倦んじて薫ずる香裏に君の

A spirit, or the trail of longing's smoke Oh I, ah I, in this bitter world Sweetly gained, that fervent kiss

"This is rather beyond my comprehension," said the master with a sigh, passing it to Meitei. "This is a bit too vigorous," said Meitei, passing it to Kogetsu. Kogetsu said, "I see," and returned it to Tōfū.

"It is only natural that you do not understand, sir, for the poetic world of ten years ago and that of today have developed beyond recognition. Poetry of late cannot possibly be understood if read lounging about or at a train station; even the authors themselves are often at a loss to reply when questioned. It is written purely by inspiration, and the poet bears no other responsibility whatsoever. Annotation and exegesis are the work of scholars, and we pay them no mind at all. The other day a friend of mine named Sōseki wrote a short piece called 'One Night,' but it was so vague and incoherent that no one could make head or tail of it, so I met the man himself and pressed him closely on his true intent—yet he would not engage, saying he knew nothing of the sort. I do think that is the very hallmark of a poet." "He may be a poet, but he is a rather strange fellow," said the master, whereupon Meitei succinctly cut short Mr. Sōseki with, "The fool."

Mr. Tōfū felt this alone was not enough of an explanation. "Sōseki is an outlier even among our circle, but I should like you to read my poem with that spirit in mind. In particular, I ask your attention to the pairing of 'bitter world' and 'sweet kiss'—that is where my pains lay." "One can plainly see the traces of your great pains." "The contrast of sweet and bitter, like a seventeen-spice or chili seasoning, is delightful. It is truly Tōfū's unique craft; I am in awe and admiration," Meitei said, teasing the honest man and rejoicing.

The master, thinking something, suddenly rose and went to his study, then soon returned with a sheet of half-sized paper. "Having seen Tōfū's work, now I shall read a short piece and ask for your criticisms," he said, rather in earnest. "If it is the epitaph for Natural Hermit, I have already heard it two or three times." "Now, do be quiet. Tōfū, this is by no means a proud work of mine, merely a diversion, so please listen." "I should be delighted to." "Kogetsu, you too listen by all means." "I would listen even if not by all means. It is not long, is it?" "A mere sixty-odd characters," said Mr. Kusamiri, and at last began to read his homemade masterpiece.

"Crying 'Yamato spirit!' the Japanese coughed like one with consumption." "A abruptly towering opening," praised Kogetsu.

"'Yamato spirit!' says the newspaper man. 'Yamato spirit!' says the pickpocket. The Yamato spirit leapt across the seas. In Britain it lectures on the Yamato spirit. In Germany it stages a play of the Yamato spirit." "Indeed, this surpasses even Natural Hermit," this time Meitei leaned back to show his approval.

"Admiral Tōgō possesses the Yamato spirit. Silver the fishmonger possesses the Yamato spirit. The swindler, the speculator, the murderer—all possess the Yamato spirit." "Sir, please add that Kogetsu possesses it too."

"Asked what the Yamato spirit is, he answered 'The Yamato spirit' and passed by. Some five or six yards on, a 'ahem' was heard." "That line is excellent. You have quite a literary gift. And the next line?"

"Is the triangle the Yamato spirit, or the square? The Yamato spirit is, as its name shows, a spirit. Being a spirit, it is ever drifting." "Sir, this is quite amusing, but is there not rather too much Yamato spirit?" cautioned Tōfū. "Agreed," said Meitei, of course.

"None but speaks of it, yet none has seen it. All have heard of it, yet none has met it. The Yamato spirit—is it then of the tengu kind?"

The master finished reading, intending a conclusive close, but the masterpiece was too short, and its intent unclear, so the three waited, thinking there was more. No matter how long they waited, no sound came, and at last Kogetsu asked, "Is that all?" to which the master lightly answered, "Mm." The mm was a bit too casual.

Strangely, Meitei did not, as usual, spout much nonsense at this masterpiece, but soon turned and said, "Why not collect your short pieces into a volume and dedicate it to someone?" The master asked carelessly, "Shall I dedicate it to you?" Meitei only answered, "Not on your life," and click-clack went the scissors he had shown off to his wife earlier, trimming his nails. Kogetsu turned to Tōfū: "Do you know that Miss Kaneda?" "Since inviting me to a recital this spring we have grown close and I see her constantly. Before that young lady I am struck by a peculiar emotion, and for a while poetry or song would come forth with joyful ease. That this collection holds many love poems is surely because I receive inspiration from such a friend of the opposite sex. Thus I must express my sincere gratitude to her, and have used this occasion to dedicate my collection. They say no one has written fine poetry without a close female friend." "Is that so," Kogetsu answered, smiling deep in his face.

Even a gathering of chatterers cannot long continue, and the fire of talk died down considerably. Having no duty to listen all day to their unchanging small talk, I took my leave to seek a mantis in the garden. Through the interlaced green of the paulownia, the westward-leaning sun leaked in patches, and on the trunk a cicada cried desperately. Tonight, perhaps, a shower may fall.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”