Takako Arai: Received the 6th Makoto Ooka Award

When I was in high school, thinking about my future path, I suddenly remembered that I liked writing poetry when I was in elementary school, and I decided to enter the Faculty of Letters. At Keio, I was impressed by Professor Wataru Miki's Islamic history class in my first year, and wanting to know about such a wide world, I proceeded to the Major in Asian History. At the time, it was a very small major with only four or five full-time professors and 12 students. So, the professors were very fond of us.

I wrote my graduation thesis on Chinese history and was greatly indebted to Professor Hiroaki Kani. Since people of that generation were a kind of cultural figures, Professor Miki also wrote novels when he was young and was well-versed in poetry; he found it interesting when I talked about literature.

That's how I spent my university days, experiencing romance and heartbreak in my own way. That triggered my desire to start writing poetry. Also, during my master's course, a poetics course by Gozo Yoshimasu and Takashi Tsujii was offered, and I was stimulated by those classes as well.

While my future outlook remained uncertain, I majored in folklore in graduate school. Thinking that if I could become a Japanese language teacher in the future, I could make a living while conducting research, I also took the Japanese language teaching methodology course at the International Center.

Fortunately, it was an era of policies to expand the number of international students, and after finishing my master's, I was able to get several positions as a Japanese language instructor. At the same time, I started a small magazine with peers interested in creation and criticism, and the foundation of my current life—writing poetry while teaching Japanese to international students—began to take shape.

Students from Tama Art University who liked poetry also came to Mr. Yoshimasu's classes, and together with them, we created a magazine titled "Shimensoka" (Surrounded by Enemies). There were people who later became writers, doll makers, and potters, and Mr. Yoshimasu drank with us several times. Through that, I felt that my self who wrote poetry was connected to the world.

That's right. I think it's significant that I arrived at this poetry collection and that I was able to objectively view from the outside what kind of history and characteristics the languages of the Japanese archipelago have. I think I naturally came to think about that while chatting with international students.

Exactly. Actually, the beginning of my interest in colloquial style is connected to being a Japanese teacher. About 30 years ago when I was a novice, an international student told me, "I want to read Japanese novels." Since it was the era of Kenji Nakagami and Kenzaburo Oe, when I read Nakagami's works from that perspective, I thought we could probably only read about 15 lines in 90 minutes in the classroom. Both the sentence structure and vocabulary required a lot of explanation for international students.

However, from a certain point, I noticed that the language of novels became "flat" enough to be taught as is in Japanese language education. As a teacher, I was grateful, but as a creator, I felt that something extraordinary was beginning to happen in the Japanese language space. I feel it's fair to say an era has arrived where it's taken for granted that literature is written in language leveled by the spread of modern Japanese education and its apparatus.

Around that time, I found the novel "Tsugaru" written in Tsugaru dialect by Masahiro Kudo, a scholar of Russian literature from Aomori Prefecture. Although I couldn't get used to it at first, as I read persistently, I was drawn into its mysterious rhythm. And within the Tsugaru dialect, Kafka would enter, or nuclear accidents would enter like science fiction. I was moved that such expressions were possible in such language. And since I myself am from a rural area, born in Gunma Prefecture, I began to wonder if I could make an incision into the literary language that was becoming flat, using the angle of regional language—that is, a style based on local colloquialisms.

Both modern literature and modern education have the concept of "unification of spoken and written language" (genbun itchi) as a pillar. It's as if literary language—written language—became spoken language, but in reality, the colloquial language of the Japanese archipelago at the time was fertile, with diverse dialects alive. However, in the post-war period when modernization and mass media progressed, it became covered by that written language system and headed toward homogenization. Rather, it might be better to say that spoken language became written language. Therefore, the fact that Nakagami was born in Kishu and brought up a thick local scent must have been a strength.

However, style is difficult. I tried to write based on the Kiryu dialect, but at first, it conversely became superficial, slippery poetry. The first time I was able to create a work I was satisfied with was "Wheels" in "Tamashii Dance" (2007), and I think it took about five years from my initial resolution. After that, I expanded on it and wrote "Beds and Looms" (2013), which made the textile factories of Kiryu a poetic topos.

Then, regarding the encounter with the "onba" (grandmas) of Ofunato, I actually wrote my master's thesis on the folklore of Miyako City, Iwate Prefecture. There was a bathhouse in Miyako where I often stayed during my research, but it was washed away by the Great East Japan Earthquake tsunami. When I visited to offer my sympathies after a while, the lady there said, "Taka-chan, are you writing poetry? Volunteers are holding classes in the Assembly Room of the temporary housing, so why don't you try being a poetry teacher?"

Since it was also a time when I wanted to think about the Tohoku dialect, I consulted with the Museum of Contemporary Japanese Poetry, Tanka and Haiku in Kitakami City, and they said they would cooperate. However, the location became Ofunato City, which is commutable by car from Kitakami, and with the help of the local grandmas, I spent three years compiling "Ishikawa Takuboku's Poems Translated by Tohoku Grandmas" (2017). Wanting to deepen the connection further, I made the film.

Yes, it is a foreign language. Not to mention the phrasing, I thought the musicality was completely different. The intonation of Kiryu dialect is close to Tokyo language, but for me, the language of Ofunato (Kesen dialect) feels like a minor chord if Joshu dialect is a major chord.

Just because I visited a dozen times over several years doesn't mean my Kesen dialect would become perfect. I feel my stance was close to that of a contemporary music composer absorbing folk songs. Precisely because I wasn't good at it, I could deform the structure and musicality of Kesen dialect, blend it with others, or approach the world of irony I learned from Juro Kara, another field of interest. Thus, creating my own style became a natural progression.

Since I have been continuing my own edited magazine "Mite" since my 30s, deadlines come regularly. However, there were times when I couldn't write with this. Because it's a different linguistic world from usual, sometimes I couldn't enter it. Therefore, it took a long time to compile it into a poetry collection.

You mentioned the elements of sex, death, and taboos earlier; I myself think it's a world I could only peer into because of this style. The minor-chord language covered in voiced consonants was like a mysterious lens to me.

In poetry, there is an effect where rhythm and phonology give birth to the next line, right? Even if you want to write something as a meaning, it can be twisted by the rhythm and go somewhere else. I think that's a very interesting part of poetry.

Thank you. Truly, style is like a kind of camera lens, and through it, I feel I was given something like nocturnal eyes that peer into the world of darkness that was invisible until now. So, rather than me writing, it's as if the deep resonance of the voiced consonants themselves is writing, and when I re-read it later, I think, "Oh, did I write this?"

First, I was moved that they can read poetry. Even with Junzaburo Nishiwaki, Mitsuharu Kaneko, Kazuko Shiraishi, and others, when I thought they might be too difficult to convey, when I asked for their impressions, they wrote things that made me marvel.

Among them, happily, some people have come to like writing poetry and continue their poetic creation. Also, it is a joy to encounter a work where I think, "This person might not write in the future, but this one piece is absolutely wonderful." That is something that poets, including myself, rather cannot write. Precisely because they are amateurs, it's as if they swung the bat and suddenly hit a home run, making me want to cheer. Poetry has an aspect where it can be written with instantaneous power, and it is also a vessel that draws out the rare brilliance of an amateur.

There are several people who have grown to publish poetry collections, but the straightforward youthfulness that isn't published in professional journals is also an important attraction of "Intercollegiate Poetry."

In the end, I think poetry becomes a work precisely because every poet is looking for new language somewhere. I think each person is doing that challenge in various ways.

In the case of this poetry collection, I decided to keep holding onto the voiced consonants anyway, but each piece is a new journey, and in reality, the style is slightly different for each. Precisely because my power in Kesen dialect was lacking, there was an aspect where I could fiercely challenge toward a new language.

Thank you. I've always been interested in indigeneity. That said, as a contemporary poet, there's no point in writing something heartwarming. Including the contemporaneity I carry as a city dweller, I also had a desire to dig up folklore.

I think literary language became pure written language after the Meiji era. For example, waka also coexisted with the chanting voice.

In the magazine "Mite," Sadakazu Fujii, who also researches Orikuchi, was one of the founding members, and I also have a deep relationship with his ally Hiroko Yamamoto. Therefore, I believe it is also the job of a modern Tokyoite to consider whether the light of the pre-modern era, where the voice of performing arts and literature synergized, can be critically brought into the present.

Actually, when writing these poems, I felt as if I were hearing someone's voice—the mysterious voice of an old woman or a child whose location I didn't know—and I myself was the person in charge of transcribing it.

No, if I were an itako, I think I could write faster, but when I get stuck while writing poetry, I sleep.

Because I was a country child, I still like writing with a pencil at a writing desk. If it's a chair, you can't lie down without getting off it, but since I write sitting cross-legged or sideways, I just fall asleep on the cushion (laughs). I'm often writing while napping.

The other day, when I asked Kunio Iwaya about Juro Kara and surrealism, I was also able to hear about the characteristics of automatic writing. At that time, I felt like I could somehow understand it from my own experience.

But I think automatic writing has a sense of speed, whereas I am dull and slow.

Certainly, the first line I thought I would write beforehand always fails. Thinking "it's not working again this time, what should I do?" is also very painful, so I get sleepy as if giving up. Then I can write just a little bit.

So sometimes it goes well, and sometimes it ends in a swing and a miss (laughs). When I was little, my mother told me, "Takako is easygoing," and I'm still the same way now.

Finally, are you thinking of any future prospects?

While writing the poems for this collection, I planned the Tohoku grandma book and film, and wrote the drama criticism "Juro Kara's Lines" (received the Hideo Yoshida Award). Come to think of it, those were also the engines for my poetry writing.

Therefore, as for what I want to do as my next critical activity, I want to read Kunio Yanagita and Shinobu Orikuchi thoroughly. And I dream of writing my own theory of performing arts. While keeping such notes, I hope to find a new world and make it a guidepost for my next poetry collection.