Take a look at a selection of my recent projects-
Presented here is a translation project created during my time at Oberlin College. It is a selection of Japanese to English translations of poems from Machi Tawara’s 1987 collection of Tanka, Our Salad Anniversary (サラダ記念日）
Our Salad Anniversary, Part 1
Sa
shi
su
se
so–
a shiver of droplets, making your umbrella shake as you fade within the falling rain.
I watch your back as you depart, cool as always.
I look at my profile a year later and wonder,
what,
who
am I looking at?
I recall
your hands,
your back,
your breath,
your white socks, left laying where you took them off.
I wish to know a festival in a place called Goa, but I find myself stuck in this damn old country!
Standing still in a subway exit, I am hit with the sudden realization–
there is no one coming to meet me.
Who,
what
am I waiting for?
That word “wait” becomes wholly intransitive.
Stacked up, 100 yen a basket, all of us-tomatoes look bored, lined up outside a shop.
Happy beans are scattered around like music notes in my kitchen.
I fold towels, fragrant with sunshine. Will there ever be a day where I become a mother?
I cannot make a metaphor on Chomei’s ceaselessly flowing river when I am but a stone that has sunk to the riverbed.
I lick a sugar cube. As spring ends, I take the shirt off of my 22 year old self and throw it away.
There is a joy in the scramble over a bounding rugby ball.
Giving up on your love, I put on summer’s new linen skirt, and I get an iced coffee.
In this dream, the stone stairs don't match the length of my stride. I continue climbing.
Our Salad Anniversary, Part 2
What a mystical creature am I–
even without love, I donate blood.
Taking out my contact lenses, I blink,
and I become just Machi, sitting alone.
I throw my bruised heart to tomorrow,
where there shall be clear skies.
In the morning I correct my ticking watch
and I am filled with some sort of nostalgia.
I bathe myself in the time before we meet
as I take the local train to Shinjuku.
This tale is just beginning–
I look at my ticket, which says the train won’t stop.
As I wait to see your figure at the ticket gate,
I imagine stacking blocks of time like bricks.
You, rushing from your workplace with a piece of golden thread
on your shoulder– a symbol of masculinity.
We go to a night game, and the wind blows past
your stoic profile, lit the color of grapefruit.
Until we are together tomorrow, I shall leave my aching heart
on the platform as I board the last train.
I look over the postcard you sent me from a business trip,
reading the picture like an alibi.
As you pull out a handkerchief, a butterfly appears,
perching on the plaid of your cotton shirt.
“Isn't this flavor good?”–
Because you said this, July 6th is our Salad Anniversary.
The bread turns into toast, and suddenly
the air in my room becomes boundless summer.
Ironing your dress shirt, I unfurl your hung-up soul,
pure white and translucent in the sun.
Twilight Alley
Sunset.
Croquettes, as if from the heat of the sun's glow
fry behind the butcher's shop.
Hakusai, napa cabbages, tied together in a red obi
mumble: ufun-ufun, in the
Evening.
Sea bream, packed tightly, shine
like a girl's fingernails, reflecting flashes in the
Night.
Midnight.
Canned green peas whisper…
“Open up! Open up!”
Cabbages laugh together, upon a pile
of 500 yen banknotes.
Tasogare Yokocho–
Twilight.
This melancholic street.
Always American
Spring is full of things I want to forget.
So, I spend all day listening to Southern All Stars.
“Let's go to Spain!” you say as we race over a windy mountain road.
I smile. Yes, let's go.
I jab my pork with tonkatsu sauce, the bottle hanging
from the line of fate deep in my right hand.
The girl who likes fortune telling won’t leave
until she pulls a “happy” card.
On a Sunday– we stand at a crowded road-side watching marathon runners.
Soon, we are the only two left.
Our order is always two Americanos…
it’s probably mutually assured destruction, isn't it?
You poke fun at our love in your Hiroshima dialect, either that,
or you’re making fun of me.
There are enough “goodbyes” between us–
we spend the evening on a list of questions.
Where are those memories of being loved?
It has become clear that I am always alone, forever alone.
