The rapid modernization of Japan after the Meiji Restoration is often expressed in kilometres of railway laid down, or number of telegraph lines strung up. But there was also a spiritual revolution happening: Japanese Buddhism in the Meiji Period (1868-1912) was in crisis. Changing laws revoked state privileges for Buddhist institutions and prioritized a new “national Shintō,” which disrupted the delicate balance between Buddhism and Shinto that had evolved over a millennium and a half. Soon a ban on Christianity—instated in 1637 and which provided the genesis for Japan’s policy to cut itself off from the West—was lifted, and Christian missionaries were once again able to grow their flock in Japan. Elites looking to modernize were filled with their own secular zeal. Crisis for some was opportunity for others.
Buddhism and Modernity: Sources from Nineteenth-Century Japan, (U. of Hawaii Press, Oct. 2021) edited by Orion Klautau and Hans Martin Krämer, gives us insight into how some prominent Buddhist thinkers of the era analyzed, criticized, and sometimes justified the momentous transformation underway. The book contains essays and excerpts from 1856 to 1912, divided into five interlocking sections representing some of the major challenges for Japanese Buddhism during its modernization including: the religion’s role in nation-building, sectarian reform, science and philosophy, social reform, and the relationship between Japan and Asia.
Buddhism and Modernity is a snapshot of influential Buddhist voices during the nineteenth century, but also offers analysis from leading English-language scholars of Japanese religion in the twenty-first century. Each chapter contains an introduction where the translator provides key information for the reader to understand the context of the essay. Chapters range across topics from clerical marriage, women’s education, ardent critiques of Christianity, to proposals on how to organize Buddhists. Although each introduces a new perspective, common themes thread them together. Often we see the Buddhist intellectual elite struggling to adopt some parts of modernity while rejecting others.
This collection provides an excellent counterbalance to the popular English-language writings of the era from famous monks such as Shaku Soyen—who introduced Zen to the United States through translations by his student DT Suzuki. Such texts tended to tailor Buddhism to Protestant Christian sensibilities. This is in contrast to the writings in Buddhism and Modernity which were written for Japanese audiences: politicians, Buddhist scholars and the wider public.
With the threat of Christian proselytism constantly looming, and Japan’s national goal of re-entering the international community, the story of Japanese Buddhist modernism is an international one. However, the book keeps its focus on the domestic story of building the new nation of Japan.
In the final section on Japan and Asia, the international outlook of some Japanese Buddhist priests are highlighted, including Ogurusu Kōchō, the first known Buddhist priest to travel to China in the modern period. In 1873 Ogurusu instigated “a plan to protect the Dharma” involving a team-up between India, China, and Japan to rise up against the imperialist West. However, as translator Erik Schicketanz notes “Anti-colonial solidarities could transform rather easily into ideological support for imperialism,” an attitude particularly palpable in Shaku Sōen’s essay, “The Japanese People’s Spirit.” In this essay, Sōen sites a “questionable rhetoric used by a Zen priest within the context of Japanese expansion into East Asia.”
Kawaguchi Ekai’s legendary trip to Tibet in 1903 can be seen in a clearer light thanks to the final chapter of the book which carefully translates the “Characteristics of the Three Races” section of Kawaguchi’s famous travelogue. Reading his descriptions of the Tibetans, Khampas, and Mongolians in his own words reveals that his commentary was not merely “lowbrow” but racist, an aspect obscured in the English-language edition of 1909 by the particularly euphemism-driven British translators of the time. How these writers and intellectuals of the time conveyed their thoughts in their own language gives us a peek behind the curtain and is what makes this source book so valuable to scholars who may be unable to read older forms of the Japanese language.
It is argued that translated works should be valued much more in academia than they currently are. I certainly agree with that argument, as translations unlock primary sources for the wider scholarly community. I would also extend the argument to include periodically returning to primary sources with a modern, more critical eye—another of this book’s contributions to the field.
A thirteen-part journey through contemporary Japan taking in themes as disparate as mental illness, Buddhism, the human drive for validation, workplace harassment, cults, tourist pollution, and the consequences of the COVID-19 pandemic.
“First Book” is a column where we ask first-time authors what inspired them to write their debut book, novel or translation.
Books on Asia: What’s your book’s “elevator pitch?”
Andrew Innes: The Short Story Collective is a thirteen-part journey through contemporary Japan with the odd stop along the way to visit both the past and the future. Taking in themes as disparate as mental illness, Buddhism, the human drive for validation, workplace harassment, cults, tourist pollution, and the consequences of the pandemic, amongst others.
BOA: You live in Himeji, right? and what made you decide to write about Himeji?
Innes: Yes, but the book isn’t only about Himeji. There are references to Osaka, Kyoto, Awaji Island, Ikuno and the little known village of Tada. The public bath in the story “When in Rome” is based on my favourite sento (public bath) in Kyoto, and the opening scene in “The Gaijin Parade” was inspired by a real hot spring deep in the heart of Shikoku.
BOA: Can you explain the title The Short Story Collective?
Innes: The book title comes from the lead story of the same name. The `collective` is a group of six writers who get together once a week and take turns to tell each other their latest offering. The group’s youngest member heads into the countryside of Ikuno for some inspiration and encounters a drunken salamander who tells him the most beautiful story he has ever heard. The story is so sublime that it brings grown men to tears and will make the young writer a god of the literary world. The only condition is that the story not pass beyond the boundaries of the river from whence he heard it. When he breaks his promise to the salamander, he befalls a surreal fate that cuts short his newfound fame.
BOA: What makes it stand out from other books of the short-story genre?
Innes: I have come across books and articles that discuss the aspects that my book deals with, such as hikikomori, cancel culture, workplace harassment, cults, discrimination, stereotypes, tourist pollution, Buddhism, and the consequences of the pandemic for young people, amongst others. I have also read books that describe the experiences of foreigners living in Japan. The one thing I think these books and articles have in common, however, is that they are often journalistic or biographical in style. With my book I believe the merging of fiction and fact is what makes it interesting.
BOA: How did you get into writing?
Innes: A friend and colleague recommended a teaching journal called The Font that accepts short stories on teaching in a foreign country. I submitted a story, had it accepted, and a year or two later, I was offered the job of editor of the actual journal and felt inspired to keep writing. I always like to have a project to keep me busy, and decided that I’d compile the stories I’d already written and set a goal of writing a total of ten set around the backdrop of Japan. Ten became thirteen, which seemed like an interesting number to settle on given the dark nature of some of the content.
BOA: Did you have any setbacks when writing the book?
Innes: Character representation was something constantly running through my mind. Identity politics is at the forefront of so many discussions these days, and I was very conscious of trying not to tread on any toes. Should this character be male or female? What nationality should this character be? So some of the minor characters don’t have any gender assigned to them.
About the Author:
Andrew Innes grew up near Manchester, England and moved to the castle city of Himeji, Japan, in 2002, where he now works at three universities teaching speaking and writing skills and editing the online journal, The Font. He holds degrees in psychology, and applied linguistics.
The Short Story Collective is currently only available in e-book form and will be released Nov. 20, 2021. Read an extract from book, “The Rotten Mikan” as it appears in The Font. or pre-order a copy of the book from the “Where to Buy” link at the top of the page.
Hiroaki Sato reveals how the radical brevity of the haiku genre contains worlds within worlds. This is a book to cherish, and which nurtures in return.
For the last five decades, Hiroaki Sato has been an eminent translator of Japanese poetry, translating over three dozen books into English, including a just-published anthology of haiku written by victims of the 2011 tsunami and earthquake. Born in Taiwan in 1942, his family moved to Kyushu after the war, and he studied at Doshisha University in Kyoto before moving to the US in 1968, basing himself in New York City. His landmark anthology From the Country of Eight Islands (1981), coedited with Burton Watson, has been an inspiration to many. I still vividly remember camping in the Olympic Mountains in Washington State, reading these poems in an alpine meadow amid melting snow, entranced, as if remembering past lives. Looking up, poems drifted in the endless sky.
New Directions released Sato’s On Haiku (2018), a collection of nineteen essays, some previously published in obscure journals or given in presentations. It has many strengths. Simply as a cornucopia of haiku, often from writers unknown in the West, it is a treasure. Each Japanese haiku is given in kanji, a transliteration into romaji, and Sato’s rendition, using monolinear form. Rather than tailor the original text to an English-speaking audience, his instinct is to trust the literal image with its myriad connotations, then provide illuminating commentary on the linguistic and cultural nuances. An accomplished poet himself, Sato speaks from the inside, giving a hand’s-on perspective. His explication of individual haiku is never dryly academic, but delightfully discursive, opening the poems in a way that touches our daily lives.
The essays cover a wide range of topics, from the roots of haiku in the Edo period as a hokku, “opening verse” in sequential renga, “linked verse” composed collaboratively in a guest-host relationship, to contemporary gendai, experimental forms which subvert the rules. Along the way, separate sections consider haiku and Zen; a close analysis of a single renga with thirty-six segments, ‘The Sea Darkens’, led by Matsuo Basho in a 1684 session with local participants; parallels between Issa and Hokusai in their use of perspective; military haiku; ‘From Wooden Clogs to the Swimsuit: Women in Haikai and Haiku’, spanning two centuries; and introductions to the work of many 20th-century Japanese haijin (haiku writers), particularly women.
‘Haiku and Zen: Association and Dissociation’ examines the contentious issue concerning the extent to which haiku is infused with Zen. Drawing on ancient Chinese Chan koans, it is a comprehensive survey that includes Basho’s famous frog, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, American Zen and Japanese practitioners such as Kōi Nagata who, Sato points out, modelled some of his haiku upon the life and work of the medieval monk, Master Ikkyū:
Gaikotsu ga namaeau aki mo nagori kana
Skeletons licking each other as autumn lingers
Two essays packed with historical detail track haiku during Japan’s war with China, followed by the Asia-Pacific conflicts. Shinzunojo Takeshita, a teacher and librarian, writes in 1937 about her son:
Yuku ako ni getsumei no nasu mugi kashigu
For my child going to war I pick and cook moonlit eggplants
Hiroshi Shimomura, a doctor, in the aftermath of the Nagasaki blast:
Enten no mukuro o hakobu jinkaisha
Carrying cadavers under burning sky a garbage cart
One of the strongest dimensions of Sato’s book is its introduction to the work of many twentieth century women haijin. ‘From Wooden Clogs to the Swimsuit: Women in Haikai and Haiku’ spans four centuries. Chiyojo Kaga, a contemporary of Bashō, writes about the loss of her child:
Tombo-tsuri kyō wa koko mada itta yara
Dragon-catcher, how far has he gone today?
Takao Hashimoto in 1937, nursing her husband who died that autumn:
Shi ni chikaki mo ni yori tsuki no teru o iinu
Up close to his face near death I said the moon’s shining
A decade later, she still misses him deeply:
Yuki hageshi dakarete iki no tsumarishi koto
Snow fierce how hugged I was breathless
The essay ‘Haiku Poet Called a Hooker’ focuses on Shizuko Suzuki, who lived with an African American soldier after WWII and abruptly disappeared, probably of suicide, leaving over 7,000 unabashedly sensual haiku dealing with taboo topics including prostitution, drug addiction and abortion:
Suki no mono wa ruri bara ame eki yubi shunrai
What I like crystal roses rains stations fingers spring thunder
‘In the Cancer Ward’ introduces Chimako Tada, a respected translator. She took up haiku only when diagnosed with cervical cancer, as a form of therapy encouraged by her daughter. After her death in 2003, one hundred and sixty of her haiku were published. Some two dozen are included in the book.
Natsuyase ya sukoshi fuetaru shi no omomi
Summer-thin: a little gaining the weight of death
and,
Kusa no se o noritsugu kaze no yukue kana
Riding from one blade of grass to another the wind goes where
On Haiku is filled with such jagged beauty. Throughout, what Sato calls his “meandering discourse” is wonderfully erudite, playful and profound. It ends with two poignant personal essays, ‘Receiving a Falconer’s Haibun’ and ‘Through the Looking Glass’, admitting the problematic relationship of translator to text, which invariably results in a variant of failure–each failure precious, a facet or shard of the original which itself engages in the same process. Again and again, Sato reveals how the radical brevity of the haiku genre contains worlds within worlds. This is a book to cherish, which nurtures in return.
“First Book” is a column where we ask first-time authors what inspired them to write their debut book/novel/translation.
Books on Asia: What’s your book’s elevator pitch? Floor Kist: The novel is about a young diplomat who builds a Thinking Machine to bring peace, but instead, it discovers a plot for war.
BOA:Can you explain the genre of your book and what makes it stand out among its genre?
Kist: The genre of the book is hard science fiction. I’ve tried my best to base the technologies in the novel on existing ones. I also conceptualized serious reasons why the setting has a 1930s retro vibe. So, after a Final War that apparently destroyed civilization, survivors hid inside underground vaults. Only, after more than two hundred years, most of the technology ceased working. And the survivors had to revert to older more mechanical technology to keep the vaults working.
There is a lot of science fiction where (excuse the stereotyping) a former marine saves the universe from creepy aliens. And I wanted something very different. The book is about hope and how different people work together to achieve it, despite their differences. They solve their problems with their wits, not their fists.
Politician and AI researcher Floor Kist
BOA:You live in the Netherlands, right? What is your connection to Japan?
Kist: My father met Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko many years ago and Japan an ideal setting for the story I wanted to tell. The mythical origin of the Imperial family dates back more than two thousand years and I wanted to connect this deep past with four hundred years in the future.
There is something special in the look and feel of Japan in the 1930s that I saw in some old movies. I wanted a traditionalistic world with old fashioned politeness with a strong undercurrent of stiffness and resistance to change, issues that Japan is still dealing with these days.
BOA:Why are you the person to write this book?
I’m a local politician in my town (Deputy-Mayor for the Green Party), and every day I am convinced that we need to work together to deal with the big issues we’re facing. I am also an AI researcher and interested in how AI can be used to resolve society’s big issues. The idea of bringing peace and trying to bring people together is basically my daily job. The idea of designing a thinking machine to help solve big issues in society is what I’m writing my doctoral thesis on. For six years I’ve been interested in how AI will help deal with complexity.
Author Floor Kist with Ambassador to the Netherlands Hidehisa Horinouchi
BOA:How has COVID-19 helped (or hindered) the writing process?
Kist: Making time to write can be challenging. There are just so many distractions. So, I really make time in my schedule to write, even if it’s just half an hour. This was an incredible lesson: plan to write. That’s the only way you will finish your novel. I know people have dealt with the COVID-19 lockdowns in different ways. I’ve seen how it affected my kids. But somehow it gave me the time and the calmness to write the novel I had been carrying around for many years.
In this episode of Alex Kerr’s Youtube Channel Secrets of Things, he introduces a Japanese sumikeshi-tsubo (“charcoal quenching jar”). This video takes place at his home “Chiiori” in the Iya Valley of Shikoku.
Judith Clancy and Alex Kerr book-end this remarkable anthology (edited by Rebecca Otowa and Karen Lee Tawarayama), a publication offering incredible insight into the physical, spiritual and artistic elements of Kyoto. In the Foreword, Clancy reminisces on the past fifty years she has spent in Japan’s ancient capital, commenting on how much the city has changed, while Kerr’s essay questions one’s reasons for touring top tourist destinations. He stresses the fragility of Kyoto’s culture and implores visitors to consider whether their presence in Japan’s former capital would be beneficial for the town itself and the people who live there.
In this 172-page book, the reader can expect a contribution by Rebecca Otowa on the aspects of tea and Kyoto as the home of chanoyu (Japanese tea ceremony) and Rona Conti shares her passion for calligraphy. During Conti’s lessons with her teacher Kobayashi-sensei, she faced a plethora of intercultural frustrations but took them all in her stride, as a result succeeding more than most.
Mark Hovane discloses a wealth of knowledge on Japanese Zen gardens in just seven pages in his essay “Rocks, Gravel, and a Bit of Moss.” Hovane gives the reader hints on how to fully appreciate Japanese dry landscapes or karesansui, like Ryoanji Temple. He says that when “Slowing down and considering what is ‘seen’ from the full gamut of sensory, philosophical and spiritual perspectives, a richer experience will emerge.”
“Sparrow Steps” by Amanda Huggins is a delightful short story on page 40. In this piece, romantic vows between a girl and a boy are exchanged at Kinkaku-ji Temple under the cherry blossom trees in autumn. Memories of sakura petals in springtime prompt the girl to suggest they meet there again ten years to the day if they ever drift apart. But will it be reciprocated? Felicity Tillack’s contribution “The River” is a brief reflection on her life as a teacher during the COVID-19 pandemic, and the day she connected with her students at Horikawa River for a memorable boat race.
John Dougill introduces three literary cafés in Kyoto and Jann Williams discusses her spiritual connection with gorinto grave markers. There’s also a charming kappa (water imp) story by Karen Lee Tawarayama set in 2050, to enjoy. The Kamogawa River is a centrepiece for several chapters including “Converging Waters” by Robert Weis, “Sunrise over the Kamogawa” by Ina Sanjana and a poem called “December” by Lauren E. Walker. Daimonji, the bonfire that is lit in the shape of a kanji character on a mountain northeast of Kyoto during the Obon Festival in August, is the subject of a poignant poem by Lisa Wilcut. There’s also an amusing short story featuring the Daimonji by Simon Rowe.
Catherine Pawasarat’s segment elaborates on the Kyoto’s Gion Festival. She touches on its history, explaining how it is deeply rooted in the suffering of the midsummer heat. It all began when the superstitious Emperor Seiwa insisted on a ritual in 869 to rid Kyoto of its angry onryo. The people of Kyoto believed these evil spirits caused all the bacteria, viruses and plagues that killed so many people that July. There’s much more on the Gion Festival as well as Buddhist theories to contemplate in Pawasarat’s offering.
There are many other pieces of fiction and non-fiction, poems and pictures within the pages of this short anthology by a variety of member authors and artists including Mike Freiling, Reggie Pawle, Edward J. Taylor, John Einarsen, Robert Yellin, Ken Rogers, Marianne Kimura, and WiK Writing Competition winners from 2019 and 2020. The beauty and sincerity of each contribution refines the heart, mind and soul.
In this episode of the Books on Asia Podcast, sponsored by Stone Bridge Press, we have guest interviewer Lisa Wilcut speaking with award-winning writer and translator Meredith McKinney. McKinney is translator of many Japanese classics such as Sei Shonagon’s 11th century classic The Pillow Book, and the 14th century Essays in Idleness, published together with Hōjōki. She has also translated Kusamakura and Kokoro (see our review) by Natsume Sōseki, one of Japan’s most celebrated modern writers. Today, she is going to talk about her long career and also about her just released book on the wandering poet Saigyō called Gazing at the Moon (Shambhala, September, 2021)
Kokoro (“Heart”) offers deep insight into the human psyche and investigates internal struggles and the darker sides of admiration, envy and temptation.
First published in 1914, Natsume Soseki’s timeless classic Kokoro has been graced with three translations. My first exposure to this book was through Edwin McClellan’s lovely 1957 version. For my re-introduction to Kokoro, I had the pleasure of reading Meredith McKinney’s 2010 translation.
Kokoro (which means heart) offers deep insight into the human psyche and investigates several internal struggles, especially the darker sides of admiration, envy and temptation. The story is set in the late Meiji (1868-1912) and early Taisho (1912-1926) eras and explores the evolving Japanese mores of the times, focusing on the contradictory impulses of honoring the common good versus individual needs and desires.
The book is broken into three parts. The narrator is an impressionable university student in Tokyo who latches on to an older man he chooses to call Sensei. Part One establishes their relationship. The student is mesmerized by Sensei’s enigmatic manner and admires the man despite proof that he is not a productive member of society. We also learn that Sensei has a sadness and cynicism that haunts him.
In the short middle section, the narrator returns home to nurse his dying father. We witness how the narrator compares these two important men in his life and how they measure up in his esteem by their social standing, education and character.
Section three is a long letter from Sensei to the narrator where he finally confides his painful history, a secret he has shared with no one. He is a jaded man, and over his lifetime he has learned not to trust anyone, including himself. He hopes his confession to be a form of redemption for he intends his story to be a moral lesson to the narrator and perhaps to others.
Kokoro is remarkable in its ability create a sense of crescendo with very little action. The stakes build slowly, and as readers we can feel the steady movement toward an inevitable conclusion. On the other hand, the narrator’s youthful optimism blinds him to the negative outcomes the readers take for granted.
Soseki provides a wonderful canvas for a translator by offering a straightforward plot and simple structure, but they are deceptive. The challenge for the translator is to showcase the existential questions addressed in the book. McKinney does this well by providing us with a modern translation that does not obscure the feel of the era.
She has broken up the book into very brief chapters and short paragraphs. Where Edwin McClellan’s translation is one long story broken up into many scenes, McKinney has chosen to use these scene breaks as chapter breaks, making the already accessible narrative even more readable and digestible. These chapter breaks allow the reader to pause and consider the moral questions posed throughout the book.
McKinney’s language is more colloquial than McClellan’s which serves the narrative well, since so much is revealed through dialogue. For example, she eschews the formal third-person expression “one.” In addition, she chooses simpler punctuation. Periods replace colons and semi-colons. Overall, a very pleasant read.
If you have never read Kokoro, this translation is a wonderful first experience. If you are not new to the book, you will find that McKinney has made revisiting this story a delight.
The Art of Emptiness gives the reader insight into one of the most famous lineages of Japanese pottery. Interviewer Watada Susumu starts off with a seeming digression: Kakiemon—the fourteenth generation heir to the famous Japanese pottery tradition—gives a detailed and insightful description of how to smoke a pipe. The charismatic Sakaida Kakiemon XIV, who gave up his birth name “Masashi” after his father (the thirteenth Kakiemon) passed away in 1982, is fascinated by the “flow and rhythm” of pipe-smoking. He reveals tricks for cleaning the bowl and how to flip the tobacco to get an even burn. He bemoans the withering production and supply of shredded pipe tobacco. To Kakiemon, smoking is not just a considered pastime: “Smoking is part of the job.” What seems an irrelevant digression is actually a portrait of a master craftsman, and of the attention to detail that Kakiemon brings to everything he does with his hands.
The Art of Emptiness is a collection of interviews with Kakiemon XIV over a three year period. Originally published in 2004, this English translation by Gavin Frew was released in 2019, six years after the death of Kakiemon XIV (his son Hiroshi has since succeeded him as the fifteenth Kakiemon). In the conversational tone of the book Kakiemon XIV comes across as a humble, jovial fellow, laughing his way through a recounting of his upbringing in the kiln under the supervision of his laid back father, and his demanding grandfather. The book is a window into the formation of someone predestined to be a master craftsman and take the mantle of a four-hundred-year legacy.
The middle third of the book covers the end-to-end production process of porcelain works. Although filled with detail, the book keeps a brisk pace. It is particularly interesting to learn what has changed over the past four hundred years.
Each successive heir to the Kakiemon lineage must contend with tensions between tradition and transmission, of being a craftsperson versus an artist, while having a deep-felt responsibility to properly run the business of the kiln and keep workers employed. Changes to the land over the centuries also affect production. Over and over Kakiemon XIV laments how the raw materials used in pottery have changed. The ash of the winter hazel tree is a key component of the ceramic glaze but due to declining numbers of the tree, the Kakiemon family is forced to uproot its tea fields to plant winter hazel thereby protecting future generations of potters. A Kakiemon must always think about the future while looking at the past.
The final section, “Appreciation”, covers a series of case studies. Accompanied by full colour photos of pieces, Kakiemon XIV demonstrates the key characteristics of his tradition. Aka-e is the distinctive enamel colouring used in the paintings. Nigoshide, a term from the Arita dialect meaning “water that rice has been washed in,” is the milky-white surface that Kakiemon works are known for. Finally, there is yohaku, the blank space representing “emptiness”, a philosophical theme that permeates the book.
The pottery techniques of Kakiemon have been designated an “Important Intangible Cultural Property” by the Japanese government. The story of the first “Kakiemon the Potter” has even been captured in Japanese elementary school textbooks. The Art of Emptiness brings the legacy of Kakiemon to English readers in an accessible manner, directly from a lineage successor once designated a “Living Treasure.”
Books on Asia is live in Japan to kick off the Tokyo 2020 Summer Olympic Games! In these unusual times, we offer you an unusual take on a book review, written by Michael Dylan Welch. No more delays, let’s go for the Gold!
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to Haiku Playmakers and today’s episode of the Go-Shichi-Go Bleacher Report. I’m Michael Dylan Welch, also known as Captain Haiku, and with us today we have our usual panel of haiku experts—or as we like to call them, kigonauts. That means Matsuo Bashō, Fukuda Chiyo-ni, Yosa Buson, Kobayashi Issa, and Masaoka Shiki—and hey, no one’s off playing hooky this week. Today’s featured book is Kit Pancoast Nagamura’s Grit, Grace, and Gold: Haiku Celebrating the Sports of Summer, published in 2020 by Kodansha USA.
Shiki, please tell us more about this book—is it worth our time?”
“Thank you, Captain. Yes, this book is a real home run, and you know me—I love baseball poems. But readers will find all sorts of sports to enjoy—thirty-two different summer sports, arranged alphabetically, each with a fine selection of haiku about that sport, ending with a section on spectating.”
“We’re all good at spectating, eh?”
“For sure. And the book also features topical photos by the author, along with Japanese calligraphy by Yoshie Miyaji to identify each sport. All the poems are by Nagamura, but she also invited guest poets to add a haiku for each sport, and each of those sections ends with a poem by that guest poet.”
“That’s a very generous step to take in a book of one’s own poems.”
“Indeed it is, Captain.”
“But what does the ‘gold’ refer to in the book’s title?”
“Good question. Maybe gold medals? But the book’s finale poem lets us know. The collection seems an obvious tie-in to the 2020 Summer Olympics scheduled for Tokyo but, surely for trademark reasons, no mention of the Olympic games appears anywhere in the book.”
“And of course, the postponement of the Olympics until 2021 has dampened the book’s thunder.”
“Perhaps, Captain, but because so many sports have seasonal associations, surely we can celebrate the book in any summer. And the book will still have relevance long after the Tokyo Olympics has had its closing ceremony.”
“You got that, Shiki. Now, Buson, please tell us more about the book’s structure.”
“Happy to do so, sir. Right out of the starting gate we have a foreword by Marie Mariya, followed by an introduction by Nagamura. These pieces appear in both English and Japanese, as do all the poems. Superfans will appreciate the acknowledgments at the end, along with brief biographies of each of the thirty-two guest competitors.”
“Where are they from?”
“All over—a truly global representation. Japan and the United States provide the most participants, but flags also fly from Italy, the United Kingdom, Northern Ireland, Russia, Croatia, Australia, Nigeria, Canada, and India. But the great bulk of the poems are by Nagamura-san.”
“Tell us more about the foreword, would you?”
“Sure. We learn that Mariya is Nagamura’s dear friend, and that a typical saijiki or season-word almanac contains sports-related kigo or season words used for haiku writing. Mariya tells haiku fans that ‘This book will surely give you a new view of the haiku world—dynamic, youthful, and full of power.’”
“And the intro?”
“The introduction is a bit more substantive, explaining why the author does not follow the 5-7-5 syllable count, and how Japanese haiku count mora, which are not the same as syllables. Nagamura says, ‘Based purely on a 17-syllable counting method, a poet writing in English could easily slip in enough words for two haiku in Japanese.’ She explains the value of season words in haiku and helps us understand that sports references are often seasonal and how sports can easily connect to haiku.”
“And she leaves readers with inspiration, is that right?”
“Absolutely, sir. She tells us that ‘Writing good haiku involves the same attention to grace, balance, strength, bravery, restraint and observation that propels athletes to their peak’ and that ‘The training of both forms of expression is long, and the performance of both is, relatively speaking, brief.’ Makes you want to try haiku, eh, even if you can’t take up weightlifting! ‘Done well,’ she says, ‘the results of both haiku and competitive sports lift our hearts and suffuse us with an appreciation for the complexity, challenges, and beauty of existence.’”
“Would you have liked to have seen more sports covered, Buson?”
“Hmmm. Not sure that more sports could have been covered, and you’d have to ask—would enough haiku of international competitive quality have been possible for any obscure sports that could have been added? It’s also not clear how these guest athletes qualified to compete, but the author does say in the intro that she ‘invited a fabulous group of award-winning international haiku poets from around the globe to join me in exploring the flexibility of haiku when combined with the inspiration of sports.’”
“So, all the poems are newly written for the book, then?”
“That seems to be the case, yes, except for one of the guest baseball poems, which is given a prior publication citation. Each sport has four to eight poems, including one guest poet for each section except spectating. This isn’t an anthology of whatever poems the editor could find about particular sports, even of her own work, so nearly the entire book showcases new work.”
“Does that make the poems uneven at times?”
“Haiku is such a personal art, perhaps only each reader can decide that for themselves. I do wonder, though, what experience some of the guest poets have with the sports they write about. However, some do have connections (occasionally explained in the bios at the back) or they clearly researched their subjects to enter their poetic moments with empathy, as does the author with all her poems. We see many enjoyable poems, and they might well encourage us to try out a sport we’ve not done ourselves.”
“And yet some of the sports we might never try.”
“True, like high-diving, boxing, or fencing, at least for me, but maybe others are into that, and not just to watch. Surely many of us have engaged in sports such as baseball, badminton, swimming, cycling, and table tennis, and while we might not compete on an international level, our knowledge of these sports helps us to enjoy the poems themselves.”
“Yes, the poems. Why don’t we discuss a few. Chiyo-ni, please share a few selections.”
“Happy to do so, Captain. The book begins with aquatics. Here’s one of its five poems, where I’m attracted to the moment’s tension and attention, and the surprise of the last line.”
starting block
her toes curl around
the silence
“Here’s another here-and-now poem, by American guest poet Carole MacRury, from the canoe and kayak section.”
class V rapids
a kayaker learns to live
in the moment
“And from the rowing section, this sharp-moment poem.”
egret flight
a perfect pause
between strokes
“Thank you, Chiyo-ni. Are we ready for some more? Bashō, any highlight-reel poems from you?”
“Certainly. How about this one from the rugby section.”
lost ball
behind storm clouds
a summer moon
“We know only from context that this is a rugby poem, so that doesn’t serve as the season word—the summer moon does. And here’s a skateboarding poem.”
hunting the streets
for rails and curbs
summer moon
“One more selection, a volleyball poem by Terry Ann Carter, a guest poet from Canada.”
sway
of the volleyball net
June breeze
“Thanks for your keen eye, Bashō. Now back to you, Shiki. Spot any typos or any other concerns?”
“Just a few—very minor. David McMurray is Canadian but lives in Japan, yet is listed as a United States resident, and I’ve always counted Tokyo as having four mora (sound units), not five—which comes up in the intro when syllable counting is mentioned. I’m also not sure why the ‘multisports’ section isn’t just called ‘running,’ since all its poems relate to running and marathons.”
“Any other thoughts?”
“Yup. Elsewhere, some of the poems employ jargon unique to that sport, such as a ‘drag flick’ and ‘Indian dribble’ in field hockey, an ‘eggplant’ in skateboarding, or ‘par terre’ in wrestling, but fortunately most of them come with footnotes to provide explanations.”
“Not all of them?”
“No, a few don’t, such as ‘judo-gi’ and ‘ippon’ in the martial arts section, ‘Elvis leg’ in the sport climbing poems, or ‘libero’ in the volleyball section. In some cases, such as ‘penhold’ in table tennis or ‘knurling’ in weightlifting, not everyone will know the terms, yet I am glad that Nagamura did not hesitate to use such vivid words.”
“Thank you—something to think about. Issa, we haven’t heard from you yet—and you’re usually the most talkative! Might you have some selections from the spectator section at the end?”
“Most certainly. Kit Pancoast Nagamura has not been just a spectator with haiku, having been active with the Haiku International Association and the Ginza Poetry Society, and often winning or placing in international haiku contests. For three years she also cohosted the acclaimed NHK television show, Haiku Masters.”
“The book has been in good hands, then!”
“Indeed. Let me share two of Nagamura’s poems from the spectator section, the last of which is the book’s title poem.”
late afternoon sun shaft
sneaks toward
a vacant front seat
and
stadium lights off
summer night glimmers
of grace, grit, and gold
“Fine haiku to conclude with, Issa. Well, folks, we’ve come to the end of our show. Got any closing sports metaphors to toss our way, Shiki?”
“Thank you, Captain. Well, I already told you the book was a home run but, at least for me, it’s more like a grand slam. Now all I need is a good hot dog.”
“That’s it for now, folks. Tune in next week for our live coverage from Matsuyama of the Haiku Koshien annual high school haiku tournament. Until then, play haiku!”
Grit, Grace, and Gold: Haiku Celebrating the Sports of Summer, by Kit Pancoast Nagamura is available in paperback only (148 pages; 5″ x 8″. Glossy cover; perfectbound).
About the Reviewer
Michael Dylan Welch is a poet, editor, and publisher who has reviewed hundreds of books, mostly of haiku. He founded National Haiku Writing Month and cofounded the American Haiku Archives and the Haiku North America conference. He lives in Sammamish, Washington. Visit his website www.graceguts.com
