A Foggy Winter’s Morn: Poem 64

This is a great poem for the deep of winter:

朝ぼらけ Asaborake
宇治の川ぎり Uji no kawagiri
たえだえに Taedae ni
あらはれわたる Araware wataru
ぜぜの網代木 Seze no ajirogi

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

As the winter dawn
breaks, the Uji River mist
things in patches and
revealed, here and there, are
all the shallows’ fishing stakes.

The author of this poem is Fujiwara no Sadayori, son of the famous poet and critic, Fujiwara no Kintō (poem 55) and respectable poet in his own right.

The Uji River (宇治川), now known as the Yodo River, is probably one of the oldest and most famous in Japanese poetry, and runs through the Osaka metropolitan area. It is mentioned in the earliest Japanese poem anthology, such as the Manyoshu, and others.

I actually had to look up what “fishing stakes” are. The term, ajirogi (網代木), refers to stakes in the water, like a fence or weir. Fish swim into these places and they were easier to catch with nets because they had fewer places to escape.

Professor Mostow notes that the combination of the Uji River and the fishing stakes was a very famous image in ancient Japanese poetry, and this coupled with the image of a cold winter’s dawn make this a powerful poem. Unlike other poems in the Hyakunin Isshu which might be hypothetical, exaggerated or talk about something abstract such as love, Mostow points out that this poem likely was written exactly as Sadayori saw it. I can only wonder what it was like watching the fishermen go to work early that icy morning.

Thanks, But No Thanks: Poem 67

This clever little poem shows the battle of the sexes as it existed 1,000 years ago:

春の夜の Haru no yoru no
夢ばかりなる Yume bakari naru
手枕に Tamakura ni
かひなく立たむ Kainaku tatan
名こそ惜しけれ Na koso oshikere

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

With your arm as my pillow
for no more than a brief
spring night’s dream,
how I would regret my name
coming, pointlessly, to ‘arm!

The author, known as the Suō Handmaid (dates unknown), was so named because her father was governor Suō Province. As mentioned before, this was a common sobriquet used by female authors, so their real names are rarely known. This is another poem that speaks to the importance of a woman’s reputation in the ancient Court of Japan, just like the last poem, Poem 65. However, this one is much more playful and shows a lot of wit.

According to the back-story, there was a social gathering at the Nijō-In (二条院), the woman’s quarters at the palace. The woman there were relaxing, and the author of this poem said, “I wish I had a pillow”. At that moment, one Fujiwara no Tadaie happen to walk by, and hearing this stuck his arm through the curtains and said, “Here, takes this as your pillow!”.

In reply, the author composed this poem. As Professor Mostow points out, the word for arm here (kaian) is a pun for pointless (kainaku).

People flirted pretty clever back in those days.

Rotten Sleeves: Poem Number 65

A poignant poem that also provides insight into culture at the time:

恨みわび Uramiwabi
ほさぬ袖だに Hosanu sode da ni
あるものを Aru mono wo
恋に朽ちなん Koi ni kuchinan
名こそ惜しけれ Na koso oshikere

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

Although there are
my sleeves that never dry,
bitter and sad,
what I really regret is
my name, made rotten by love!

The author is “Lady Sagami” (dates unknown), whose father was the governor of Sagami Province at one point, hence this was the name she used as her sobriquet.

The poem is somewhat typical of the era, a woman is jilted and because of the public scrutiny her reputation is ruined. Because the Court life was so closed and small, rumors and reputation were a big part of the social life there. This is expressed in other poems in the Hyakunin Isshu, such as poem 18 or in the Gossamer Years. A woman who’s reputation was marred by an embarrassing incident, bad fashion choice or an unfaithful spouse would lose her standing in the court, and may not recover. She couldn’t really go pick up and start a new life either.

The motif tear-soaked sleeves was a popular poetic device, and you can find it in other poems in the Hyakunin Issue, poem 42 for example. Sleeves in general are featured in a surprising number of poems from the Hyakunin Isshu:

• Sleeves covered in dew from the overnight watch (poem 1)
• Sleeves of a Buddhist monk, shielding the world (poem 95)
• Pollen covered sleeves (poem 15)

Fashion in this time was somewhat different than the photo above (showing fashion centuries later during the medieval era), but it’s not hard to imagine a broken-hearted woman with tear-soaked sleeves nevertheless. But it’s interesting how sleeves were such an important expression of Japanese sentiment in the Court at the time.

End Of An Affair: Poem 63

This is one of the sadder poems to share, but does have an interesting historical point to share as well:

今はただ Ima wa tada
思ひ絶えなむ Omoi taenan
とばかりを To bakari wo
人づてならで Hitozute nara de
いふよしもがな Iu yoshi mo ga na

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

Now, the only thing
I wish for is a way to say
to you directly
—not through another—
“I will think of you no longer!”

The poem was composed by Fujiwara no Michimasa (992-1054), who was the son of Korechika (Korechika’s mother wrote poem 54), the same man who had Sugawara no Michizane (poem 24) exiled. In any case, Michimasa’s family was on the losing side of a struggle with Fujiwara no Michinaga who employed Lady Murasaki (poem 57) and Lady Ise no Tayu (poem 61). Michimasa, according to Mostow, spent the remainder of his life in “elegant retirement”. Suffice to say he was well-connected.

According to Mostow, the story behind this poem was a famous affair involving Michimasa and the High Priestess of the Ise Shrine. This affair has been found in Japanese literature for the ages. In any case, news of the affair angered her father, the Retired Emperor Sanjo (poem 68) and the retired emperor subsequently assigned guards at her gate to prevent Michimasa from seeing her again. As you can see, Michimasa is lamenting that he can’t even say goodbye to her in person anymore.

The Ise Grand Shrine is probably one of the most sacred, if not the most sacred, in all of Japanese Shinto religion. Due to its connection with the Imperial Family, who were said to be descended from its primary deity, Amaterasu Omi-no-Kami, the Imperial Family always had one member serving as the High Priestess or saigū (斎宮). Usually this was the reigning Emperor’s daughter, and when that Emperor stepped down, she would return to the capitol. This tradition still continues to this day in some form or another in that the Imperial Family still assigns one member to serve as priest/priestess, though I am not sure if they still have the same requirements as before.

In those days, the High Priestess was a vestal virgin, similar to the ancient priestesses of Rome, and was supposed to remain so during her tenure. However, as other writings of the time showed, such women still corresponded with men from time to time and kept a social circle of women around them. Lady Murasaki lamented that the social circle around the High Priestess of her time was more affluent than the social circles around the Court itself.

Nevertheless, the life of High Priestess was very demanding and required strict purity, due to Shinto notion of purity before coming into the presence of the gods, especially in more sacred sites. Thus, the woman who had the affair with Michimasa apparently went too far and Emperor Sanjo’s reaction was quite harsh.

A sad fate for two lovers, nevertheless.

Here Today, Gone Tomorrow: Poem 55

Another poem on the transience of life:

滝の音は Taki no oto wa
絶えて久しく Taete hisashiku
なりぬれど Narinuredo
名こそ流れて Na koso nagarete
なほ聞えけれ Nao kikoe kere

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

Although the sound of
the waterfull has ceased,
and that long ago,
its name, indeed, has carried on
and is still heard!

The author, Fujiwara no Kintō (966-1041), was one of the top poets of the Heian Period. In fact, the Thirty Six Immortals of Poetry above was compiled by him. Kinto compiled many anthologies that still represent Japanese Waka poetry of that era. In short, Kinto was the ultimate authority on Japanese poetry of his time. He is also the grandson of Tadahira (poem 26) and father of Sadayori (poem 64).

According to Mostow, the poem itself was composed after a number of people visited a famous Buddhist temple called Daikakuji, which is in the western part of the capitol of Kyoto. Interestingly, Mostow also points out that this poem is found nowhere else despite the fact that Kinto was a famous poet and had an extensive collection for Fujiwara no Teika to draw from. On suggestion is that Daikakuji is in the same area as Mount Ogura, which is where Teika’s villa resided. The full name of the Hyakunin Isshu anthology is actually the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu by the way.

In any case, this poem is pretty interesting because of the sense of change over time. The waterfall that existed long ago still exists, but in name only. In the same way, life as we know it know will become a dim memory or a misplaced name for future generations. Although Japanese culture has been influenced by Buddhism and its notion of transience since early history, I think this is a point that anyone, anywhere can appreciate.

Also, Kinto’s ability to express this sense of change and impermanence to life seems to me to demonstrate his poetic talent all too well.

The World Moves On: Poem 93

I was reminded of this poem recently and felt like sharing it with readers. It is one of the most poignant in the anthology, I think:

世の中は Yo no naka wa
つねにもがもな Tsune ni mo ga mo na
なぎさこぐ Nagisa kogu
あまの小舟の Ama no obune no
綱手かなしも Tsuna de kanashi mo

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

If only this world
could always remain the same!
The sight of them towing
the small boats of the fishermen who row in the tide
is touching indeed!

This poem was composed by Minamoto no Sanetomo (1192-1219), who was the third shogun of the new Kamamura Shogunate. Sanetomo even studied poetry under Fujiwara no Teika, the compiler of the Hyakunin Isshu anthology and contributed to many Imperial anthologies as well.

Sanetomo lived at a time when the old Heian court (which included most of the authors in this anthology) had been reduced to a shadow of its former self. The power had shifted away from the Imperial Court to the eastern city of Kamakura, and the country was still rebuilding itself after war. Sadly, the new center of power was unstable, and Sanetomo was assassinated at age 28 by his cousin at the place shown above: Tsurugaoka Hachimangu shrine. A great tree stood at the spot he was supposedly killed, but the tree was blown down in a storm about 5 years ago, and this photo (taken by a good friend) shows the spot where the remains of the tree still exist.

Sanetomo, though Shogun and the most powerful person in Japan at the time, was miserable. He knew people within his own family were plotting against him (obviously his fears were not unfounded), and he lapsed into alcoholism. This poem reflects his melancholy as he views the shores of Kamakura, and wishing this peaceful scene would always remain, in contrast to the troubled life he lived.

Politics and power are a dangerous thing.

A Brief Look at “The Gossamer Years”

Hi all,

This somewhat different than my usual posts, but I after posting a poem by the Mother of Michitsuna (poem 53), I decided to read her diary, called the Gossamer Years, or kagerō nikki in Japanese.

The Gossamer Years is a diary by the “Mother of Michitsuna”, who is never named per culture of the Heian Period of Japan at that time. She lived a generation or two before other famous female authors such as Sei Shonagon (poem 62), Lady Murasaki (poem 57), Lady Izumi (poem 56), etc. The translator, Professor Seidensticker, did a masterful job translating this difficult text. In reading the footnotes, you can see he struggled a lot with the vagaries of the text, and with the language, where it’s not always clear from the context who’s talking about whom.

At the time, she was from a lesser branch of the powerful Fujiwara Family, but she married Fujiwara no Kane’ie, who was gradually moving up the ranks of the Heian Court, and eventually became the Regent to the Emperor, which is where the real power of the throne was. Kane’ie, like other members of the Fujiwara clan, along the way, Kane’ie had to contend with various other members of the clan to gain the prestigious position, which he finally accomplished in 986 as regent for Emperor Ichijō. His sons, Michinaga and Michitaka both became regents and the most powerful men in the Heian Court. Lady Murasaki served under Michinaga, by the way.

Anyhow, suffice to say Kane’ie was a very ambitious and influential man. As such, he married not one, but apparently a few women, as per Heian Period custom. Additionally, like many people in the Court, he also carried on various affairs and had yet more children on top of this. One of them is the author of poem 52.

The Mother of Michitsuna began the diary when Kane’ie first met her, and courted her. Her own father was the governor of a remote province, a mediocre position in the Court, but he gave his blessing and they were married. In the early part of the Diary, she writes about all the passionate love poems they exchanged and such. It seemed like a good relationship early on, but the Mother of Michitsuna wasn’t Kane’ie’s first wife. She was probably his second or third wife (the diary isn’t clear on this), and his time was divided between his wives. When he was not around, she stayed in one of the outer rooms of his mansion and just passed the time with her hand-maidens.

But as the diary shows, Kane’ie’s came less and less often. In time she tracked him down to an alleyway where he’d spend the night with some girl, presumably a bastard child of one of the emperors, and rumor has it that she had a son by him as well. The author was not surprisingly furious and jealous, but completely powerless to stop him. She writes about the sound of his carriage driving by the residence, but not even stopping by to say hello, while she spent night after night alone. Later, in Book 3, she finds about more of his affairs and children, and adopts the daughter of another of his lovers so that she doesn’t have to spend her young life in a monastery. Strangely, Kane’ie’s brother takes an interest in the child (his own niece) and gets very pushy about marrying her which again was not unusual at the time among the nobility. The Mother of Michitsuna expends a lot of effort to delay and make excuses for the girl, and pleads with her husband to help her, with only modest success.

This agonizing loneliness and sense of abandonment is the primary theme of the diary. There are times when Kane’ie and the Mother of Michitsuna grow closer briefly, such as when Kane’ie falls gravely ill or when the Mother of Michitsuna loses her own mother to old age, but after a while he forgets her again. Their relationship is quite strained in the diary though, because she is frequently enraged by his insensitivity, but Kane’ie gets frustrated by her “moods” and can’t seem to understand why she is mad at him. Worse, he blames her regularly as to why he doesn’t come anymore.

At one point, the Mother of Michitsuna, now old and a has-been, has had it with Kane’ie and abruptly moves out of the mansion and retreats to a monastery which causes quite a stir at the Court and humiliates Kane’ie. Furious he tries to send messenger after messenger to bring her back, but she refuses for a long time. Finally, after a combination of threats and pleading, she agrees to return home, but they soon fall into the old routine again.

The Mother of Michitsuna only had one child with Kane’ie, Michitsuna of course (who rose to be a minister of the Court, though not as powerful as his half-brothers), and Kane’ie seems to take much pride in his son, but also periodically uses him as a weapon for getting back at his mother.

Thus, the Gossamer Years is a long, and often very depressing diary of a noblewoman in a very unsatisfying marriage who spent many dreary days alone. The diary ends abruptly one day when there’s a knock at her residence, and it appears that she never took up the brush again. Nobody knows why. As for the diary itself, it is full of poems exchanged back and forth. Most of these are mediocre poems, though as you can see, Fujiwara no Teika did include one of them in his famous Hyakunin Isshu anthology. However, these other poems are also waka poems, just like the ones you read here on this blog, and it’s amazing how many poems people exchanged in those days just to express things like “how are you?” or “can you come over?”.

In today’s modern age where text-messages replace letters or poems, we can send messages much quicker now, but it’s amazing how much skill and subtlety it took to get a simple point across to someone back then. Not surprisingly, the kinds of feelings of frustration a broken-hearted woman might have were probably much worse then because they were traditionally very isolated in their homes. It was uncommon for women, especially powerful noblewomen, to go out on their own without permission from their husbands, and their lifestyle and huge robes made it difficult to travel far anyway. Customs and such would also get in the way too. In short, women spent most of their time indoors in their home with nothing to do.

As for the Mother of Michitsuna herself, it’s tempting to make her a tragic, almost saintly figure, but in reality she was prone to faults of her own. When the “woman in the alley” had the misfortune of losing her home to a fire, the author felt a moment of triumph and petty revenge without any remorse. In another, more troubling scene late in book one, she encounters a defeated rival (it’s not clear who) and gloats over her:

At the Hollyhock Festival in the Fourth Month I recognized the carriage of a lady who had once been my rival, and I deliberately had my own carriage stopped beside it. While we were waiting, rather bored, for the procession to go by, I sent over the first line of a poem, attached to an orange and a hollyhock: “The hollyhock should promise a meeting, but the orange tells us we have yet to wait.” After a time she sent back a line to complete the couplet: “Today for the first time I know the perverseness of her who sends this bitter yellow fruit.” “Why just today—she must have had similar feelings for years,” said one of my women. When I told the Prince [Kane'ie] of the incident, he remarked, to our considerable amusement, that the closing line the lady really had in mind was probably more like this: “This fruit you send me, I would like to grind it to bits with my teeth.” (pg. 59, trans. Seidensticker).

Clearly the Mother of Michitsuna was not above petty rivalries or revenge when it suited her.

Anyhow, what makes the Gossamer Years such a significant work of literature is that it was the first and only real diary of the Heian Period to really express how a woman felt in that small, cloistered world. The Heian Period had many great works of literature, both by men and women, but these works were either fiction (e.g. Tales of Genji), poetry (e.g. Tales of Ise) or just a dry journal about what happened. The Gossamer Years is much more “raw” and unfiltered than other works at the time. The Mother of Michitsuna is not a strong or witty writer like Sei Shonagon or Lady Murasaki, but you can really feel her pain at times, and wonder why she puts up with him. Then again, the customs of the time gave her little power to do otherwise.

But as you see later in Book 3, it was the culture of the time, not unlike the cloistered French Aristocracy centuries later. The marriage laws from the Taika Reform were vague and full of loopholes, so men could marry as often as they could afford, and affairs were pretty rampant as other poetry in the Hyakunin Isshu regularly show. So while I do enjoy the Hyakunin Isshu and the culture of the Heian Period very much, the Gossamer Years was a sobering reminder that there was a serious side to it as well.

2012 in review: 100 Poets Blog

Thanks all for reading this blog. When I first started it, I didn’t expect much more than a few readers, but to my surprise it has grown a lot more than expected. Anyhow, the WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog and I felt like sharing it with readers.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 5,100 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 9 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Waves Beating Against The Shore: Poem Number 48

I decided to post this one after Valentine’s Day for all those whose plans didn’t go well. You’re not alone, as we shall see.

風をいたみ Kaze wo itami
岩うつ波の Iwa utsu nami no
おのれのみ Onore nomi
くだけて物を Kudakete mono wo
おもふ頃かな Omou koro kana

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

Waves that beat against the rocks,
fanned by a fierce wind—
it is I alone
who breaks, those times
when I think of her!

The author, Minamoto no Shigeyuki (?-1001?) was a well-associated poet who knew Kanemori (poem 40) and Sanekata (poem 51) according to Mostow. He is the last of the Thirty Six Immortals of Poetry featured in the blog (not all 36 are in the Hyakunin Isshu).

The poem, like poem 45 and poem 19, features the popular theme of a cold lover. For some reason, I had a difficult time understanding the analogy of this poem the first time, but Shigeyuki is comparing himself to the waves that crash on the shore. His lover is like the rocks that are unmoved by the waves.

It turns out though that this poem was actually composed for a poetry game involving a hundred-poem sequence “when Retired Emperor Reizei was still called the crown prince” according to Mostow. Such poetry games were popular in the late Heian Period, and influenced people like Fujiwara no Teika and the Hyakunin Isshu anthology.

The Cold Morning: Poem Number 52

For our final poem for Valentine’s Day, I thought this was another good choice:

明けぬれば Akenureba
暮るるものとは Kururu mono to wa
知りながら Shiri nagara
なをうらめしき Nao urameshiki
あさぼらけかな Asaborake kana

Which Professor Mostow translates as:

Because it has dawned,
it will become night again—
this I know, and yet,
ah, how hateful it is—
the first cold light of morning!

The author of the poem, Lord Fujiwara no Michinobu (972-994), was the adopted son of the powerful Fujiwara no Kane’ie who was the husband of the mother of Michitsuna (poem 53), author of the Gossamer Years. Kane’ie was known for his philandering, and it seems that his adoptive son had a relationship or two as well, though sadly he died at the age of 23 according to Mostow.

This is another classic “Morning After” poem, which we’ve featured here, here and here.

Lord Michinobu dreads the rising sun because it means he has to sneak back to his own residence, away from his lover. Judging by his reaction, it must have been a night well-spent together.

Happy Valentine’s Day!