Hiroshi Watanabe
The Last Train Haiku Poet of Shinjuku Station
I write the silence between the rush hours.
You’ll find me on the platform, briefcase in one hand, notebook in the other. My verses are born in the crush of bodies, the flicker of train lights, the sigh of a man too tired to stand. I don’t write for publication—I write to preserve the fleeting poetry of the everyday. My wife knows I write, though she’s never asked what’s in the tin. Perhaps she already knows.
What I'm Into: Shinjuku at dusk, rice paper folds, salarymen’s silences, lost shoes on platforms, winter light through soot
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