＊　　＊　　＊

Basho in Love

who could give a name
to cherry blossom color
or her sudden blush?

*

empty cup
and I’ve done nothing
but think of you

*

third date, fishing—
dragonflies coupling
on tip of the rod

*

the black spaces
between the stars
whisper your name

*

drift of wild cosmos
butterfly and honeybee
exchanging flowers           

Photo Credit: Karen Lee Tawarayama

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Back in the last millennium John Savoie first came to Japan as a Mombusho English Fellow and went on to teach another five years at Kyoai Gakuen in Maebashi, Gumma. He currently teaches great books, Homer to Basho, at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. His first poetry collection, Sehnsucht, has recently won the Prize Americana.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here. For this year’s original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

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While the Lacquer Dries

Autumn arrived a day before the city
As it tends to this side of the mountains
The Andon replaced the glow of the sunset
And so, banquet over,
Came the time to address the stack of used bowls.
He passed me a small bowl, frail and cracked
‘Be careful drying that, that’s Meiji lacquer’
So often did our conversations begin this way.

‘Can you still find lacquer like that?’
‘Truckloads, in those two big flea markets in the city’
He was, of course, referring to the vendors.
Those that picked gold stacked against the skeletons
Of shuttered houses up in the hills
With only the moonlight to turn a blind eye
Returning down unkept mountain roads buckling with loot
A disorganised underbelly of haggling and crumpled newspaper
Items exposed as if unsightly weeds
In the most sacred of grounds
As if the gods wouldn’t notice.
I knew them well.

And because I did, one final question:
‘How can I know when I am holding a counterfeit?’
His response disrupted the rhythm of my drying.
‘It’s all real. Why replicate what they believe to be worthless?’
Said not bitterly, but in disbelief.
And in sensing mine, he added,
With the sadness of a millennium,
‘You’re only witnessing the collapse of an entire art industry.’
Those final words now bled out,
We dried the last of the lacquer, to avoid it cracking further.
Sliding the front door behind him
To keep the chill and the truth out, or maybe in
He looked solemn as we bade farewell.
I passed underneath the light of the gate, alive with moths
The fields already crossed into red Spider Lillies
The wind pushing the silence around on the edge of the Kyoto night.

＊　　＊　　＊
Adam Clague was born and raised on the Isle of Man, moving to Japan at 18 to complete his bachelor’s degree in the School of Human Sciences at Osaka University. He was also a Nissan scholar in Japanese Studies at Oxford University. With a keen interest in Japanese craft revitalisation, his winning piece contains excerpts from a conversation with his long-time mentor, Alex Kerr, about the state of the lacquer industry in contemporary Japan.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here. For this year’s original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

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On Repeat

You carve a figure eight along the Kamo’s banks: careless; carefree.

From Shichijo bridge, my body braced against the railing, I envy your fluidity as you map infinity.

On short blades, you cast long shadows as you roller ski the river’s path. You are a silhouette, a solitude, a surprise.

I am solo, too, though far less lively, my crutch at rest as one knee wages war and my hand and shoulder beg surrender.

In a space beside some steps, you turn and loop, a twist tucked in the middle. You trace your tracks with speed, though don’t seem in a rush.

Teasing concrete walls, flirting with the stairs, you swirl and twirl. Flinging poles kiss solid ground as thick thighs form an askew V, pushing, pulsing, playful.

I share your reverie.

Walkers glance. Joggers scatter. Artists frown, while lovers laugh and stroll. The Kamo stays its course. It will not define you, nor can it confine you, as you challenge all convention in a state of grace.

Black leggings and a yellow helmet flash and slash while willows weep for want of green and ginkgo comfort, golden.

Stick in hand, I hurry on my way. Across a river that divides, along a bridge that connects, I struggle to advance as you chart destiny.

I don’t glance back; time presses on me now. I need to think that you’re still there, your patterns on repeat.

＊　　＊　　＊
Abigail Deveney, a journalist born in Canada, has lived and worked globally, including two stints in Tokyo. Abigail co-founded The Lupine Review literary magazine in Whistler, Canada, was shortlisted by Event magazine in her first competitive creative-writing foray and held a senior role at The Guardian newspaper for nearly a decade. Abigail lives in London, UK, and earned her MA Japanese Studies from SOAS.

Moments in time play on her mind: alpenglow on Whistler peaks; strawberries and wasps in English summer; the dance of shadow and light in Kyoto. Endlessly curious, Abigail won’t let bad knees hold her back.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here. For this year’s original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

＊　　＊　　＊

Limbo

She wakes up in the morning amongst mountains dotted with clouds and dozes off on the train amongst words she doesn’t know.

She runs in her heels and stops for a prayer; in her office attire, she doesn’t mind lingering on the bridge.

Her old back relentlessly bent on the veggies, the radio plays songs of her youth. Behind dusty packs of cigarettes and dirty glasses, she stares at the traffic of the evening.

She hangs out with friends and robot-dogs at the temple garden, but at dusk you might see her walking down the street with a rabbit on her shoulder.

In the evening, she puts on her makeup of signs and lanterns, her whites and reds so much more alive in the rain.

She lives in silent houses and plays music by the river.

She dines on art, sitting amongst bicycles and motorbikes.

She enjoys elegant cafes, but tired bakeries, like wrinkles, can tell all of her struggles.

She boasts about flowers, colours and dances, but keeps behind the mushikomado* the ancient rituals that spell her name. Shadows shelter their private routines.

You’d say one could see right through her, across her straight alleys from mountain to mountain, and yet she plays hide and seek, opening the doors of her houses and concealing herself in their twilight.

She smiles, inviting me in. Somehow, she leaves me lurking at her gardens beyond a noren*, slightly moved aside by the breeze.

Kyoto embraces me and has me at her threshold, staring and wondering. And it is not so bad, after all, raving in this limbo, red torii in my eyes and a sakuramochi* in my hand.

Photograph by Licia Braga

＊　　＊　　＊
Licia Braga is an Italian who studied Japanese language and culture in Venice. After much traveling and living abroad (and ending up forgetting much of what she learnt of her Japanese language studies), she finally managed to move to Japan last year, straight to the core of its fascinating ancient capital. She loves reading, painting, dancing and hiking, and she has just recently started trying her hand at writing to give shape to the colors and impressions gathered from her new daily life, which she enjoys very much.

*Japanese terms:

mushikomado: a unique window style found in Japanese townhouses. These windows have a fine lattice like an insect cage, and are believed to have gained popularity during the Edo period

noren: traditional cloth partitions hung in the doorways of businesses or as general interior decorations, with one or more vertical cuts from the bottom to facilitate passage.

sakuramochi: a traditional Japanese sweet enjoyed during the spring season, consisting of a sweet, pink rice cake filled with red bean paste which is wrapped in a pickled cherry leaf.

＊　　＊　　＊

map

I lose my way in Kyoto for the first time that spring. Sensei swings his cheap umbrella like a dance cane and tells us it’s all part of the adventure. Finally reaching Fushimi-Inari, the rain is gentle; it slips through the spaces in between endless torii.

At the shrine, I pore over the wishes people have written on wooden boards, scanning for the few words that I can read. My wish? There’s someone who won’t ever love me back. Strangely enough, I no longer care.

400 days. It is summer. My brother wants us to move without agenda. We venture into the dark womb of Zuigudo Temple, find an old carpet, miraculously identical to one from our childhood home, within a dusty curry shop, watch a master archer pull back the bowstring and strike his target–again. Again. One more time, again.

My brother leaves all the words to me. We roam around like strays. He loses his wallet. We talk it over outside a palace with nightingale floors. Things work out in the end.

1100 days. Winter. My words to my parents feel unfamiliar, my native tongue unwieldy. The cold creeps into our bones. We gather around that gold pavilion as if we might find warmth. My mother’s eyes remain fixed resolutely upon everything remotely like it, everything that shines. My father? Every time he coughs, I try not to flinch. He is pleased with any mention of the old gods.

In the night, when they slept, I slipped outside. I tried to get lost somewhere in Kyoto. Somewhere I’d never been. There must be somewhere like this. Somewhere yet unknown to me. Somewhere to swallow them up, my words and prayers and screams, swallow them whole.

Image provided by Hayley Noel Wallace

＊　　＊　　＊

Hayley Noel Wallace is the published author of over a dozen short stories. Her fiction has been featured in Deep Magic, Liquid Imagination, and many other anthologies. One of her short works of horror, ‘White Cat,’ has also been adapted for the No Sleep Podcast. You can find her collected works at www.noelwallace.com.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here. For this year’s original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

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What Remains to be Seen

You didn’t want to be called a tour guide. You were a local ― a native of this thousand-year capital who pulled the attention of tourists like me until you could draw to yourself our liking. 

You spoke with ease and grace―your words were history and pride and honour, because what else could you say but the things we wanted to hear? So, when someone looked disinterested in those temples and shrines, you couldn’t afford to show a revolting presence because you were simply a nice person.

You limned your city’s image to be as inviting, even if it meant you had to witness how we looked with pleasure at the very things that made up the banality and boredom of your day-to-day life. 

As you pointed to the rays of sunlight passing through the towering bamboo trees in Arashiyama, I couldn’t imagine the days when you walked down the busy streets of your flourishing city, but no one ever saw you in light.

You said thousands of tourists made offerings and prayers to pay respect to the gods at a shrine situated beyond the wooded forest of Fushimi. But how awful it should be for natives like you to go unnoticed by the same crowd of people who make you feel alone each day. 

 Why are you homeless? I asked. 

You lifted your glass of beer―an attempt to bottle up your thoughts on a rare night off between a visitor and a native―and yelled kampai!

After the spree, I got lost in the middle of Kyoto Station. I called you and asked how to find my way back home.

We’re all homeless in ways we didn’t know, after all! You laughed. 

I wondered if that drunken joy was your only way to rise from your everyday ruins.

Images provided by Dave Tampus Pregoner

＊　　＊　　＊

Dave Tampus Pregoner is a Filipino Assistant Language Teacher based in Akita City, Japan. He writes poetry, children’s stories, and some random thoughts about food and travel. When bored, he practices speaking in Japanese around his lovely plants.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here. For this year’s original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

The results of the Ninth Annual Kyoto Writing Competition are as follows, with brief comments from the judges. The full text of each top prizewinner will be posted on this website in due course. In the meantime, let’s join together in congratulating the winners. We are deeply thankful for everyone’s participation this year.

The original competition announcement and explanation of prizes can be found here.

<Kyoto City Mayoral Prize>

“What Remains to be Seen” by Dave Tampus Pregoner

It is often said that class differences are largely kept invisible in Japan, and negative feelings suppressed, for the sake of overall harmony. These musings about a homeless Kyotoite who happens to help a wayward tourist are effective in lifting the curtain on this social phenomenon. Kyoto’s homeless residents — like those everywhere — are often invisible, and this piece underscores their humanity. The line, “We’re all homeless in ways we didn’t know, after all” is particularly striking, reminding us that no one can escape the whims of fate which determine those who progress in life, and those who do not.

<Yamabuki Prize>

“map” by Hayley Noel Wallace

This piece deftly and succinctly describes a location as well as a period of extended time and suggests how perception evolves as one becomes more familiar with a particular place and oneself. Here the theme is wanderings in the ancient capital of Kyoto and the surprising things one can discover (including many ways to be lost). A desire to lose one’s way in a foreign culture provides a novelty repose from issues which plague the heart.

<Unohana Prize>

“Limbo” by Licia Braga

The vivid and beautiful imagery of this piece was striking, and its ambiguity left the judges wondering whether the elderly woman described is actually Kyoto personified in its feminine aspects.

<Writers in Kyoto Member Prize>

“On Repeat” by Abigail Deveney

Ruminations on scenes along the Kamo River. A skater flies with the wind, finding freedom along this picturesque artery flowing through the city. The river’s banks attract all sorts of people, and in this piece one with physical challenges wistfully envies the fluid motions of the other.  And yet, thoughts transcend envy and energy is absorbed. Age finds hopefulness in youth.

<Japan Local Prize>

“While the Lacquer Dries” by Adam Clague

A discourse on the likely passing of a traditional art. So much of what makes Kyoto special is fading away, with every machiya demolished and every craftsman who retires without passing on his skills. This piece highlights that sad fact by describing the ubiquitous lacquerware for sale at the city’s flea markets, all of it genuine, because “Why replicate what they believe to be worthless?” Yet, these remnants continue to inspire deities and mortals alike.

<USA Prize>

“Basho in Love” by John Savoie

A series of seasonal haiku verses which conveys an entire narrative within its delicate descriptions and easily evokes images of Kyoto’s enveloping nature and pastimes while recalling the 17^th century master of this poetic form.

Honorable Mentions

“Fait Accompli” by Daniel Eve

“Throw Me Back” by Matthew James McKee

“Tea House” by Erin Jamieson

“The City of Flowers” by Amanda Huggins

＊　＊　＊

Thank you very much to the judges for their time, insights, sharing of feedback, and cooperation in the selection process.

For the official announcement and submission details of our next Kyoto Writing Competition (#10), please be sure to check our website in the middle of November 2024. If you have not yet shared your work with us, we encourage you to do so in the future. In the meantime, please return to our website in the coming days to read each top prizewinning piece from this year’s competition.

— Karen Lee Tawarayama, WiK Competition Organizer

SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS

● Limited to one submission per person
● You do not need to be located in Kyoto to participate. We accept submissions
from anywhere in the world.
● Must be submitted by Microsoft Word attachment file. Submissions by PDF
attachment and submissions within the body of the email will not be accepted.
● At the top of the Microsoft Word attachment (not in the body of the email),
please include the following personal information: Full Name, E-mail Contact,
Nationality, Current Residence (Town, Country).
● Do not provide any special formatting to your piece. We request your personal
information at the top with the plain text directly below. Submissions in [Times New Roman, 12pt] are preferred.
● Please send your Microsoft Word attachment file to:  kyotowritingcompetition2024@gmail.com
● Submissions which do not have the author’s personal address at the top of the attachment file, are not submitted in MS Word format, or are submitted with special formatting will not be considered for judging.
● Submission in multiple competition years is welcome. However, eligibility for each prize is on a one-time basis only.

TOP PRIZES

Kyoto City Mayoral Prize
¥50,000 cash prize, The Nature of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 5), One-year complimentary WiK membership (April 2024-March 2025), a complimentary space in an upcoming Book Proposal Masterclass (valued at £679, or more than 120,000 JPY) by Beth Kempton (WiK Member and Author of books including Wabi Sabi: Japanese Wisdom for a Perfectly Imperfect Life and The Way of the Fearless Writer), publication on the WiK website, and inclusion in a future WiK Anthology

Yamabuki* Prize (awarded to the national of a country in which English is an official language)
The Nature of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 5), publication on the WiK website, and inclusion in a future WiK Anthology

Unohana* Prize (awarded to the national of a country in which English is not an official language)
The Nature of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 5), publication on the WiK website, and inclusion in a future WiK Anthology

* Yamabuki (Japanese yellow rose) and Unohana (Deutzia) are flowers appearing in haiku.

OTHER PRIZES

Writers in Kyoto Member Prize
A book of the winner’s choice authored by another WiK member and publication on the WiK website

Japan Local Prize
A selected ceramic piece from the Robert Yellin Yakimono Gallery and publication on the WiK website

USA Prize
Uncrating the Japanese House (Junzo Yoshimura, Antonin and Noemi Raymond, and George Nakashima), a one-year complimentary membership to the Japan-America Society of Greater Philadelphia, and publication on the WiK website

PUBLISHING RIGHTS/COPYRIGHT

Writers in Kyoto reserve the right to publish entries on the group’s website. The top three winners will be eligible for publication in a future WiK Anthology. All authors retain the copyright of their own work.

SUPPORTERS

In addition to the aforementioned entities, the Writers in Kyoto Ninth Annual Writing Competition is supported by the Kyoto City Cultural Office, Kyoto City International Foundation (kokoka), and Kyoto Journal.

The WiK Competition logo was designed by Rebecca Otowa, author and illustrator of 100 Objects in My Japanese House (2023), At Home in Japan (Tuttle 2010), My Awesome Japan Adventure (2013), and The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper (2019).

PREVIOUS WINNERS

Winning entries from four previous competition years can be found here (2023), here (2022), here (2021), and here (2020).

STAY CONNECTED WITH WRITERS IN KYOTO

Please save our website link to your Favorites and follow us on Facebook, Twitter (@KyotoWriters), and Instagram (writersinkyoto). There is also a private Facebook group for paid-up members.

WiK ANTHOLOGIES

Writers in Kyoto anthologies available in Amazon marketplaces in paperback and Kindle editions:

Echoes: WiK Anthology 2 (2017)
ed. John Dougill, Amy Chavez, and Mark Richardson

Encounters with Kyoto: WiK Anthology 3 (2019)
ed. Jann Williams and Ian Josh Yates

Structures of Kyoto: WiK Anthology 4 (2021)
ed. Rebecca Otowa and Karen Lee Tawarayama

The Nature of Kyoto: WiK Anthology 5 (2023)
ed. Lisa Twaronite Sone and Robert Weis

＊　　＊　　＊

Butterfly

As my designs were birthed in Aobana dye, patterns spread across seams, Yuzen paint permeated every corner, so she also was born, birthed in flesh, fragile limbs spread wide, loud cries permeated every corner. Never will I forget our first shrine visit on her Omiyamairi to Heian Jingu Shrine. Draped over her doll-like shoulders, my sleeves gently flapped in the soft breeze like butterfly wings. After the priest intoned prayers in his sonorous voice, she and I were carried home beneath the Shidare Zakura trees that waved gently in the wind.

Wrapped in crisp paper, I was placed in a dark drawer until I was sent to the seamstress a few years later, her nimble hands stitched in more length. Back to Heian Jingu Shrine we went, this time the butterfly large enough to wear her wings. The priest intoned his prayers and bestowed a few candies. We walked home beneath amber-hued Momiji maples, the bells in her small zori shoes jingling with every step.

I was wrapped, then placed in the same dark drawer until the ritual repeated a few years later. Then, it was a long wait before I was again sent to the seamstress, her nimble hands a little more wrinkled than before, my seam lengthened for a gangly girl who resembled yet differed from the child I knew. At Horin-ji Temple, she wrote something on paper and received brocaded packets from the priest.

Several years later, my next visit to the seamstress was my last. For the last time, I walked with my child, now a woman, to Heian Jingu Shrine, graceful as the winter peony in her hair. While she smiled, surrounded by friends, I saw she was cherished just as much as I was cherished as I watched over her these many years.

＊　　＊　　＊

Anne Roskowski was born and raised near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (USA). She currently works as a teacher while studying to be a Japanese to English translator and interpreter. Her dream is to one day move to Japan to explore the language and regional cultures through work and travel around the country. Anne developed a passion for the beauty and history of kimono last year when she began taking lessons in kimono dressing. She was inspired to write her piece after attending a kimono tailoring seminar, wherein she heard about a grandmother who had a kimono specially made for her granddaughter.

Anne has dedicated “Butterfly” to her kimono instructor, for passing unto her invaluable skills and a love for kimono. 

Anne Roskowski with Cherry Blossoms

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

Thank you to everyone who participated in the competition this year. Guidelines and prizes for the Ninth Annual Kyoto Writing Competition will be posted on the Writers in Kyoto website in November. We hope to receive your submission for the next round.

＊　　＊　　＊

Umbrella Store

Lady Kyoto sat backstage removing her makeup and inspecting her wrinkles in the
mirror. A woman my age, she thought, can’t be made to look twenty. She leaned back and propped a dainty foot upon the vanity, kicking aside a pile of creams and powders. Koto music played from a speaker; a plastic sakura branch hung still by the door. Exposing the edges of the oshiroi on her chest, she threw her head back and rued that she had ever been made to play the part of herself. She was unaware that her wilting is a perennial bloom.

Step down from the harassed boulevard into the calm of the ankle-deep water. The river’s flow is ageless. Lovers in pairs are spaced along the riverbank with mathematical precision. On the opposite shore, lonesome herons wear expressions of widower contemplation and perch at intervals derived from the same formula. A cyclist comes too near and startles one from its meditation, prompting it to launch into flight above the river and, like a languorous boomerang, circle back to resume its vigil. A breeze soon bears them off together toward mountaintops; the cars bear themselves off to office garages and cramped side-streets.

An old shop still stands on Kawaramachi; the owner’s wife is bent double sweeping the storefront. Spying a passing acquaintance, she nods and smiles warmly. In another time, they may have approached one another in the middle of the street and taken the time to remove their coats, fold them overarm, and exchange bows. The number of appointments being made between this and that side of the street poses new hazards now. At the very least, they nod and smile. The mossy illegibility of the signboard overhead testifies to having survived the conflagration. “Kasaya”, umbrella store.

Photo Credit: Carter Hale

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Carter Hale was born in the USA in 1994. He left his native country when he was 22 and worked various jobs in different countries, such as restaurant manager in Vietnam and Taekwondo instructor in South Korea. He is a self-taught classical guitarist and an aspiring writer. He has been based in Kyoto since 2022, where he is currently delivering groceries by bicycle and performing in a guitar+shinobue duet.

Carter receives his ceramic prize (Bizen tokkuri) from the Robert Yellin Yakimoto Gallery

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

Trying to Understand

I am trying to understand life
but I am failing

In Kyoto
I thought I would find answers

I wanted to see how I’ve made my mistakes
I wanted to learn how to avoid making more

But in trying to understand the past, the depth of it overwhelmed me

So I walked the gardens
and I learned that where the path is precarious, one should slow down

I learned that there are times along the way when one should stop a while to appreciate their surroundings

I partook of the tea ceremony
and I learned to take the bitter with the sweet

I stayed in a machiya
and I learned that allowing light into the center illuminates the whole

I am beginning to understand

Kirsty Kawano is an Australian who has lived in Japan for a couple of decades. She works as a translator, editor and non-fiction writer and joined Writers in Kyoto five years ago, after moving to the city from Tokyo. Although she swore off writing fiction about 15 years ago, being part of the group has nudged her toward it.
Read a longer self-introduction from Kirsty.

Also from Kirsty:

• An unexpected encounter in the cosmos of Kyoto
• What Japan’s 1,150-year-old Gion Festival can teach us about sustainability
• From Tokyo to Kyoto Part 1, Part 2

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

＊　　＊　　＊

A Foreign Visitor

It was the end of September. I wandered with my new friend who was visiting Japan from Ireland, inside the Higashi Honganji – simply because it was the nearest temple to the Kyoto station.

The late-summer light slanted my friend’s shadow across the stone pavement, as he purified his hands with a ladle of water. It was the moment before good-bye; we did not know when we would meet again. We went up the stairs into an open balcony, opposite the main temple, and sat down on a low wooden railing – four feet apart. I took a photo of my friend. An old man, possibly a janitor, shuffled by. “You’ll fall if you are not careful”, he warned. I smiled at him thinking it might mean “fall in love” and pressed the shutter button again, balancing my bottom on the railing. As the warm wind brushed my bare toes, I had a feeling of being watched.

I remember the calm in the air, the people sitting on the tatami praying in silence, my soles touching the wooden floor, my friend’s openness; a visitor in a foreign land. The clock ticked steadily towards the time of the last airport bus. As we reached the exit gate, a couple stopped us. With a lovely smile, the woman said she had taken our photo.

Five years later, the photo sits over our fireplace in Dublin, like a foreign visitor; round roof tiles like fish scales, horizontal balcony like a solemn procession, upright wooden pillars, calligraphy framed on the wall and me photographing my husband – both of us captured in that moment of uncertainty.

Photo Credit: Haruka Ota

＊　　＊　　＊

Mai Ishikawa is a Japanese theatre translator. She has lived in three different countries; US, Japan and now Ireland. The plays she has translated include “Necessary Targets” by Eve Ensler, “Cyprus Avenue” by David Ireland, “Dublin by Lamplight” by Michael West in collaboration with the Corn Exchange and “Once Upon a Bridge” by Sonya Kelly. She is currently writing her own play with the support of bursaries and the Arts Council. 

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

＊　　＊　　＊

Togetsukyo Bridge in the Rain

We met at a restaurant by the Katsura River, ordered hot yudofu served in donabe pots, and spoke in hushed tones, spilling breath. It was late afternoon. The air pulsed, soaked and running over with light flakes of snow, slipping in the feeble sun. This was rain in its entirety—trees, flowers, sifting air. I watched my mother spoon matcha into a porcelain tea bowl.

She stopped recognizing me months ago, and yet, I couldn’t let go.

I sat across from her, browsing through dishes of wagashi. Sometimes she called my name, her voice a taut thread, as though the word musume would snap it in half. But it held firm—an anchor.

Moments passed. A waiter brought oyakodon on bamboo trays. My mother nodded—you-me bowl, she used to call it, meaning mother and daughter, or yummy, but always pronouncing yumi, my name.

We lingered in the restaurant, watching the falling rain hit the river in gleams. I asked my mother to write something in Japanese, a language I had let wash away during my years abroad, a language that sounded like water hitting the belly of a barque.

I watched her pen as it stirred, a dark shape, and her fingers, shading the page. I watched the picture letters turn silver, carrying the weight of snowflakes whisked wayward, the window of pure falling—words made from meaning: yuki, she wrote. Snow. Happiness.

Months later my mother slept alone on a bed as white as snow or fresh-cooked rice. I sat beside her. Our hearts throbbed, our eyes closed. Words rose like loaves of bread, growing lighter with every passing breath—aging.

Seasons gathered back up into the calendar. I thought of the moon crossing bridge: the full moon of a gold egg yolk, intensely flooding us—

Mother and daughter as Oyakodon.

Photo Credit: Ryutaro Tsukata

＊　　＊　　＊
Isabelle Wei is a writer and literary editor. She loves poetry, pastries, and painting, although not necessarily in that order. In her spare time, she enjoys writing and reading stories that reflect her love for the natural world.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

＊　　＊　　＊

The Knife Salesman

When Yumi wakes, the inn is mute beneath winter’s first snowfall and the light is heavy with the peculiar stillness it brings.
She thinks of the knife salesman from Kochi, always noticing his absence more keenly when the snow arrives, still steadfast in her belief he will return to Kyoto.

It was the year her parents died when he first stayed at the inn; she’d struggled to get everything running smoothly at first, but he was patient with her clumsy mistakes.
He reappeared for the Jidai Matsuri and asked her to accompany him, then for a piano recital and the spring blossom. Yumi began to hope he would propose marriage, yet the staff sounded puzzled whenever she talked excitedly about him. ‘Mr Omote? No, I don’t think I’ve actually met him.’ Each time he left, they found his allocated room untouched, but they remained discreet.
The final time he stayed, Yumi was woken early by the rattle of the front door. Snow swirled softly, and a lantern across the street illuminated a line of fresh footprints leading away from the inn towards Kawaramachi station. They came to an abrupt halt at the FamilyMart, as though their creator had disappeared into thin air.
Yumi went outside and stepped inside each footprint as far as the store. At the crossroads, an unmarked ribbon of white stretched in every direction.
She never heard from the knife salesman again.

Yet this morning, there are footprints leading to the inn door. They start in the centre of the street, as if their maker has fallen straight from the sky.
As Yumi stares at them from the window, the air stirs, then stills itself. Someone has crossed the room and stopped at her side. A finger strokes the nape of her neck.
‘You’re back,’ she whispers.

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Amanda Huggins is the author of the award-winning novellas All Our Squandered Beauty and Crossing the Lines and seven collections of short stories and poetry. She has won numerous prizes for her work, including the Colm Tóibín Short Story Award, the H E Bates Short Story Prize and the BGTW New Travel Writer of the Year. She has also been a runner-up in the Harper’s Bazaar Short Story Competition, the Costa Short Story Award and the Fish Short Story Prize and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and others. Her fiction has been broadcast several times on BBC Radio.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.

Mid-May has arrived, and with it the long-awaited results of this year’s Kyoto Writing Competition. Our judges received submissions from writers throughout the world, and we would like to offer our heartfelt appreciation to all who chose to participate. Above all, we were reminded of how so many feel a great connection to Kyoto, whether they are in Japan or overseas. The city’s essence touches us all.

While settling on the final prizewinners was a difficult task, the results of the Eighth Annual Kyoto Writing Competition are as follows, with judges’ comments. The full text of each will be posted on this website in due course. In the meantime, let’s extend our warm congratulations to those listed below. The original competition announcement and explanation of prizes can be found here.

Kyoto City Mayoral Prize

“The Knife Salesman“ by Amanda Huggins

In this atmospheric piece, the seemingly unseen is made palpable. Evocative prose and supernatural implications draw the reader in, perhaps causing the heart to beat faster. One also gets a hint of Kyoto’s eerie qualities in the snow. Kyoto is, after all, a city of ghost stories. With an air of mystery, “The Knife Salesman” seems to straddle time, as does the city itself. The judges were reminded of Tanizaki Junichiro’s work.

Yamabuki Prize

“Togetsukyo Bridge in the Rain” by Isabelle Wei

This is a masterly collection of artful vignettes concerning food and the relationship between an aging mother and her daughter, which also harmonizes life with nature. An iconic structure provides a loose backdrop for a warm, emotional glimpse at the closest of relationships. A central image is oyakodon (literally “parent and child”) — a rice bowl meal made with chicken and eggs. The shadows of aging and dementia are simultaneously woven as dark threads, contrasting the silver and golden threads of moon and eggs. The relationship is multi-layered and bittersweet, spanning years and the bridging of cultures, and finally coming full circle. 

Unohana Prize

“A Foreign Visitor” by Mai Ishikawa

Nascent love is the theme of this vignette. In the end we find out where this love took the writer, and the reader can appreciate how the memory is cherished years later in a home away from Japan. Each sense of place blends into the other, creating a whole. Kyoto is a city in which one catches a glimpse of many couples. “A Foreign Visitor” speaks to the romance of the city and its gentle whispers of love and serendipity. Well-envisioned and communicating lovely images, the mood is simple and flowing, with the couple’s budding affection embraced by Kyoto’s atmosphere.

Writers in Kyoto Member Prize

“Trying to Understand“ by Kirsty Kawano

As it is so often with writings set in Kyoto, “Trying to Understand” depicts a journey of inquiry and discovery. Many of us hope our experiences in the city will lead to a deeper and more profound understanding of life. This is something that everyone in a foreign place, looking for answers to life’s conundrums, has felt. This piece shows us how to listen to the subtle music of Kyoto which imparts a message of inspiration. Kyoto is particularly fertile ground, providing so many venues and moments for subtle reflection. Kyoto trains us to read between the lines and reveals metaphors for a more mindful life, a lesson effectively captured within.

Local Kyoto Prize

“Umbrella Store“ by Carter Hale

In this piece, the reader is moved through three distinct but complementary scenarios, all quintessentially Kyotoesque: the herons along the Kamo River, the Miyako Odori, and the deep-rooted pleasantries which oil the local social life. The performative aspect of the city is explored in a creative and slightly mystical way. In a sense, this is a series of three word-pictures, the last of which is an ancient umbrella shop. The description of the mossy old wooden sign will give a thrill of recognition to anyone who has glimpsed such signs around the city. They are disappearing, but some are still there to be discovered.

USA Prize

“Butterfly” by Anne Roskowski

Kimonos can’t speak — not beyond their symbols and designs — or can they? Upon reading this beautiful story, which carries the generous feeling of a ritual, the judges noted that the serenity of both Buddhist temples and silk kimono are parallel. An unusual viewpoint brings to life the story of a young girl’s relationship to her beloved garment, which honors her various rites of passage. Well-crafted images evoke detailed visions in the mind’s eye.

Honorable Mentions

“The Stones of Kyoto” by Jim Rion

“Evening Shift in Kiyamachi” by Ina Sanjana

“Site” by Jade du Preez

“no title – torii” by Richard Ferris

“Kansetsu Kiss (間接キス)” by Tina deBellegarde

Once again, congratulations to all! Gratitude is also due to the judges for their time, insights, sharing of feedback, and cooperation in the selection process.

For the official announcement and submission details of our next Kyoto Writing Competition (#9), please be sure to check our website in the middle of November 2023. If you have not yet shared your work with us, we encourage you to do so in the future. In the meantime, please return to our website to read each prizewinning piece from this year’s competition.

SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS

● Limited to one submission per person
● You do not need to be located in Kyoto to participate. We accept submissions
from anywhere in the world.
● Must be submitted by Microsoft Word attachment file. Submissions by PDF
attachment and submissions within the body of the email will not be accepted.
● At the top of the Microsoft Word attachment (not in the body of the email),
please include the following personal information: Full Name, E-mail Contact,
Nationality, Current Residence (Town, Country).
● Do not provide any special formatting to your piece. We request your personal
information at the top with the text directly below. Submissions in [Times New
Roman, 12pt] are preferred.
● Please send your Microsoft Word attachment file to:  kyotowritingcompetition2023@gmail.com

TOP PRIZES

Kyoto City Mayoral Prize
¥50,000 cash prize, Structures of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 4), Kyoto Craft (generously provided by the Kyoto Convention and Visitors Bureau), One-year complimentary WiK membership (April 2023-March 2024), a complimentary space in an upcoming Book Proposal Masterclass by Beth Kempton (WiK Member and Author of books including Wabi Sabi: Japanese Wisdom for a Perfectly Imperfect Life and The Way of the Fearless Writer), publication on the WiK website, and inclusion in a future WiK Anthology

Yamabuki* Prize (awarded to the national of a country in which English is an official language)
Kyoto Craft (generously provided by the Kyoto Convention and Visitors Bureau), Structures of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 4), publication on the WiK website, and inclusion in a future WiK Anthology

Unohana* Prize (awarded to the national of a country in which English is not an official language)
Kyoto Craft (generously provided by the Kyoto Convention and Visitors Bureau), Structures of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 4), publication on the WiK website, and inclusion in a future WiK Anthology

* Yamabuki (Japanese yellow rose) and Unohana (Deutzia) are flowers appearing in haiku.

OTHER PRIZES

Writers in Kyoto Member Prize
A book of the winner’s choice authored by another WiK member, publication and prize recognition on the WiK website

Japan Local Prize
A selected ceramic piece from the Robert Yellin Yakimono Gallery and publication on the WiK website

USA Prize
Phila-Nipponica: An Historic Guide to Philadelphia & Japan, a one-year complimentary membership to the Japan-America Society of Greater Philadelphia, and publication on the WiK website

PUBLISHING RIGHTS/COPYRIGHT

Writers in Kyoto reserve the right to publish entries on the group’s website. The top three winners will be eligible for publication in a future WiK Anthology. All authors retain the copyright of their own work.

SUPPORTERS

In addition to the aforementioned entities, the Writers in Kyoto Eighth Annual Writing Competition is supported by the Kyoto City Cultural Office, Kyoto City International Foundation (kokoka), and Kyoto Journal.

The WiK Competition logo was designed by Rebecca Otowa, author of At Home in Japan (Tuttle 2010), My Awesome Japan Adventure (2013), and The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper (2019).

PREVIOUS WINNERS

Winning entries from three previous competition years can be found here (2022), here (2021), and here (2020).

STAY CONNECTED WITH WRITERS IN KYOTO

Please save our website link to your Favorites and follow us on Facebook, Twitter (@KyotoWriters), and Instagram (writersinkyoto). There is also a private Facebook group for paid-up members.

WiK ANTHOLOGIES

Writers in Kyoto anthologies available in Amazon marketplaces in paperback and Kindle editions:

Echoes: WiK Anthology 2 (2017)
ed. John Dougill, Amy Chavez, and Mark Richardson

Encounters with Kyoto: WiK Anthology 3 (2019)
ed. Jann Williams and Ian Josh Yates

Structures of Kyoto: WiK Anthology 4 (2021)
ed. Rebecca Otowa and Karen Lee Tawarayama

Our top winner of 2022, Maria Danuco, was granted the prestigious Kyoto City Mayoral Prize for her piece titled “The Watcher”, which touches on a prevalent topic in recent years — the preservation of traditional structures and the unfortunate trend of replacing history with concrete. Not only is “The Watcher” a fine piece of writing, but it also bears a message worthy of wide readership and consideration. The current generations will inevitably determine the future landscape of Kyoto City, and we welcome and encourage further discussion on this very important topic of cultural and social significance. Therefore, the judges were unanimous in deciding to award Maria our top prize.

Are we going to be “watchers”, or will we continue to be mindful in striving to preserve the unique local, traditional flavor of our favorite Japanese city?

The Watcher

I noticed her house, long before I noticed her. It was a small building, falling apart at the seams, with its ramshackle roof sinking towards the earth while the overgrown garden reached for the heavens. A family of stray cats had made their home somewhere within the gates, and they glared at me with suspicion when I passed each day on my way to the station.

Perhaps back in its glory days it could have been a grand place. Given its proximity to the grounds of Kyoto Imperial Palace, it could have even been important. But now it was rotting — forgotten and abandoned.

Until the day she appeared.

I noticed her immediately; there is no way I wouldn’t have. Her kimono was far too elegant for someone who lived in a house like that. And yet there she was, standing solemnly in the sagging doorway. From the shadows, she gazed out at the world and watched, and the world seemed to slide by her: cars, bicycles, people, me.

Days passed, and I never saw her do anything but watch.

Sometime later, I moved away and forgot about her until I returned during Golden Week. The house was gone. Perhaps the roof had finally worn out and sunk gratefully into the ground, crushing the hopeful plants beneath it. Just as likely, the owners, wherever they were, had been offered a fair sum and sold the land.

As I stood there, I was struck with a strange sense of mourning. I felt that a piece of history had been wiped away, but that wasn’t unusual. Kyoto was going bankrupt, and history doesn’t pay the bills the same way parking lots can.

I thought of her — of all she had seen — and I wondered if, somehow, she’d known what was coming all along.

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Maria Danuco is a writer of Filipino/Australian descent born on unceded Noongar land in the southwest of Western Australia. She has lived in Tokyo since 2019. An avid reader, traveller and recovering teacher, Maria spends most of her time these days writing, baking and pursuing whatever new hobby has piqued her interest.

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Sudden Tsukimi

We stopped for tsukimi by the darkened delta of the Kamogawa. None of us intended to pause our post-work slog from the station, but it was too glorious to ignore. Our silhouettes arranged on the bridge, all strangers, to witness its arrival over the mountain shadows in the east.

Hushed voices as we bathed in the moonlight, rich and yellow like the yolk of a good egg. The murmuring river carried on below our feet, glimmering like our faces, now alive.

Elsewhere we would not see each other so. On the train, in line at the Fresco, waiting dutifully at the crosswalk of an empty street. No full golden moonlight, and here too it soon passed.

Our shadows scattered, dragging along pieces of that light. In our phones, in our poems, in our thoughts as we softly slid back izakaya doors. We’d needed the moon to lift our gazes, a brief celestial reminder to be human.

＊　＊　＊

C. Greenstreet is an American archivist whose fascination with historical curiosities began in Kyoto, where he spent several years living, learning, and exploring. When not organizing old things, he writes as much as he can and edits the burgeoning whimsical horror magazine, Kyoto Cryptids.

Ukrainian-born Tetiana Korchuk’s “The Promise” was selected as the winner of our Unohana Prize, awarded to the national of a country in which English is not an official language. Her heartwarming piece, a true story, was chosen by the judges for its skillful depiction of the onset of love and a vision of the future. “The Promise” also illustrates the setting of the Kamo River as a gathering place for locals and lovers. The young couple joins this parade in the cycle of time. Expressions of affection, however, continue to evolve throughout the generations.

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The Promise

It has happened in our early dating days, when you still can’t quite wrap your head around the thought that feelings are actually mutual. You feel drunk with love, almost feverish from every single thing going on in your head. Everything around you seems magical, full of hidden meaning and perfectly imperfect. Everyday is almost like the night before Christmas, when the next day should be even happier than today, and you are ready to experience that happiness with every tiny cell of your body.

I was waiting for him at the Keihan station, our usual meeting spot, just to walk alongside Kamogawa river, like many times before. At university class we recently started studying The Tale of Genji, and my thoughts were wandering, trying to imagine Kyoto of those times. For just a moment I felt like I could see it, petite young ladies in kimono, fishermen in large straw hats, black-haired, tanned children running around barefoot. Children’s laughter sounded almost like a melody of colorful wind chimes, hanging near entrances of the riverside houses. I could even smell freshly cooked food, probably made by a mother waiting for her family to gather for dinner and felt the taste of tart green tea on my tongue.

    That moment I spotted him finally approaching, tall and easily noticeable among others. My heart skipped a bit, and I immediately was brought back to reality. We held hands and started slowly walking our usual route, talking about everything and observing other couples sitting close to each other facing the river. Someone was practicing saxophone under one of the bridges, housewives were walking their cute fluffy shiba dogs with round tails. As evening approached, groups of young people with music and drinks started gathering here and there. Near the station performers were advertising a fire show starting in a few minutes.

Suddenly I saw a nicely dressed elderly couple walking towards us in a traditional Japanese manner, the wife just two steps behind her husband’s back. They were smiling and talking quietly.

“Would we also be walking here when we are in our seventies, what do you think?” asked I. Immediately feeling a little nervous, like if my life depended on his answer.

“Sure, I can promise you that,” he said. “But we will also be holding hands.” He was smiling only with his dark eyes.

My heart was full. Full of love to that elderly couple, the slow waters of Kamogawa, and cute shiba dogs. Full of love to him.

＊　＊　＊

Tetiana Korchuk is a translator, teacher, and author born and raised in Kyiv, Ukraine. She first arrived in Japan in 2014 as an exchange program participant. After graduating from Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv with a major in Japanese Language and Literature, she moved to Japan permanently in 2017. She now resides in Kobe, Hyogo Prefecture and enjoys learning about traditional Japanese culture, writing short stories, and cuddling with her shiba dog named Sakura.

Writers in Kyoto stands in solidarity with the people of Ukraine during this very challenging time in their country’s history, and therefore we asked Tetiana if she would like to write more about her connection with Kyoto and her feelings about the current situation in Ukraine. She writes:

“I first came to Kyoto in September 2014, a proud and excited exchange student, who finally managed to make her dream of visiting Japan into reality. My luggage was lost on the way (though found and returned to me safely after a couple of days), so I started my new life almost empty-handed. My first night, wandering the streets around the dorm where I was staying, I was feeling happy and confused, but mostly stunned by the city.

Eight years have passed since then, and now I live in another place, but still close enough to visit often. Years spent in Kyoto — first as a student, and later living and working there — has helped me to create a bond with the ancient Japanese capital. Now, arriving at Kyoto Station with its modern design, view of Kyoto Tower, and people going up and down on a cascade of escalators, always feels a bit like home.

Why is Kyoto so special to me? I don’t know. Maybe because I totally adore its history, shrines and temples, festivals and crafts. I enjoy that it is full of surprises and hidden treasures which you can’t find in tourist guidebooks. Maybe it’s because several of the busiest and most adventurous years of my life were spent there.

It also happens that among all Japanese cities, Kyoto is also special to me for one more reason. Actually, in 1971 Kyoto established a sister city relationship with Kyiv, the city where I am originally from and where my family still lives. These two beautiful cities have more in common than is apparent at first sight. Both are ancient capitals with an amazing history, culture, and proud people. Nowadays one of the parks in Kyiv is called ‘Park Kyoto’, which has a beautiful alley of Japanese cherry trees. My heart goes to Kyiv right now, and I also think about the festive blooming of the city’s chestnut trees.

Since the Russian invasion started on February 24th, Kyiv is not the peaceful, gorgeous city I used to know. It is not safe anymore, and many other places aren’t either. My heart hurts thinking about people who lost their homes due to this war. People who lost their loved ones. People who lost their lives. I can’t stop thinking about schools, kindergartens, and hospitals being shelled. Children being killed.

Being an emigrated Ukrainian these days is not easy, constantly being worried about family and friends and not being able to help much. Therefore, I’m forever grateful for all of the support that the people of Kyoto and other Japanese cities have shown to Ukrainians during these hard times — organizing charity events, peaceful demonstrations, accepting refugees, and much more. I feel that Ukrainians are not alone right now. We pray together for peace, and I believe that peace will come soon.”

Born in Belfast (United Kingdom) in 1948, Malcolm graduated from Trinity College of Music (London) and London University Institute of Education. He became interested in Zen Buddhism, joining a Zen group under the instruction of Daiyu Myokyo Zenji (formerly Ven. Myokyo Ni) before moving to Japan in 1977 to continue his training. He was accepted as a disciple by Soko Morinaga Roshi at Daishu In (Ryoanji), and also began to study the Way of Tea. After teaching English in a Japanese high school for thirty-one years, he retired in 2014 and came late to writing. Malcolm now resides in Takagamine, northwestern Kyoto. His favorite authors are Patrick White, D. H. Lawrence, and Dostoevsky.

The judges congratulate Malcolm for his thought-provoking submission, and also wish to express their heartfelt feelings of gratitude to Writers in Kyoto member Robert Yellin (owner of the Robert Yellin Yakimono Gallery) for his continued support of our annual Kyoto Writing Competition and this year’s generous Local Prize award of an Onta vase from Oita Prefecture.

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Plum Tree by the Eaves

There is a small, dilapidated temple in Kyoto, standing on the site of the former Shoto-mon-in palace of Emperor Ichijo, where Lady Izumi once lived. She was renowned for her beauty even then, and appears in Zeami`s Noh play ‘Toboku’ as the Boddhisatva of Song and Dance. A thousand years ago she planted a plum tree on this spot.

All that remains now is the shabby, run-down temple, its wooden gates falling to pieces, its white plaster walls crumbling. It is deserted, forgotten, overgrown with moss, weeds, and ferns. The garden has gone to seed, and is quite unkempt and forlorn.

But there, in the rain, in the full glory of maturity, bloom the cold, aristocratic plum blossoms, faintly pink, and with a chaste, delicate fragrance which does not overwhelm the senses. There are also clusters of tight, pink buds, like tiny white flames. Rain-wet, what a lovely contrast they make against the dark eaves, sweeping up and up.

Even in mass, the blossoms lack the overpowering, voluptuous extravagance of cherry. Each flower is simple and complete. They do not crowd each other, but remain individual and aloof.

The pathos and beauty of Lady Izumi’s restrained, slow dance is reflected in these elegant blossoms. The dominating mood is one of profound serenity and peace, of liberation and gratitude, sustaining and amplifying the dream-bound world that is hers.

And now, Toboku temple has grown dark. The rain drips and trickles in unseen corners, and in the twilight you half expect Lady Izumi’s ghost to re-appear in her scarlet skirt and plum-white dancing robe, to dance once more for us here by her plum tree, singing as of old:

Though I am no longer of this world,
Fleeting as a dew-drop on the wayside grass,
I still dwell within this flowering tree.

Robin is a sansei (third generation Japanese-American).  Originally from St. Louis, she has lived in Japan as a student, English teacher, and a JET Program Coordinator for International Relations, and currently works at Washington University in St. Louis as a research lab manager. She is active in community organizations including the Campus Y at Washington University, Central Institute for the Deaf, and the Japanese American Citizens League. She often provides educational presentations on her family’s incarceration at Rohwer, Arkansas during WWII.  Robin has a background in Asian Studies and Master’s Degree in Non-Profit Management.

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Conversation with a Ghost

Every day after kindergarten my first stop was your room. You let me crank your fancy mechanical bed to a sitting position and munch on senbei from the tin on your nightstand. I would prattle on and show you my drawings. You held up each one reverently, smiled and said “kirei, kirei”.

“No, grandpa!” I would giggle, “You’re holding it upside down!”

This was our routine. Until one day I came home and rushed in only to find that you were gone.

Forty years have passed. I have so many questions I never got to ask: Was it hard leaving Japan? Did you love your picture bride? Could you forgive the U.S. for putting you behind barbed wire? Were your children and grandchildren enough to make you happy?

I have searched for you, but a language barrier and 6500 miles stand in my way. Finally, a cousin remembers that your ashes are interred, “somewhere in Kyoto, close to Maruyama Park.”

I arrive on a drizzly day with a smudged charcoal sky. The first cemetery has no knowledge of our family. Dejected, I trudge onto the next. Higashi Otani Bochi snakes up the hillside like kudzu. I ask the monk if you are here. He hesitates before making a call. At last, he confirms your location.  I thank him with inadequate Japanese and wind my way through the endless warren of polished concrete.

Our ancestor’s grave stands out from the rest. It is a weathered, natural shaped rock with the name of your hometown engraved in the front. I should have brought incense or flowers. Or better yet, one of my drawings.

The rain starts to ebb and the sun warms my face as I kneel down. We have so much to catch up on, Grandpa. How have you been?

Diary of a Rickshaw Puller

At Togetsukyo Bridge
awaiting customers
faces reflected in water

School excursion —
blue, white, and freshly laundered
a carnival passes me by

Lovingly polished
wheels of chrome, lacquer wood
who’ll ever know?

Sipping hot coffee
quickly —
a customer!

Her slender feet
white rabbits beneath
a peach kimono

Sunlight on her nape
my breath quickens
as I join the morning traffic

On a forest path
her sigh — or mine?
scent of bamboo

At Nonomiya Shrine —
care to make a wish
for love?

Nearing Jojakkoji Temple
a bush warbler sings
she speaks of a husband

Mountain breeze —
tailwind to Takiguchidera
her husband in Tokyo!

Uphill to Nisonin Temple
dew on hydrangeas
sweat beads my brow

Matcha ice cream —
her glistening lips
beneath a kiosk parasol

Passing Rakushida
ghost of Basho smiles
life is poetry!

At Seiryoji Temple
a lotus pond
from mud a flower blooms

Crossing railway lines
gently —
so as not to startle her

Towards Togetsukyo Bridge
my heart
a pounding drum

Alighting riverside
her hand in mine
coolness of silk

A school excursion —
her smiling face lost
in a river of blue

In my hand
folding faces of Fukuzawa
a phone number inside!

For those of us who are based in tranquil Kyoto, it is impossible to truly grasp the daily horrors faced by the Ukrainian people who are forced to hide or make the decision to flee, as well as those in the country’s ever-growing diaspora who fear for their loved ones’ safety on the home front. We recognize the heroic bravery of those who have remained or returned to stand firm with pride for their country’s independence. One such individual is Vladyslava Konotopets, who studied abroad in Kyoto from September 2019 to February 2020 and submitted a contribution to this year’s Kyoto Writing Competition. Vladyslava’s husband was required to leave their home to defend Ukraine when the war began, and since that time she and her parents have taken a proactive role in aiding the soldiers and freedom fighters.

We recognize the love that Vladyslava holds for her country and for Kyoto, and we admire her unwavering positive mindset. Therefore, the decision was made to award her a special “Solidarity Prize” for her contribution to our competition. Writers in Kyoto stands in solidarity with the Ukrainian people in this very difficult time. We desire a swift end to the war and wish for the continued health and safety of all who have been affected.

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Blooming Ukrainian Freedom

Now I am standing and breathing Ukrainian air of freedom during the war. The spring has come, and I feel that our lives will blossom as well as starting-to-bloom flowers. I am diving in the memories of my well-being when living in Kyoto a few years ago. My native Kyiv and Kyoto are twin cities, or as Japanese say, shimaitoshi. I know and feel it with my entire heart. The soul of Kyoto is so close to Ukraine’s capital – It is pure, strong and authentic. In Kyoto you keep in touch with nature, history and modern civilization, just as if you became a small part of Japanese history, especially the Heian period. You admire Kiyomizu-dera, Shimigamo shrine, contemplate with Murasaki Shikibu about the future… You ask yourself: “Am I in the miracle?”

Then there is the sudden noise of bombing and a return to reality. “The miracle will be to survive, to stay alive despite the scorching breath of death,” sounds in my head, but I am not afraid of this thought. I very often hear bombing and shooting outside, but there are things I know for sure: This unfair war is unable to stop the charming spring, and death cannot overpower life and the soul’s memories. I will remember my time spent in Kyoto forever. I will be strong enough to wait for peace, to do everything for Ukraine`s victory (its blooming), and for my next journey to the Land of the Rising Sun.

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Vladyslava Konotopets was born and raised in Kyiv, where she married her soulmate. She works remotely at the local university and continues her efforts to build her future, as well as that of her country. She wrote in a follow-up email:

“It’s impossible to imagine a meaningful life without peace and freedom, so I appreciate the recollection of living, studying and working in Kyoto. The friendship between our cities has grown stronger and deeper. The war has shown very clearly who the real friends and brothers of the Ukrainian people are.”