Pathway to Japanese Literature

When Song Enters Nirvana

Even I， perhaps， will not ultimately come—
As years and months surge ever onward to their zenith，
To time’s furthest depths．

This year was a desolate spring.
Perhaps it was my eyes, but the cherry blossoms appeared unusually glistening.
Following this, the belated young leaves retained a pallid hue for a long time.
It was on a bright, clear day when the sky at the mountain's edge was veiled by those trees that we buried my revered friend Shimaki Akahiko in a mountain grave facing the lake.
I, on my way down to Shimo-Suwa afterward, found myself unable to ward off the gloom that descended upon me.

A chapter closed.
Might the splendid era of Man'yō revival now shift course?
Could Akahiko’s death spur new momentum?
No—rather, we must see it as revealing that very suggestion’s desolate form.

As I walked, I glimpsed Nirvana’s shape where transient songs arrive.
To prophesy distant futures speaks only of certain demise.
I wish instead to voice what tanka seeks to become soon.
First let me state plainly among poets: tanka can grow no further.
More boldly—it already verges on extinction.

A Tanka Community Without Criticism

The forces that led tanka away from aspiration were, even by my own consideration, at least three in number.
The first was that there existed a limit to the lifespan tanka had received.
The second was that tanka poets—myself included, though I say this with shame, and who had also been subjects of reflection that powerfully led to such ideas—were far too lacking in human capability.
The third was that criticism in the true sense had not emerged at all.
First, I began by unraveling from the third reason.

In the tanka community of that day—where such analytical criticism was being exclusively practiced; minutely dissecting every detail; peering into authors' inner turmoil (at times even resorting to baseless conjecture); and pursuing meticulousness to excess—there were those who vehemently argued it should not be recognized as true criticism.

I state this in all sincerity:
"That's right."
"Cease such criticism."
"Lingering in those stagnant places that never progressed beyond a master's editorial approach—isn't that desolate?"
"Of course, I too find it unbearably bleak."

Though it shames me to seem overbearing, this much I have the right to say—this awareness that I myself molded those first fashionable prototypes inevitably drives me to generate proper criticism anew, lest I remain without excuse.

Now reflecting, I realize Mr. Kaiami Inpei's combative critical stance had manifested with perfect aptness upon my strained, self-important mindset during that period when my writings first began appearing in Araragi.

Though tanka foundered at the level of mere sentimentalists, in criticism there was indeed the late Mr. Nakayama Masayoshi—the sole voice then pointing out my misguided approach.

"Nonsense—merely voicing such notions is conceptualism itself!"
"Could any method be more empirical than this?" I—still more ignorant in those days—persisted cheerfully with such enlightening criticism regardless.

Considering today's critical pathways fills me with chagrin—my own impulsive analytical criticism has grown rather troublesome—and cold sweat breaks out when I realize this.

How regrettable that I cannot boast this contributed to the tanka community's advancement!

Since I myself declare this, I should not err—at least where this matter is concerned.

The critiques of poetry anthologies following Nan Goshūishū and Nan Senzaishū already exhibited mentor-class consciousness and were exclusionary movements targeting authors and groups in opposing positions.
I am ashamed to admit that even I cannot claim to have been entirely free of such mentor-like sentiments.
If such criticism that so thoroughly presents itself as criticism is inadmissible, then what attitude should one adopt as correct?

To pontificate about criticism's true purpose felt rather pretentious and daunting, but since other literary fields already practiced such "monthly gossip"-style critiques, I thought voicing some thoughts would do no harm.
The assertion that criticism was not subordinate to works might have seemed settled in theory, yet in practice, it remained stubbornly traditional.
The attitude of writers looking down upon and seeking to ignore critics was fundamentally improper, but in the aforementioned “monthly gossip”-style critiques, the critics themselves ended up merely composing criticism as appendages to works.
True criticism lay in discovering the themes that had seeped through from the writer’s individuality within their works.
This theme, too—though modern drama frequently addressed it, and indeed Mr. Kikuchi Kan demonstrated it in an extremely naked manner—I did not wish to equate with what such people proposed.
Because they regarded themes as matters of consciousness, such works came into being and gave readers an impression that appeared exceedingly simple yet seemingly wise.
However, a theme was a problem entwined with life and individual existence that primarily weighed upon the writer’s mood—something that writers themselves often remained unaware of even perceiving as such.
Extracting and concretizing that was the true task of critics.
In that case, the so-called theme could be likened to clouds drifting over works—clouds that left readers feeling chokingly oppressed, suffocated, and at times even stirring in them a restless heart of unknown origin.
Noticing such drifting was also something that often could not be done unless one was a critic.
Moreover, when it came to discerning what implications caused that cloud-like presence to weigh upon one’s chest, this was not the task of writers or readers.
What such people could accomplish was at best on the level of themes found in modern drama.
Critics had to indeed be philosophers in this regard.
The theme consisted of what emerged when hints toward future human existence and signs intertwined with life blended into the writer’s mood.
True literary criticism consisted in shifting this onto the plane of consciousness, elucidating that theme, and thereby spurring the next “movement” of humanity and the world.

In a narrow sense, therefore, the critic’s task was to discern future directions and guide writers toward fulfilling their individuality; when viewed more broadly, it had to serve to render freer and swifter the emergence of character traits underlying human life.
Externally speaking, it was that which held the purpose of guiding human life’s circumstances toward different directions to bring forth a new world.

When it came to directions where novels and plays brought forth new themes of human life, poetry seemed unable to follow in essence.
Thus for the most part, it appeared to head toward offering hints intertwined with issues of individual existence.
The new signs of a life both narrow and profound resided where poets gazing with the sharpest scrutiny at their own lives articulated their perceptions.
The deeper any household's well, the more it could draw up water from the Dragon Palace.
This water was none other than new human life seething with yearning for universality.
When viewed from the perspective of long poetic forms permeated by narrative qualities, works in short poetic forms were said to possess greater adeptness in approaching life—such was the principle here.

The Themes Inherent in Short Poetic Forms

When comparing haiku and tanka, haiku is centrifugal, and its expression adopts a diffusive narrative mode.
In terms of the writer’s attitude, it is narrative in nature, and it ordinarily aims for harmony through the reader’s mood.
Tanka, on the other hand, is centripetal and adopts a concentrated mode of expression.
Therefore, the rhythm emerging in these works is supple yet resilient.
For readers to freely project their own emotions is not a proper attitude of appreciation.
However, Bashō’s haiku had not yet completely separated from tanka stylistically.
That can also be observed from how the effect of kireji had not yet reached the level seen in later haiku.
The abundance of poetic aftertaste in Bashō’s haiku also stems from this.
Yet it remains certain that haiku—originating from linked verse which idealized the principle of *furi fusoku* (inseparable yet unattached)—inherently lack centripetal movement in their essence.
In this regard, it becomes clear that tanka possesses an adaptability that approaches life more intensely than haiku.
However, prior to the new tanka of the Meiji and Taisho eras, due to the circumstances of their origins, they remained unable to fully shed their tendencies toward call-and-response exchanges, witty repartee, nitpicking critiques, emotional exaggeration, and dramatic expression.
For this reason, after the Man'yōshū, there were merely two or three in the late Heian and early Kamakura periods, two or three in the Gyokuyō and Fūga [anthologies], and four or five more upon entering the Edo period—such a scant number of individuals who attempted centripetal efforts in tanka.
Therefore, from this perspective, it becomes understandable why Bashō emerged—having seized the essence of tanka while transferring the sabi that had developed from Buddhist hymns to form the foundation within common life.
At the same time, when viewed from tanka—which had squandered long years—Edo-period haiku had advanced far more rapidly.

While haiku had made sabi the essence of its art and could do nothing but laugh with solitary derision at life’s “relieved” flavor, tanka had grown self-aware and produced many works of considerable value.
However, critics did not emerge as expected.
Even the vital essence that emerges through the inner rhythms of individuality, when undiscovered by discerning eyes, becomes recognized as mere technique—inevitably leading its creator to complacently repeat the same methods while inviting imitation by followers.
I think of how often the inner discipline Shimaki Akahiko painstakingly developed, and indeed the very life that emerged alongside it, ended up reduced to mere technique.
The new life discovered by Mokichi-san—stemming from his tendency to love knowledge, or rather, to aspire to intellectualize it—became conceptualized during the *Red Light* era and emerged as a precursor to Tanizaki Jun’ichirō.

Let us return to Masaoka Shiki.
From this mood brimming with ambition, while appearing to move with conscious intent, his attitude was quite the opposite—one of utter disinterest.
The expression adopting plain everyday language as its standard, combined with a slight “deadpan wit” in its content, opened up a subtle poetic realm in his verses—one far removed from the fervent breath characteristic of the New Poetry Society’s lineage.

Bashō possessed an excessive consciousness of *sabi*, leading him to fixate on mere concepts and fail to materialize the hints that stirred his heart—resulting even in numerous utterly misguided ideas.
The *shiori* seen in works such as *“Exhausted, seeking lodging—time of wisteria blossoms”* did not originate with haiku; it was merely inherited from tanka.
But without being trapped by *sabi*, he sought to perceive a certain vitality—in truth, a realm already pioneered—.
“Coming to the mountain path—somehow, I long for... / Violet grass.”
“Violets.”
This, for instance, was certainly a new development.
In that which could only be conceptually expressed as “something or other”—in that place where no means of expression had yet been discovered—one glimpses faint stirrings of life.
This, too, falls within the domain of *shiori*.
Tanka had been skilled in *shiori* from early on.
“Sabi” found in Bashō both its consummate master and critic.

The Hints in Shiki’s Poetry

From his habitual efforts to eliminate conventional diction, Shiki strove strenuously to avoid becoming ensnared in the quagmire-like *sabi* that entraps one’s footing—only to come perilously close to introducing *shiori* upon tranquil linguistic tones.
Yet despite having been so voluble, it remained at the level of “something inexplicably longed-for”—before he could fully exercise his critical faculties through explication—he passed away.

Crouching in long-legged posture, half-hidden— / In green shade sipping tea: summer’s lotion.

Within plain expressions and a deadpan demeanor, he attempted to discover something.
While one could not view this solely as aiming for empty laughter, the abruptly truncated form of poetic aftertaste compelled acknowledgment that it had established the starting point for Kuraki and others’ deadpan humor.

Against the frost—
Tsukuba gales—

“While there remains some ‘poetic aftertaste,’ one finds an excessive blending of haiku imitation and fondness for seasonal themes.”
In particular, Shiki’s proud reading method of “gan” as transmitted by Mr. Okafuchi—alongside the plain style—constituted haiku-style rhetoric.
(I also wonder—perhaps he had noticed that reading it as kari lent a certain lingering pathos.) In any case, this poem demonstrated the literal starting point of shasei; implications of life were not even at issue here.

Young pine shoots’ yellowing leaves—a long day / evening gathers—they’ve grown hot.

When viewed in terms of its essence as tanka, it could be said to have approached completion to a certain extent.
Shiki belonged to the plain style school—a writer who valued everyday linguistic sensibilities.
His use of archaic language served merely as seasoning to impart an unconventional flavor.
The hedonistic attitude toward diction lay plainly visible.
The archaic terms employed by his disciple Sachio lacked even that internal vitality—
a “relieved” taste meant to mask life’s “choking” quality.
Such was its aesthetic nature.
Poems like this one, while venturing into the realm of subjective fusion, had prefatory verses that protruded beyond mere harmony.
Was not even witty repartee rearing its head here?
The line “Evening gathers…” too possessed a brightness and vigor that defied harmony with inner discipline.
This likely constituted a detrimental effect arising from the absence of ideals.

The wisteria clusters placed in the vase—if they are short, they did not reach upon the tatami.

By the time we reach this poem, the signs of new life had been fully committed to paper.
In the Negishi school, Shiki and his disciples felt they had found the direction they should advance in—a situation fundamentally aligned with the “old pond” of orthodox style.
However, they ultimately proved unable to materialize it.
As a continuation of this, this poem stood as a vague object of reverence.
This poem came to be praised alongside categories utterly incomparable to it—works sustaining a "question-mark teacup" style of faith through deadpan songs and heroic posturing (conspicuously manifest in Shiki's external life), along with compositions bearing imitative echoes of tightly wound rhetoric.
Even I cannot yet fully explain the implications contained within this poem, but let me attempt to articulate one aspect.
Attention gathered on the distance between the tatami and the clusters of wisteria blossoms, where there existed a sense of discovery—resembling momentary wonder yet inviting a more tranquil mood.
This cannot be expressed with words like "pale melancholy."
It was the subtle realm perceived while lying down by one confined to perpetual repose.
Having been stripped of subjective elements, did this not represent a “non-human emotion” that suddenly emerged within a mood of open-minded serenity?
Soseki’s theory of non-human emotion, while sound in its fundamental intent, seemed to have lost its logical coherence due to the excessively convoluted nature of its explanations.
Ultimately, the wisteria poem likely sang not of such noble sentiments, but of the delicate evanescence perceptible to ordinary people.

In the recent poems of Mokichi-san, a certain realm—not even that of Ryōkan—has begun to appear; I am delightedly observing whether this might be the concretization of that very realm.
He has inherited the temperament of his late teacher Sachio—who valued inner discipline more than Shiki did in matters of diction—and now possesses a spirit that cannot be expressed without recourse to classical language.
The poetic style of *Kiri Bi*, founded by Akahiko, emerged eight or nine years ahead of the New Sensation school of creative writers, constituting a craftsmanship-oriented movement that sought to advance through the same methodology.
It encountered the robust classical tone favored by Akahiko and underwent a directional shift—this constitutes the poetic approach spanning from the latter part of *Hyōgyo* to *Taikyo-shū*.
When I think how even I, who once wrote the *Kiri Bi Commentary*, was merely making feeble attempts to lift my feet—utterly incapable of indicating this direction for Akahiko’s sake—I find myself in no position to lament, even out of obligation, a tanka world devoid of criticism.

Literary criticism must not only indicate direction for writers but also extract depth and freshness from our very lives.
Moreover, unless it demonstrates both advanced models and ordinary styles within our lives, it holds no significance.
I have said that short poetic forms contribute little to life; socially, even if one says so, it seems certain.
However, when their influence deeply seeps into individuality, they can open up a transformed inner life.
The greatness of Bashō’s work lies not in debates over whether it adheres to orthodox style, but in how it contributed a soft chuckle and the leisure to withdraw from others yet fondly remember them to the lives of ordinary people.

I am ashamed that criticism in tanka circles remains in such a primitive state.
I believe there should be greater human breadth, prayer, and indeed, beautiful affection.

The stagnation of poetry stemming from poets' lifestyle attitudes

The second reason that makes the future of tanka seem hopeless is that poets do not suffer enough as human beings.
To put it another way—following Kaiko or Ueda Akinari’s terminological examples—this stems from there being far too many who amount to “self-satisfied old men nestled in complacency.”
It may also be permissible to rephrase:
There are many who pass through creation’s pangs with relative ease.
Admittedly—and I say this without flattery—there exist not only among my friends but also unknown young poets many who publish verses splendidly testifying to lives lived in defiance of my anxieties.
Yet generally speaking, tanka’s brevity as a form appears to invite complacency—many indulge in glib utterances and minor technical flourishes while clinging to delusions that their works represent remarkable crystallizations of hardship.
Even among such glibness, those like Mr. Yoshii Isamu—so-called “wicked souls” (if you’ll pardon the expression)—retain ample hope of attaining Buddhahood through single-minded devotion.
But when it comes to life reflections from self-satisfied youths and elders, even tanka’s age-old amateur-centered customs begin to feel almost cursed.

Tanka was, from its very inception, an improvisational poem.
That has now come to pass and dominates the hearts and minds of many writers in the worst sense.
In other words, it is precisely where they discard matters insufficiently comprehended and inadequately reflected upon that the complacent daily attitudes of writers come to assert themselves.
Struggling with this expression constitutes the essential meaning of what the late Akahiko called the Discipline Path.
It is through this that human value comes to be elevated within the artistic process.
However, it is precisely this inability to endure to such lengths that constitutes the spiritual bearing of contemporary poets.
That is something I can understand even by dissecting my own state of composing nothing but songs akin to idle humming.

Besides enduring this expressive anguish, there remained but one distinct method to breach the ramparts of craftsmanship.
It was the passion that blazed forth in ancient poetry.
That fierce rhythm had catapulted expression to precipitous heights.
Yet in this era of artistic decadence, one could scarcely hope for such primordial eruptions of fervor.
If we could no longer rely on rapturous impulses to instantly order and pare down our inner life, then cultivating quiet self-discipline through profound reflection and serene observation would further perfect our verse while deepening human insight.
Yet here we must confront a quandary: when considering whether our ancestors' songs constitute true lyric poetry—at least I myself cannot but falter.
None may deny how classicality's aura transmutes base harshness and dross into a force that presses upon mankind.

Would that I had the hand strength to break the rock gate.
Were I made a delicate woman, knowing no means,

Hand-Held Queen

(Man'yōshū, Book 3, Poem 419)

This, as a funeral elegy, is an exaggerated affection meant to appease the dead spirit.

When I pound rice, my hands chap—will the young master take them tonight and sigh?

(Man'yōshū, Book 14, Poem 3459)

If this were indeed a maid-servant’s soliloquy, who could have heard and passed it down?
This must unquestionably be a fragment from the epic tradition, using dramatic exaggeration to stir our shared sense of futility.
From such ancient songs, what we can truly discern ultimately reduces to nothing but life’s tenacious vitality.

The Literary Revival Through the Man'yōshū

The hardships Akahiko endured since abandoning his teaching profession and moving to the capital truly amounted to 『ten years』.
And yet during this period, society responded with such fervor that it bordered on excess.
Rather, it may be more accurate to view that Araragi's efforts were powerfully incorporated precisely because society inclined toward a trend resembling literary revival.
The efforts since Shiki had been to revitalize the spirit of the Man'yō people in contemporary hearts.
Such Araragi poetic style—to an extent we of the New Poetry Society's heyday could never have imagined—was embraced by society and celebrated.
One might say this occurred because the times sought to incorporate ancient people's pure life and had somewhat approached such a lifestyle.
Yet when decomposing this directly and attempting to observe identical circumstances in each individual, one found nothing but unexpected realities.
Indeed, society was rigid.
It moved with considerable robustness and force.
However, even having come to appropriately perceive and accept Man'yō's spirit and rhythm through its influence, one could not determine that all tanka authors necessarily lived vigorously.
In truth, it amounted only to blind impulse swept up in popularized literary revival fervor—a reality demanding lament.
Therefore, observing how over recent years they gradually sought and found settling places: those donning Man'yō's outer shell and reaching descriptive poetry could still evoke some living vitality; but outsiders came to delight in uniformly tepid rhythms, with extreme cases attempting to cling to Shin Kokinshū style as mentioned earlier.
And yet I believe there was none who failed to notice even Araragi itself gradually changing its rhythm.
However, some in society surprisingly seemed unaware of rhythmic changes evident from Ten Years' opening to closing pages.
This change appeared primarily driven by Mokichi taking initiative.
Before his overseas travels, he had generally avoided using the so-called "discarded ya" auxiliary particle but through affinity for Shiki and Sachio's poems came to incorporate it with striking naturalness.
In Araragi school, all members traced their path with joy akin to having discovered new compositional methods.
After Mokichi's return to Japan, people expressed dissatisfaction with every song he composed.
Yet I thought Mokichi himself rushed to materialize hints flickering in his mind and at times watched joyfully as they began revealing themselves quite clearly.

This effort, having missed its mark (?), broke through the outer shell of perverse aesthetics derived from its conventional strengths and Shiki-style feigned ignorance, and emerged as a category of poems epitomized by: “When I left home and came here, eggshells flowed in the Shibuya River (?).” After that, Mokichi wrote a lengthy treatise on the Man'yō style. Ultimately his assertions clearly demonstrated a transformation from their previous emphasis on strength of spirit. It might be said that from the simplification of content, his approach had advanced to the point of achieving a harmonization of mood. It appeared to be building something akin to what remains when brilliance is stripped away from Ryōkan. With this, Mokichi still called it the Man'yō style, but in truth it had already become the Mokichi style—a fact beyond dispute that this represented a distinct later-era style differing in positive ways from the eighth and tenth, or even the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth of Man'yō. I am considering whether the so-called Man'yō style in society, by embracing such new rhythms, is attempting to emerge from its labor pains.

When observing other members of Araragi, one should note that Mitsui Kōno—whose approach to that poem had mirrored Ōgai’s—was now attempting to steer in an even more divergent direction.
“Araragi”
Among their circle, Mitsui Kōno’s style—previously the most logically coherent—appeared to have either begun questioning his own diction’s precision since Fuyukusa, or discovered a method where he maintained customary clarity yet cut corners at key points.
While this seemed a sound plan, my lingering doubt concerned how his recently adopted “...shi ga” expression—a phrasing popularized in early new-trend haiku circles—not only inverted the Man'yō’s “...shikaba” but betrayed an excessive fondness for rigid linguistic tones.
I worried whether the prose-like quality emerging from these shortcuts might be misread as some portentous omen.
I anticipated that Mokichi-style and Kōno-style would henceforth reveal stark divergences within Araragi.
Thus would the cherished Man'yō-style manner fade away, settling at last into its destined repose.
And so those who had trailed after the Man'yō style now turned to chase still newer rhythms.

Beyond this, I wanted to discuss “Nikkō” and other matters, but since I was addressing prevailing poetic styles at that time, I focused solely on “Araragi,” which still maintained its central position.
When one considered it, society moved largely according to the maneuvers of those who waved the banner.
In the realm of poetry, the literary revival that had delighted us would now enter an intermission for the time being.

The Hedonistic Scholarship of Poets

When viewed in this light, even the efforts to revive the venerable spirit of the ancients—which once appeared trustworthy—now seemed destined to pass through most poets as transient trends devoid of enduring substance.
In the songs of young delinquents, I often heard a breath so new and strong it seemed to leap up, and there were times when I secretly envied and rejoiced in this; if asked to provide examples, I could offer several.
The delinquent comrades too, having found a strong rhythm suited to embody their vitality, puffed out their chests.
The passing of such profoundly moving Man'yō-style works was deeply regrettable.
It was precisely through the Man’yō style that these young delinquents frolicking in the poetic world—the pleasure-seeking faction—had been able to discover the correct method of expression.
As this trend toward increasingly anemic poetic styles gained momentum, what course would they chart?

What currently gives me pause in contemplation is the trend of academicism gaining favor among poets.
At first glance this appears rather commendable, but in truth it constitutes a troubling predicament.
The inexhaustible wellspring of literature lies in the classics.
Therefore, for a literary scholar, approaching the classics through any method cannot be deemed improper conduct.
However, should this become dominated by nothing more than displays of fragmentary erudition and essayistic pronouncements of lofty sentiment, it poses a grave issue.
Were these merely the diversions of idle dilettantes, it would matter little.
But when those engaged with literature persist thusly, their creative output will ossify.
To confess, even one such as myself has presumptuously numbered among its instigators.
Having long been shackled by academic constraints upon my compositions and believing I had somewhat found an escape route—just as I breathed a sigh of relief—I beheld this attitude among younger practitioners.
Yet my responsibility in this regard remains vanishingly slight.
The burden that Mokichi—whose eminence magnified his influence—must shoulder is truly weighty indeed.
The impact of puerile prattle and idle discourse may seem beneficial yet proves profoundly deleterious.
But this stems from the deficiencies of imitators; it cannot in truth be laid at Mokichi’s door.

I was chilled by a certain fixed mindset—or to rephrase, a master-like attitude—that circulated among these sharp young talents. It is only natural that the tanka criticism attempted by these people does not rise above deconstructive criticism or displays of unsystematic enlightening knowledge. Amidst all this, I had recently been able to hear criticism conducted with a considerably earnest and proper attitude, feeling a joy I had not experienced in some time. Rather, they should attempt art criticism in its simple sense. The problem lies in their dissecting that impression with half-formed understanding and cloaking it in scholarly pretensions. I wanted to say to these people: Why do you not strive to discover your own direction of individuality after tracing your predecessors’ styles for a time, and freely unleash the vivid sensations bestowed by youth? However, this may be impossible. Tanka’s natural lifespan is brief; Nirvana awaits close at hand. I also wished that these people would allow me to hear their impressions—even impressionistic criticism being acceptable—without dissecting them, just as they are. In any case, there are far too many hedonists. As long as Japan—this nation of short poetry with its unique condition of so-called “literature without readers”—cannot escape this state, even the breath of those pure, solemn, and clear-minded people tends to be clouded by drowsy exhalations.

The Fate of Tanka

There is nothing born into this world that does not receive benedictions while simultaneously bearing curses.
Tanka originated around the end of the Asuka period.
Its completion is thought to have occurred during the time of the Fujiwara capital.
Fundamentally, Japanese song-poetry did not originate from the hands of hedonists.
The three systems of divine utterances—incantations, fragmentary songs, and epic poetry—had been orally transmitted by specialists since pre-national times.
These each differentiated into celebratory verses, the call-and-response of song gatherings, and new epic poetry.
As call-and-response songs gradually incorporated influences from new epic poetry of mendicants, stereotypical ideas came to be repeated even in the mouths of amateurs.
And thus they gave birth to folk songs and gradually refined them into lyric poetry.
Moreover, as the conceptual method of ancient Japanese composition—which involved listing closely observed things and connecting them with words to form a central idea—existed in such a manner, external phenomena and internal consciousness were in constant interaction.
As a result, preface poems were created and pillow words established.
In cases where interactions were particularly close-knit, they sometimes evolved into symbolic rhetorical devices.
On one hand, external object allegory differentiated descriptive poetry; through these relationships tanka flourished through a fusion of descriptive and lyrical elements.
The Man'yōshū was naturally foundational; thereafter tanka grew increasingly prosperous until even its ideal form came to be conceived.
(As I have written about the emergence of descriptive poetry in Japan in the July special issue of the magazine Taiyō, I will limit myself here to outlining its contours—see Volume 1 of my complete works.)

However, on the other hand, in ancient times the call-and-response of song gatherings—which had taken kataka and sedōka as their standard forms—underwent a complete transformation to revere tanka, thereby solidifying its stylistic conventions.
From its very inception, it could not escape the essential character of sexual desire and romantic love.
Even when entering the Nara period, as such exchanges retaining this essential character remained predominant, tanka poems rich in romantic sentiment came to be employed even in correspondence between siblings and relatives.
As a continuation of this development, at the dawn of the Heian period it became established as a fundamental form of regulated literature; though gradually distancing itself from folk songs, it nevertheless retained its romantic sentiment.
Such prolonged historical conditioning fated tanka to exist as lyric poetry.
Therefore, even works not consciously created as lyric poetry cannot shed their lyrical essence.
This example also elucidates the fusion of descriptive and lyrical elements.
Araragi’s shasei theory—which evolved to capture spiritual essence—largely stems from tanka’s intrinsic nature of subjective lingering.

Tanka and Modern Poetry

Tanka had already attained classical status even when examined through the Man'yōshū or in the works of Ōtomo no Tabito and Yamanoue no Okura during Nara’s golden age.
When we come to the works of Yakamochi, the son of Ōtomo no Tabito, the aura of classical revival becomes markedly more pronounced.
From this perspective too, we can understand why lyrical elements became an essential condition in tanka.
As a classical form, tanka had to inherently contain romantic sentiment as an essential requirement.

Tanka, possessing such an essence, was equipped with extremely inconvenient conditions when considered as epic poetry. Attempting to develop tanka—which must inherently return to lyricism—into epic poetry, I created work after unsightly work. Through this process, I ultimately came to comprehend tanka’s inescapable fate. With my own resignation, I do not impose this upon others. Ishikawa Takuboku’s reforms—which likewise advanced toward narrative expression—all met with failure. What distinguishes Takuboku lies precisely in his focused attention on “the ordinary” advocated by naturalism. He captured those subtle stirrings of the heart that are so often overlooked as mundane and carved out new territory within lyric poetry itself. Yet when pushed to their limits, these innovations proved indistinguishable from what both Manyō and Heian poets had already achieved. Only through incorporating elements of modern living does one glimpse faint traces of novelty. And thus, the works as a whole lose unified coherence. Even this prodigious talent could not transcend tanka’s essential nature.

Being classical in nature, tanka struggles to assimilate into new-era life without modification; bound by its fatefully persistent lyrical essence, it cannot transform into epic poetry. Given this, tanka's lifespan becomes clearly circumscribed.

The progression toward drama was likely modern poetry's true path.
Epic poetry ought to become the mainstream of future verse.
Could tanka—whose very shortcomings manifested as strengths at this juncture—truly sustain life in its genuine sense?
Another defect of tanka as lyric poetry lay in its inability to incorporate theory.
Mitsui Kōno had long attempted this endeavor, yet even now at this critical point, he had not succeeded.
No form of poetry welcomed conceptualization, but tanka was pathologically averse to it.
Not only did conceptual exposition disrupt it, but even when incorporating concepts, the poem's delicate coherence tended to fracture.
Modern life too could only be fully assimilated after being steeped in tanka's essence; how much more vitality could a poetic form that absolutely must shun theory possibly sustain?

Colloquial Songs and Free-Form Verses

I have never viewed the prolonged efforts of poets like Aoyama Kasumura, Narumi Uruharu, and others without sympathy and gratitude. Yet to such a degree that this stems merely from contemporaries' goodwill, these endeavors appear unworthy of recompense from the god of poetry. To those who have perused my previous critiques, I trust it has become evident that attempts at colloquial songs will likely never progress beyond being mere attempts. Colloquial songs—which run counter to tanka's essence while sharing only its superficial thirty-one-syllable form—strike those of us with discerning eyes as pathetically transparent in their desperate efforts to intrude upon this poetic mode so fraught with vehement preferences.

Another logic arising from tanka's classical nature would leave colloquial songs devoid of any logical foundation.
This stems from how colloquial language's rhythmic feet and their integrative principles no longer harmonize with tanka's fundamental 5-7 syllable pattern.
For what purpose did art song forms like dodoitsu emerge?
Even tanka—rigidly preserved as a literary form—would have taken on the same monostrophic form as Ryūka from its lineage, had it truly followed colloquial language's evolving rhythms as folk songs.

My friend Mr. Iha Fuyū taught me that traces of development from tanka-style to Ryūka-style can be seen within *the Omoro Sōshi*. Even when examining the old form of dodoitsu—such as nagebushi from the early Edo period and kouta ballads found in *the* Muromachi-era *Kankinshu*—we can discern how shifts in colloquial rhythm drove song styles' evolution. Poetry rooted in language cannot ignore rhythm's essential constraints inherent to linguistic expression.

Colloquial songs are a stimulus.
However, they cannot eternally assert their value as a single style.
I believe the path forward for colloquial songs lies elsewhere entirely.
I believe that entrusting poetic composition to free rhythms and adopting the form of small songs is the true path.
Moreover, I consider it crucial to take the form of tanka as a basis while grasping its freely flowing rhythm.
The assertion that future small songs should follow tanka can be inferred from forms such as Ryūka and nagebushi.
Japanese song forms in ancient times employed even-phrased parallelism; during the Asuka and Fujiwara periods, this shifted to odd-phrased arrangements. Then, upon entering the Heian period, they gradually returned to even-phrased parallelism, which persisted into later eras.
I believe that the tanka form, when orally recited as folk songs, ultimately transformed into four-line poems with two-phrase parallelism.
Therefore, as an experiment, I tried creating four-line poems with a syllable count close to tanka, prioritizing freedom above all.
And in doing so, I believe I have found what appears to be the path forward for tanka.

Ishihara Jun was attempting even more boldly to give rise to tanka's next form through poems comprising four or five lines—sometimes extending to six—with wildly varying word counts per line.
In this regard, I remained both cautious and rooted in classical traditions.
What Jun and I had come to feel about our compositions was the joy of employing colloquial rhythm with true vitality.
Moreover through them came the capacity to express modern life and logic through a mood dominated by epic sensibility.
The thirty-one-syllable tanka had essentially attained Nirvana.
Before losing this ancestral companion that had walked with our lives through generations, we wanted to savor it completely.
What might endure would likely be old-school tanka—bereft of artistic vitality.
For us this constituted a wretchedly lonely debate—yet what recourse remained?
There was no alternative.