見る人の / 顔をつくろふ / うしろ向き

(miru hito no / kao o tsukurou / ushiromuki)

When someone’s watching—
I put on a serious face,
though I’m turned away.

Sometimes pathos is useful in life—like an umbrella when it rains. But to carry it in the blazing sun? Pathos and everyday life often pass each other by without a word—because one likes to speak in capital letters, while the other mumbles under its breath, taps a sake cup on the table, and giggles in embarrassment. Life doesn’t always hover above the ground—it more often stumbles over the threshold, yawns, loses its keys, and dreams of having just a little more change in its pocket. And for such moments, a different kind of language is needed—light, patient, with a dash of irony. That was the language of Karai Senryū.

We have often written about warriors who split fate with a katana, and poets transformed by enlightenment after a hundred days of meditation in a mountain cave, where they dined on moss and listened to the murmur of their own breath. Today, we speak of someone entirely different. A man who spent his whole life in crowded Edo—a city of rice, the scent of soy sauce, and teahouses full of gossip. He worked as a clerk. He did not fight. He did not levitate in ecstasy. But he saw everything—and recorded it all. In short, wickedly clever poems. For Karai Senryū was a poet of the everyday. And sometimes, to describe human nature, all you need is seventeen syllables and the ability to make a face we all know: a half-smile with a squinted eye.

In today’s article, we’ll explore his life—not a heroic legend, but a story full of sake, laughter, and sharp observation about an ordinary man who became extraordinary. We’ll travel to a poetry contest by the Sumida River, where townsfolk, samurai, and artisans recited their senryū, dreaming of fame lasting at least until morning. We’ll also take a closer look at many of his poems—not just humorous snapshots of Edo life, but psychological mirrors in which we can still see our own reflections. Times have changed, yes—but people, as Master Senryū shows us, have remained the same—they just wear different kimono now.

Edo, 1765. A Poetry Evening by the Sumida River

The sun was lazily slipping behind the rooftops of Edo, leaving behind a delicate streak of pink and gold that melted into the current of the Sumida River. It was the time when inns and teahouses in the Asakusa district came alive, filled with the buzz of conversation, the sounds of shamisen, and the aroma of sake. Right by the riverbank, in a spacious wooden hall with sliding shōji doors, a crowd of people from all walks of life had already gathered. Merchants in meticulously pressed kimono, craftsmen with sweat-glossed brows, a few proud samurai casting curious glances around, and city women covering their faces with fans, giggling quietly in excitement. It was the evening of a poetry contest—the famous Senryūhyō Manku Awase (川柳評万句合 – literally, “A gathering (contest) for judging ten thousand Senryū poems”).

In the seat of honor sat a middle-aged man with a cheerful face, rosy from sake, his slightly tousled hair tied high atop his head. This was Karai Hachiemon, known to all present as Master Senryū. Dressed in a simple, dark-blue kimono, he stood out not by his attire, but by the natural aura of respect and warmth he exuded. In front of him, on a low table, lay a huge pile of paper slips—short poems sent in by the city’s residents. Senryū held a brush in his left hand, ready to mark the winning verses, while his right, already a little unsteady, reached for another cup of sake.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he began in a loud voice, quieting the crowd. “Tonight, once again, we face our greatest opponent—ourselves. For who better to show us our flaws, our little follies, if not we ourselves?”

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, followed by a few chuckles. The people knew that Master Karai could entertain as well as embarrass, and his sharp tongue spared no one—least of all himself. And that, indeed, was why they loved him.

“Here is the first senryū of the evening!” he declared, drawing out a slip of paper and raising it theatrically into the air, clearing his throat slightly.

うちこわし / 刀の下手も / 見えて来る
(Uchikowashi / katana no heta mo / miete kuru)

“After house demolition
you can tell who’s no good
with a sword.”

(This verse pokes fun at samurai who—though they wore swords as symbols of their status—were not always skilled in wielding them during the peaceful Edo era. During the dismantling of a house, when adept handling of tools was necessary, it quickly became clear who truly had a knack for blades and who merely pretended.)

A wave of laughter swept through the crowd; even the stern faces of the warriors couldn’t hide their amusement. Senryū raised an eyebrow, nodding with a smile:

“Oh, dear ladies, have some mercy on your husbands!” he called out. Seeing the good mood in the room, the master immediately drew another slip:

願かけて　神を困らす　商人
(Negai kakete / kami o komarasu / akindo)

“The merchant prays
for profit and fortune—
the gods just yawn.”

Several traders glanced at one another with a mix of amusement and slight offense, but they quickly joined the general merriment, raising their sake cups. The master nodded approvingly, downing his own portion and winking at the audience:

“Who among us hasn’t bored the heavens with our petty worries? The gods must have dozed off long ago from our prayers!”

The verses flowed on, interwoven with round after round of drinks, which passed among the crowd like the swift current of the nearby river. Senryū joked, teased the participants, pointed out their weaknesses, but always with a tenderness and understanding that made his piercing remarks sting no one. People eagerly came closer to hear more clearly how the master commented on each piece. Everyone felt that Karai Senryū looked at them not from above, but like a dear friend—someone who knew well what it meant to be an ordinary human being.

Suddenly, one of the participants, a young samurai with a gaze more shy than fierce, dared to raise his hand and asked:

“Master Senryū, perhaps one of your own poems to end the evening?”

Senryū scratched his chin theatrically, thought for a moment, then nodded and gently rose. He looked into the distance, at the Sumida River, where only the silvery moon now reflected, and with his characteristic smile, recited:

木枯らしや / 跡で芽をふけ / 川柳
(Kogarashi ya / ato de me o fuke / kawayanagi.)

“The cold wind is blowing—
later, send out buds again,
willow by the river.”

(This verse is jisei no ku—a farewell poem before death—by Karai Senryū. It contains a wordplay: kawayanagi (willow by the river) is an alternative reading of the characters for senryū, the poet’s name. In this parting poem, Senryū embeds both his name and a subtle message about the transience and renewal of life. The willow by the river, then, is our poet himself, speaking to himself as he says goodbye to life. To read more about samurai death poems, see here: Samurai Death Poetry Jisei: A Glimpse into the Soul in Its Final Moments).

The murmur died down, and a moment of silence descended upon the room.
People gazed at the master with reverence, sensing that behind the simple words lay something more—a lightness of being, a philosophy of self-acceptance and the embrace of one’s own weaknesses. That was Karai Senryū—a man who, in simple verses as short and precise as sword strikes, taught the people of Edo life’s most important lesson:
that the healthiest response is to laugh at everything—especially at oneself.

The Poetry of Everyday Life – What Exactly Is Senryū?

If haiku is the serious older brother among short Japanese poems, spending his days gazing at the moon and contemplating impermanence, then senryū is the mischievous younger cousin—the one sitting right next to you with a cup of sake in hand, a mischievous gleam in his eye, and a witty remark on his lips. And although the two look similar at first glance (each consists of exactly seventeen syllables arranged in a 5-7-5 pattern), they differ in character, worldview, and subject matter.

Haiku must reference nature and the seasons, whereas senryū boldly breaks these rules, turning its gaze toward the human being—toward our flaws, small absurdities, and rather large foolishnesses committed daily.

In the Edo period, senryū was the poetry beloved by townspeople—precisely because it so delightfully exposed the faults of all: samurai, merchants, craftsmen, and even Buddhist monks. A short, light, but maliciously precise poem was like a perfectly thrown pebble into a pond—small, but causing quite a stir.

One such poem was written by Karai Senryū himself, the father of the genre. Let us look:

Japanese version (stylized, non-scholarly):

深く礼す / 侍の目だけは / 銭を探す
(Fukaku reisu / samurai no me dake wa / zeni o sagasu)

“He bows deeply—
the samurai with reverence—
for coins on the ground.”

Behind this short, humorous image lies a deeper satire that targets the hypocrisy of many samurai in the Edo period. Officially, warriors were obliged to live modestly, in accordance with the bushidō code of honor, which condemned greed and attachment to material goods.
Yet reality was far more prosaic—many a samurai was quick to forget honor when the jingle of coins was involved (let’s not be too harsh—they were, after all, only human). This poem unmasks human double-dealing, showing that sometimes the appearance of nobility hides motivations that are downright mundane—if not downright laughable.

And that’s precisely the magic of senryū—this brief flash of humor, this wink at the reader, which reminds us that the best thing to do with our human faults is simply to laugh heartily.
Especially when we see them in our own reflection.

Poetry Contests – How Senryū Created a New Literary Genre

Not all poets have their heads in the clouds. Some—like Karai Senryū—prefer to sit firmly on the ground, ideally at a low table, with a cup of sake in one hand, a brush in the other, and hundreds—sometimes thousands—of poems spread out around them. That’s exactly how his famous poetry contests looked—contests that forever changed the face of Japanese literature.

It all began on August 25, 1757, when, in one of Edo’s teahouses, Karai—then still writing under the pen name Mumeian Senryū (“Senryū of the Anonymous Hut”)—organized an event called Senryūhyō Manku Awase (川柳評万句合), or “A contest to judge ten thousand senryū poems.”

Sounds impressive? It was! Thousands of short poems were submitted, written by people from every social stratum in Edo’s complex ecosystem—merchants, carpenters, monks, samurai teetering on bankruptcy, and ordinary housewives. Everyone wanted their verse to be the talk of the town. And it all rested on one man—the judge with the ironic smile and sharp gaze.

Karai Senryū scored the entries with astonishing perseverance and an uncanny instinct for humor. He reportedly had such a keen eye (and ear) that he could judge a poem after a single reading, quickly distinguishing between banality and a flash of genius.

In the years to come, he would read and assess over 2,300,000 senryū—that’s about as many memes as a modern person might scroll through in a lifetime, only without clicking or algorithms, and with authentic literary taste.

Interestingly, Senryū began publishing the best and most intriguing poems in a recurring anthology titled Haifū Yanagidaru (“The Willow Barrel”)—a collection so juicy it managed to offend practically everyone.

During the poet’s lifetime, 23 volumes were published, but the tradition continued by his successors eventually grew to 167 volumes!

Examples of Senryū's poems

One needed only to open a single one to find not just laughter, but a living portrait of Edo society—with its daily worries, fashion, superstitions, and... its eternal love for gossip.

The popularity of senryū exploded like fireworks at the Tanabata festival. Poetry, once reserved for the elite, suddenly became a game for everyone—from the shopkeeper in Ueno to the elderly woman running a bookstore in Nihonbashi.

Senryū didn’t require knowledge of classical texts, nor solemnity. It required one thing only: the ability to laugh—at others, but most of all at oneself.

And that was a true revolution in Japanese literature.

***

泥棒を / 捕えてみれば / 我が子なり
(dorobō wo / toraete mireba / wagako nari)

“I caught a thief—
and when I looked at his face,
it was my own son.”

In this verse, Senryū captured the entire tragedy and comedy of parenthood, of family life, and of human unpredictability. It begins almost like a detective story: a thief caught in the act.
But then comes the twist—not only for the poem’s protagonist, but for the reader as well.
What was supposed to be a triumph of justice becomes a blow straight to the heart.
Despite its humor, the poem is not devoid of pain. It’s laughter through tears, for here the father collides not only with the guilt of his child, but with the question of his own failings, his own legacy.

Who did he really catch—a thief, or an echo of his own actions?

In these simple words lies a multi-layered story: of family, of disappointment, of the surprising closeness between good and evil.

This is the true mastery of Senryū—that in a single line, he can contain an entire drama and make us smile, even as something inside us is moved for much longer.

***

女好き / 川柳好きと / 書いておけ
(onna zuki / senryū zuki to / kaite oke)

“He liked women
and senryū—
write that on his grave.”

This short poem—considered Karai Senryū’s farewell jisei no ku—is a masterpiece of self-irony. There is no grandeur here, no pathos, no lofty words about eternity or impermanence. What we find instead is honesty and a mischievous simplicity. The poet bids farewell to the world just as he lived in it—with a smile and distance, with humor that is slightly bawdy but strikingly human. He makes no attempt to whitewash his biography, nor does he pretend to be an ascetic or a saint. On the contrary—he unashamedly confesses to what gave him pleasure: loose women and light poetry.

Or perhaps not so light—because hidden within that levity is a deep wisdom.
This poem is also a quiet rebellion against societal expectations: you don’t have to leave behind great deeds. It’s enough that you were yourself and that you laughed at life—even at its end.

This epitaph doesn’t sound like a judgment—it sounds more like one last joke, told just before the lights go out.

***

髪結いが / ほどいてみたい / 帷子
(kamiyui ga / hodoite mitai / katabira)

The hairdresser looks—
she’d like to untie
the summer kimono.

This senryū is full of erotic tension, but presented subtly, without directness. We see a woman—likely a hairdresser or maid—who gazes at a client (or perhaps another woman?), and—perhaps even without realizing it—succumbs to temptation, to desire.
The katabira, a summer kimono, slips easily, light and thin—it symbolically emphasizes the delicacy of the moment.

The poem says nothing outright, yet everything is clear. This is the genius of senryū: just seventeen syllables capture an entire miniature play of longing, embarrassment, and social boundaries. Karai Senryū shows us that even the most fleeting desires and unspoken thoughts are worthy of poetry—and of a smile.

***

笑ふ門に / 鬼が居候
(warau kado ni / oni ga isōrō)

In the house of laughter,
the demon lives
as a freeloader.

This poem is a parody of a well-known Japanese proverb:

「笑う門には福来る」 (warau kado ni wa fuku kitaru)

"Happiness comes to the house where there is laughter.”

Karai Senryū twists this optimistic saying, offering a mischievous, ironic version with a hearty dose of dark humor.

Instead of happiness—a oni (a Japanese demon) has made itself at home.
Perhaps because laughter can be cruel?
Perhaps because not every cheerful place is truly happy?
Or maybe simply: where there’s a lot of laughter, there’s also a bit of chaos, emotion, unpredictability—and that, after all, is a demon’s favorite playground.

Senryū reveals that even behind an apparently warm atmosphere, something unsettling may lurk. And once again—there’s no judgment. Just observation, a wink, and a slightly demonic chuckle from behind the paper wall.

***

鬼の目に / 涙を見せる / 女かな
(oni no me ni / namida o miseru / onna kana)

A woman can show
tears even in
a demon’s eyes.

This senryū is a miniature psychological drama—and satire at once. The woman—perhaps a lover, a wife, or an actress in the theatre of life—can stir emotion even in an oni, a Japanese demon known for its brutality and lack of empathy.

Can she awaken tenderness even in the most unfeeling heart?
Or perhaps she can drive even the most self-controlled being to tears?

As always, Karai Senryū says nothing directly—he does not moralize or condemn. He observes. The woman gains power not through physical dominance, but through emotional influence.

It is a subtle play between empathy and control, between sensitivity and theatricality.
In just three lines—and not a syllable more—Senryū shows that what is soft can move even that which is made of stone.

***

禿げ頭 / 見て見ぬふりの / 盲かな
(hage atama / mite minu furi no / mō kana)

Balding head—
the blind man pretends
not to see it.

This poem is the very essence of senryū: everyday life, observation, irony, and laughter—at oneself and at others. Here we have two characters—a balding person and someone blind who… “pretends not to see.”A paradox? Of course. But it’s precisely this kind of absurdity that had Edo-era audiences laughing to tears. It can be read in many ways.

Perhaps the “blind man” is an ironic description—someone who could have noticed, but out of politeness (or spite) pretends not to. Perhaps it’s a jab at feigned politeness—that typical “saving face” gesture in Japanese culture. Or perhaps it’s just situational comedy: someone didn’t want to embarrass another, but did so in such a theatrical way that it backfired.

In any case, Senryū shows us once again that the best mirror for a human being is… another human being—ideally one who watches with both eyes attentively and sharply, though one eye is ever so slightly squinted.

The River and the Willow – The Symbolism Behind the Pseudonym “Senryū”

It was no coincidence that Karai Hachiemon adopted the poetic pseudonym Senryū, written with the characters 川柳, which literally mean “river” (川, kawa) and “willow” (柳, yanagi). This pairing was intentional. In Japanese culture, both elements carry deep, multilayered symbolism—and they perfectly reflect the character of both the poet himself and the new literary genre he created.

The river is a fluid, ever-changing force. It doesn’t resist obstacles—it flows around them, embraces them, and can be as gentle as a brook or as powerful as a current during a storm. The willow, with its thin, swaying branches that bend under the wind but never break, symbolizes flexibility, lightness, and the ability to survive through adaptability. The willow doesn’t oppose fate—it dances with it.

And such was the poetry of senryū. It did not shout, nor did it preach. It smiled faintly, reservedly. When life weighed heavy, senryū didn’t try to correct it—it simply showed it through a distorted mirror. Comical? Yes. But also true.

In this way, Senryū as a poet became the spiritual cousin of the willow—a man who could bend under the weight of everyday life but never broke. He lived modestly, wrote about foolishness and trivialities, yet in doing so—like the river’s current—he conveyed a profound philosophy.

A rigid tree breaks in the storm, but the willow endures. Likewise, a person who can laugh at themselves, view life with perspective, and accept their imperfections is more likely to withstand the hardships of fate. Senryū, through his verses, taught this not in theory, but every day—one smile at a time.

What Came After Karai Senryū?

Karai Senryū died in 1790, leaving behind not only a collection of brilliant poems and 23 volumes of Haifū Yanagidaru, but also an entire literary tradition that endured far longer than any political system or regime. After his death, the title “Senryū” was passed on to successive judges of the contests—up to the sixteenth in line. Meanwhile, the senryū form spread across Japan like a spring rain—reaching salons, teahouses, artisan workshops, and schools.

In the Meiji era, senryū began to appear in newspapers. In the 20th century, it made its way onto postcards, into advertisements, and even into satirical columns. Over time, it reached the West, where many authors writing what they believed to be “haiku” were in fact creating... senryū—because they weren’t writing about cranes, spring, and the moon, but about subway problems and coffee gone cold (yes—those poems aren’t haiku, they’re senryū).

Today in Japan, senryū contests are held for seniors, students, company employees, and nursing home residents. One of the more well-known examples is the poem that won the “Silver Senryū” contest in 2020:

テレワーク / やってみたいが / 俺無職
(Terewaaku / yattemitai ga / ore mushoku)

Telework—
I’d like to try it,
but I’m unemployed.

So? Sound familiar? Because people haven’t changed. Maybe technology has, maybe fashion—but the absurdities of everyday life are eternal—and that’s exactly why senryū never gets old.

The humor of Karai Senryū, though born in the age of woodblock prints and indebted samurai, still reaches people who use Wi-Fi and complain about mobile apps. Because we still laugh at the same things: at ourselves, at our weaknesses, at how something was supposed to go differently—and ended up the same as always.

And that’s precisely why Senryū’s laughter flows like a river—through eras, generations, and languages. Because as long as people stumble, it’s always worth laughing about it.

>> SEE ALSO SIMILAR ARTICLES:

Samurai Death Poetry Jisei: A Glimpse into the Soul in Its Final Moments

Red Tears and Black Blood: The Modern Haiku of Ban’ya Natsuishi

Ikkyū Sōjun: The Zen Master Who Found Enlightenment in Pleasure Houses with a Bottle of Sake in Hand

Faulty Man in a Box: The Mechanical Nightmare of Tetsuya Ishida's Paintings

The Indifference of the World to the Failure of Human Ambition – The Japanese-British Post-Anthropocentrism of Naoya Inose’s Paintings

"Strong Japanese Women"

see book by the author

of the page

    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

Write us...

Ciechanów, Polska

dr.imyon@gmail.com

___________________

inari.smart

Would you like to share your thoughts or feedback about our website or app? Leave us a message, and we’ll get back to you quickly. We value your perspective!