The End of an Era: Poem 100

The very last poem in the anthology goes along with the previous one in our theme on the end of the Heian Court era:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
百敷や	Momoshiki ya	The hundredfold palace!
古き軒端の	Furuki nokiba no	even in the shinobu grass
しのぶにも	Shinobu ni mo	on its old eaves
なほおあまりある	Nao amari aru	I find a past for which
むかしなりけり	Mukashi narikeri	I long yet ever more.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

This poem was composed by Juntoku-in (順徳院. 1197 – 1242), or “Retired Emperor Juntoku”. Emperor Juntoku‘s father, Emperor Go-toba (poem 99), led the disastrous Jōkyū Disturbance in a last-ditch effort to wrest back power from the new samurai military government in 1221. Like his father, Juntoku was exiled after the rebellion was crushed, but he was sent to Sado Island instead, and lived there for 20 years before his death.

This poem, though, was composed in 1216, five years before the war, and recalls the glory days of the Imperial Court before the downfall in the late 12th century. When we look at the lengthy history of the poetry included in the Hyakunin Isshu anthology, spanning 400+ years, you can see how much poems like this one contrast with the upbeat, optimistic ones from earlier generations. By the time that Emperor Juntoku had assumed the throne, the capitol of Kyoto was already a shadow of its former self, and his reign a greatly diminished one.

In fact, in the Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten, the book points out that the Hyakunin Isshu begins with a poem by an Emperor (poem 1) writing on the harvest, a prosperous subject, and ends with another Emperor longing for bygone times. Fujiwara no Teika (poem 97), the compiler of the anthology obviously knew what he was implying.

Also, the phrase momoshiki is an interesting one. According to Professor Mostow, the phrase is borrowed from a much earlier poem in the Manyoshu:

Japanese	Romanization	Rough translation
ももしきの	Momoshiki no	Are the people of the
大宮人は	Ōmiyabito wa	Hundred Fold Palace
暇あれや	Itoma areya	so carefree that they
梅をかざして	Ume wo kazashite	gather plum blossoms
ここにつどへる	Koko ni tsudoeru	to decorate their hair?

Book 10, poem 1883

This poem colorfully describes how people in the palace are decorating their hair with plum blossoms they’ve collected, and playfully suggests that life at the palace is well and carefree.

So, it’s really interesting to see how Emperor Juntoku revives this ancient phrase in a poem that conveys the opposite meaning. The sun has set on the Imperial Court, and the palace looks tired and worn now.

Further, Professor Mostow translates momoshiki as the Hundred-fold Palace which is as good a translation as any in English. But the Chinese characters (kanji) are 百敷 or “hundred seats laid out”, but alternatively, momoshiki can be written as 百石城 meaning “100-stones castle”. Both meanings refer to the Imperial Palace or kyūchū (宮中) in Japanese. The first word implies a hundred mats laid out for sitting (i.e. many people attending the court), while the latter means 100 stones, implying a palace with firm foundations.

But it’s a poignant reminder that all things decline some day.

P.S. The featured photo above is the Ninomaru Palace, Kyoto, Japan (photo by Daderot, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons).

Brooding: Poem Number 99

Since I touched upon the end of the Court-era in Japanese history, I thought it would be fitting to post this poem:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
人もをおし	Hito mo oshi	People seem dear and
人もうらめし	Hito mo urameshi	people also seem hateful
あぢじきなく	Ajiki naku	when vainly
世を思ふうゆゑえに	Yo wo omou yue ni	I brood about the world—
もの思ふう身は	Mono omou mi wa	this self who broods about things.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

The author of this poem was Gotoba-in (後鳥羽院, 1180 – 1239), or “Retired Emperor Gotoba”. Emperor Gotoba was one of the most noteworthy Emperors in Japanese antiquity. Gotoba was responsible for a revival in Waka poetry. He commissioned Fujiwara Teika (poem 97), who compiled the Hyakunin Isshu, among others to make a new official anthology after the Kokin Wakashū centuries before, and this new edition became the Shin Kokinshū which is still an important part of Japanese literature.

Gotoba was a bold character, and sought to restore power which had recently been wrested from the Imperial family by the new samurai class based in Kamakura, Japan (cf. poem 93). So, he and his son Emperor Juntoku, poem 100, organized a last-stand rebellion in 1221 called the Jōkyū Disturbance (or Jōkyū War) where he rallied the samurai back to his banner. Unfortunately, most didn’t want to lose their recent gains, and sided with the Kamakura government under the persuasion of Hojo Masako, the famous “Nun Warlord”.

Thus, the Jokyu Disturbance was a disaster and the Emperor’s forces were quickly destroyed. The young firebrand of an Emperor was then exiled to the Oki Islands and lived their for another 18 years.

This poem though, predates the rebellion and exile. According to Professor Mostow, it was composed as part of a series in 1212, which included Fujiwara no Teika, with the topic of “personal grievance”.

As to “who” he was referring to in the poem, that’s tricky. The word hito means “person or persons”, so it’s pretty generic. Mostow suggestions some traditional interpretations, such as those who oppose the Kamakura government, and those who uphold it (whom he detests), or another traditional interpretation was the common folk vs. those who opposed the rebellion (whom he obviously didn’t like).

We will never really know. But certainly after his exile, we can be sure he spent many days brooding.

P.S. Featured photo is another patron of the arts, Victor Hugo, brooding in this photograph from 1853. Photo by Charles Hugo, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Parting Ways: Poem Number 77

In honor of my wife’s birthday, I thought I’d write about her favorite poem from the Hyakunin Isshu:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
瀬をはやみ	Se wo hayami	Because the current is swift,
岩いわにせかるる	Iwa ni sekaruru	even though the rapids,
滝川がわの	Takigawa no	blocked by a boulder,
われてもすゑえに	Warete mo sue ni	are divided, like them, in the end,
逢はわむんとぞ思ふう	Awan to zo omou	we will surely meet, I know.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

This poem was composed by Sutoku-in (崇徳院, 1119 – 1164), of “Retired Emperor Sutoku“. My new book notes that Sutoku had very tragic fortune in life. Sutoku was the son of Emperor Toba, but there were persistent rumors, and some limited historical evidence that his real father was Toba’s grandfather, Emperor Shirakawa. 😮😮 This strained Sutoku’s relationship with his father Toba, and so Toba did not step down as emperor until 23, despite installing Sutoku as the next emperor at age 5. Though his reign was long, and oversaw many poetry competitions, it ended poorly when he was forced to abdicate, and later exiled.

You see, his father Toba was infatuated with one of his other wive, Fujiwara no Nariko, and designated her son, Konoe as the next Emperor after Sutoku at age 3. Konoe however died at age 17 before ascending, and Nariko believed that a jealous Sutoku had cursed her son. This scandal eventually forced Sutoku off the throne, and his younger brother, Go-Shirakawa was installed next.

After Toba passed away, the bitter Sutoku became embroiled in a succession dispute with the regent Tadamichi (poem 76) that boiled over into the Hōgen Rebellion in 1156. The Rebellion was a disaster, and being on the losing side of the conflict, Sutoku was exiled to Sanuki Province, lived a monastic life until he died in 1164.

Coincidentally, the Hōgen Disturbance marks the beginning of the end of the Heian Court,¹ and the rise of the samurai class, so legends existed that Sutoku’s angry spirit helped bring down the Court. A related legend is that while in exile, Sutoku lived a monastic life and sometimes sent poetry back to the Court, but the Court refused them on the grounds that they might be cursed. Evidentially, rumors of his curse from the death of Konoe, plus his ill-will from rebellion and exile, dogged him even later in life.

Sutoku was said to have taken great offense at this:

Vengeful Sutoku in Japanese art — “The Lightning Bolt”, a famous painting depicting Sutoku’s vengeful spirit, by Utagawa Yoshitsuya (same artist with the name Ichieisai Yoshitsuya), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

I mention all this because this poem on its own is quite lovely, and because it’s signed as “Retired Emperor Sutoku” it’s quite possible he wrote this while in exile, pining for someone he left behind in the capitol. Was it rejected as the legend says? If so, it’s a tragic waste of great poetry, and fuel for supernatural speculation. But if not, then this poem is still a lovely read and a reminder that old friends and loved ones will reunite again someday.

In any case, Happy Birthday, honey!

¹ This is reflected quite a bit in the “mood” of the later poems of the Hyakunin Isshu, especially in the 90’s onward. Some of them have a sense of lost glory as the Heian Period ends, and the Court nobles become utterly powerless to the samurai class.

Playing with Hyakunin Isshu cards

Edit: you can read a more up to date and detailed post about how to play karuta here.

On a recent Saturday, my daughter, wife and I were stuck at home and a little bored, so we decided to play a little game. I took out a box of Hyakunin Isshu karuta or “cards” in Japanese my wife had since she was a young, and my daughter and I set them up. This is a game known in Japanese as uta-garuta or “poetry cards” featuring the Hyakunin Isshu. I’ve mentioned it before here and here. Usually, it’s played on or around Japanese New Year’s, but as the links above show, there are youth clubs devoted to it too as an extra-curricular activity. To play, you need minimum 3 people: one to read the poems, and the others to compete at collecting them.

As you can see in the photo, the cards are all laid on a table. Those ones only have the last 2 verses of each poem, and no pictures, while someone “reads” a card from the other stack with pictures. This stack has the full poems plus pictures of each poet as you can see above. Here’s a photo for clarity:

The card on the left is the full poem, plus illustration, while the card on the right shows on the last 2 lines of verse.

Anyhow, as the reader recites the poem out loud, the other people try to find the card that matches the last half of the poem, hopefully before their opponent person does. Since my daughter is 5 years old, and Japanese is my second language, it was slow going, and there were only 2 of us playing. One of us would read the illustrated card awkwardly, and then we’d both try to find the one that had the last 2 verses of the same poem. It was fun, but took a little while, especially with 100 poems to wade through.

Later, my wife joined us. Since she’s a native Japanese speaker, she could recite the poems faster, freeing up my daughter and I to find the related card. Mommy and daughter teamed up together, but we all took turns reading cards so that my wife would have a chance too. By the end of the game, they won by a ratio of 2:1, but I am happy to still found some cards. 😉

It was my first time playing uta-garuta and we had a great time. If you are in Japan and/or can read Japanese well enough, you may want to pick up a deck yourself. They look great because of the illustrated cards, and are fun for a rainy afternoon. Especially if you 3 or more people, and one of them happens to be a native speaker.

P.S. Have been busy with other projects related to other blog, but hoping to get back into this one soon. My goal is to get to 50 poems or halfway in the near future.

Heavenly Maidens: Poem Number 12

Speaking of moments that we don’t want to end, I thought this poem was an interesting read, and is also one of the more famous ones:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
あまつ風	Ama tsu kaze	O heavenly breeze,
雲のかよひい路じ	Kumo no kayoiji	blow so as to block
吹きとぢじよ	Fuki toji yo	their path back through the clouds!
をおとめの姿	Otome no sugata	For I would, if but for a moment,
しばしとどめむん	Shibashi todomen	detain these maidens’ forms.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

This poem was composed by Sōjō Henjō, (僧正遍昭, 816 – 890), “Bishop Henjo”, who served in the Heian Court until the death of Emperor Nimmyo. It was then that he took tonsure as a Buddhist priest. He is one of the original Six Immortals of Poetry as well as the Thirty-Six Immortals.

The poem was composed during the time that Henjo was in the service of the Emperor (and not yet a priest). The occasion for this was the famous Gosechi Dance or gosechi no mai (五節の舞), more formally known as the toyono akari no sechi-é (豊明の節会), a dance that took place in the Imperial Court during the middle of the eleventh month of the old Japanese calendar (roughly December in modern times) to celebrate the harvest.

During the final months of the year, the Imperial Court held several important events to celebrate the yearly harvest, starting with the niiname no matsuri (新嘗祭) when the Emperor would offer part of the harvest to the gods.¹ The following day, the Court would celebrate the Gosechi dance at the Shishinden Palace, and the Emperor would partake of the new harvested rice. According to Richard Bowring, the Gosechi festivities last up to four days.

The Gosechi dance involved 4 “heavenly” maidens called otomé (をとめ) from high-ranking noble families, and is mentioned by several authors from the era, including Sei Shonagon (poem 62) in the Pillow Book:

[87] At the time of the Gosechi Festival somehow everything in the palace, even the people you see every day, becomes simply delightful. There’s the unusual sight of the bits of coloured fabric that the groundswomen wear in their ceremonial hair combs, rather like abstinence tags. When they seat themselves along the arched bridgeway from the Senyōden, the dapple-dye pattern on the ribbons that bind up their hair stands out beautifully, and the whole effect is somehow quite marvelous. It’s perfectly understandable that the serving women and those who attend the dancers should find it all a splendid honour.
trans. Meredith McKinney

And from the eponymous diary of Lady Murasaki (poem 57):

The Gosechi dancers arrived on the twentieth….I knew full well how hard the young dancers had prepared this year in comparison to normal years when things were worse it must have been for them this year, I thought; I was both apprehensive and eager to see them. As they fully stepped forward together I was, for some reason, overcome with emotion and felt dreadfully sorry for them….And with all those young nobles around and the girls not allowed so much as a fan to hide behind in broad daylight, I felt somehow concerned for them, convinced that, although they may have been able to deal with the situation both in terms of rank and intelligence, they must surely have found the pressures of constant rivalry daunting; silly of me, perhaps. (pg. 39-40)
trans. Richard Bowring

Further, even artwork depicts the Gosechi as shown by the featured photo, painted by Hokusai.

Even now, the Gosechi dance is still performed for the Emperor, at least for special occasions:

Dancers of the Gosechi dance performed in 1928, for the ascension of the Showa Emperor. See page for author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

But I digress, Henjo was so mesmerized by their dance, he compared them with heavenly maidens, and hoped that the breeze would keep them on the earth a bit longer. As Professor Mostow notes, the Gosechi dance had a legendary origin involving Emperor Temmu who beheld heavenly maidens in the sky one night, so Bishop Henjo isn’t just making this up.

However, his playful simile has lasted through the ages.

¹ This is still observed today in the form of Labor Day in Japan.

No Refuge In This World: Poem Number 83

This is a well-known poem in the Hyakunin Isshu, and I felt worth posting here:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
世の中よ	Yo no naka yo	Within this world
道こそなけれ	Michi koso nakere	there is, indeed, no path!
思ひい入る	Omoi iru	Even deep in this mountains
山の奥にも	Yama no oku ni mo	I have entered, heart set,
鹿ぞ鳴くなる	Shika zo naku naru	I seem to hear the deer cry!

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

The author, Kōtai Gōgū no Daibu Toshinari (皇太后宮大夫俊成, 1114 – 1204), or “Master of the Grand Empress’s Palace, Shunzei”. He is also known as Fujiwara no Shunzei, or Fujiwara no Toshinari (俊成 can be read either way), the father of Fujiwara no Teika . Additionally, a surprising number of other poets in the Hyakunin Isshu were associated with (poem 81, 86 and 87), studied under Shunzei (poem 89 and 98), or were directly in opposition to him (poem 79). Shunzei is probably the second most important person in the Hyakunin Isshu after his son of course. 😏

This poem is both moving and technically strong. For example, according to Mostow, the phrase omoi iru is a “pivot word”, meaning that both the words before and after hinge on its double meanings: omoi-iru “to set one’s heart on” and iru “to enter”.

Again, as Mostow explains, the poem generates quite a bit of debate because it’s not clear what concerned him so much. Was it melancholy, a sense of his mortality, or was the state of society at the time (i.e. the decline of the Heian Period)?

Speaking of a deer’s cry, I found this video one of the famous “Nara deer”:

The Nara deer are more domesticated versions of the wild deer in Japan, but it gives you an idea what Shunzei must have heard deep in the woods 900 years ago.

P.S. See poem 5 for something similar.

Contentment: Poem Number 8

An early poem by an obscure and mysterious figure:

Japanese	Romanization	Translations
わがいほおは	Waga io wa	My hut is to
都のたつみ	Miyako no tatsumi	the capital’s southeast
しかぞすむ	Shika zo sumu	and thus I live. But
世をうぢじ山と	Yo wo ujiyama to	people call it “Uji, hill
人はいふうなり	hito wa iu nari	of one weary of the world,” I hear.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

The poem was composed by a Buddhist monk named Kisen Hōshi (喜撰法師, dates unknown), in English lit. “Dharma master Kisen”. Kisen Hōshi lived in the mid-9th century, and this is the only poem known to be his, though others may exist. He is considered one of the original Six Immortals of Poetry and is mentioned in the preface of the official anthology, the kokin wakashū.

The location is a place called ujiyama (宇治山), located on the Tatsumi region southeast of Kyoto, which in turn is named after the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac. In this context, tatsumi (辰巳) meaning literally “dragon-snake” refers to the direction (southeast) relative to the capitol of Kyoto, then Heian-kyō.

Due to word-play of “uji” meaning either 宇治 (“uji”) or 喜し[つらい] (“ushi[tsurai]”), this place was associated with sorry or grief, so few poeple chose to live here. Since that time, it has been renamed in honor of its resident and is now called kisenzan (喜撰山). Someone did a really nice write-up on their visit to Kisen-zan with photos and a view of what is purported to be Kisen’s original hut. Also, the famous Buddhist temple of Byōdōin also can be found there. It was located south of the capital at the time, Kyoto.

The poem is a tricky one and lends itself to two possible interpretations according to Professor Mostow. One interpretation has been that Kisen came there out of grief and weariness of the world, and made it his home. Mostow provides evidence that instead, Kisen lived there contentedly, and only heard from others that it was called brief mountain.

As there is a Buddhist tradition since the time of the Buddha to withdraw from the entanglement of the world, and find peace of mind. This tradition has led to the Buddhist monastic community that exists today in various parts of the world. Kisen is one of many who sought solace in places like Ujiyama. Question is, did he find only sorrow, or did he find contentedness?

Maybe only Kisen will ever know that.

Summer is Back: Poem Number 81

As spring turns into summer, I thought this poem seemed really appropriate and a great topic for discussion:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
ほととぎす	Hototogisu	The hototogisu:
鳴きつる方を	Nakitsuru kata wo	when I gaze out towards where
ながむれば	Nagamureba	he was singing,
ただ有明の	Tada ariake no	all that remains is the moon,
月ぞ残れる	Tsuki zo nokoreru	pale in the morning sky.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

This poem was composed by Gotokudaiji no Sadaijin (後徳大寺左大臣, 1139 – 1191), the “Later Tokudaiji Minister of the Left Sanesada”. His personal name was Fujiwara no Sanesada, and he was the first cousin of Fujiwara no Teika (poem 97), as well as the nephew of Shunzei (poem 83). He left behind an extensive poetry collection as well as his personal diary.

According to Professor Mostow, the poem was composed on the topic of staying up all night, to hear one cry.

The hototogisu (ホトトギス), is called the “lesser cuckoo” in English, or, is Cuculus poliocephalus. The featured photo was taken by Kunming Institute of Botany. Sun Jiao (Interaccoonale), CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

The hototogisu in Japan is a famous bird known for its early summer call, and is thus an emblematic bird of the season. Compare with the plover in poem 78.

You can see a video of its call below:

According to the Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten, the hototogisu is an elusive bird. It flies from branch to branch often, so by the time you hear its distinctive call, it probably has flown elsewhere. Hence, they are easy to hear, but hard for birdwatchers to observe.

In any case, as Professor Mostow explains, the author is waiting all night to hear the first call of the hototogisu as the first sign of summer.

One other note is the term 有明 (ariake), which is one of many poetic terms for the moon. Specifically it means the moon that remains in the morning, after daybreak. This normally occurs on the 16th day of the lunar cycle according to the old Japanese calendar.

P.S. Like the title, I’m back too. 😉

Wishing This Moment Wouldn’t End: Poem Number 73

Cherry-blossom season doesn’t last long, so while there’s still time, I wanted to post one last poem on the subject:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
高砂の	Takasago no	Above the lower slopes
尾おのへえの桜	Onoe no sakura	of the high mountains, the cherries
咲きにけり	Saki ni keri	have blossomed!
とやまのかすみ	Toyama no kasumi	O, mist of the near mountains,
立たずもあらなむん	Tatazu mo aranan	how I wish you would not rise!

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

The author, Gonchūnagon (権中納言匡房, 1041 – 1111) or “Supernumerary Middle Counselor Masafusa”, was a prolific poet both in Japanese and in Chinese-style, and was a close confidant of Emperor Horikawa after retirement. His personal name was Ōe no Masafusa. As Professor Mostow notes, the poem’s meaning is very clear from the headnote, so there’s little if any debate about its meaning (unlike many poems in the Hyakunin Isshu). Masafusa hopes that the mist will not rise and block the view of the blossoms.

This poem brings to mind a time-honored tradition in Japan called hanami (花見) or “cherry-blossom viewing”. 🌸 This is a tradition you can see alive and well in Japan today, and each year there are plenty of websites and helpful guides for Japanese and foreigners to find a good spot for viewing.

However, during the time of the Heian Court and the poets of the Hyakunin Isshu, it was more of an outing for elite members of the court only. Such excursions, just like now, included lots of music, singing and drinking as well as impromptu poetry. The only difference, really, was that back then it was a very isolated affair between good friends and a private spot, whereas now people really have to fight for a good spot in places like Tokyo or Kyoto, and often times involve one’s boss and associates from work. 😏

Still, while some things have changed, it’s nice to see such a tradition live on for so many generations.

P.S. Featured photo is of cherry blossom viewing (hanami) in Oyamazaki, Kyoto Prefecture, Japan. Photo by Oilstreet, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Cherry Blossoms in Unexpected Places: Poem Number 66

Now that Spring is finally here, and cherry blossoms are blooming in Japan, I thought this poem was especially fitting:

Japanese	Romanization	Translation
もろともに	Morotomo ni	Let us think of each
あはわれと思へえ	Aware to omoe	other fondly,
山桜	Yama-zakura	O mountain cherries!
花より外に	Hana yori hoka ni	For, outside of your blossoms,
知る人もなし	Shiru hito mo nashi	there’s no one who knows my feelings.

Translation by Dr Joshua Mostow

The poem was composed by Saki no Daisōjō Gyōson (前大僧正行尊, 1055 – 1135), or “Former Major Archbishop Gyōson”, who according to Mostow, was a famed yamabushi or mountain ascetic, who dwelt on Mount Ōmine near Nara for a long time. He was the great-grandson of Emperor Sanjo (poem 68), and also a very prolific author in his day.

At the age of 10, his father passed away, and by age 12, Gyōson took tonsure at the Buddhist temple of Mii-dera, a major temple of the powerful Tendai sect. According to one episode in my new book, Gyōson had a reputation for being an expert at supplication of the Buddhist deities (lit. kaijikitō 加持祈禱). According to one story, when the newborn baby of Emperor Toba suddenly stopped breathing. Gyōson beseeched the gods, and somehow saved the baby, gaining trust of the Imperial family.

As for the poem, Mostow comments that the poem itself is fairly straightforward, but the poem’s headnote has confused many scholars over time, stating that it was composed “when he saw cherry blossoms unexpectedly at Ōmine.” Was it the time of year, or the location that made it so unexpected? No one really knows for sure.

Also, the term yamazakura (山桜) refers to mountain cherry blossoms. This is a wild variety of cherry blossom that differs from the typical cherry blossoms (somei-yoshino) often seen in gardens. The blossoms are more whitish than pink in color, and bloom at the same time that the leaves do.

Mount Ōmine (大峰山) near Nara was, among places, a popular mountain retreat for yamabushi practitioners. The phrase morotomoni means “you and me”, and implies intimate familiarity.

But, the joy of seeing cherry blossoms at this time of year is hard to deny. 🙂

P.S. Featured photo shows mountain cherry blossoms in Gunma Prefecture, Japan, taken by mahlervv, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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