I must confess to failure with the following poem by Nagatsuka Takashi:
垂乳根の母が釣りたる青蚊帳を
すがしといねつたるみたれども
(長塚節 1879-1915)
It's especially the second half that caused me problems. I think that may be the last of the tanka.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
Friday, 6 June 2008
Umaoi no
馬追虫の/髭のそよろに/来る秋は
まなこを閉じて/想い見るべし
(長塚節 1879-1915)
umaoi no / hige no soyoro ni / kuru aki ha
manako wo tojite / omoimirubeshi
(Nagatsuka Takashi 1879-1915)
the autumn that comes
with the rustling
of a bush-cricket's whiskers
is best imagined
with eyes closed
That 'beshi' at the end is the same as the modern 'beki', Wikipedia notes in passing in the middle of this article about dialects. Of course you can't always trust Wikipedia, but it seems to make sense in the poem. The season word in this poem is the 'bush-cricket' (or 'katydid' if you prefer, or 'long-horned grasshopper' though that seems a little long), which is connected with the beginning of autumn. However, it seems a little odd that the season in this poem is imagined, so that we might wonder what season we should be imagining autumn from.
I hope that I'm correct in translating 'hige' as 'whiskers', as bush-crickets don't seem to have anything particularly closely resembling whiskers, though if you look at this picture you can kind of imagine them. The rustling of these whiskers is going to be pretty difficult to notice, so I wonder if that's part of what the poem is saying, that nature is better imagined than seen. On the other hand, the poem might be saying that autumn is a particularly subtle season by nature, compared with other seasons.
Alternate searches:
'kuru aki wa' 'manako o tojite' 'omoimiru beshi'
まなこを閉じて/想い見るべし
(長塚節 1879-1915)
umaoi no / hige no soyoro ni / kuru aki ha
manako wo tojite / omoimirubeshi
(Nagatsuka Takashi 1879-1915)
the autumn that comes
with the rustling
of a bush-cricket's whiskers
is best imagined
with eyes closed
That 'beshi' at the end is the same as the modern 'beki', Wikipedia notes in passing in the middle of this article about dialects. Of course you can't always trust Wikipedia, but it seems to make sense in the poem. The season word in this poem is the 'bush-cricket' (or 'katydid' if you prefer, or 'long-horned grasshopper' though that seems a little long), which is connected with the beginning of autumn. However, it seems a little odd that the season in this poem is imagined, so that we might wonder what season we should be imagining autumn from.
I hope that I'm correct in translating 'hige' as 'whiskers', as bush-crickets don't seem to have anything particularly closely resembling whiskers, though if you look at this picture you can kind of imagine them. The rustling of these whiskers is going to be pretty difficult to notice, so I wonder if that's part of what the poem is saying, that nature is better imagined than seen. On the other hand, the poem might be saying that autumn is a particularly subtle season by nature, compared with other seasons.
Alternate searches:
'kuru aki wa' 'manako o tojite' 'omoimiru beshi'
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Ottosei
おっとせい/氷に眠る/さいわいを
我も今知る/おもしろきかな
(山川登美子 1879-1909)
ottosei / koori ni nemuru / saiwai wo
ware mo ima shiru / omoshiroki kana
(Yamakawa Tomiko 1879-1909)
I now also know
the happiness
of a seal
sleeping on ice:
how amusing!
We might wonder, like this Japanese blogger, whether sleeping on ice can come to feel amusing (or interesting or funny) at some point. If it wasn't for that last comment about how 'amusing' it is, I would probably have translated 'saiwai' as 'good fortune' or something similar. There seems to be something more going on in the poem than simple amusement though. What is the happiness of a seal sleeping on ice? Against a bleak backdrop, the seal sleeps, protected by its fur from the harsh environment. An image of self-sufficiency, or am I going too far in my interpretation on too little evidence?
Another Japanese blogger suggests (as far as I understand) that Yamakawa may have been amused by finding happiness in the unshowy everyday. But the fact that the seal is sleeping would also seem to be of some significance. The world is harsh, but it is shut out, because the seal is sleeping through it. So I return to self-sufficiency, except it's not only fur that protects the seal, but also loss of consciousness through sleep that is the only way to happiness in this world. How amusing?
Alternate searches:
'saiwai o'
我も今知る/おもしろきかな
(山川登美子 1879-1909)
ottosei / koori ni nemuru / saiwai wo
ware mo ima shiru / omoshiroki kana
(Yamakawa Tomiko 1879-1909)
I now also know
the happiness
of a seal
sleeping on ice:
how amusing!
We might wonder, like this Japanese blogger, whether sleeping on ice can come to feel amusing (or interesting or funny) at some point. If it wasn't for that last comment about how 'amusing' it is, I would probably have translated 'saiwai' as 'good fortune' or something similar. There seems to be something more going on in the poem than simple amusement though. What is the happiness of a seal sleeping on ice? Against a bleak backdrop, the seal sleeps, protected by its fur from the harsh environment. An image of self-sufficiency, or am I going too far in my interpretation on too little evidence?
Another Japanese blogger suggests (as far as I understand) that Yamakawa may have been amused by finding happiness in the unshowy everyday. But the fact that the seal is sleeping would also seem to be of some significance. The world is harsh, but it is shut out, because the seal is sleeping through it. So I return to self-sufficiency, except it's not only fur that protects the seal, but also loss of consciousness through sleep that is the only way to happiness in this world. How amusing?
Alternate searches:
'saiwai o'
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
Sore to naku
それとなく/紅き花みな/友にゆずり
そむきて泣きて/忘れ草つむ
(山川登美子 1879-1909)
sore to naku / akaki hana mina / tomo ni yuzuri
somukite nakite / wasuregusa tsumu
(Yamakawa Tomiko 1879-1909)
discreetly leaving
my friend all
the red flowers:
turning, crying
I pick forgetting grass
First of all there's an alternate translation on this page (scroll down). As usual, where there's no romaji version I didn't find this until after my own translation attempt, and it's tough to argue with Kenneth Rexroth and a Japanese collaborator. Still, 'tomo' sounds to me more like 'friend' than 'lover' if we leave out what we know about real-world relationships (though I do acknowledge that it may have had different connotations at the time of writing). As for other subtexts, this Japanese website states unequivocally, the 'friend' is Yosano Akiko and the 'red flowers' represent Yosano Tekkan. In other words, Yamakawa stepped aside to let Yosano Akiko marry Yosano Tekkan.
At the end of the poem, there is a mention of 'wasuregusa' (literally forget-grass) a commonly occurring flower in Japanese poetry, symbolising sadness and wanting to forget (briefly mentioned at the bottom of the Japanese Wiki entry). In English it is somewhat less poetically known as the daylily. As with the poem in the previous entry there is an insistence on not revealing feelings that goes against the revelation that writing a poem often implies. Once again it would be interesting to know if the poem was published.
Alternate searches:
'wasure-gusa tsumu'
そむきて泣きて/忘れ草つむ
(山川登美子 1879-1909)
sore to naku / akaki hana mina / tomo ni yuzuri
somukite nakite / wasuregusa tsumu
(Yamakawa Tomiko 1879-1909)
discreetly leaving
my friend all
the red flowers:
turning, crying
I pick forgetting grass
First of all there's an alternate translation on this page (scroll down). As usual, where there's no romaji version I didn't find this until after my own translation attempt, and it's tough to argue with Kenneth Rexroth and a Japanese collaborator. Still, 'tomo' sounds to me more like 'friend' than 'lover' if we leave out what we know about real-world relationships (though I do acknowledge that it may have had different connotations at the time of writing). As for other subtexts, this Japanese website states unequivocally, the 'friend' is Yosano Akiko and the 'red flowers' represent Yosano Tekkan. In other words, Yamakawa stepped aside to let Yosano Akiko marry Yosano Tekkan.
At the end of the poem, there is a mention of 'wasuregusa' (literally forget-grass) a commonly occurring flower in Japanese poetry, symbolising sadness and wanting to forget (briefly mentioned at the bottom of the Japanese Wiki entry). In English it is somewhat less poetically known as the daylily. As with the poem in the previous entry there is an insistence on not revealing feelings that goes against the revelation that writing a poem often implies. Once again it would be interesting to know if the poem was published.
Alternate searches:
'wasure-gusa tsumu'
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Kami-nagaki
髪ながき/少女とうまれ/しろ百合に
額は伏せつつ/君をこそ思え
(山川登美子 1879-1909)
kami-nagaki / otome to umare / shiro yuri ni
nuka ha fusetsutsu / kimi wo koso omoe
(Yamakawa Tomiko 1879-1909)
being born a
long-haired girl,
hiding my face
in lilies
I yearn for you
There's something odd about the idea of a girl born with long hair, but the 'ki' ending of 'nagaki' clearly attaches it to 'otome' (if you're not sure about this, look up 'rentai-kei' on google). Even if the phrasing is odd, it's easy to see what she means though. We get the idea of a traditional woman's role in courtship, though the fact that Yamakawa wrote this poem means she wasn't as shrinking as all that. Yamakawa tends to get mentioned most in connection with the more famous Yosano Akiko, as well as Yosano Tekkan, whose poems I looked at in earlier entries. Yosano Akiko (née Ho) married Yosano Tekkan, but Yamakawa was the other point on their love triangle, and is said to have been Akiko's lover as well as Tekkan's.
I wonder if I'd like this poem less if I knew nothing about Yamakawa's life. There seems to be more subtext in Japanese poetry than English poetry in general, and knowing under what circumstances a poem was written is often important to appreciating the meaning. If this is a kind of 'courtship' poem (for want of a better word) for Yosano Tekkan, it becomes more interesting in the gap between what it's saying and what it's doing. Unfortunately Yamakawa died young, of tuberculosis at the age of 29.
Alternate searches:
'kaminagaki', 'nuka ha fusetsutsu', 'kimi o koso omoe'
額は伏せつつ/君をこそ思え
(山川登美子 1879-1909)
kami-nagaki / otome to umare / shiro yuri ni
nuka ha fusetsutsu / kimi wo koso omoe
(Yamakawa Tomiko 1879-1909)
being born a
long-haired girl,
hiding my face
in lilies
I yearn for you
There's something odd about the idea of a girl born with long hair, but the 'ki' ending of 'nagaki' clearly attaches it to 'otome' (if you're not sure about this, look up 'rentai-kei' on google). Even if the phrasing is odd, it's easy to see what she means though. We get the idea of a traditional woman's role in courtship, though the fact that Yamakawa wrote this poem means she wasn't as shrinking as all that. Yamakawa tends to get mentioned most in connection with the more famous Yosano Akiko, as well as Yosano Tekkan, whose poems I looked at in earlier entries. Yosano Akiko (née Ho) married Yosano Tekkan, but Yamakawa was the other point on their love triangle, and is said to have been Akiko's lover as well as Tekkan's.
I wonder if I'd like this poem less if I knew nothing about Yamakawa's life. There seems to be more subtext in Japanese poetry than English poetry in general, and knowing under what circumstances a poem was written is often important to appreciating the meaning. If this is a kind of 'courtship' poem (for want of a better word) for Yosano Tekkan, it becomes more interesting in the gap between what it's saying and what it's doing. Unfortunately Yamakawa died young, of tuberculosis at the age of 29.
Alternate searches:
'kaminagaki', 'nuka ha fusetsutsu', 'kimi o koso omoe'
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
Yuyake-zora
夕焼空/焦げきわまれる/下にして
氷らんとする/湖の静けさ
(島木赤彦 1876-1926)
yuyake-zora / koge-kiwamareru / shita ni shite
kooran to suru / umi no shizukesa
(Shimaki Akahiko 1876-1926)
sunset sky
burnt to a crisp -
bring it down:
the quiet of the
unfrozen lake
If you can tell me what is meant by 'shita ni shite' here, I'd be most grateful. Usually it either means 'put something down', or 'put [eg the top part] at the bottom'. This is a roundabout way of saying that I'm not confident about this translation, and though I've had problems before, it's the first time I've come out with a result I find so unsatisfying. The first two lines are straightforward enough to understand, even if there's no obvious translation for 'koge-kiwamareru'. There's the passive form of the literary 'kiwamu' here, meaning the same as 'kiwameru', 'to do something to an extreme', so that the meaning is 'burnt to an extreme'. The last two lines also seem straightforward enough, with the 'umi' pronunciation for 'lake' presumably poetically licensed.
The problem is that these two parts of the poem seem to be self-sufficient, so I can't see the purpose of the middle section (perhaps clear from my translation attempt). The only interpretation I can manage is that the burnt sky should be put into the lake to cool off, and I think it must be something along those lines, but I also think there's a key part of the meaning I'm missing. Unfortunately, I can't find any commentary on this poem on the net, though it does appear many times in Japanese, so it must be popular.
Alternate searches:
'yuyakezora' 'yuuyake-zora' 'yuuyakezora' 'kogekiwamareru' 'koran to suru'
氷らんとする/湖の静けさ
(島木赤彦 1876-1926)
yuyake-zora / koge-kiwamareru / shita ni shite
kooran to suru / umi no shizukesa
(Shimaki Akahiko 1876-1926)
sunset sky
burnt to a crisp -
bring it down:
the quiet of the
unfrozen lake
If you can tell me what is meant by 'shita ni shite' here, I'd be most grateful. Usually it either means 'put something down', or 'put [eg the top part] at the bottom'. This is a roundabout way of saying that I'm not confident about this translation, and though I've had problems before, it's the first time I've come out with a result I find so unsatisfying. The first two lines are straightforward enough to understand, even if there's no obvious translation for 'koge-kiwamareru'. There's the passive form of the literary 'kiwamu' here, meaning the same as 'kiwameru', 'to do something to an extreme', so that the meaning is 'burnt to an extreme'. The last two lines also seem straightforward enough, with the 'umi' pronunciation for 'lake' presumably poetically licensed.
The problem is that these two parts of the poem seem to be self-sufficient, so I can't see the purpose of the middle section (perhaps clear from my translation attempt). The only interpretation I can manage is that the burnt sky should be put into the lake to cool off, and I think it must be something along those lines, but I also think there's a key part of the meaning I'm missing. Unfortunately, I can't find any commentary on this poem on the net, though it does appear many times in Japanese, so it must be popular.
Alternate searches:
'yuyakezora' 'yuuyake-zora' 'yuuyakezora' 'kogekiwamareru' 'koran to suru'
Sunday, 18 May 2008
Rinshitsu ni
隣室に/書よむ子らの/声きけば
心に沁みて/生きたかりけり
(島木赤彦 1876-1926)
rinshitsu ni / fumiyomu kora no / koe kikeba
kokoro ni shimite / ikitakarikeri
(Shimaki Akahiko 1876-1926)
hearing children
in the next
room reading:
pierced in the heart -
I want to live!
It's easy to get the point of this poem, especially when you know that the poet died shortly afterwards from stomach cancer, at the age of 49 (Japanese link). I imagine Shimaki longing for the invincibility children have, not thinking that death applies to them, while dying himself of a disease that normally (as far as I know) would come later in life. But regardless of when it would normally come, there's not necessarily a sense of resignation. A haiku or tanka written by a dying poet is called a '絶詠' (zetsuei), I have just discovered, and something about these kanji (the first associated for me with 'cutting off' or 'extinction', and the second with 'composition') brings the idea of creativity in the face of death home to me more forcefully than a 'death poem'.
The 'keri' suffix of 'ikitakarikeri' is used for poetic emphasis, so that I think my exclamation mark is justified. With this one word filling up the last seven syllables, it seems to also add emphasis simply through its length. There's an interesting discussion on a Japanese blog of the poem, particularly focussing on 'shimiru', and there's also a translation. The blogger notes that 'shimiru' and 'pierce' have different nuances, with 'shimiru' having connections with 'soaking in' and 'absorption' as well as 'piercing', though finally decides that there is no better word to use. If you look at the translation you'll notice 'kokoro' is also translated as 'soul'. However, when we talk about being pierced in the heart, we're not always talking literally, and sometimes the English 'heart' covers the soul and spirit in the same way that 'kokoro' does.
心に沁みて/生きたかりけり
(島木赤彦 1876-1926)
rinshitsu ni / fumiyomu kora no / koe kikeba
kokoro ni shimite / ikitakarikeri
(Shimaki Akahiko 1876-1926)
hearing children
in the next
room reading:
pierced in the heart -
I want to live!
It's easy to get the point of this poem, especially when you know that the poet died shortly afterwards from stomach cancer, at the age of 49 (Japanese link). I imagine Shimaki longing for the invincibility children have, not thinking that death applies to them, while dying himself of a disease that normally (as far as I know) would come later in life. But regardless of when it would normally come, there's not necessarily a sense of resignation. A haiku or tanka written by a dying poet is called a '絶詠' (zetsuei), I have just discovered, and something about these kanji (the first associated for me with 'cutting off' or 'extinction', and the second with 'composition') brings the idea of creativity in the face of death home to me more forcefully than a 'death poem'.
The 'keri' suffix of 'ikitakarikeri' is used for poetic emphasis, so that I think my exclamation mark is justified. With this one word filling up the last seven syllables, it seems to also add emphasis simply through its length. There's an interesting discussion on a Japanese blog of the poem, particularly focussing on 'shimiru', and there's also a translation. The blogger notes that 'shimiru' and 'pierce' have different nuances, with 'shimiru' having connections with 'soaking in' and 'absorption' as well as 'piercing', though finally decides that there is no better word to use. If you look at the translation you'll notice 'kokoro' is also translated as 'soul'. However, when we talk about being pierced in the heart, we're not always talking literally, and sometimes the English 'heart' covers the soul and spirit in the same way that 'kokoro' does.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
Kagayaka ni
輝やかに/わが行くかたも/恋うる子の
在るかたも指せ/黄金向日葵
(与謝野鉄幹 1873-1935)
kagayaka ni / waga yuku kata mo / kouru ko no
aru kata mo sase / kogane higuruma
(Yosano Tekkan 1873-1935)
brightly point
at me walking,
and where the
girl I love is,
golden sunflower
I mentioned before that I'm finding the tanka more difficult than the haiku, and I hope it's clear that I'm speculating sometimes. With this poem I'm speculating too. I wasn't too sure about 'kata' but assumed 'waga yuku kata' is 'me walking', whereas 'aru kata' is 'where something is'. I've made a big assumption that 'ko' means 'girl', when it could also mean 'child, and in the famous poem I linked to in the last entry, it was used by Yosano about himself (obviously male). So consider yourself properly warned that this may not be the correct translation, or if you want to put me right, acknowledge that I didn't present it 100% confidently! One final point to note about the language is that the kanji for sunflower used here, '向日葵', are normally pronounced 'himawari', and 'higuruma' usually has the kanji, '日車'. But poets can make these aesthetic choices, and especially in older writing, the use of kanji is not so standardised.
Even if I'm not sure whether it's correct, I enjoy the version of this poem I've arrived at. The sunflower, held back by Yosano until the end of the poem, becomes the go-between for the two lovers, encouraging the poet on his journey. Incidentally, Yosano Tekkan married Yosano Akiko who has since become more famous than him, but she died after my cut-off point for this blog, so I won't be looking at her poems. Many of these are available on the net anyway, including her most famous tanka with its confident female sexuality at the top of this page, and an English translation of the anti-war poem '君死にたもうことなかれ' (kimi shinitamou koto nakare).
在るかたも指せ/黄金向日葵
(与謝野鉄幹 1873-1935)
kagayaka ni / waga yuku kata mo / kouru ko no
aru kata mo sase / kogane higuruma
(Yosano Tekkan 1873-1935)
brightly point
at me walking,
and where the
girl I love is,
golden sunflower
I mentioned before that I'm finding the tanka more difficult than the haiku, and I hope it's clear that I'm speculating sometimes. With this poem I'm speculating too. I wasn't too sure about 'kata' but assumed 'waga yuku kata' is 'me walking', whereas 'aru kata' is 'where something is'. I've made a big assumption that 'ko' means 'girl', when it could also mean 'child, and in the famous poem I linked to in the last entry, it was used by Yosano about himself (obviously male). So consider yourself properly warned that this may not be the correct translation, or if you want to put me right, acknowledge that I didn't present it 100% confidently! One final point to note about the language is that the kanji for sunflower used here, '向日葵', are normally pronounced 'himawari', and 'higuruma' usually has the kanji, '日車'. But poets can make these aesthetic choices, and especially in older writing, the use of kanji is not so standardised.
Even if I'm not sure whether it's correct, I enjoy the version of this poem I've arrived at. The sunflower, held back by Yosano until the end of the poem, becomes the go-between for the two lovers, encouraging the poet on his journey. Incidentally, Yosano Tekkan married Yosano Akiko who has since become more famous than him, but she died after my cut-off point for this blog, so I won't be looking at her poems. Many of these are available on the net anyway, including her most famous tanka with its confident female sexuality at the top of this page, and an English translation of the anti-war poem '君死にたもうことなかれ' (kimi shinitamou koto nakare).
Friday, 16 May 2008
Oozora no
大空の/塵とはいかが/思うべき
熱き涙の/ながるるものを
(与謝野鉄幹 1873-1935)
oozora no / chiri to ha ikaga / omou beki
atsuki namida no / nagaruru mono wo
(Yosano Tekkan 1873-1935)
how should I
think of the
dust in the sky?
something to make
me cry hot tears...
I can't find much in the way of analysis of this poem on the web, either in English or Japanese. One thing I discovered was that it appears with '思ふ' rather than '思う' when it does appear in Japanese, though as the latter is in my book, I'll stick with that. I've noticed a lot of old texts have 'ふ', where in contemporary language you'd expect 'う', and I think I've read somewhere that it's down to changes in pronunciation. I'm a little doubtful whether pronunciation has changed that much in the last hundred years (though possibly it has), and I think the older form is used for literary effect. Returning to the poem, what little I did find was a connection between 'the dust in the sky' and hay fever. On this page is the poem next to some pictures of flowers, while on this page another poem with the same phrase (possibly influenced by Tekkan's) explicitly references hay fever or '花粉症' (kafunshou).
It's a little off-topic, but hay fever's a big problem in Japan today, though this is mainly to do with planting too many cedars after the war, so it's not really connected. Besides, though hay fever seems to be the catalyst, this tanka is surely about more than just the effects of a seasonal allergy. Having said that, I can't interpret what exactly it is about the dust in the sky that makes the poet cry such hot tears. In a famous poem, Tekkan concludes that he is 'sick at heart' (or possibly something stronger like 'in anguish'). On the same page of the book I've linked to we see that Tekkan thinks of himself sometimes as a Goethe or a Byron, and there's something of that romanticism in the above poem.
Alternate searches:
'ozora no' 'omo beki' 'omoubeki' 'omobeki' 'nagaruru mono o'
熱き涙の/ながるるものを
(与謝野鉄幹 1873-1935)
oozora no / chiri to ha ikaga / omou beki
atsuki namida no / nagaruru mono wo
(Yosano Tekkan 1873-1935)
how should I
think of the
dust in the sky?
something to make
me cry hot tears...
I can't find much in the way of analysis of this poem on the web, either in English or Japanese. One thing I discovered was that it appears with '思ふ' rather than '思う' when it does appear in Japanese, though as the latter is in my book, I'll stick with that. I've noticed a lot of old texts have 'ふ', where in contemporary language you'd expect 'う', and I think I've read somewhere that it's down to changes in pronunciation. I'm a little doubtful whether pronunciation has changed that much in the last hundred years (though possibly it has), and I think the older form is used for literary effect. Returning to the poem, what little I did find was a connection between 'the dust in the sky' and hay fever. On this page is the poem next to some pictures of flowers, while on this page another poem with the same phrase (possibly influenced by Tekkan's) explicitly references hay fever or '花粉症' (kafunshou).
It's a little off-topic, but hay fever's a big problem in Japan today, though this is mainly to do with planting too many cedars after the war, so it's not really connected. Besides, though hay fever seems to be the catalyst, this tanka is surely about more than just the effects of a seasonal allergy. Having said that, I can't interpret what exactly it is about the dust in the sky that makes the poet cry such hot tears. In a famous poem, Tekkan concludes that he is 'sick at heart' (or possibly something stronger like 'in anguish'). On the same page of the book I've linked to we see that Tekkan thinks of himself sometimes as a Goethe or a Byron, and there's something of that romanticism in the above poem.
Alternate searches:
'ozora no' 'omo beki' 'omoubeki' 'omobeki' 'nagaruru mono o'
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Oritachite
おり立ちて/今朝の寒さを/驚きぬ
露しとしとと/柿の落葉深く
(伊藤左千夫 1864-1913)
oritachite / kesa no samusa wo / odorokinu
tsuyu shito shito to / kaki no ochiba fukaku
(Ito Sachio 1864-1913)
going down,
amazed by
the morning's cold...
the dew and deeply piled
persimmon leaves
As with an earlier haiku I looked at the 'nu' of 'odorokinu' isn't negative, though here with 'odorokinu' rather than 'odorokanu' it's a bit clearer. I like the way this comes between the section about the cold, and the added details of dew and leaves in the Japanese original, but English word order means this disappears in translation. When I was wondering how to translate 'shito shito', which usually means 'gentle' as in 'gentle rain', I was happy to see that the final line needed a lot of words in English, and so I missed out the gentleness of the dew altogether. The last section in Japanese is actually longer than normal, this poem being (5-7-5-7-9) rather than (5-7-5-7-7). A Japanese middle school test (with answers) notes that this kind of poem is said to be '字余り' (jiamari), if you were wondering.
The test also says that the tanka is '三句切れ' (sankugire), or in other words that the pause would naturally come after the third section 'odorokinu'. I'm pretty sure this is where it would traditionally always come, and the previous Ryokan tanka are the same, though in the other Ito tanka I looked at the pause comes after the second section. Judging by Google, this tanka comes up a lot on tests, as there was another test in the top 10 results for my search. I'm not that impressed with this second test, which is multiple choice, matching tanka with their meanings. Is it a) a work where the solitary narrator's heartbreak is revealed in scenery depicted like a painting b) a work where...? Interpretation and multiple choice don't go well together.
Alternate searches:
'kesa no samusa o' 'tsuyu shitoshito to'
露しとしとと/柿の落葉深く
(伊藤左千夫 1864-1913)
oritachite / kesa no samusa wo / odorokinu
tsuyu shito shito to / kaki no ochiba fukaku
(Ito Sachio 1864-1913)
going down,
amazed by
the morning's cold...
the dew and deeply piled
persimmon leaves
As with an earlier haiku I looked at the 'nu' of 'odorokinu' isn't negative, though here with 'odorokinu' rather than 'odorokanu' it's a bit clearer. I like the way this comes between the section about the cold, and the added details of dew and leaves in the Japanese original, but English word order means this disappears in translation. When I was wondering how to translate 'shito shito', which usually means 'gentle' as in 'gentle rain', I was happy to see that the final line needed a lot of words in English, and so I missed out the gentleness of the dew altogether. The last section in Japanese is actually longer than normal, this poem being (5-7-5-7-9) rather than (5-7-5-7-7). A Japanese middle school test (with answers) notes that this kind of poem is said to be '字余り' (jiamari), if you were wondering.
The test also says that the tanka is '三句切れ' (sankugire), or in other words that the pause would naturally come after the third section 'odorokinu'. I'm pretty sure this is where it would traditionally always come, and the previous Ryokan tanka are the same, though in the other Ito tanka I looked at the pause comes after the second section. Judging by Google, this tanka comes up a lot on tests, as there was another test in the top 10 results for my search. I'm not that impressed with this second test, which is multiple choice, matching tanka with their meanings. Is it a) a work where the solitary narrator's heartbreak is revealed in scenery depicted like a painting b) a work where...? Interpretation and multiple choice don't go well together.
Alternate searches:
'kesa no samusa o' 'tsuyu shitoshito to'
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Ushikai ga
牛飼が/歌よむ時に/世の中の
新しき歌/大いにおこる
(伊藤左千夫 1864-1913)
ushikai ga / uta yomu toki ni / yo no naka no
atarashiki uta / ooi ni okoru
(Ito Sachio 1864-1913)
when a
cowherd composes
poems
new poetry
will flourish
I do these translations a bit before I write the entries, and usually I can find the websites again that have helped me in the translation, but in this case I can't... Somewhere on the internet is a poem which has a translation of the above tanka in the middle, which was helpful for my understanding, but I've lost the website. It reminded me that 'yomu' can mean 'compose' as well as 'read', though as I've slightly edited my translation (since looking at other sites) in the process of completing this entry, I'm not sure whether it was entirely correct.
This Japanese interpretation has led me to the above translation. There seems to be some kind of socialist message that when poems are written not as a diversion for the leisured classes, but by ordinary people with real jobs like cowherds, then the poetry revolution will happen and a genuinely new style of poetry will come about. Ito came from a farming family himself. However, the message is subverted by coming in a very traditional tanka form, and this leads the Japanese writer from the linked website to say that Ito has written a meta-tanka. Finally, while I think it's a convincing interpretation, the idea of cowherds not usually writing poems very much goes against the Western pastoral tradition where shepherds are always writing poems. Either the Japanese tradition is different, or I've misinterpreted the poem...
新しき歌/大いにおこる
(伊藤左千夫 1864-1913)
ushikai ga / uta yomu toki ni / yo no naka no
atarashiki uta / ooi ni okoru
(Ito Sachio 1864-1913)
when a
cowherd composes
poems
new poetry
will flourish
I do these translations a bit before I write the entries, and usually I can find the websites again that have helped me in the translation, but in this case I can't... Somewhere on the internet is a poem which has a translation of the above tanka in the middle, which was helpful for my understanding, but I've lost the website. It reminded me that 'yomu' can mean 'compose' as well as 'read', though as I've slightly edited my translation (since looking at other sites) in the process of completing this entry, I'm not sure whether it was entirely correct.
This Japanese interpretation has led me to the above translation. There seems to be some kind of socialist message that when poems are written not as a diversion for the leisured classes, but by ordinary people with real jobs like cowherds, then the poetry revolution will happen and a genuinely new style of poetry will come about. Ito came from a farming family himself. However, the message is subverted by coming in a very traditional tanka form, and this leads the Japanese writer from the linked website to say that Ito has written a meta-tanka. Finally, while I think it's a convincing interpretation, the idea of cowherds not usually writing poems very much goes against the Western pastoral tradition where shepherds are always writing poems. Either the Japanese tradition is different, or I've misinterpreted the poem...
Sunday, 11 May 2008
Inishie wo
いにしえを/思えば夢か/うつつかも
夜はしぐれの/雨を聴きつつ
(良寛 1758-1831)
inishie wo / omoeba yume ka / utsutsu kamo
yoru ha shigure no / ame wo kikitsutsu
(Ryokan 1758-1831)
thinking of
the past - a dream?
reality?
listening to the
rain at night
This is a wonderful poem, and I'd suggest again that it's a poem of solitude, where the boundaries between dream and reality become haziest. 'Shigure' is strictly a shower in late autumn or early winter, though I haven't included that detail in my translation. I managed to find other translations on the net. The first has a different first line and is confusingly attributed to a much earlier poet, but this seems to be an error. There are also two (1 2) with no Japanese I found through creative googling (ryokan rain dream). The second is in the 'unsourced' section of the page. You'll come to your own conclusions, of course, but I feel there's too much added in these translations, especially the decisions on tense. To be specific all three have the narrator listening to the rain in the present.
However, there's an interesting comment on the poem I found on a Japanese site*. This comment seems to suggest, as far as I understand it, that the narrator may be remembering listening to the rain in the past, prompted not by present rain, but by the wind in the pine trees, or the flowing of the river, or the rustling of leaves. This interpretation maintains the ambiguity, so that we don't know whether the rain itself is past or present, dream or reality. Ryokan is quite an interesting character, and you can see his Wikipedia entry here.
* View - (character encoding: Japanese (Shift_JIS) and the opening is written 'いにしへを思へば' if you want to find it on the page)
Alternate searches:
'inishie o' 'yoru wa shigure no' 'ame o kikitsutsu'
夜はしぐれの/雨を聴きつつ
(良寛 1758-1831)
inishie wo / omoeba yume ka / utsutsu kamo
yoru ha shigure no / ame wo kikitsutsu
(Ryokan 1758-1831)
thinking of
the past - a dream?
reality?
listening to the
rain at night
This is a wonderful poem, and I'd suggest again that it's a poem of solitude, where the boundaries between dream and reality become haziest. 'Shigure' is strictly a shower in late autumn or early winter, though I haven't included that detail in my translation. I managed to find other translations on the net. The first has a different first line and is confusingly attributed to a much earlier poet, but this seems to be an error. There are also two (1 2) with no Japanese I found through creative googling (ryokan rain dream). The second is in the 'unsourced' section of the page. You'll come to your own conclusions, of course, but I feel there's too much added in these translations, especially the decisions on tense. To be specific all three have the narrator listening to the rain in the present.
However, there's an interesting comment on the poem I found on a Japanese site*. This comment seems to suggest, as far as I understand it, that the narrator may be remembering listening to the rain in the past, prompted not by present rain, but by the wind in the pine trees, or the flowing of the river, or the rustling of leaves. This interpretation maintains the ambiguity, so that we don't know whether the rain itself is past or present, dream or reality. Ryokan is quite an interesting character, and you can see his Wikipedia entry here.
* View - (character encoding: Japanese (Shift_JIS) and the opening is written 'いにしへを思へば' if you want to find it on the page)
Alternate searches:
'inishie o' 'yoru wa shigure no' 'ame o kikitsutsu'
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Yo no naka ni
世の中に/まじらぬとには/あらねども
ひとり遊びぞ/我はまされる
(良寛 1758-1831)
yo no naka ni / majiranu to ni ha / aranedomo
hitori asobi zo / ware ha masareru
(Ryokan 1758-1831)
it's not that
I don't want to mix
with the world
fun on my own -
I'm better at it
I don't know why, but the tanka I've looked at seem to be far more difficult to translate and interpret than haiku, though it might be because the haiku is so short it largely does away with grammar. In this case there are other translations on the net (here and here), though for me the transliteration was a bit strange, so I didn't find them immediately. My translation is slightly different than the first for the last two lines, because it seems to me they mean 'I'm better at having fun on my own than with other people' instead of the similar 'I'm better at amusing myself than other people are at amusing me' the alternative translation suggests. After all, 'hitori asobi' is literally 'playing alone'.
However, the second translation is more convincing, and I wonder whether my translation would be more correct with 'alone is better' as the last line. The difficulty for me to choose is that 'ware ha masareru' seems to translate literally as 'I'm better', and the two possibilities I've suggested are both subtly different. If you know how best to interpret these last two lines let me know.
Alternate searches:
'majiranu to ni wa' 'ware wa masareru'
ひとり遊びぞ/我はまされる
(良寛 1758-1831)
yo no naka ni / majiranu to ni ha / aranedomo
hitori asobi zo / ware ha masareru
(Ryokan 1758-1831)
it's not that
I don't want to mix
with the world
fun on my own -
I'm better at it
I don't know why, but the tanka I've looked at seem to be far more difficult to translate and interpret than haiku, though it might be because the haiku is so short it largely does away with grammar. In this case there are other translations on the net (here and here), though for me the transliteration was a bit strange, so I didn't find them immediately. My translation is slightly different than the first for the last two lines, because it seems to me they mean 'I'm better at having fun on my own than with other people' instead of the similar 'I'm better at amusing myself than other people are at amusing me' the alternative translation suggests. After all, 'hitori asobi' is literally 'playing alone'.
However, the second translation is more convincing, and I wonder whether my translation would be more correct with 'alone is better' as the last line. The difficulty for me to choose is that 'ware ha masareru' seems to translate literally as 'I'm better', and the two possibilities I've suggested are both subtly different. If you know how best to interpret these last two lines let me know.
Alternate searches:
'majiranu to ni wa' 'ware wa masareru'
Monday, 5 May 2008
Cho no shita
蝶の舌/ゼンマイに似る/暑さかな
(芥川龍之介 1892-1927)
cho no shita / zenmai ni niru / atsusa kana
(Akutagawa Ryunosuke 1892-1927)
butterfly's tongue
looks like a spring,
the heat!
How close do you have to get to a butterfly to be able to see its tongue? As I've mentioned before I'm rather ignorant of the natural world, but if you want to see a butterfly's tongue this is what they look like. Kind of like a spring I suppose, all coiled up like that. I'm trying to think of the right word to describe this poem. Psychedelic? Hallucinogenic? Phantasmagoric, perhaps? The heat seems to play its part in the transformation of the natural into something mechanical. We might also consider that the butterfly is a symbol of metamorphosis, except there's something unnatural in any further transformation from its final state.
I think the contrast in this haiku between different writing systems really works. Setting the kanji butterfly, '蝶', against the katakana spring, 'ゼンマイ', there's a real sense of a clash between ancient and modern. I don't always find this kind of thing convincing, but in this case '蝶' just looks pretty, and 'ゼンマイ' utilitarian, and I can't explain it any better than that. I really enjoyed this haiku, but it's the last one in the book I'm going to look at, and the next entry will move on to tanka.
Alternate searches:
'chou no shita'
(芥川龍之介 1892-1927)
cho no shita / zenmai ni niru / atsusa kana
(Akutagawa Ryunosuke 1892-1927)
butterfly's tongue
looks like a spring,
the heat!
How close do you have to get to a butterfly to be able to see its tongue? As I've mentioned before I'm rather ignorant of the natural world, but if you want to see a butterfly's tongue this is what they look like. Kind of like a spring I suppose, all coiled up like that. I'm trying to think of the right word to describe this poem. Psychedelic? Hallucinogenic? Phantasmagoric, perhaps? The heat seems to play its part in the transformation of the natural into something mechanical. We might also consider that the butterfly is a symbol of metamorphosis, except there's something unnatural in any further transformation from its final state.
I think the contrast in this haiku between different writing systems really works. Setting the kanji butterfly, '蝶', against the katakana spring, 'ゼンマイ', there's a real sense of a clash between ancient and modern. I don't always find this kind of thing convincing, but in this case '蝶' just looks pretty, and 'ゼンマイ' utilitarian, and I can't explain it any better than that. I really enjoyed this haiku, but it's the last one in the book I'm going to look at, and the next entry will move on to tanka.
Alternate searches:
'chou no shita'
Saturday, 3 May 2008
Kai mo naki
かいもなき/眠り薬や/夜半の秋
(芥川龍之介 1892-1927)
kai mo naki / nemuri-gusuri ya / yowa no aki
(Akutagawa Ryunosuke 1892-1927)
ineffective
sleeping drugs:
autumn midnight
This haiku is rather disturbing if you know that Akutagawa committed suicide by taking an overdose of Veronal, a sleeping aid in the form of a white powder. However, I can't find any mention of the poem on the net, either in English or Japanese, so any speculation on how it might connect with his death would remain speculation. (When I can't find the poem in Japanese I begin to wonder if it exists, though it's there in the book in front of me). Disregarding the biographical information there's also something slightly humorous about it, with the two lines of build-up and the last line of punch-line. Having said this I often find humour where none is intended.
I didn't know the expression 'kai mo nai' before reading this haiku and it baffled me at first. It's one of those cases where having the kanji would have made things a lot easier, and in this case the kanji are '甲斐', though it seems from the dictionary to usually be written in hiragana. Apparently it means something like 'worth' as well as 'effect', so while I think 'ineffective' is the most accurate translation, there's the idea of pointlessness hovering about in the background too. It's the second sleepless haiku from Akutagawa, and if haiku often seem to be about solitary experience, there's not much more solitary than being awake when everyone else is asleep.
Alternate searches:
'nemurigusuri ya'
(芥川龍之介 1892-1927)
kai mo naki / nemuri-gusuri ya / yowa no aki
(Akutagawa Ryunosuke 1892-1927)
ineffective
sleeping drugs:
autumn midnight
This haiku is rather disturbing if you know that Akutagawa committed suicide by taking an overdose of Veronal, a sleeping aid in the form of a white powder. However, I can't find any mention of the poem on the net, either in English or Japanese, so any speculation on how it might connect with his death would remain speculation. (When I can't find the poem in Japanese I begin to wonder if it exists, though it's there in the book in front of me). Disregarding the biographical information there's also something slightly humorous about it, with the two lines of build-up and the last line of punch-line. Having said this I often find humour where none is intended.
I didn't know the expression 'kai mo nai' before reading this haiku and it baffled me at first. It's one of those cases where having the kanji would have made things a lot easier, and in this case the kanji are '甲斐', though it seems from the dictionary to usually be written in hiragana. Apparently it means something like 'worth' as well as 'effect', so while I think 'ineffective' is the most accurate translation, there's the idea of pointlessness hovering about in the background too. It's the second sleepless haiku from Akutagawa, and if haiku often seem to be about solitary experience, there's not much more solitary than being awake when everyone else is asleep.
Alternate searches:
'nemurigusuri ya'
Friday, 2 May 2008
Seki hitotsu
咳ひとつ/赤子のしたる/夜寒かな
(芥川龍之介 1892-1927)
seki hitotsu / akago no shitaru / yosamu kana
(Akutagawa Ryunosuke 1892-1927)
cough
from a baby:
cold night
As with an earlier poem, there is 'shitaru', which I said in a previous post seemed to be the same as 'shiteiru'. However, cracking open the classical Japanese grammar books, it looks like it may actually be the rentai form (which is the form of verbs and adjectives that comes before nouns) of the suffix 'tari' which makes the verb 'perfect'. This 'perfect' verb form is different from the 'past', though it may sometimes have the same meaning. I'm not sure this greatly affects the meaning of the haiku, but possibly it could be translated as 'a baby/coughed:/cold night'. I suppose this does give a slightly different impression, even if I'm still not sure whether it's more accurate.
I've decided to follow international copyright on this blog by not looking at any writers who died less than 70 years ago. I know it might look a little over-scrupulous, especially as Japanese copyright law is only 50 years, but it's just my little whim. Because of this, as I work my way through my book of poems, the haiku poets I'm looking at are dying more and more tragically young. Akutagawa is the last haiku poet I'll look at, and he committed suicide at 35 after making a huge impact on Japanese literature, mainly with his short stories. I guess he's most famous internationally for writing the stories the film Rashomon was based on, but in Japan he's seen as one of the fathers of modern literature and Japan's most prestigious literary prize is named after him.
(芥川龍之介 1892-1927)
seki hitotsu / akago no shitaru / yosamu kana
(Akutagawa Ryunosuke 1892-1927)
cough
from a baby:
cold night
As with an earlier poem, there is 'shitaru', which I said in a previous post seemed to be the same as 'shiteiru'. However, cracking open the classical Japanese grammar books, it looks like it may actually be the rentai form (which is the form of verbs and adjectives that comes before nouns) of the suffix 'tari' which makes the verb 'perfect'. This 'perfect' verb form is different from the 'past', though it may sometimes have the same meaning. I'm not sure this greatly affects the meaning of the haiku, but possibly it could be translated as 'a baby/coughed:/cold night'. I suppose this does give a slightly different impression, even if I'm still not sure whether it's more accurate.
I've decided to follow international copyright on this blog by not looking at any writers who died less than 70 years ago. I know it might look a little over-scrupulous, especially as Japanese copyright law is only 50 years, but it's just my little whim. Because of this, as I work my way through my book of poems, the haiku poets I'm looking at are dying more and more tragically young. Akutagawa is the last haiku poet I'll look at, and he committed suicide at 35 after making a huge impact on Japanese literature, mainly with his short stories. I guess he's most famous internationally for writing the stories the film Rashomon was based on, but in Japan he's seen as one of the fathers of modern literature and Japan's most prestigious literary prize is named after him.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
Umi ga sukoshi mieru
海が少し見える小さい窓一つもつ
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)
umi ga sukoshi mieru chiisai mado hitotsu motsu
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)
with a small window from
which you can see
the sea a little
Ozaki's being all irregular again, in this case writing a long haiku with 20 sounds. I'm not sure how best to translate 'hitotsu motsu', but above I've added 'with a' to my original translation. That first translation was influenced by a French translation I found on the net, which doesn't seem to translate 'hitotsu motsu'. This blog isn't about French I know, but 'on' in French is also more satisfying than 'you' in English, while 'one' would be far too formal as the subject. Given the strong feeling that 'I' could also be the subject, it might be better to avoid a subject altogether, if it wasn't for the fact we'd get something unwieldy like 'from/which it's possible to see/the sea a little'.
This poem was also written on Shodoshima, and I imagine Ozaki looking out the window of his hermitage at the sea. Shodoshima is most famous in Japan as the setting for the novel and later film, Twenty-Four Eyes, by native author Sakae Tsuboi. The film won the Golden Globe for best foreign film in 1955. Within Japan the island attracts many tourists, including presumably literary pilgrims, as Wikipedia tells me two other distinguished writers were born there, but I hope those pilgrims also pay tribute to Ozaki Hosai, who died there.
Alternate searches
'chisai mado'
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)
umi ga sukoshi mieru chiisai mado hitotsu motsu
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)
with a small window from
which you can see
the sea a little
Ozaki's being all irregular again, in this case writing a long haiku with 20 sounds. I'm not sure how best to translate 'hitotsu motsu', but above I've added 'with a' to my original translation. That first translation was influenced by a French translation I found on the net, which doesn't seem to translate 'hitotsu motsu'. This blog isn't about French I know, but 'on' in French is also more satisfying than 'you' in English, while 'one' would be far too formal as the subject. Given the strong feeling that 'I' could also be the subject, it might be better to avoid a subject altogether, if it wasn't for the fact we'd get something unwieldy like 'from/which it's possible to see/the sea a little'.
This poem was also written on Shodoshima, and I imagine Ozaki looking out the window of his hermitage at the sea. Shodoshima is most famous in Japan as the setting for the novel and later film, Twenty-Four Eyes, by native author Sakae Tsuboi. The film won the Golden Globe for best foreign film in 1955. Within Japan the island attracts many tourists, including presumably literary pilgrims, as Wikipedia tells me two other distinguished writers were born there, but I hope those pilgrims also pay tribute to Ozaki Hosai, who died there.
Alternate searches
'chisai mado'
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Kare-eda
枯枝ほきほき折るによし
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)
kare-eda hoki hoki oru ni yoshi
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)
dead branches:
good for
snapping
I couldn't find 'hoki hoki' in the dictionary, not even at dic.yahoo.co.jp, but from context it's clearly the onomatopoeic sound of breaking dead branches. It presumably means the same as 'poki poki' which is in the dictionary, with the example sentence even using 'kare-eda'. I'm pretty sure I've had a similar experience before of looking for an onomatopoeic word, not being able to find it, and then finding it in a slightly different form. Incidentally, 'boki boki' is also in the dictionary, with the suggested translation, 'crunch', for breaking wood, metal or bones.
This is an almost ridiculously simple poem, but I like it with its pleasure in sound. Having written that, I suppose darker interpretations are possible, with the undertones of decay or the fragility of age perhaps. Still, until someone proves to me that it's a dark poem I'll think of it as upbeat. The previous haiku had fourteen sounds, and this one only has thirteen (rather than the seventeen of 5-7-5) but Ozaki wrote them even shorter, and probably his most famous haiku (certainly judging by its internet presence) 'seki wo shite mo hitori' (even when I cough I'm alone) had only nine sounds. That one's more difficult to think of as upbeat.
Alternate searches
'kareeda', 'hokihoki oru'
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)
kare-eda hoki hoki oru ni yoshi
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)
dead branches:
good for
snapping
I couldn't find 'hoki hoki' in the dictionary, not even at dic.yahoo.co.jp, but from context it's clearly the onomatopoeic sound of breaking dead branches. It presumably means the same as 'poki poki' which is in the dictionary, with the example sentence even using 'kare-eda'. I'm pretty sure I've had a similar experience before of looking for an onomatopoeic word, not being able to find it, and then finding it in a slightly different form. Incidentally, 'boki boki' is also in the dictionary, with the suggested translation, 'crunch', for breaking wood, metal or bones.
This is an almost ridiculously simple poem, but I like it with its pleasure in sound. Having written that, I suppose darker interpretations are possible, with the undertones of decay or the fragility of age perhaps. Still, until someone proves to me that it's a dark poem I'll think of it as upbeat. The previous haiku had fourteen sounds, and this one only has thirteen (rather than the seventeen of 5-7-5) but Ozaki wrote them even shorter, and probably his most famous haiku (certainly judging by its internet presence) 'seki wo shite mo hitori' (even when I cough I'm alone) had only nine sounds. That one's more difficult to think of as upbeat.
Alternate searches
'kareeda', 'hokihoki oru'
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Iremono ga nai
入れものがない両手で受ける
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)
iremono ga nai ryote de ukeru
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)
no bowl,
I receive with
two hands
Now here's a man who's certainly moved away from the traditional haiku. It's difficult to know even how to break it up into three parts, because although haiku always appear in English in three lines, in Japanese they appear in just one line across or down the page. The most obvious way to break it would be in the middle to form a 7-7 pattern 'iremono ga nai / ryote de ukeru', which makes it look like the broken-off second half of a tanka, when haiku are said to have developed from the first half of the tanka. Scroll down to 'Origin and evolution' on the Wikipedia haiku page if you want to know more.
'Iremono' translates literally as something you put something in, or less literally as 'container' or 'case', so I've interpreted a bit by using 'bowl'. It's a little mysterious what Ozaki is receiving though. On this Japanese site, there's an interview with a woman who knew Ozaki (though more for being the alcoholic rector of a hermitage than a poet) when she was 12, and he was living out the last few months of his life on the island of Shodoshima. He sometimes visited her uncle, and she often spent time at her uncle's house. She says that what he received were steamed potatoes, and they wouldn't give him a bowl because he had a bad cough, and they were worried that he might spread TB. As with potatoes, it might be as well to take this story with a pinch of salt, but if true it's interesting.
Alternate searches:
'ryoute de ukeru'
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)
iremono ga nai ryote de ukeru
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)
no bowl,
I receive with
two hands
Now here's a man who's certainly moved away from the traditional haiku. It's difficult to know even how to break it up into three parts, because although haiku always appear in English in three lines, in Japanese they appear in just one line across or down the page. The most obvious way to break it would be in the middle to form a 7-7 pattern 'iremono ga nai / ryote de ukeru', which makes it look like the broken-off second half of a tanka, when haiku are said to have developed from the first half of the tanka. Scroll down to 'Origin and evolution' on the Wikipedia haiku page if you want to know more.
'Iremono' translates literally as something you put something in, or less literally as 'container' or 'case', so I've interpreted a bit by using 'bowl'. It's a little mysterious what Ozaki is receiving though. On this Japanese site, there's an interview with a woman who knew Ozaki (though more for being the alcoholic rector of a hermitage than a poet) when she was 12, and he was living out the last few months of his life on the island of Shodoshima. He sometimes visited her uncle, and she often spent time at her uncle's house. She says that what he received were steamed potatoes, and they wouldn't give him a bowl because he had a bad cough, and they were worried that he might spread TB. As with potatoes, it might be as well to take this story with a pinch of salt, but if true it's interesting.
Alternate searches:
'ryoute de ukeru'
Friday, 25 April 2008
Omowazu mo
思わずも/ヒヨコ生れぬ/冬薔薇
(河東碧梧桐 1873-1937)
omowazu mo / hiyoko umarenu / fuyu sobi
(Kawahigashi Hekigoto 1873-1937)
unexpectedly
a chick is born,
winter rose
Translations of this haiku are available on the net, mostly in languages other than English, though there is one in English. However, I didn't find it immediately, so I'll include my own rather similar version (which really was all my own work - not many ways you can translate this poem!) Without the furigana in my book, I'd probably have read the last two characters as 'bara', but 'sobi' is another word for 'rose'. 'Sobi' is actually three kana (そうび, which could be written 'soubi') so that preserves the 5-7-5 pattern for Kawahigashi again, despite his reputation for breaking that pattern down (maybe it was later in his career).
The form 'umarenu' struck me as a little strange here, as it looks like a negative form. However, 'nu' can apparently be a perfect form as well, describing something that has happened, and if you google 'umarenu' you find that it is also used in carols translated into Japanese talking about Jesus being born. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of Christian reference in the use of the word and what might be a miraculous winter birth. Not that I have any evidence for Kawahigashi being a Christian, but the ideas were certainly floating around at the time, with the recent interest in Western ideas. Besides this, if there is a Christian reference, there's something faintly ironic about it that might suggest a non-believer, given the gap between the 'Saviour of Mankind' and a little katakana chick.
Alternate searches:
'fuyu soubi'
(河東碧梧桐 1873-1937)
omowazu mo / hiyoko umarenu / fuyu sobi
(Kawahigashi Hekigoto 1873-1937)
unexpectedly
a chick is born,
winter rose
Translations of this haiku are available on the net, mostly in languages other than English, though there is one in English. However, I didn't find it immediately, so I'll include my own rather similar version (which really was all my own work - not many ways you can translate this poem!) Without the furigana in my book, I'd probably have read the last two characters as 'bara', but 'sobi' is another word for 'rose'. 'Sobi' is actually three kana (そうび, which could be written 'soubi') so that preserves the 5-7-5 pattern for Kawahigashi again, despite his reputation for breaking that pattern down (maybe it was later in his career).
The form 'umarenu' struck me as a little strange here, as it looks like a negative form. However, 'nu' can apparently be a perfect form as well, describing something that has happened, and if you google 'umarenu' you find that it is also used in carols translated into Japanese talking about Jesus being born. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of Christian reference in the use of the word and what might be a miraculous winter birth. Not that I have any evidence for Kawahigashi being a Christian, but the ideas were certainly floating around at the time, with the recent interest in Western ideas. Besides this, if there is a Christian reference, there's something faintly ironic about it that might suggest a non-believer, given the gap between the 'Saviour of Mankind' and a little katakana chick.
Alternate searches:
'fuyu soubi'
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Haru samushi
春寒し/水田の上の/根なし雲
(河東碧梧桐 1873-1937)
haru samushi / mizuta no ue no / ne nashi-gumo
(Kawahigashi Hekigoto 1873-1937)
spring cold:
a cloud without roots
over the paddy field
I like the way Kawahigashi juxtapositions the cloud, ready to be blown in who knows what direction by the cold spring winds, with the fixed paddy field, going nowhere. The cloud is ready to move, and it will move, but this transient moment of it hovering over the field is captured in the haiku's word picture. So there's a tension (which I suppose is part of the haiku spirit) between the fixed words of the poem, and the impermanence of the moment.
I found some interesting information about Hekigoto at this page. It seems he knew Masaoka Shiki (six years older), when he was a boy and was taught baseball by him (Shiki was a big baseball fan and wrote some tanka about the sport). He became a disciple of Shiki and further loosened the rules of haiku by getting rid of the 5-7-5 count for lines, a style that became known as 新傾向俳句 ('shin keiko haiku' or literally 'New Trend Haiku'). However, you've probably noticed the above poem sticks to the traditional pattern.
Alternate searches:
'nenashi gumo', 'nenashigumo'
(河東碧梧桐 1873-1937)
haru samushi / mizuta no ue no / ne nashi-gumo
(Kawahigashi Hekigoto 1873-1937)
spring cold:
a cloud without roots
over the paddy field
I like the way Kawahigashi juxtapositions the cloud, ready to be blown in who knows what direction by the cold spring winds, with the fixed paddy field, going nowhere. The cloud is ready to move, and it will move, but this transient moment of it hovering over the field is captured in the haiku's word picture. So there's a tension (which I suppose is part of the haiku spirit) between the fixed words of the poem, and the impermanence of the moment.
I found some interesting information about Hekigoto at this page. It seems he knew Masaoka Shiki (six years older), when he was a boy and was taught baseball by him (Shiki was a big baseball fan and wrote some tanka about the sport). He became a disciple of Shiki and further loosened the rules of haiku by getting rid of the 5-7-5 count for lines, a style that became known as 新傾向俳句 ('shin keiko haiku' or literally 'New Trend Haiku'). However, you've probably noticed the above poem sticks to the traditional pattern.
Alternate searches:
'nenashi gumo', 'nenashigumo'
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Benkei ni
弁慶に/五条の月の/寒さかな
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)
benkei ni / gojo no tsuki no / samusa kana
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)
cold enough
even for Benkei
on Gojo under the moon
There's a story behind this one. Benkei was a warrior monk, and he set himself the task of collecting 1000 swords by duelling with passing warriors on Gojo Bridge in Kyoto. He got to 999, but the next warrior he met was Minamoto no Yoshitsune who defeated him, and Benkei subsequently became Yoshitsune's loyal follower. There's more than a hint of Robin Hood and Little John about this part of the story. I'm not sure whether the episode is part of the literary classic The Tale of the Heike, but many of Yoshitsune and Benkei's later adventures were, cementing the two men's place in Japanese culture. You can read about Benkei at Wikipedia, and there have also been several pictures of their duel, for example this one.
I've found it a little difficult to translate the poem (reasonably!) elegantly. The sentiment seems to be something along the lines of 'It's cold tonight. I bet even Benkei (who was such a tough guy), when he was on Gojo Bridge at night (waiting for passing warriors), would have felt this kind of cold.' Incidentally, there is a Japanese interpretation here, which helped me. This would be a good haiku to memorise and use when you're next in Japan and someone talks about how cold it is, 'samui, ne'. Casually repeat the haiku and you'll sound really clever (or possibly really smug and annoying).
Alternate searches:
'gojou no tsuki no'
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)
benkei ni / gojo no tsuki no / samusa kana
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)
cold enough
even for Benkei
on Gojo under the moon
There's a story behind this one. Benkei was a warrior monk, and he set himself the task of collecting 1000 swords by duelling with passing warriors on Gojo Bridge in Kyoto. He got to 999, but the next warrior he met was Minamoto no Yoshitsune who defeated him, and Benkei subsequently became Yoshitsune's loyal follower. There's more than a hint of Robin Hood and Little John about this part of the story. I'm not sure whether the episode is part of the literary classic The Tale of the Heike, but many of Yoshitsune and Benkei's later adventures were, cementing the two men's place in Japanese culture. You can read about Benkei at Wikipedia, and there have also been several pictures of their duel, for example this one.
I've found it a little difficult to translate the poem (reasonably!) elegantly. The sentiment seems to be something along the lines of 'It's cold tonight. I bet even Benkei (who was such a tough guy), when he was on Gojo Bridge at night (waiting for passing warriors), would have felt this kind of cold.' Incidentally, there is a Japanese interpretation here, which helped me. This would be a good haiku to memorise and use when you're next in Japan and someone talks about how cold it is, 'samui, ne'. Casually repeat the haiku and you'll sound really clever (or possibly really smug and annoying).
Alternate searches:
'gojou no tsuki no'
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Nagaki hi ya
永き日や/欠伸うつして/別れ行く
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)
nagaki hi ya / akubi utsushite /wakare yuku
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)
a long day,
we swap yawns
and part
I've finally got a book out from the university library about grammar in the old days in Japan. As such I now know that 'nagaki' used to be the standard form for 'nagai', at least when it came just before the noun. If it came at the end of the sentence, it would be 'nagashi'. I don't want to discuss grammar in too much detail, and throw around grammatical terms I've only just learnt, so I won't. Suffice it only to say that Japanese grammar used to be at least a little more complicated than the grammar you need to get by today.
Apparently this poem was written when Soseki, then 29, parted with the poet, Kyoshi Takahama at Matsuyama. I can't find any further information about this particular haiku, but Soseki was teaching English at Matsuyama, where Takahama also lived, until in 1896 (when he was 29) he moved to Kumamoto. So we could speculate that the poem was written about this particular parting. Unfortunately, it seems to me like a haiku where knowing something about the background would enhance it. Taken literally, I find it a little dull.
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)
nagaki hi ya / akubi utsushite /wakare yuku
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)
a long day,
we swap yawns
and part
I've finally got a book out from the university library about grammar in the old days in Japan. As such I now know that 'nagaki' used to be the standard form for 'nagai', at least when it came just before the noun. If it came at the end of the sentence, it would be 'nagashi'. I don't want to discuss grammar in too much detail, and throw around grammatical terms I've only just learnt, so I won't. Suffice it only to say that Japanese grammar used to be at least a little more complicated than the grammar you need to get by today.
Apparently this poem was written when Soseki, then 29, parted with the poet, Kyoshi Takahama at Matsuyama. I can't find any further information about this particular haiku, but Soseki was teaching English at Matsuyama, where Takahama also lived, until in 1896 (when he was 29) he moved to Kumamoto. So we could speculate that the poem was written about this particular parting. Unfortunately, it seems to me like a haiku where knowing something about the background would enhance it. Taken literally, I find it a little dull.
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Harawata ni
腸に/春滴るや/粥の味
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)
harawata ni / haru shitataru ya / kayu no aji
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)
spring dripping
into the guts,
the taste of gruel
According to a few Japanese websites (including this one), the above haiku refers to a specific moment in Soseki's life, when he was recovering from a critical illness. He went to stay at a spa in Shuzenji to treat a stomach ulcer, but his condition got worse and he started spitting blood. During his recovery, he was unable to eat for a long time, until finally he was allowed a bowl of gruel, which seemed to him incredibly delicious. Until I discovered this fact, I was considering translating 'kayu' as 'porridge', which has more tasty connotations in English than 'gruel' (for me at any rate).
It should also be noted that 'harawata' translates directly as 'guts' or 'intestines', but figuratively as the heart. When I originally translated this, I wrote 'spring dripping /on the heart', but having a look at the page for 'harawata' on Yahoo! (jp) dictionary, it doesn't seem like quite the right heart (not the kokoro). I've come to prefer the 'guts' version as more immediate and direct, though I'm still not certain it's nearer the mark.
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)
harawata ni / haru shitataru ya / kayu no aji
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)
spring dripping
into the guts,
the taste of gruel
According to a few Japanese websites (including this one), the above haiku refers to a specific moment in Soseki's life, when he was recovering from a critical illness. He went to stay at a spa in Shuzenji to treat a stomach ulcer, but his condition got worse and he started spitting blood. During his recovery, he was unable to eat for a long time, until finally he was allowed a bowl of gruel, which seemed to him incredibly delicious. Until I discovered this fact, I was considering translating 'kayu' as 'porridge', which has more tasty connotations in English than 'gruel' (for me at any rate).
It should also be noted that 'harawata' translates directly as 'guts' or 'intestines', but figuratively as the heart. When I originally translated this, I wrote 'spring dripping /on the heart', but having a look at the page for 'harawata' on Yahoo! (jp) dictionary, it doesn't seem like quite the right heart (not the kokoro). I've come to prefer the 'guts' version as more immediate and direct, though I'm still not certain it's nearer the mark.
Saturday, 5 April 2008
Tsuku tsuku boshi
ツクツクボーシ/ツクツクボーシ/バカリナリ
(正岡子規 1867-1902)
tsuku tsuku boshi / tsuku tsuku boshi / bakari nari
(Masaoka Shiki 1867-1902)
nothing but
cic-cic-cicada
cic-cic-cicada
Well, I did my best on the translation. The tsuku tsuku boshi is a kind of cicada that appears between late summer and early autumn, and its name comes from the sound it makes. Natsume Soseki and Lafcadio Hearn both write about this particular cicada, Soseki referencing them in Kokoro, with the narrator noting how they put him in a 'strangely sorrowful mood', and Hearn writes that their music is 'exactly like the song of a bird'. If you're curious to hear the tsuku tsuku boshi, you can head over to the relevant page in Wikipedia (ja), scroll down and press the play button. I wasn't too impressed with that, so I followed the external link to find something that sounded more like 'tsuku tsuku boshi'. This is better, though it's a Quicktime file which always takes a moment to load for me (maybe you too).
Back to the haiku, which is rather minimalist, and I imagine might have caused some controversy back in the day. I'm not a huge fan of turning everything into katakana, though I'm a little embarrassed to say that because it sounds rather snobbish. It seems a little like someone writing in ALL CAPS, if not so extreme. But there is something I like about this poem, which is perhaps the aptness of the subject matter to the idea. Those cicadae just go on and on, without getting bored, and this particular kind are endlessly enacting themselves through saying their names.
Alternate searches:
'tsuku tsuku boushi'
(正岡子規 1867-1902)
tsuku tsuku boshi / tsuku tsuku boshi / bakari nari
(Masaoka Shiki 1867-1902)
nothing but
cic-cic-cicada
cic-cic-cicada
Well, I did my best on the translation. The tsuku tsuku boshi is a kind of cicada that appears between late summer and early autumn, and its name comes from the sound it makes. Natsume Soseki and Lafcadio Hearn both write about this particular cicada, Soseki referencing them in Kokoro, with the narrator noting how they put him in a 'strangely sorrowful mood', and Hearn writes that their music is 'exactly like the song of a bird'. If you're curious to hear the tsuku tsuku boshi, you can head over to the relevant page in Wikipedia (ja), scroll down and press the play button. I wasn't too impressed with that, so I followed the external link to find something that sounded more like 'tsuku tsuku boshi'. This is better, though it's a Quicktime file which always takes a moment to load for me (maybe you too).
Back to the haiku, which is rather minimalist, and I imagine might have caused some controversy back in the day. I'm not a huge fan of turning everything into katakana, though I'm a little embarrassed to say that because it sounds rather snobbish. It seems a little like someone writing in ALL CAPS, if not so extreme. But there is something I like about this poem, which is perhaps the aptness of the subject matter to the idea. Those cicadae just go on and on, without getting bored, and this particular kind are endlessly enacting themselves through saying their names.
Alternate searches:
'tsuku tsuku boushi'
Friday, 4 April 2008
Yo no naka no
世の中の/重荷おろして/昼寝かな
(正岡子規 1867-1902)
yo no naka no / omoni oroshite / hirune kana
(Masaoka Shiki 1867-1902)
dropping the
world's burden:
afternoon nap
Once again there is 'kana' in the haiku. It seems this afternoon sleep is very important to Shiki somehow, but in English an exclamation mark or dot dot dot at the end would look absurd. Another point to note in the translation is that 'oroshite' would probably translate more directly as 'laying down' than 'dropping', but I felt that didn't scan too well. Perhaps I'm being a little flippant about Shiki's sleep, as the point is not so much about forty winks, as taking some time out from work and returning refreshed. It's a rather simple point perhaps, but in this case I don't feel there's anything else behind the poem.
Having said which, it's beautifully expressed. I'm reluctant (and probably unable) to unpick all the sounds, the effects of the recurring 'o's and 'n's, but they do combine to achieve a wonderful poem, making it far more than its straightforward 'meaning'. With today's haiku by Shiki, and previous haiku by Buson and Issa, I've now looked at one from each of three of the four great masters of the form. The remaining figure is Basho, of course, and due to his fame, all of the poems in my book by Basho are readily available elsewhere on the internet.
(正岡子規 1867-1902)
yo no naka no / omoni oroshite / hirune kana
(Masaoka Shiki 1867-1902)
dropping the
world's burden:
afternoon nap
Once again there is 'kana' in the haiku. It seems this afternoon sleep is very important to Shiki somehow, but in English an exclamation mark or dot dot dot at the end would look absurd. Another point to note in the translation is that 'oroshite' would probably translate more directly as 'laying down' than 'dropping', but I felt that didn't scan too well. Perhaps I'm being a little flippant about Shiki's sleep, as the point is not so much about forty winks, as taking some time out from work and returning refreshed. It's a rather simple point perhaps, but in this case I don't feel there's anything else behind the poem.
Having said which, it's beautifully expressed. I'm reluctant (and probably unable) to unpick all the sounds, the effects of the recurring 'o's and 'n's, but they do combine to achieve a wonderful poem, making it far more than its straightforward 'meaning'. With today's haiku by Shiki, and previous haiku by Buson and Issa, I've now looked at one from each of three of the four great masters of the form. The remaining figure is Basho, of course, and due to his fame, all of the poems in my book by Basho are readily available elsewhere on the internet.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Yuki tokete
雪とけて/くりくりしたる/月夜かな
(小林一茶 1763-1828)
yuki tokete / kurikuri shitaru / tsukiyo kana
(Kobayashi Issa 1763-1828)
melting snow...
the big, round
moon!
This caused me a few problems at first with 'kurikuri' and 'shitaru' and 'tsukiyo'. I can't find anywhere that states this directly, but 'shitaru' seems to be the same as 'shiteiru', with circumstantial evidence from several translations of other haiku with 'shitaru' I discovered through Google. 'Kurikuri' means big and round (especially used for eyes) which would make sense with the moon, except 'tsukiyo' means 'moonlit night' rather than 'moon'. However, I think that Issa may well have used 'tsukiyo' rather than 'tsuki' to complete the final five syllables, as haiku at this time seemed to strictly follow the syllable rules.
Finally there is 'kana'. Yesterday's glossary suggests 'kana' is for emphasis, 'indicating an author's wonder at the object, scene or event,' but I don't find that entirely satisfactory, even with my limited knowledge of haiku. A second opinion describes it as 'a soft sigh (‘Ah!’)', which gets closer to what I think it must be. The next question is how to translate 'kana'. I'd say an ellipsis (...) or an exclamation mark is the best option. In this case I have chosen an exclamation mark.
Alternate searches:
'kuri kuri shitaru'
Saturday, 29 March 2008
Na no hana ya
菜の花や/月は東に/日は西に
(与謝蕪村 1716-1784)
na no hana ya / tsuki ha higashi ni / hi ha nishi ni
(Yosa Buson 1716-1784)
(与謝蕪村 1716-1784)
na no hana ya / tsuki ha higashi ni / hi ha nishi ni
(Yosa Buson 1716-1784)
rapeseed flowers
the moon in the east
the sun in the west
I enjoy the simplicity of this poem, and while one part of me thinks this kind of simplicity could only be achieved successfully in the early days of the haiku form, another part says that it's a sign of a great poet to discover a new way of saying something simply. The balance of the moon in the east and the sun in the west is extraordinarily evocative, both in the image and the phrasing. Of course, I'm probably missing something here, as a famous haiku like this might have a deeper meaning. Something to do with the approach of night and death perhaps.
I discovered an interesting site * discussing teaching this poem to (Japanese) children, with a lot of focus on the colours. I enjoy this kind of thing, partly because it's written in simple Japanese, and partly because it's interesting to see something of how haiku fit into Japanese education. There was also some talk of the kireji (切れ字) or cutting word. These cutting words (for example, 'ya', 'kana') can make the exact meaning of a haiku difficult to grasp sometimes, but there is a useful glossary here.
* View - (character encoding: Japanese (Shift_JIS))
Alternate searches:
'tsuki wa higashi ni' 'hi wa nishi ni'
Sunday, 23 March 2008
Harusame ya
春雨や/降るとも知らず/牛の目に
(小西来山 1654-1716)
harusame ya / furu to mo shirazu / ushi no me ni
(Konishi Raizan 1654-1716)
spring rain
falling unnoticed
in the cow’s eyes
By contrast with the first haiku, this poem appears to be somewhat obscure. Konishi Raizan doesn't even merit a place in the Japanese version of Wikipedia, and unless there is something seriously wrong with my searching, the actual haiku only appears three times on the net in Japanese. The second line has caused me some problems for translation. On a Japanese forum that includes this poem, the poster notes in passing that the kind of light rain (霧雨) in the poem can be seen in the Jiangnan area ofChina
I'm not sure who doesn't know (shirazu) or doesn't notice in the haiku, whether the cow or an observer, so I have sidestepped this question. There is also the regular problem, when translating from Japanese, of whether the cow or the eyes are singular or plural. I enjoy the version I have arrived at, finding it faintly comic, without being fully convinced that I have understood the haiku correctly. Perhaps I will return to this post if I gain a fuller understanding.
(小西来山 1654-1716)
harusame ya / furu to mo shirazu / ushi no me ni
(Konishi Raizan 1654-1716)
spring rain
falling unnoticed
in the cow’s eyes
By contrast with the first haiku, this poem appears to be somewhat obscure. Konishi Raizan doesn't even merit a place in the Japanese version of Wikipedia, and unless there is something seriously wrong with my searching, the actual haiku only appears three times on the net in Japanese. The second line has caused me some problems for translation. On a Japanese forum that includes this poem, the poster notes in passing that the kind of light rain (霧雨) in the poem can be seen in the Jiangnan area of
I'm not sure who doesn't know (shirazu) or doesn't notice in the haiku, whether the cow or an observer, so I have sidestepped this question. There is also the regular problem, when translating from Japanese, of whether the cow or the eyes are singular or plural. I enjoy the version I have arrived at, finding it faintly comic, without being fully convinced that I have understood the haiku correctly. Perhaps I will return to this post if I gain a fuller understanding.
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Me ni ha aoba
目には青葉/山時鳥/初鰹
(山口素堂 1642-1716)
me ni ha aoba / yama hototogisu / hatsugatsuo
(Yamaguchi Sodo 1642-1716)
new leaves for the eyes
a mountain cuckoo…
the first bonito…
I'm certain this is a famous haiku in
Having announced my intentions to fill in gaps, I must admit that there are translations available for this poem, even if I could not find them immediately. If you google 'me ni wa aoba' you will find alternate translations. Even if writing 'wa' for 'は' strikes me as somehow inelegant it may be my own prejudice. So I will include alternate possible searches at the bottom of each post. Please ignore.
'me ni wa aoba' 'hatsu gatsuo'
The Purpose of this Blog
Perhaps it is a little grand to describe it as a purpose. The aim of this blog is to fill in the gaps for Japanese poetry on the internet. It will include poems I have tried to find translations for without success, or those that seemed to be difficult to find. I will myself attempt to translate the poems, though acknowledging my shortcomings as I go along, and provide what commentary I can.
Should other googlers be interested in the same poems as me, please do leave comments. The poems are taken from 小さな詩歌集 (chiisa na shikashuu), a current A-Level recommended book, though I regret I'm far too old to be taking my A-Levels! If you wish to correct me about anything, do please be courteous.
Should other googlers be interested in the same poems as me, please do leave comments. The poems are taken from 小さな詩歌集 (chiisa na shikashuu), a current A-Level recommended book, though I regret I'm far too old to be taking my A-Levels! If you wish to correct me about anything, do please be courteous.
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