January 10, 2021 | January 11, 2021
every / ripe persimmon / left untouched / and soon to fall
January 10, 2021
every
ripe persimmon
left untouched
and soon to fall
winter, the year of the disaster
in these now wild fields
turning red, past ripe
as if burning on the boughs
falling one after another
so
but
still
branches as skeletons
in the sky
hanging down
getting heavier
this whole time
more orange, more red
ripening
left behind
untouched
for ten years
in midair
is it sweet?
is it bitter?
*
“In a quiet moment, when I try to understand
the meaning of this catastrophe, when I try to see it clearly
there’s nothing, it’s meaningless
something close to darkness, that’s all.”
(3/16/2011)
January 11, 2021
what springs to mind this morning
is that huge blue and orange
big catch flag
lost from a fishing boat
after the tsunami, I found the flag in the beach dunes
twisted in a heap
and carefully spread it out on the sand
that’s the memory
examining the flag
it was the first time that I’d looked at one up close
they are beautiful, really
then the tragedy and regret set in
my mind whispers
it’s impossible now
to have a good catch
＊
spring, seven years later
a fisherman named Haruo Ono in the town of Shinchi
built and launched a new boat
he took me out on it
his brother was washed away in the tsunami
so he gave this new boat the name
of what had been his brother’s boat
clear skies ahead setting out on this first voyage
a brand-new fisherman’s flag with clouds and wind, fluttering
we made a circle through the water
as a prayer to the spirits
cut a crisp line back into the harbor
to a waiting crowd
they were cheering
they were clapping
they were waving their hands
they were crying
we waved back at them
from a calm and shining ocean
those of us
still alive
＊
“Shining. Calm waves.
On the shore. A seashell.
If I pick it up. It’s as though nothing happened.
The world goes back to how it was before.
I pick it up, and ah! just like that, the sunlight and the clouds
the shell in my hand, waiting for this.
Oh force of life, heavier than this earth.
For seashells,
for sunlight, for clouds,
for cows, for train stations, for towns,
for boats, for me.
Even compared to this planet, the force of life.”
(4/24/2011）
From Mirai Taru Shi no Tsubete Jyuunenki (Envisioning the Future: Pebbles of Poetry 10 Years Later). Tokyo: Tokuma Press, 2021.
Image by Thomas Colligan.
Wago Ryoichi is a poet and high school Japanese literature teacher from Fukushima city, Japan. In 2017, the French translation of his book, Pebbles of Poetry, won the Nunc Magazine award for best foreign-language poetry collection. Since March 2011, his writing has focused on the ecological devastation of the areas affected by the Tohoku earthquake, tsunami and the nuclear meltdown of the Fukushima Daiichi power station. His poem Abandoned Fukushima is sung by choirs across Japan as a prayer for hope and renewal. (Photo credit: courtesy of the author)
