Takaki Biwa: "I write poetry as a means of preventing wounds from growing deeper"

The cover of Takaki Biwa's poetry collection "A River of Hair" (Shinchosha, 2025)

On 7 March 2026, the Japan Poets Association announced the winner of this year’s Mr. H Poetry Prize: Takaki Biwa. Those who follow Japanese-language poetry magazines might know her from reading Gendaishi Techo: She received their award as the poet of the year in 2025. 

I met Takaki Biwa soon after the news came out, only to learn this is her first interview after receiving the award. Her nervousness quickly passed: The second we started talking about poetry her voice settled into a calm but strong cadence, just like the voice of her poems. 

“I first became interested in poetry when I was in high school. We studied Nakahara Chuya’s poem ‘A Fairy Tale’, it was in the textbook. I felt as though the world of that poem was etched quite deeply and powerfully within me. It really stuck with me and I couldn’t forget it, so on my way home I went out and bought a collection of his poems and became completely absorbed in reading them. I think that was the moment I first consciously engaged with poetry”.

She then adds: “I also like Jukichi Yagi, Kenji Miyazawa and Sakutaro Hagiwara. There was a period when I was influenced by them. But not in a sense that I was trying to imitate their style. It was more like: 'Oh, you can unfurl a world inside a text like this!' I also felt a great appeal in the way poetry used to be written. Back then, poems were written in much shorter lines than they are now, so they were more condensed”. 

When it comes to the length of her own poems, however, Takaki does not have a set rule:

“I think people prefer shorter pieces these days, especially because of the impact of social media. Tanka and haiku are incredibly popular at the moment, and I think that's amazing. And I don't really think that longer is always better in poetry. But to me, it depends on the piece. What matters to me is whether the poem clearly conveys the meaning behind it”. 

Curious, I pose to her the eternal poet’s dilemma: What comes first, conveying a message or conveying an emotion?

“I find myself coming back to this question again and again… For me, writing poetry is, I suppose, about how to capture and record the very essence of the soul, its unadulterated form. In modern poetry, there can be a wide variety of writing styles and forms, but as long as the poem is able to express what it wants to say and stand on its own, I think that’s all that really matters”. 

She then shares her concern:

“I want people to write without fear of putting their words down on paper. I don’t know if this is the same everywhere else, but in Japan, with the rise of social media people have started to mock writing poetry, a derogatory katakana word "poemo" appeared…It seems that a culture has developed where young people who actually write poetry are ridiculed, and I don't like that at all. I have friends who say they can't start writing poetry because of that, they feel that they'll be laughed at if they write poetry, so they write novels instead”. 

Yet as she continues to describe how poetry is born within her, I catch myself wondering whether the shamanic quality of poetry’s birth is one possible reason why she herself would not find the same satisfaction writing prose. At least for now.

“I write sensory things linked to physical sensations. You see, I’ve had quite a few difficult experiences since I was little, or times when I was deeply hurt, and I’m the sort of person who can draw on those sensations… they’re etched into my memory in a way that I can tap into. And they come into the world through me when I write. I do not have an intention of creating something, it’s more like I’m reconstructing those memories when I write. I start by repeating them within my body and within my mind, extracting that physical sensation associated with the memory. There are so many moments that are still alive, and they’re all connected by countless lines, like… being connected by blood vessels, perhaps? That’s the sort of image I have”.

We tap into why memories are important and come close to identifying the “message” of Takaki’s poetry.

“For me, the very act of writing has become hugely centred on innocence. I keep thinking about the idea of a pure soul, so I often find myself tracing back to childhood memories. As far as I’m concerned, innocence is something that absolutely must be restored, something that must be protected, and I believe it exists not only in children and young people, but within everyone, even in adults. It’s almost as if we’re destined for our innocence to be wounded as adults. As you grow up, you gradually accumulate more wounds, and it feels as though the wounds themselves become more potent, or gradually start to corrode the soul itself. I sometimes feel that’s the case for me too. So, I write about children, and perhaps they are a good illustration, but I don’t think you need to read what I am saying as being limited to just those children. I write poetry as a means of preventing wounds from growing deeper and multiplying”.

I mention her Proustian way of working with smells.

“I’ve heard that the nose is the sense most closely linked to memory, that scents are tied to it. When I’m trying to recall memories, smells are an aspect I do want to remember.

I suppose in my poetry, there aren’t many things that actually smell nice. Well, I don’t really think I write poetry that’s particularly pleasant to read”. She laughs. “I do take pride in that, mind you... Those slightly unusual smells, or smells that make you go “What on earth is that?”, I think they really stick with you. The smell of bandages or medicine cabinets, for instance… those are special”. 

She is unsure whether continuing writing poetry can heal her painful memories.

“I do hope that writing turns into something like therapy or catharsis, but I do feel that I’m still very much in the process of developing that, and still far from succeeding. It’s just that I feel it’s better to write than not to write”.

This time, Takaki granted permission to Tokyo Poetry Journal to publish the first ever English translation of her poetry. 

About the poem itself, she says, tracing the book page with her fingers:

“There was a time when I lived in a place where it snowed quite a lot, and this poem really brings back that sense of a yukiguni, a snow country. I’ve moved around Japan quite a bit, so when I am on trains, I am reminded of that. Of how I was often forced by the circumstances to travel alone as a child. I felt like I just had to go to a place where the pain inside me would subside. I felt that I was buried in the snow somewhere, and that I had to go there, and that I was the only one who could dig myself out, the self that was buried in a nightmare. So I wrote this poem”.

In the snow 

inside incessant snow

inside the train running through it

inside me, my head against its window 

medication against an illness that keeps circulating inside me

as i doze off 

is tucked into a paper bag

into a pocket 

i feel the fabric again and again

just to make sure

because i have to go

into that blue space of memory 

so i need to make sure to drink water 

i finally halt my footprints under a beech tree

and start digging

in the blue the blood looks black 

tenderness, even fragments of it, 

the very memory of having been loved, lurking within my body

takes the shape of me

claws at my organs, my brain 

deeper than anything, deeper than anyone’s words

won't let go

left buried in gauze

breath of a bad dream lies

beneath the midnight cold 

with my palm i feel

it is at peace 

finally 

i meet the morning 

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As we part in front of the station and I board my train, I look out at the sun shimmering in the approaching spring and am momentarily overcome by a serenity at the thought that no snow will be accompanying her on her way home today. 

• Interview, text and poetry translation by Aleksandra Priimak