream, with his plays sometimes televised and his complete works published by major publishing houses. In addition, the acceptance of the avant-garde has made it possible for drama companies to support and encourage a more generally popular, commercial drama, and these plays often experiment without losing their audience. Of these dramatists, Inoue Hisashi is without doubt the most successful and most innovative of his generation.
INOUE HISASHI
Inoue Hisashi (1934–2010) was one of modern Japan’s most popular satirists and dramatists. His numerous novels and plays range over a wide spectrum of themes, from a retelling of the famous forty-seven rōnin story to a recent drama set in 1945 when the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan.
Inoue’s continuing interest in the comic novels of the Tokugawa (Edo) period (1600–1868) may have prompted him to compose his one-character play Makeup (Keshō), first staged in 1983 and now a mainstay of the Japanese stage.
Nowadays, most visitors to Japan see a performance of kabuki in its grandest and most classic form, with all male actors. But since kabuki’s inception in the seventeenth century, until well into the postwar period, more modest, often bowdlerized, versions of these dramas, staged by groups of itinerant players, have visited towns and villages throughout the country. Women often participated in such productions, and the troupe pictured here played in just such a performance.
MAKEUP (KESHŌ)
Translated by Akemi Horie
The forlorn dressing-room of a rundown little theater. A large makeup mirror downstage left of center for the troupe leader; however, the mirror cannot be seen by the audience. In fact, all this play actually needs is an actress to play the actress-manager; makeup equipment, costumes, and a wig for her to transform herself into a “yakuza” hero named Isaburō the Brave; twenty or so “enka” songs; and the active imagination of the audience.1
As the light comes on in silence, a woman is seen taking a nap in front of (from the audience’s viewpoint, the other side of ) the mirror. According to what she herself believes, she is Satsuki Yōko, the forty-six-year-old actress-manager of a traveling theatre troupe, “The Satsuki.”
Nothing much takes place for a while. Only Satsuki Yōko tossing about vulgarly from time to time. At her third or fourth toss, an “enka” song becomes audible in the distance. For example, Suizenji Kiyoko’s “What Would You Do If You Were a Man.” At this sound, Satsuki Yōko springs to her feet as if she had been yanked up by a string from the ceiling.
Here we go, they’ve started letting in the audience. (Giving a quick glance in the direction above the mirror.) Damn, what a black sky for a July evening and it’s not even six yet! Can’t afford rain now, not on a Saturday night when we’re hoping for good business. Hold on for another 40 minutes or so, won’t you? Till the curtain’s up?
Apparently there is a window diagonally above the mirror. She places a Dunhill cigarette between her lips and lights it with a gold-plated lighter. She takes one deep breath as she gazes at herself in the mirror and blows the smoke out at her reflection. Thereupon an apprentice of the troupe, visible to her but invisible to the audience, brings tea.
Ta.
She takes a sip, and chances to look at the boy’s face.
Hey, your makeup is much too thin, love. For heaven’s sake, paint your face solid like a wall, won’t you? Once you get into the habit of putting on sloppy makeup, you’re finished as an actor in our business.
As she moves about stage-right checking the makeup of other actors:
Start getting stingy with the makeup, and you end up exposing your rotten old faces; you just can’t imagine how many troupes like us have gone bust on that account.
It seems that she is using the space according to the following principles. First, she believes that ten or so members of her troupe are present stage-right; so when addressing them she will look toward this direction. Second, the right wing of the stage that we see apparently functions simultaneously as the wing of the stage on which she is about to perform. Third, she will soon produce on her left an invisible man from a TV channel; in her conversation with him, she will direct her face and mind toward stage-left. Further, the “enka” songs will be heard continuously throughout the performance, and the selection of these songs must be made with great care. In the main, lively, rhythmic songs with upbeat feelings must be chosen. Under no circumstances should a morose and melancholy piece like Misora Hibari’s “The Sorrowful ‘Saké’ ” be played. Indeed the selection of the “enka” medley, played to attract the audience, is one of the important tasks of the troupe leader. In other words, the songs played are mostly her own favorites; thus she will from time to time sway her body to the music. One final point: as far as the “enka” songs are concerned, the audience can also hear them.
Let me remind you once again, if I may, this is our opening night here. I want you to give it everything you’ve got and try like hell out there. I myself have decided to appear in all the numbers tonight, from the opening play to the Grand Song and Dance Finale; my strategy is to captivate the first-night audience with the full blast of my performance, so with any luck they’ll spread the word and bring in a good crowd for the rest of the week. So keep up with my pace as best you can, will you? As you know, this theater is going to be knocked down in ten days; apparently a block of flats is going up instead. This means we’ve got to gird up our loins and try all the harder, wouldn’t you say? Who’s that? Who gave that silly laugh just now? What’s so funny, darling? Eh? . . . as the boss is a “lady,” mightn’t it cause me a bit of discomfort with a tight loin-cloth cutting into my crotch? Honestly, it’s only a figure of speech—you’re asking for a good hiding, love! Seriously, if the very last finale of this theater should end up with a poor house, the name of Satsuki Yōko will be mud; the good name of the Satsuki troupe will be lost forever. So I’m asking every one of you to pull your weight and try your hardest to jam-pack the house every night; I’ll be putting my life on the line, too. Then luck will surely come our way; great theaters like the Shinohara Enbujō and the Mokubakan will come rushing to buy us out. So, do your damnedest, this could be your great beginning. Now, as for my speech of greeting to the audience, I’ll do it right after the second play as usual. (She practices her speech.) “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome, welcome to our performance tonight. Thank you very much for coming so eagerly on our first night, despite our long absence from these parts. I know it is impolite to address you from up here on stage, but my heart is at your feet and I would like to express our deep gratitude. Although we are already halfway into tonight’s performance, may I take the opportunity of this interval to say a few words of greeting. Tonight is the all-important opening night, and with your kind indulgence we have so far performed the opening play Isaburō’s Parting and the second piece The Tale of the Hairdresser Shinza without mishap . . . fantastic? Was it really fantastic? Oh, thank you, thank you. And now what remains is The Golden Stage of Song and Dance. . . . For the finale, we are presenting our special number, Fukagawa: we shall all dress up as handsome young dandies and erotic geisha, and enchant you with our titillating bea
uty. So I hope you will all make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the show right to the end. Once again, we thank you very much for coming to our performance tonight . . .”
She has been smoking as she rehearses her speech, but now stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray. She did not like the speech.
God, that was pretty feeble, I must say. (She thinks a little.) “Welcome, welcome to our performance. It is twenty years since my husband Satsuki Tatsutarō II passed away in his prime at the age of thirty-one. Perhaps some of you may remember the incident; twenty years ago, my husband died suddenly on this very stage of this theater while performing. . . .” Mind you, if anyone says “I remember,” he’s a big liar. True, the man disappeared twenty years ago all right. But the real truth is that he ran off with one of his fans and the mistress of some ironmonger2 in Ryōgoku, heroically abandoning his sinking ship. “Dying on stage. Indeed, ladies and gentlemen, it must have been a most gratifying end for my husband, born actor that he was.” The bastard was handpicked by my dad Satsuki Tatsutarō I to marry me; so naturally he was, shall we says, an above-average actor. However, character-wise, ugh, what a worm! “That was the period when film stars like Kinnosuke, Chiyonosuke and Yūjirō were in their prime, and television was invading our homes with terrifying speed. The theaters were empty wherever you went—the full houses we had had in the fifties seemed like a dream, and troupes like us were going bankrupt one after the other, one yesterday, two today and three tomorrow. . . .” (Glowering at the invisible mirror.) Can’t see a damn thing in this mirror, for some reason. “Needless to say, we, the Satsuki troupe, were no exception; at the best of times our audience was twenty to thirty and we were living from hand to mouth. We were so broke, we were grateful for the cigarette butts you left behind, which we collected and smoked each night after the performance. Then came the untimely death of my husband; when your luck runs out, bad luck really does pile up on you; as they say, ‘You stumble, only to find yourself in the dung heap.’ ” Would you believe, within ten days the number of Satsuki members went down from fifteen to a bare three. Still, if they had simply run away, I could have forgiven them. But, damn them, they pinched the precious costumes and wigs my dad had collected over the years, as a kind of farewell present; it turned out that I’d been acting with a gang of thieves all those years. To cap it all, I had a baby boy, three months old. I tell you, I really felt I had no way out but to kill myself and the boy right then. “But, thank heavens, you were with us; our small but eager, warm-hearted, and appreciative audience were with us.” Mind you, there were some greasy ones too. “Yeah, I’ll buy a block of fifty tickets, so let me do what I want with you for the night,” one oozed. How could I refuse? “It was the warm support of such audiences that kept the Satsuki Troupe going during those difficult years. We are eternally grateful.” Shall I cry here? “It is impolite to address you from up here on stage but my heart is at your feet and I would like to express our deepest gratitude. We are already halfway into tonight’s performance, but may I take the opportunity of this interval to say a few words of greeting? Tonight is the all-important opening night, so we have opened our performance with my hit, Isaburō’s Parting. This is my favorite, favorite play. I’ve had the pleasure of performing it for you hundreds of times, but every time I play the part I cry, and I’ve cried again tonight. The second piece, The Tale of the Hairdresser Shinza, was my husband Satsuki Tatsutarō II’s star turn, indeed he was performing this very play when he was struck down on this stage twenty years ago. Tonight, to commemorate his death, I, Satsuki Yōko, have played his part to the best of my ability. And now what remains is The Golden Stage of Song and Dance. . . .” Okay, okay—that will do for the speech.
