Sumo

Three white-robed referees step into the ring,

Where seven wands lie in zigzag pattern.

The solemn chief pronounces:

“Everlasting life to heaven, long life to earth,

And may the winds and rains be seasonable.”

Lucky emblems in an earthenware pot

Lie blessed and buried in the middle.

The ring is consecrated with salt and sake,

And three circuits the attendants march,

Lacquered drums suspended from poles.


First quarter of the new moon:

River spirits will fasten on bathers

And wrestle them down to their deaths.

Kites are flying, horses running,

Sumo wrestlers wobble to the clash.


On the Day of the Chrysanthemum, the Double Sun,

At the Kamo shrine two large circles are traced in dust.

The male-crow priest hops to the sand-mound at one circle’s centre

And the female-crow priest hops to her circle’s centre,

Three times with three hops, there and back,

They journey to and from their little mountains,

Bearing a mat, a bow and arrow, a sword and a fan.

The male crow on the left calls to the female on the right;

Three times he calls and she responds.

Three times clockwise round the left mound

Boy sumo wrestlers circle;

Counterclockwise round the other their opponents troop.


It is time for the rice to be planted.

A sumo wrestler stands in the ring,

Before the sacred ricefield at the shrine.

He stamps his feet, rinses his mouth with water,

Scatters salt, crouches then stands up,

Circumambulates the ring widdershins,

Straining against an invisible foe.

Suddenly his legs are seized-he is thrown!

He staggers up, valiantly grapples the air again,

And is toppled to the ground.