This small book contains my speech "Japanese does not have capital letters", which took place on February 18, 2020, at the Hellenic American Union as part of the “With Words (It Happens)” series by Panagiotis Ioannidis, after his persistent encouragement to talk about Japanese poetry and to bring forth from my drawers and chests my scattered translations of Japanese poems, mainly haiku, which I have created over the past decades for my own practice and delight, not to publish or to share with others.

It therefore does not claim nor aspire to be an academic or, if you wish, scientific presentation of Japanese poetry in general, or of haiku in particular, but is only a series of thoughts, ideas, sensations, episodes and descriptions of my own relationship with this world, which if it seeks your attention will do so softly, without fanfare or cymbals, a world that flows beside and within you like a parade of subtle sounds, word-images, exclamations, breaths – without drama, in the sunlit shade. The creation of a new human experience, a new home-shelter, and a tacit awe.

the covers, now over, now under, cold laughter (Izen)

Is poetry translatable? No. Is Japanese poetry translatable? No, twice. Are sounds translatable into other sounds, sounds that have form, shape and meaning? From the drawers and chests to public reading, and from there to these pages, what is not translatable beckons to us. The four seasons imperceptibly nod their heads, the skies are empty, the sun illuminates the surface of the bindweed with ephemeral blossoms. And by itself this becomes an invitation to a humble, unheralded encounter, which may result in a long-lasting relationship of love, insight and consolation.

flowering spring, who is that, under the straw mat

—

after the rain, the chrysanthemums, faintly lift their heads

—

conversation, and irises, one more episode from the journey

(Basho)

COVER IMAGE: Work by the poet Ryota (1707-1787). Back of an old monk together with a haiku: New straw raincoat, first rains coming, youth.