What do Sato Fumika, Kinoshita Tatsuya, and Shibata Satoko think are words that resonate with the heart?

I really like Shibata's new album, and I particularly like the line from "Synergy": "The orange that permeates the gray sheep clouds and blends in as sunlight" (from Shibata Satoko's "Synergy").

The lyrics cut off at a point that has nothing to do with the meaning, "Mouse / Iro no Hitsujigumo ni / Mikomi...", and rhymes with "mi" and "shi". It doesn't really convey any emotion, but it does convey something, and I'm surprised that it's the opening line of the song. It's not just the lyrics, but the whole music that makes up the poem I think of. The use of animal metaphors like "mouse" and "sheep" side by side is also quite technical.

Thank you. I definitely saw the gray sheep clouds. I tend to write things based on facts, as they are.

I think I'm close to you in terms of realistic writing style. I have the impression that Kinoshita is the opposite, what do you think?

Yes, I am conscious of how it will be read. I'm too scared to just put it out as is. This time, I chose the tanka poem "Cockroaches are scary and dirty, but they let me into university" (written by Ayuko, included in the "Gunzo Tanka Club" series in the October 2023 issue of the literary magazine Gunzo) as a poem that I think will explain the difference between haiku and lyrics.

This is a tanka poem submitted by a reader to a literary magazine. The author was actually able to enter university thanks to his research on cockroaches. Tanka poems only have 31 syllables, so the poem is extremely abbreviated.

I thought the cockroaches were a metonym, a symbol of the family that raised me in that old house with cockroaches.

That's right. I wonder if he's calling his parents cockroaches. It's precisely because he cuts out the parts that it becomes such an amazing song. That's what makes it interesting.

Modern poetry is the same in that we try to find the deeper meaning behind the written words, such as whether the cockroach is a metaphor for something. Conversely, I think haiku can be read as it is written. For example, "Beneath the autumn wind, there are guinea fowl" (written by Kakio Tomizawa, from "Wolf of the Sky" (included in "The World of Modern Haiku 16")).

It's not like the guinea fowl is a symbol of something, or the autumn wind represents the times we live in. It's just that the autumn wind is blowing, and there are birds. Oh, that's nice... something like that.

Interesting. I've never heard that before.

But that's not the end of it. "Autumn wind" is a seasonal word that has various images and historical backgrounds. For example, there is a poem that goes, "Although it is not clear to the eye that autumn has come, I am startled by the sound of the wind" (written by Fujiwara Toshiyuki, included in the Kokin Wakashu).

When you think about it, this isn't just an autumn breeze, but a real guinea fowl under the autumn wind that blew last year, 100 years ago, and 1000 years ago. You can imagine it there, recalling its stocky body and blue face. The bird shines because the seasonal word has an accumulation of meaning and imagery.

You can rely on the entire history of the seasonal word's use.

It is magic, but it is a magic that can only be used on the small island of haiku, which is what makes haiku so difficult to approach.

As I listen to you now, I realize that compared to tanka and haiku, lyrics are written unchecked, learned and written on the street. There's no shared magic like seasonal words, and no systematized technique. In music, lyrics can sometimes be an accessory to the sound, so they're not necessarily superior.

In that context, I thought that one way to express myself through lyrics is to deviate from the melody of spoken language. For example, the lyrics of the song "Open the Door" from "Frozen." I would never say this to someone with a melody like that.

But the sudden rise in the "te" sound and the sense of opening up are amazing. You could call it the magic of translation.

That's right. There's something incredibly cathartic about it. There's always a melody in our conversations, and I think there's a melody when we read haiku, tanka, or poetry, but I thought the lyrics broke that melody in some ways.

I am also constantly reminded of the words in Ibaraki Noriko 's poem "Years," "It's not just the years, there are also people who live by embracing a truth like a flash of lightning that only lasts for one day" (from "Years" by Ibaraki Noriko (Collected in the Complete Poems Ibaraki Noriko)). If there is even just one day when you have a reason to live, if there is that one flash of lightning, then it's okay to cling to it and live on.

Do you like the lines a lot?

That might be true.

Words are sounds before they are letters, and sounds are accompanied by voice, so I find it interesting that people who make a living from singing are sensitive to lines and the words they speak out loud.

It's interesting how even speech that doesn't seem real can feel so real.

One piece that deals with speaking is "Conversation" by poet Aono Koyomi, in which he sings, "When asked what I like, I'm at a loss for an answer. I like books, but you already know that, right?" (from "Conversation" by Aono Koyomi (included in "Winter Forest Watch")). This really touched me. If it were actually spoken, I feel like the "i" would be dropped and it would become "you know, don't you?" So I think he's recalling conversations with you up until now and confirming them in his mind. Aono's words are meaningful, and he writes poetry that is filled with the heart of the contemporary era, and I really like him.

The piece I spent the most time on was, "Even if it's a mean star, I'll be born if my mother is there" (written by Kinoshita Tatsuya, from "A Collection of Tanka Poems for You").

I wrote this in response to a theme from a reader. The theme was, "It's been three years since I got married. I never really liked children to begin with, but I've started to think I want a child of my own. But the world is really tough these days, so sometimes I worry whether my child will be happy. Please write a tanka that gives me hope for the future." I thought that if I couldn't write a tanka that gives me hope, there's a chance that this child might never be born.

That's amazing.

I thought about it a lot and wrote it from a different perspective, focusing on children who may be born in the future.

The mother's doubts are omitted, and the "mean star" and the environment are portrayed as negative elements, so it properly ties in with hope. It's written in a way that even a newborn child could read, and it's very well done. The part I revised and revised myself was the part in the poem "I Can See" that goes, "The sky is cloth, the grass is a flute, I cannot have a rich heart" (from Sato Fumika's "I Can See" (included in "The Hand That Passes")).

When I read it, I found it quite interesting, as it somehow seemed out of focus.

The line "I can't have a rich heart" came first. So I had to include something that could represent a "rich heart." If the sky is cloth, it gives off a very generous feeling, and if the grass is a flute, it gives off a very joyful feeling of a field. I chose something that would expand the image, in order to surprise the reader with the next line.

Nowadays, it's easy for anything to spark controversy. No matter how precise your words are, if you use them in the wrong place, they can hurt someone.

Really. Right now, I only use social media to make announcements. I just post links and things like, "Please follow me!!!" with lots of exclamation marks to turn up the volume. But lately, my interactions with friends have been like that too, and I'm starting to think that maybe that's not a good idea.

I often think about the dangers of words written in an attempt to influence others, or words that are easy to understand.

Yes, indeed.

So I think that things like poetry, which don't immediately convey their value, are important now. The contemporary poet Yoji Arakawa said this when he received the Ooka Makoto Award the other day.

"The fact that something is 'easily understood' or 'too easily understood' is also evidence that it discards areas that cannot be put into words or things that should be seen," he said. "Poetic words usually float in places where light does not reach, in places that cannot be seen, so they hold the potential to point out things that are hidden or disappearing."

That's absolutely right. It's like readers don't just receive the words that hit them, but also go out and receive the message. If we can create an environment where people can research things they don't understand and find it interesting to learn something for the first time, I think we can get away from things that are too easy to understand and cause controversy.