Writers In Kyoto

Page 47 of 65

Writers in focus

Kyoto’s purple mountains

May 23, 2018

The closest Kyoto’s hills come to purple is on stormy days like this one, when Mt Hiei sits brooding in displeasure (photos and text by John Dougill)

Sanshi suimei –  purple mountains and crystal streams

So runs the epithet about Kyoto which the nineteenth-century historian Rai Sanyo used as the name for his study by the banks of the Kamogawa (the thatched cottage still stands next to Marutamachi; see photo below). From there he must have had a clear sight right along the Eastern Hills, including Mt Hiei. But why did he call the hills purple? I’m looking at them now, and they’re clearly dark green with lighter patches here and there. As the sun sets in the west, there’s a splash of crimson from the reflected skyscape before they become increasingly darker, then menacingly black.

The sixth-floor desk at which I’m sitting has enabled me to study the Higashiyama hills for some twenty years now. I’m familiar with their changing colours, not just during the course of a day but during the different seasons. On top of that, they respond to weather conditions, particularly in terms of freshness and brightness. There are moments following rainfall when they stand so pristine I could swear they have moved a good mile closer.

Yet for all my observations, only by a stretch of the imagination have I been able to see the mountains as purple. Sometimes I even stare at the wooded slopes and will myself to see purpleness in them. Unlike Rai Sanyo, I just can’t do it. For me they are variations on the green spectrum, from verdant to brownish. But then I’m not living in the same era as Rai Sanyo. I’m looking over the roofs and concrete buildings of a modern urban jungle; he was looking out from a sacred city inhabited by an emperor.

The historian was an early sympathiser with the imperial cause, and his writings were based on the thesis that the rightful rule of the emperor had been usurped by the samurai of the twelfth century. For him, the imperial home was the true capital of the country, surpassing Edo in splendour because of the benign figure living in Gosho. Sympathy with the imperial cause, I would suggest, affected his way of seeing.

From 604 Japanese Buddhism introduced a coloured code of ranking. Purple was reserved for the top class because it was hard to make the dye and therefore had scarcity value. Indeed, formerly only the imperial family had been allowed to wear it; now top ranking priests were entitled too. But still it remained a mark of great distinction, and in Noh plays for example it is only worn by kami or emperor’s immediate family. It seems then that Rai Sanyo was wilfully seeing purple in the mountains in order to elevate the emperor’s capital to top rank, as if nature herself was honouring Kyoto in this way. Perhaps, conditioned by his thinking, he genuinely did see them as purple. And the crystal-clear water too would have been symbolic of the purity of the emperor’s abode.

This was brought to mind recently when reading a passage by Nan Shepherd (1893-1981) about the violet mountains of Scotland. The trailblazing mountaineer writes inspiringly about the interconnectedness of mountain and human nature: “Place and a mind may interpenetrate till the nature of both is altered,” she wrote. “The air is part of the mountain, which does not come to an end with its rock and its soil. It has its own air; and it is to the quality of its air that is due the endless diversity of its colourings.” As someone with a fascination for the spirit of place, I find her words striking. We think of ourselves as separate from mountains, but in a very real sense we’re not. The hills are us. There is after all good reason why the football team was named Kyoto Purple Sanga! (As well as a Buddhist term for fellowship, Sanga refers to the mountains and rivers of Kyoto, for the kanji for mountain ‘山’ is read as ‘san’ and the kanji for river ‘河’ is read as ‘ga(wa)’.)

Rai Sanyo’s study by the banks of the Kamogawa, which the historian named ‘Sanshi Suimei’

Featured writing

Oharano and Kyoto’s poetic past

May 12, 2018
Entrance torii and approach to Oharano Shrine, reflecting its one-time importance

It’s on the outskirts of Kyoto. It’s in spacious woodland. It dates back to the eighth century and pre-Heian times. It’s little-known, but once it was counted amongst the top 22 shrines of Japan.

Oharano Shrine is closely associated with the powerful Fujiwara clan. It was set up by the dominant family at the time of the Nagaoka Capital (784-794), which preceded Heian-kyo (i.e. Kyoto). The area was said to be a favourite of Emperor Kammu (737-806), who hunted around the foothills, and the shrine later featured in such literary works as Tales of Ise and The Tale of Genji, while its pure spring water was celebrated in many a poem.

The deities here were installed from Kasuga Taisha, clan shrine of the Fujiwara whose symbol was the deer on which their kami rode.

Misfortune and an ‘angry spirit’ drove Emperor Kammu to abandon the Nagaoka capital, leading to the foundation of Heian-kyo in 794. The Fujiwara continued to keep up patronage of Oharano, even despite the establishment of Kyoto’s Yoshida Shrine in 859 as a new base for the clan.

The Fujiwara were descendants of the powerful Nakatomi clan, whose authority derived from having charge of court rituals and purification rites. Their ancestor, Ame no Koyane, was one of the five clan leaders who descended from heaven with Ninigi no mikoto in the so-called Tenson Korin.

One of the Fujiwara was the famous poet, Ariwara no Narihira (825–880), a courtier and grandson of Emperor Kammu. A renowned lady’s man, he was in love with Takako, the wife of Emperor Seiwa. Though he was banned from seeing her, he wrote the following poem on the occasion of her visit to Oharano (she was a distant relative of Narihira and as a Fujiwara was visiting her ujigami clan shrine).

おほはらやをしほの山もけふこそは神世のことも思ひいつらめ
Ohara ya Oshiho no yama mo kefukoso wa kamiyo no koto mo omohitsurame

Oharano and Oshio Mountain
on this day in particular
bring to mind
the Age of the Gods

The poem suggests that Takako’s visit conferred on the setting the majesty of a time when gods strode the earth, as portrayed in Japanese mythology. It was included in the first of the great imperial anthologies, Kokinwakashū (c.905).

There’s an interesting anecdote that goes with this poem, which is included in my Cultural History of Kyoto. According to tradition, Narihira lived on the site of the present-day temple of Jurin-ji, a fifteen minute walk away from Oharano Jinja. Like other aristocrats, he enjoyed salt making by boiling water, which resulted in steam rising into the sky. On the occasion of Takako’s visit, he added purple dye to the water thereby colouring the sky with evidence of his love for her.

Today Jurin-ji is keen to celebrate its link with the poet, and his supposed grave is prominently displayed while a site is marked out where his salt making could have taken place. Buddhist temple and Shinto shrine thus continue to be linked by poetry, even though the artificial separation of the Meiji Restoration in 1868 drew a line between them. Love conquers all!

From Oharano Shrine to Hana Dera where Saigyo’s cherry tree stands is a pleasant woodland walk.

Close to Oharano Jinja, less than a ten minute walk away, is another temple with strong poetic connections. Hana Dera (Flower Temple) is the popular name of Shoji-ji, famed for its cherry blossom.

The wandering monk, Saigyo (1118 – 1190), stayed in a hut in the grounds as a young man when he was on retreat, and one of his poems describes the nuisance of noisy tourists coming to visit a flowering cherry tree at the temple – a sentiment with which contemporary Kyotoites might well sympathise! The poem blames the tree for attracting the crowds and forms the basis for a famous Noh play, Saigyo-zakura, written by Zeami (c. 1363 – c. 1443).

花見にと 群れつつ人の 来るのみぞ あたら桜の 咎(とが)にはありける
Hanami ni to mure tsutsu hito no kuru nomi zo atara sakura no toga ni wa arikeru

Throngs of visitors
One after another
To view the cherry blossom –
It’s all the fault of the tree, regrettably,
For being so beautiful

The poem was included in Saigyo’s anthology, Gyokayoshu, with a heading by the poet that ran: ‘Composed on the occasion of a visit by people come to see my blossoms, just as I had planned to spend my time in peace.’

According to the temple, this is the third generation of a cherry tree that Saigyo himself planted in the grounds. The board calls it ‘Saigyo Zakura’, just like the Noh play.
The lily pond is part of the spacious landscaped grounds at Oharano, evidence of the shrine’s former opulence
The deer motif which runs throughout the shrine is seen here at the water basin.
A cute version of the shrine’s totemic animal is found on the ’ema’ prayer boards.
Another trademark of Fujiwara shrines is wisteria, which in Japanese is called ‘Fuji’.
Even today the main compound impresses with its peace and stately nature. Unlike Saigyo’s poem, the shrine is now a place to get away from the downtown crowds of Kyoto – but please keep that secret!

Featured writing

White Day and Spring Breeze (Kawaharada)

May 8, 2018

(All photos by Mayumi Kawaharada)

 

“A white day”
Fluffy white motifs
Decorate a hospital window—
Evanescent art

 

Mountains and cars
Wearing white caps—
Frosty morning
A cup of coffee
At the hospital room—
News of snowstorm

 

Cars and buses
Timidly on the road—
Snowman smiles

 

White footsteps
Start vanishing at once—
Wintry sun
 

Evening grows
Spotlights deserted riverside —
A shrinking snowman


“Spring breeze”

Pine buds grow
Towards the blue sky–
Bush warbler chirps

Gentle sunlight
Invites window opening–
Scent of Winter Daphne

 

Soft breeze–
Rose pink cherry buds
Ready to burst

 

Global warming–
Early cherry flowers
Fall too soon

 

Floating cherry petals
Reflected leafless tree–
A second bloom

 

Featured writing

First Prize WiK 2018 Competition (Tengu)

May 5, 2018

This year’s winning entry was by Terin Jackson, an American living in Kyoto who writes a blog for his private tour company. The competition took him out of his comfort zone, forcing him to cut down on his natural verbosity in order to keep within the word limit. ‘The process of whittling it all down from 500 words to 300 was both heartbreaking and enlightening,’ he writes.

For their part the judges felt the piece tackled a part of Kyoto culture that is at once deeply rooted in the history of the city yet is little-known by the average visitor despite its ‘exoticism’. Few will have even heard of the temple festival it describes, yet the maintenance of tradition in this way is a vital way in which the differing communities within Kyoto maintain their distinctiveness. The use of the masks to transform identities, and the reference to the tengu language as a ‘a baffling babble evocative of breaking branches, windswept bark, and wet leaves’ was felt to be particularly effective.

[Tengu are mysterious creatures which inhabit the woods. There are two types: one is long nosed and red-faced, the other bird-like with beak and feathers.]

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Photos by Terin Jackson

Tengu: A Firsthand Account

Timidly, five tengu emerge from the forest surrounding a remote hillside temple in Arashiyama. Matted eyebrows, wild moustaches, grotesque noses. Skin tones of red, turquoise, and gold. Clinking trinkets dangling from their soiled yamabushi priest robes. They walk on crooked legs, uneasy on the rocky ground. Rarely do these creatures leave the safety of the treetops. Their nervous eyes scan the crowd of villagers gathered to welcome these strange annual visitors to the autumn festival.

The tengu scamper into the temple. The local priest greets them and begins his chanting. The raspy voices of the tengu soon join in and fill the cold hall with a rough music so rarely heard by human ears. The sacred connection has been renewed, man and monster in perfect accord for a single day of the year.

Wilderness and village agreeing to live in harmony for another cycle of seasons.

Uneasy silence. Breaths held. The creatures slowly rise. A blessing in the tengu language croaks out from five beaked mouths, a baffling babble evocative of creaking branches, windswept bark, and wet leaves.

“Namu-shen-kwa, namu-shen-kwa, namu-shen-kwa.”

The ritual is complete. With a nod to the priest, the tengu slip back into the woods.

Several minutes pass. Five old men appear, wearing yamabushi robes and rubbing their faces. They greet their fellow villagers. The villagers respond in kind. Knowing smiles and looks of satisfaction all around.

A skeptic would say that this was simply five old guys dressed up in silly costumes, doing their best to keep the ancient traditions of their shrinking community alive. However, unless you can catch a tengu and ask him, there’s honestly no way to know for sure.

Featured writing

Second Prize 2018 Competition

April 21, 2018

The judges felt that this description of an outing to a temple in Ohara combined interesting historical background with an intriguing personal encounter. There is a lightness of touch in the way that the narrator enjoys the old man’s commentary, and a dash of humour too in ‘you only get one chance for lunch.’ This contrasts with the dark episode concerning the ‘bloody boards’, which refer to the slaughter of thousands of defenders at Fushimi Castle in 1600. To pacify the souls of the dead, the boards soaked with their blood were later dispersed among a small number of Kyoto temples and used to cover the ceilings, where they can be seen to this day. All in all, the writer has managed to fit in a lot, both in terms of history and character study, into the prescribed 300 words.

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How Many Chances?
by S. Juul

My gift in Japan is attracting the elderly. One word is all it takes: “Arigato” with the last syllable stressed the Kyoto way; or, a quiet, “Sumimasen” with the first “m” dropped. Then I’ll have a friend for life for the next three hours.

Last time was in Hosen-in in Ohara. I didn’t need the wooden sign pointing the way to show me where to go; I’d heard of the bloody ceilings from Fushimi Castle. The trouble was knowing where to look.

Craning my neck between sips of tea, I saw an elderly worker grab a pointer. He hobbled over and tapped a spot on the ceiling. “Ashi,” he said. Foot.

I ‘ooh’ed.

He gestured for me to stand, then spent the next fifteen minutes showing me more. “Hand.” “Feet.” “…Face.” The last one sticks with me. Imagine, having that be what people remember of you.

When I thanked him, he beamed. “Do you… want to know more?”

With a nod, we were off on an adventure through time. He brought to life the tragic circumstances of the few surviving samurai forced to surrender the battle… and their lives.

An hour passed. Other visitors took one look and edged around us so as not to be dragged into the fray. Two others were unsuccessful in escape, an old woman and a young tourist. We listened. And listened.

Two hours passed.

“Do you want to know more?”

“I should eat,” I said. “It’s already three.”

“Sometimes, you only get one chance in life,” he replied.

I hesitated.

“There’s only one chance a day for lunch,” the old woman said. “Excuse us.”

Grateful, the tourist and I followed her. Outside, she wrapped her left arm around my right.

“Tell me dear, where are you from?”

Ah.

No escape, after all.

For an article about the historical background of the bloody boards, see this Japan Times article which also lists the seven temples to which the boards were sent – Genko-an, Shoden-ji, Yogen-in, Myoshin-ji in central Kyoto, Hosen-in in the Ohara area, Jinou-ji in Yawata, and Kosho-ji in Uji.

Writers in focus

Hal Stewart in Kyoto

April 12, 2018

The following extract is taken from a longer biographical piece of Harold Stewart (1916-95) for the revolvy website. Click here to see the full piece.

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[Hal Stewart] visited Japan in 1961 and then again in 1963 to be ordained as a Jōdo Shinshū priest only to withdraw at the last minute. It was rumoured he did not want to have his hair shaven. He returned to Australia and later enticed Masaaki, the Japanese man he had fallen in love with, to visit. Masaaki claims to have built the first Japanese-style garden in Australia in the Dandenongs. In 1966 he left Australia to live permanently in Japan. He devoted himself to studying the doctrines of Shin Buddhism to which he had converted. He became an expert on the history of Kyoto and was intimately acquainted with its temples, gardens, palaces and works of art. He became fascinated with Japanese poetry and published two translations of haiku: A Net of Fireflies (1960) and A Chime of Windbells (1969) which proved popular with the reading public.

His 1981 book By the Old Walls of Kyoto consists of twelve poems in rhyming couplets celebrating Kyoto’s landmarks and antiquities, and Stewart’s own spiritual pilgrimage into Buddhism. The poems are accompanied by a prose commentary.

He also devoted a great deal of time to collaborating with his teachers, Shojun Bando and Hisao Inagaki, in producing English versions of Japanese Buddhist classics such as the Three Pure Land Sutras and theTannisho.

Stewart died in Kyoto on 7 August 1995 after a short illness. A Shin Buddhist ceremony was conducted for him. His body was cremated and his ashes scattered on His beloved Higashiyama mountains. He left a sum of money (about AU$250,000), some of which was intended to fund the publishing of his last long poem, Autumn Landscape Roll, but none of the money was used for this purpose. His sister was one of the executors of the will and inherited all the funds except for a separate benefice to his nephew from the above amount.

Featured writing

Kyoto – elemental city (Williams)

April 10, 2018

Kyoto – an elemental city
Text and photos by Jann Williams

Kyoto has a remarkable dimensionality inspired by the elements. In his cultural history of the city, John Dougill conceived Kyoto as eleven different ‘cities’ distinctively epitomising Kammu; Genji; Buddhism; Heike; Zen; Noh; Unification; Tea; Tradition; Geisha and Japaneseness. Elsewhere I have seen Kyoto referred to as the ‘City of Temples’, and now I add ‘the elements’ to this list – for Kyoto is truly an elemental city.

Flower appreciation in the ancient capital. Author Jann Williams (centre) with sister and friend

A powerful elemental attraction to Kyoto over the ages has been the allure of the mountains, waterways, and seasonal expressions of the cycle of life exemplified by cherry blossoms and autumn leaves. These have inspired worshippers, writers, artists, philosophers and scholars, and today underpin and nourish the love and passion for the city that residents and visitors experience.

In my exploration of the elements in Japan (see www.elementaljapan.com) references to Kyoto abound. The elements have profoundly influenced the genesis and history of the city and now uniquely define its ambience and modern way of life. Recently joining a flower viewing party (hanami) in Kyoto gave me a taste of the pleasure such intimate elemental activities can bring. Sharing food, drink and companionship under a weeping Sakura next to Fushimi Castle was delightful – highlighting both the ephemeral nature of life and new beginnings.

In this article I draw attention to the more subtle association of Onmyodo, fusui, gogyo and godai with Kyoto. These different expressions of the elements have influenced the look, feel and ‘presence’ of Kyoto as well as many of the festivals, rituals and traditional arts associated with the city. Their contributions to Kyoto’s ongoing appeal are extraordinary and deserve consideration.

The profound connection between Kyoto and the elements begins right at the beginning. Heian-kyo (ancient Kyoto) was located and built according to Chinese Feng Shui principles (Jp: fusui; zoufuu tokusui). These included using the Four Guardian deities, yinyang (Jp: Onmyo, Inyo) and the five Chinese elements (Jp: gogyo) of earth, fire, water, wood and metal to manipulate positive and negative energy patterns in the city. The chosen site for the emergent city was energised by mountains on three sides and the pristine upland waters flowing through the lowlands. Over time fusui has been used in the construction of temples, gardens, palaces and shrines in the city, most recently (most likely) in 1895 (Heian Jingu). It has helped shape the feel of Kyoto to this day, even given modern changes to the city.

Shinsen-en to the south of Nijo Castle, once used for rain making ceremonies

As the Imperial Capital of Japan for over 1000 years Kyoto was the centre of Onmyodo – the Way of Onmyo (yinyang). Onmyo and gogyo are deeply intertwined. One tantalising example describes Onmyoji, the masters of Onmyodo, using gogyo in rain making ceremonies at Shinsen-en Garden. The garden is all that remains of Emperor Kammu’s original palace and grounds, built using fusui principles when the capital was moved to Heian-kyo. Although much reduced in size this intriguing garden can still be found just south of Nijo Castle.

The most famous Onmyoji is Abe no Seimei. A Shrine was built for him in Kyoto – by the Emperor no less – after Seimei died in 1005. Seimei Shrine has an active and popular program of events to this day with references to Onmyo and gogyo throughout. The famous Kamigamo Shrine also has many symbols related to Onmyo, the most well known being two cones of sand with pine needles at their peaks. In addition Heian Jingu incorporates ceremonies and symbols that reference Onmyodo and fusui. There are bound to be other examples where this association is found in present day Kyoto.

Godai, the five Buddhist elements (earth, fire, air, water and ether/space), are part of the fabric of Kyoto as well. They can be found represented in many cemeteries in the form of gorinto (in stone) and sotoba (in wood). The imposing five story pagoda at Toji Temple represents these five elements, as do others in Kyoto. Toji dates to the founding of Kyoto when it was constructed as the Temple of the East (the Temple of the West no longer exists). At the time it was the headquarters of Shingon Buddhism, founded by Kobo Daishi – a religion with an intimate connection to the elements. Tendai Buddhism and Shugendo are other religions with a long and strong connection with Kyoto, Onmyodo and the elements. It is a fascinating and compelling story.

These examples provide a glimpse into the elemental city of Kyoto, both physical and metaphysical. For those interested in reading more about the elements in this intriguing and multi-faceted city I invite you to read the essay ‘Kyoto Waters’ by Mark Keane. Blog posts I have written such as Being careful of fire, Zen and the five elements and Time for more tea also address this fascinating dimension of Kyoto – to be found at www.elementaljapan.com.

Gateway into the world of Onmyodo – the torii entrance of Seimei Jinja with its lantern pentagram speaking to the five elements on which the Onmyo thinking was based

 

Japan and the Beats (ToPoJo vol 5)

March 31, 2018

Review of TOKYO POETRY JOURNAL VOL. 5: ‘JAPAN AND THE BEATS’

There’s something deliciously cool about ToPoJo 5. There’s a handwritten poem on the front cover by Nanao Sakaki, with GWOOON BALI BALI! crying out for attention. There’s a back cover photo of Allen Ginsberg et al. in which his hair, jacket and tie stand out in stark contrast to the glossy whiteness of the cover. The journal’s title is on the back, Japanese style, as if to startle readers into fresh ways of seeing. ‘Always judge a book by its cover,’ said Oscar Wilde. He would undoubtedly have liked this one.

Inside the brilliance of the design continues to impress. To thumb through is a delight, with poems allowed sufficient space. Black and white photography breaks up the verbiage, prose offsets the poetry, there’s a drawing here, a scribble there, a caricature or two. Edith Shiffert gets six pages in her own write. You get the feeling that the editors care, not just about what poems mean, but about how they look. Here, even before reading, you can sense that poetry matters.

Inserted at the very front of the journal is a page of ‘Howl’, but not of course a conventional page. It begins with a Japanese version of the opening lines followed by a romaji transliteration, then a Google translation and a ‘gluey reverse translation’ before closing for reference sake with the original. It not only shows how things get lost in translation, but it forces attention onto the nuance of Ginsberg’s words.

The journal has 210 pages in all, far more than the typical book of poetry, and the Table of Contents runs to five and a half pages. The list of names is impressive; who would have thought the Beats and Japan would yield so much impressive material? There are memoirs, essays, interviews, and above all poems. Poems by those who lit the flame, and poems by those still guided by the light. Illustrious names stand out: a tribute to Kenneth Rexroth by Sam Hamill; Hillel Wright dreaming of Allen Ginsberg; leading Japanese poet Shiraishi Kazuko (hailed oddly as ‘the Allen Ginsberg of Japan’).

Kyoto’s lively counterculture was centred on Honyarado cafe on Imadegawa

There is a significant input from Kyoto, showing that this most traditional of cities has a hip side too. Rexroth, even more than Snyder, looms large. From a useful introductory overview of Japan-related Beats by Taylor Mignon, we learn that Rexroth first visited Kyoto in 1967, returning in 1972 and then again from 1974-5 for a yearlong honeymoon. When he revisited in 1978, he gave a reading at Honyarado coffee shop with Shiraishi Kazuko and oral poet Katagiri Yuzuru as MC. He last visited Kyoto in 1980, and is said by Japanese to have been the poet with the best knowledge of Japan. In 2014 a celebration of Rexroth’s life took place at The Abode of No Guest and No Host, where he had once resided (the house is now located at Doshisha University campus on Imadegawa).

Apart from Rexroth, Kyoto is represented poetically by Cid Corman, Edith Shiffert and A.J. Dickinson as well as by an open letter to Jack Kerouac by Edward J. Taylor and an essay by Linda Russo on Jane Kyger (who lived in Kyoto with Gary Snyder for four years as his wife.) For all his prolixity (or perhaps because of it) Corman warrants a single short poem, about farting in front of Kinkaku-ji. Edith Shiffert on the other hand has six pages filled with her frail, irregular yet appealing penmanship in which the difficulties of life are offset by the solaces of nature and thoughts of transcendence.

Death, I will speak with you,
with my contortions as old as yours,
and my blindness and wanting
while I wait under the trees

Shiffert’s script is sometimes difficult to make out, in keeping with her subject matter of the difficulties of aging. The effect is to slow the reader down to a meditative pace and thus allow time for appreciation. It’s a shrewd choice by the editors. If you had to select one poet whose handwriting matched the content, Shiffert’s in old age would undoubtedly be a favourite.

Shiffert’s poems are followed by a short piece by A.J. Dickinson commemorating her death in 2017. ‘101 goodbyes / Kyoto beats / passings’. There’s a fresh Daoist hip feel to A.J.‘s poetry, which fits in neatly with the Beats. He himself has brushed cheeks with death this past year, and one of his four poems entitled ‘Quoth the invalid’ wonderfully encapsulates the extremes of the human condition, closing with the evocative last two lines – ‘the darkness / that shines’.

Such is the overall quality of this volume that only occasionally could the reader quibble about the selection. There’s a poorly written essay, an anti-Trump diatribe, a self-indulgent poem that overstays its welcome. But these are negligible given the wealth of material on offer here, material that otherwise would be hard to find. And credit must be given to the editors for keeping things moving along, for brevity is one of the volume’s great strengths and many of the one-page poems pack a satisfying punch. Questioned repeatedly about the Beats, Kizuki Mihiro was at first bewildered but eventually ‘I understood / It’s like Led Zeppelin for rock kids.’

But if there’s one person who encapsulates the whole volume, it’s the poet the editors have chosen to feature on their cover: the wonderful Nanao Sakaki (1923-2008). An indefatigable walker, he traversed forests and crossed borders, spending ten years in the US and befriending the original Beats. Through their interest in Buddhism (and Zen in particular), they had already formed a bond with Japan and Nanao was able to deepen it. Quirkiness, the search for authenticity, the desire for transcendence, the bond with nature, the striving to get beyond the self – he personified it all. ‘Break the mirror: How to live on Planet Earth,’ runs the title of his English-language volume.

Nanao’s first meeting with Allen Ginsberg took place with Gary Snyder in Kyoto in 1963, when the three of them visited five or six coffee shops, carried away on a wave of caffein. Just imagine! More than most Nanao understood the yearning of Beat poetry to morph into jazz. ‘Using my voice to sing a poem, hitting whatever is there to create free music, having something to dance to, adding a mantra to that, and using my voice until there is nothing left is the best thing,’ said Nanao about his style of performance. Renowned as a hippy free spirit, as a contemporary wandering poet, Nanao gets a tribute from David Cozy as being more than a spouter of words, but as a true craftsman and master of his art. He gets too a dedication poem from Anne Waldman: ‘You were / the hero in the forest.’

There’s no ‘Break the mirror’ here, but perhaps it’s too well-known for the editors. Instead there’s a gem with Top Ten of American Poetry, which runs through a listing of advertising slogans and other items of consumer materialism before ending with a killer punch.

The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.
  — Walt Whitman
The government of the people, by the people, for the people.
  — Thomas Jefferson
You deserve a break today.
   — McDonald’s
Where science gets down to business.
  — Rockwell International
Kick the letter habit.
  — Bell System
Crime hits everybody. Everybody oughta hit back.
  — Chicago Crime Commission
Without chemicals life itself would be impossible.
  — Monsanto
I think America’s future is black, coal black.
  — Atlantic Richfield Company
Have a coke and a smile.
  — Coca Cola
Private property—No trespassing—Dead end road.
  — Anonymous

In a revealing interview with Shiraishi Kazuko in 1992 (translated here into English for the first time), Nanao remarks about a mutual friend being awarded the Order of Culture, ‘That is… a bit unfortunate. It’s best not to be awarded with something of that kind.’ Later he dismisses poetry as of little consequence. Like Hamlet, the true master of language can see it’s all just ‘Words, words, words.’ Nonetheless, for anyone who loves words, for anyone who can feel the beat, for anyone who has ever aspired to escape the banal, this is it, this is where it’s at. This is poetry as life and liberation, poetry as inspiration. If there’s ever a better Tokyo Poetry Journal than this, I truly want to see it!

(John Dougill)

For Tokyo Poetry Journal homepage, click here.

For Nanao Sakaki’s poem ‘Break the Mirror’, see here. For a wonderful selection of his other poems, click here.

For an article on Honyarado, see this CNN Style piece.

Writers in focus

Sword Dancer (Rowe)

March 28, 2018

The following excerpt is taken from: “Sword Dancer”, a novella by Simon Rowe (see www.mightytales.net).

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ONE

From somewhere along the hallway of the Ternate Port Authority came the clack-clack sound of an old-fashioned ribbon typewriter being punched one finger at a time. A toilet flushed and a phone rang constantly in a far-off office. It was the symphony of a small island bureaucracy hard at work.

A woman in high-heels turned out of a door marked “Maritime Affairs” and walked down the wooden hallway towards the office of the Harbor Master General. She was tall for a Malukan, wore a tight beige skirt and a shirt with epaulettes. She walked with a rhythm that could break the concentration of even the most dedicated male civil servant.

As she passed by the office, she glanced through the open door and her eyes met with mine. A smile might have crossed her lips before her footsteps faded into the zip-ring of the typewriter being pushed home.

‘Mistah Cocaine. Mistah Cocaine! Can you hear me?’ The Harbor Master’s words rolled about the room like distant thunder. He lumbered to the door and shut it.
‘It’s Caw-caigne,’ I said. ‘Can you leave it open?’

The big man looked at me questioningly. He pulled on the door and kicked back the wedge.

Three days of rest, rice gruel and jackfruit juice courtesy of the Ternate Public Hospital, and I was still having trouble concentrating. My eyes wept, my skin burned and every fibre beneath it felt like it had been reversed over by a small truck. Even the ceiling fan breeze hurt.

‘I asked if you require any assistance from the Consul-General?’ the Harbor Master said again. ‘We will contact them in Jakarta on your behalf if you wish.’ He returned to the small pale green desk and squeezed his large buttocks into the chair. A black dial telephone sat in one corner, a clam shell filled with half-smoked clove cigarettes in the other and between them an opened Manila file. A single sheet of paper fluttered on top of it.

A nautical map of the Maluku Islands of Indonesia covered the wall behind the desk. It may as well have been the wallpaper for the size and the hundreds of blue lines which swirled in endless whirlpools, each one numbered, each denoting an island’s gradient, a reef’s depth, a shipping channel’s width.

Morotai island loomed from them like a ragged wound. I followed the route the night ferry had taken from Daruba to Halmahera Island. 130 kilometres south, noting the name “Nusa Kohatola” printed on its western coastline. Yesterday’s newspaper had reported that a fishing station nearby picked up a vessel-in-distress signal on the night of the storm. Ternate had been alerted and navy rescue boats dispatched. Just before dawn two women – one of them pregnant – had been pulled from the rough seas. A cage full of dead fighting cocks and some rubber sandals were all else that had been recovered.

Not a day had passed when I hadn’t asked the hospital staff about the fate of the other passengers: the Catholic priest returning to Ambon for his daughter’s wedding? The teenager escorting his uncle to Jakarta for a cataract operation? The quiet young Muslim couple and their baby. Most of all I’d wondered about Kazuha, the Japanese man, whose bag now lay at my feet.

If I had drifted twenty-five kilometres through a sea littered with islands and atolls, then surely he could have done the same. But three days had passed since the Umsini had capsized en route from Daruba to Ambon. The official search had been called off and I now sat waiting for the Harbor Master to close the file on the third known survivor.

‘Mistah Cockaigne, what is your answer please!’
‘My passport,’ I said. ‘Can I have it back.’

From a side drawer he lifted out a booklet marked with a faded kangaroo and emu coat-of-arms and pushed it across the desk.

I thumbed to the first page and a photo of the man with tousled brown hair, seaweed-green eyes and a scar on his upper lip stared back. To the Australian Government his name was Noah James Cockaigne, born in Sydney, December 24, 1977. To his father he was a lost cause; to his ex-fiancee, a troublemaker and a fool; and to the Sydney Harbour Police he was now a ‘person of interest’.

 

The Harbor Master pulled a packet of kreteks from his chest pocket and gestured with his eyebrows. I took one and he lit it before lighting his own.
‘The doctor advises you rest in Ternate a week longer. We have reserved a room for you at a guesthouse in town. You should be quite comfortable there.’

He leaned back, relieving his waistline and let the ceiling fan carry off the fragrant blue smoke.

‘There is also the matter of compensation. The ferry owners in Surabaya are co-operating with us. However, it seems that they have been insolvent for some time. You understand it may be some time before you receive anything.’

He drew deeply on his kretek, letting the saltpetre crackle, watching me. He followed my gaze to the open door, then stubbed out his kretek. He shrugged his bottom free of the chair and rose to his feet.

‘We are very sorry for your ordeal. It has been a very unfortunate experience for all of us. Now, please excuse me but I must attend a meeting in a few minutes. There is a driver waiting downstairs to take you to your guesthouse. I will have one of my staff call on you tomorrow evening.’

He handed me his name card. ‘In the meantime, if you require anything during the rest of your stay on Ternate please do not hesitate to contact me. Salamat jalan.’

He shook my hand and left the office. The sound of a woman’s heels joined him at the end of the hallway and then they were gone.

***

The teenaged driver drove with a knack and he was thrifty. He rode the clutch barefoot down the slope to the shore, tapping the horn melodiously to clear a space amidst the morning traffic which raced along the esplanade and into Ternate town.

Tented warungs and bakso carts lined the seawall and their fish ball soup and mie goreng aromas washed through the car, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since my leaving the hospital.

The town clutched the base of the volcano, colourful clapboard buildings with iron roofs of all shapes and sizes. A church tower rose here, a mosque’s minaret there; seafood restaurants pushed out over the water on stilts and the slopes of the volcano carried anyone who couldn’t live downtown upwards. Spice farmers had crept their holdings fearlessly to the crater; each plot a small bet against the sleeping giant whose thin ribbon of grey smoke drifted lazily seaward. Ternate island was Mount Gamalama and Mount Gamalama was Ternate island.

We entered town and the driver pummeled his horn to musical effect. Market goers and their mysterious bundles parted before us, flowing around the car in two colourful streams. A wild-eyed man peered in through my window, a cigarette smoldering between his betel-red lips, a whole tuna fish perched on his head.

‘Everyday market day,’ said the driver, jerking his head at a line of old women squatting behind their wares beneath the Tamarind trees.
‘Want kayu manis?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Cinnamon.’
‘No.’
‘Chillies?—you like chillies?’ He swivelled in his seat, beat his lips with fingers. ‘Pedas! pedas! Hot! hot!’
‘They give me a ring of fire.’

The teenager grinned enthusiastically.

‘You want marijuana?’
‘Ask me tomorrow.’

He turned off the main street and onto a narrow road which climbed steeply through a neighborhood of simple tin and wood homes where cinnamon, nutmeg and clove trees sprouted in neat rows and fruit trees clustered in lush groves.

‘You see volcano today?’ asked the driver.
‘I can see it now.’ I said, peering between the torn vinyl seats at the smoking caldera up ahead.
‘Okay, tomorrow, you see with me, my car?’
‘No.’
‘You want girl?’
‘No. I want to sleep.’
‘You want to sleep with a girl?’
‘I want to sleep till I’m dead.’
‘Dead no good for business. I bring you girl and marijuana tomorrow. We go see volcano ok?’

He swerved into the shade of a huge jackfruit tree and grinning said, ‘Disini.’
‘Here?’

A dirt path lined with red hibiscus bushes led to a two-storied wooden blue house. A sign over the door read Penginapan Gamalama. Gamalama Guesthouse.

A young woman appeared on the steps. She wore a batik sarong and a pink T-shirt with the words ‘California Dreaming’ stretched across two perfectly-shaped cones. Her walk was unhurried, her smile welcoming. The driver said something, the smile disappeared and she shooed him off like a stray dog.

‘Mistah Cockaigne?’ she said. ‘Selamat Siang.’

I took the small bag which the hospital had given me and followed her up to a large, simply furnished room on the second floor. There was a writing bureau in the corner, a lamp and a single bed. Above it hung a velvetine painting of a young Malukan girl combing her hair beside a waterfall, the room’s only decoration.

A mango tree grew to the window. I stepped over, opened the window and looked down at the red tin roofs which fell away like a staircase to the seashore.

Across the strait lay Ternate’s conical twin, Tidore, languid and jewel-like in the cobalt blue sea.

The woman slipped away and returned a few moments later with a tray of coffee and sticky rice cakes. I thanked her and my attention turned back to the strait and a small boat now making its way to Tidore.

The sea had been my life, my refuge, my source of solace and security, my livelihood. Now, watching that small boat bucking on those white-crested swells, a chill ran through me. When the Umsini had gone down, she had taken my nerves with her. When I turned back to the room, the woman had gone. Only the coffee, cakes and a vague scent of sandalwood said she’d ever been.

***************

An excerpt from: “Sword Dancer”, a novella by WiK member, Simon Rowe. For a previous piece by Simon, please click here to see his account of marketing his collection of short stories entitled, Good Night Papa.

Featured writing

Third Prize 2018 Competition (Harukaze)

March 25, 2018

The third prize this year went to “Harukaze” by Anna Quinn (Pittsburgh, USA). Judges were impressed by how within 300 words the author introduced three generations of women with their strong and weak points. The beginning and end of the story provide a pleasing framework that contrasts the simplicities of nature with the troubled world of human existence. Traditional characteristics, such as the sensitivity to nature and avoidance of conflict, are interwoven with different senses – the sound of the uguisu (Japanese bush warbler), the moulding of dough, the sight of the ‘crater’ in the midst of the wagashi sweet. There’s a strong Kyoto feel, and all in all, this was a fine example of what the judges hoped for in the competition.

***********

“Harukaze” by Anna Quinn

The uguisu’s breeding call, a fast and shrill sound that slowly rolled into alternating high and low pitches, echoed throughout the workshop. Hina tilted her head towards the shoji and strained to listen to the reminder that spring had descended upon Higashiyama.
“Next, we use the wooden pick to carve the petals…” Hina’s mother, Hanako, patrolled the cozy room of students, clad with aprons and eyes betraying their curiosity for wagashi making.
At sixteen, Hina could think of no fewer than 24 seasonal varieties of jou-namagashi that appeared in the window of the Wakamura confectionery shop each year. Despite years of training, however, the mochi flour invariably sank under her hands, twisted crookedly with every attempted crisp turn of the dough.
Suddenly, Hina’s mother’s footsteps came to a stop. “Your folds are sloppy,” her mother warned, and with a gentle press of Hanako’s thumb, the delicate dough dipped inwards upon itself, revealing a bud-sized crater in the middle of the blossom-shaped sweet.
Hina pushed her stool back. “I’ll get the tea for the guests,” she called, ignoring her mother’s weary reprimands. From the other side of the door, she closed her eyes and heaved a sigh.
“Hina-chan,” drawled a soothing voice, accompanied by the scuffle of slippers. Hina looked down the hall. Grandma Wakamura, carrying a tray packed with tea bowls, stepped carefully along the carpeting.
“Granny.” Hina’s face lit up. “Let me.” She took the tray cradled in her grandmother’s hands, trying not to notice the way it trembled in the older woman’s grasp.
“I suppose neither one of us is suited for this,” her grandmother said. Hina’s eyes widened with worry, but she was met with not a diatribe, but a wink. Hina began, “Granny, I don’t—“
“Hush,” her grandmother interjected. “Listen.”
   Ki-ki-ki-ki-kyo, kyo, kyo. The uguisu.

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