I’ve written before about Empress Teishi, the ill-fated first wife of Emperor Ichijō, and patron of Sei Shonagon who wrote poem 62 of the Hyakunin Isshu (よを). Her family lost a power-struggle to a rival faction of the Fujiwara clan, and under pressure Ichijō took a second wife from the winning faction: Empress Shoshi. Teishi was sidelined, and although she did give birth to an heir, she soon died from illness and presumably humiliation and stress.
While watching the historical drama about Lady Murasaki, it showed Teishi’s untimely death, and revealed that she had left a final deathbed poem to her beloved husband. The poem really exists and is actually recorded in an imperial anthology, the lesser-known Goshūishū (後拾遺), number 536:
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation
夜もすがら
Yo mo sugura
If you should remember
契りしことを
Chigirishi koto wo
that vow we made
忘れずは
Wasurezu wa
in the deep of night,
恋ひむ涙の
Koimu namida no
then I long to see
色ぞゆかしき
Iro zo yukashiki
the color of your tears…
In the drama, Emperor Ichijo and Teishi are portrayed as being sincerely in love, yet ultimately they are a victim of politics and forced apart more and more over time. The vow alluded to here was portrayed in the drama as a promise by Emperor Ichijo to always love Teishi no matter what.
Rokuharamitsu-ji Temple in Kyoto, where Teishi was laid to rest. Photo by 663highland, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Later, Teishi was buried (not cremated in typical Buddhist fashion) at a temple called Roku-haramitsu-ji, near an area of Kyoto called Toribeno no Misasagi (鳥戸野陵). Legend says that on the night of her funeral it snowed. Emperor Ichijo, who was unable to attend, was said to have stayed up all night mourning for her at the palace. Later he composed a poem for her, preserved in the Eiga Monogatari, which is as follows:
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation
野辺までに
Nobe made ni
My heart yearns
心ばかりは
Kokoro bakari wa
for you all the way
通へども
Kayoe domo
in Toribeno,
わが行幸とも
Waga miyuki tomo
and yet I worry if
知らずやあるらん
Shirazuya aruran
you are aware of my coming.
Later, Sei Shonagon who retired from the Court, was said to have taken up residence near Toribeno no Misasagi, particularly near a temple named Sennyu-ji. You can see some photos of these places in the video posted here. It was looking back in her later years that Sei Shonagon wrote the Pillow Book as a subtle memorial to her beloved patron, looking back fondly on happier days together.
Lady Murasaki, one of the most famous women of Heian-period Japan, and the first novelist in Japan, wrote many wonderful romantic scenes through the Tales of Genji, yet her real life marriage was anything but.
The latest episode historical drama on NHK about the life and times of Lady Murasaki (poem 57, め) covers her marriage to her second-cousin Fujiwara no Nobutaka (藤原宣孝, ? – 1001), who was around 20 years her senior. Yes, this was not that unusual for the time, but still gross.
Sadly, the marriage quickly turned sour. Nobutaka slept around a lot, and had other hidden wives and children. Lady Murasaki did not take this lying down and the two of them fought frequently. Nobutaka for his part, enjoyed bragging about his trophy wife.
In the poems preserved in Lady Murasaki’s own private collection is this poem addressed to her husband:
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation1
言ひ絶えば
Ii taeba
If you saw you’re going to
さこそは絶えめ
Sa koso wa taeme
stop writing me, then fine!
なにかその
Nanika sono
You can’t even
みはらの池を
Miwara no ike wo
stand by the bank
つつみしもせむ
Tsutsumi shimo sen
of Miwara pond properly.
1 Apologies for any mistakes, or for the roughness of this translation
The backstory of this poem is that Nobutaka had taken one of Lady’s Murasaki’s private letters addressed to him, and shown off that letter to friends (apparently bragging about how smart his young bride was). She was justifiably angry and told him to knock it off. Nobutaka was angry with her and threatened to stop writing. Her reply above, was a clever way of saying “fine, don’t bother writing me”. The allusion to Miwara pond was a pair of puns:
Miwana pond (mihara) is also a pun for anger.
The word tsutsumi is also pun for a bank (as in riverbank), and self-restraint.
Contrary to Lady Murasaki’s reply, Nobutaka was so impressed by the reply that he ended up bragging about it to his friends anyway. 🤦🏼♂️
Another letter is as follows:
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation2
忘るるは
Wasururu wa
Forgetting others is
うき世のつねと
Uki yo no tsune to
a part of this ephemeral world,
思ふにも
Omou ni mo
Even so,
身をやるかたの
Mi wo yarukata no
being forgotten myself,
なきぞわびぬる
Naki zo wabinuru
I cannot help but cry.
2 Apologies for any mistakes, or for the roughness of this translation
The married nobility of the Heian Period frequently lived in separate estates, and the husband would visit his wife as needed, but not the other way around. It seems by this point, Lady Murasaki was forgotten by her philandering husband, and lamented her unhappy marriage. One can’t help but recall the Gossamer Years generations earlier.
It is sad that such a talented woman was relegated to an unhappy marriage with a faithless, not to mention narcissistic husband, especially in a society where women had little recourse. I also wonder how much this motivated her to write her novel, The Tales of Genji, as a coping mechanism.
P.P.S. For folks who are visiting Kyoto, there are many excellent locations associated with the life of Lady Murasaki and the Tales of Genji. The featured photo above is the “Genji Garden”, part of the Buddhist temple of Rozan-ji, courtesy of PlusMinus, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons. This blog includes an excellent photo-tour of Rozan-ji.
The fashion of the nobility of the Heian Period of Japanese history is fairly different than later, more familiar styles we often see in Japanese media like anime, manga, etc., because it reflects early Chinese influence, but also increasingly local innovations and culture. Further, as we’ll see, because the aristocracy was socially rigid and had many complex customs and rules, this affected how people dressed as well. Everyone knew their place, and their fashion reflected this too. I have touched on the subject a little bit here and here, but I always wanted to explore in depth. The issue was (until recently) a lack of resources and time. But, here we go.
Some great online resources for fashion during the Heian Period of Japanese history (c. 8th century to 12th century) can be found on this website (Google translated version here), and this site. The second link has some English in it, so even if you can’t read Japanese, it’s a great place to visit and look around.
However, for us Hyakunin Isshu poetry (and karuta) fans, you can see many great examples in the yomifuda cards too.
Women’s Fashion
This card, depicts Daini no Sanmi (poem 58, ありま) of the Hyakunin Isshu. The illustration, part of the Ogata Korin collection, shows her in full formal dress.
Like many women of the Heian Period, during formal occasions, she would wear multiple layers of kimono robes called junihito-é (十二単) which literally translates to “twelve robes”. The women of the court did not actually wear 12 layers, but it was much heavier and bulkier than kimono fashion of later centuries.
Here’s another example: Suō no Naishi (poem 67, はるの):
The robes (hitoé, 単) were very long and thus hard to walk in.
Over the layers of robes, the women would wear a “Chinese jacket” (karaginu, 唐衣).
The white train in the back was called a mo (裳), which tied around the waist.
The women wore hakama (袴) trousers much like Japanese traditional clothing today.
You can see a really good example of this kind of fashion here. Definitely check out the link.
Men’s Fashion
Men’s formal wear, if you can believe it, was actually more complicated than women’s. Broadly speaking, it could be divided into three categories: civil bureaucrats, warriors (e.g. palace guards), and upper class nobility including the Emperor.
Imperial Advisors
Because the Imperial court of Japan was modeled after the Chinese-Confucian bureaucracy from antiquity, there are some similarities in the fashion of the civil servants (bunkan, 文官): black robes, similar hats, etc. We can see some examples here: Middle Counselor Yakamochi (poem 6, かさ):
One thing to note is that even samurai warlords who ruled the country in later periods (see Sanetomo), when they came to the capital (jōraku 上洛) were expected to wear this kind of court dress befitting whatever rank they had been bestowed. Although the samurai class held true power, they were still technically part of the Imperial court so customs persisted.
Guards
For the palace guards and other military figures, the formal dress was similar to the bureaucrats above, but with some notable differences. A good example from the Hyakunin Isshu is Fujiwara no Michinobu (poem 52, あけ):
Noting the differences here:
Guards and military figures were equipped with a sword (ken, 剣), bow (yumi, 弓), and a quiver of arrows (ya, 矢).
The crown on their head was shaped in a loop, not a long trailing one. It was called a ken-ei-kan (巻纓冠) instead.
The crown also had two fan-like protrusions called oikake (緌).
Instead of black-lacquer clogs, the shoes were often pointed-toe boots called kanokutsu (靴).
The upper nobility wore clothing that was pretty similar to other members court, but with one major exception: the colors of their robes. Here you can see Prince Motoyoshi (poem 20, わび):
As eluded to in Lady Murasaki’s diary and other sources, there was a strict hierarchy within the Court nobility, which was reinforced by which colors of robes people were permitted to wear. This included colors such as green (shown here), orange (shown here) or white (shown here). The green linked above was, for example, permitted to courtiers of the sixth rank, or palace servants of the fourth rank. Wikipedia has list of forbidden colors, and what ranks were associated with each. The point is is that just by looking at someone’s robes, members of the aristocracy knew each other’s place.
The very upper class nobility, namely those of the Emperor and his family, are often depicted in white robes with red trimming, which is similar to those used by Shinto priests (shown here). It’s probable this was intended to reinforce the Imperial family’s divine lineage, but that’s just a guess on my part.
The fashion used in the yomifuda Karuta cards really tells us a lot about the culture that the poets of the Hyakunin Isshu lived in.
Waka poetry, including the Hyakunin Isshu has a lot of conventions and symbols used to express certain seasons or sentiments. This is not so unusual. For example, if someone in the US writes a poem about the smell of cinnamon, it definitely brings to mind late autumn or winter.
One common example in the Hyakunin Isshu of poetic symbolism are birds. Birds have distinctive calls, and different species tend to be prominent at different times of year, among other things. For this post, I included a lot of poetry from the Imperial anthology, the Kokin Wakashu, which is much larger than the 100 poems of the Hyakunin Isshu, and thus easier to find examples.
Spring
The most prominent bird in Spring is the uguisu, the Japanese Bush Warbler, also called the Japanese Mountain Thrush:
The uguisu’s distinctive bird call is very emblematic of the season.
The bird call of the uguisu sounds like ho-ho-ke-kyo, which to Japanese people sounds similar to a famous Buddhist text called the Lotus Sutra (hokekyo in Japanese). I’ve written much about the Lotus Sutra in my other blog, so I do not need to repeat here. Needless to say, when Spring comes, people in Japan inevitably hear this lovely sound, even in urban areas.
Oddly, there are no poems in the Hyakunin Isshu about the uguisu, however, I found many poems in the official anthology, the Kokin Wakashu. Here are a few of my favorites thus far. This first one is poem 4 by Fujiwara no Takako (藤原高子; 842–910) later Nijo-kisaki (二条后, “Nijō Consort”):
Apparently, the bird was highly praised during the aristocratic court culture of the Heian Period, and Sei Shonagon (poem 62) mentions an expedition in her Pillow Book:
[94] …it had been overcast and tending to rain since the first day of the [fifth] month. Some of us were sitting about at a loose end, when I came up with the suggestion that it would be fun to go off on an expedition to hear the hototogisu….
[ later ] … and as for the hototogisu, they were indeed calling back and forth, so loudly in fact that they made almost too much of a din for comfort.
Translation by Dr Meredith McKinney
The anecdote is quite long, but Sei Shonagon and the other ladies-in-waiting do encounter the hototogisu, and meant to write poetry about them, but then through a series of interactions forgot the poetry entirely and came back to the Empress empty handed, followed by various witty comments back and forth.
Autumn
Unlike the Spring, where the call of the bird is highly praised in poetry, in the Autumn, theHyakunin Isshu Daijiten lists a few birds that were revered in poetry. For example, migratory birds, such as the Wild Goose (kari):
I had some trouble finding poems for the fall birds listed in either the Hyakunin Isshu or the Kokin Wakashuanthology, but there seems to be a lot in the later Shin-Kokin Wakashu anthology. I don’t have a reliable translation of the Shin-Kokin Wakashu, so I may update later.
I did find this poem under the section “Miscellany 2” in the Kokin Wakashu, poem 497 by an anonymous poet:
The birds associated with winter, were birds whose cries were melancholy and said. First and foremost is the plover, which we saw in poem 78 (あわじ) of the Hyakunin Isshu:
Or the Black-headed Gull (miyako-dori, meaning “bird of the capital”):
The miyakodori in particular stood out due to its unusual name. The Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten lists a poem from the official Kokin Wakashu anthology of note, poem 411 under the section “Travel Poems”:
The headline for this poem explaining the backstory is unusually long, but basically the poet, Ariwara no Narihira (who also wrote poem 17, ちはやふる, in the Hyakunin Isshu) was away in eastern Japan with some companions, and longing for home in the capital, they saw a miyako-dori bird (lit. “capital bird”) and recited this poem.
The Mallard in particular had dual-association with romance and with the melancholy of winter. This poem in the Kokin Wakashu, number 533, by an anonymous author illustrates this:
Certain birds were also used in Japanese poetry for symbolic purposes, but not necessarily for seasonal expression.
We’ve talked about birds associated with seasons thus far, but there’s a couple worth calling out that are an important part of Japanese poetry, but not related to seasons. The first is the Copper Pheasant, called yamadori, which we saw in poem 3 of the Hyakunin Isshu (あしびきの).
In antiquity, it was thought that Copper Pheasants mated for life (true), but slept in separate nests at night. Thus, the poet Kakinomoto no Hitomaro likened himself to a Copper Pheasant sleeping alone at night part from his lover.
And finally we come to the magpie. In poem 6 of the Hyakunin Isshu (かさ), the poet Chūnagon Yakamochi describes frost growing under moonlight on the so-called Magpie Bridge of the Imperial Palace. The magpie (kasasagi) was associated with a Chinese myth that evolved into the Qīxī Festival (七夕), celebrated as Tanabata in Japan.
In this tale, two star-crossed lovers, a celestial princess and a cowherd, were forcibly separated in the heavens by her father the Jade Emperor, but allowed to reunite one night a year. It was said they would reunite by crossing a bridge made of magpie birds who put their outstretched wings together. Thus, the magpie was always associated with this famous tale.
Poetry about war is not something you will ever find in the Hyakunin Isshu, or other Imperial anthologies. So, I was quite surprised to find this poem in the Manyoshu.
Manyogana
Japanese
Romanization
Translation1
熟田津尓
熟田津に
Nikitatsu ni
I was going to wait for
船乗世武登
船乗りせむと
Funanorisen to
the moon to rise before
月待者
月待てば
Tsuki mateba
embarking from Nikita bay,
潮毛可奈比沼
潮もかなひぬ
Shio mo kanainu
but the tide is up:
今者許藝乞菜
今は漕ぎ出でな
Ima wa kogi-idé na
go, row out now!
1 Translation by Kudō Rikio, Ōtani Masao, Satake Akihiro, Yamada Hideo, Yamazaki Yoshiyuki, ed. SNKBT: Man’yōshū, 4 vols. Iwanami, 1999–2003, originally found here.
This poem was recited by none other than Princess Nukata (Nukata no Okimi, 額田王, 7th century), whom we saw in these twopoems. She wasn’t just a woman sought after by two emperors, but also played a small part in the effort to restore the Korean kingdom of Baekje.
A map of Korea in the 4th century showing the three kingdoms. Baekje is at the height of power at this time. Map by Historiographer at English Wikipedia, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
For centuries, the Korean Peninsula was divided into three kingdoms: Goguryeo, Silla and Baekje who constantly vied for control. Baekje, called Kudara (百済) in Japanese, was the country most closely allied with Japan in antiquity and helped bring much continental culture to the fledging Japanese court. They had a long-standing alliance.
But in 660, Baekje was crushed by the combined forces of Silla and their ally, Tang-Dynasty China (aka “Great Tang” as they called themselves). The remnants of the Baekje court fled to Japan and sought help to restore their kingdom.
With Japanese and Korean restoration forces mustered at beaches of Nikita (熟田) Bay in modern day Ehime Prefecture, Princess Nukata, writing on behalf of the Baekje sovereign, Prince Buyeo Pung, recited this poem to fire up the troops.
Sadly, the restoration effort gradually failed. The forces landed in former Baekje and made initial gains, but gradually lost steam, and then were crushed in 663 at the Battle of Baekgang. This was also the last time that Japan sent troops to the Korean Peninsula until the 16th century under Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s invasion of Korea.
As I wrote before, the Manyoshu, while technically Japan’s first poetry anthology, is a somewhat different beast than later anthologies and collections. The poetry techniques are less refined, but the Manyoshu is often revered for its more visceral nature, its breadth, and its small peeks into antiquity.
P.S. Korean history is fascinating too, and makes for some pretty nice K-Dramas which you can easily find on streaming media such as Netflix. If you’re not already a K-Drama fan, maybe look up a few and enjoy.
P.P.S. Before I found a proper translation, I was translating the final line as “Let’s row” in the same way that Optimus Prime from the Transformers would say “Roll out!”. Maybe less accurate but it sounds cool, especially coming from Princess Nukata. 😎
A while back I wrote about a famous poem in the Manyoshu anthology by Princess Nukata addressed to her ex-husband Prince Oama (later Emperor Tenmu). It seems that the story of this forbidden encounter in a field of grass did not end there, because Prince Oama replied back…
Before we discuss the poet and the context, I wanted to briefly explain the plant described: murasaki (紫草). I had some trouble finding information on this plant, but it seems to be the species Lithospermum erythrorhizon which in English has a variety of names: purple gromwell, red stoneroot, red gromwell, etc.
Princess Nukata was Prince Oama’s ex-wife, but had remarried his older brother, Emperor Tenji (poem 1 in the Hyakunin Isshu), while the emperor had compelled Prince Oama to marry his own niece (Tenji’s daughter) Princess Unononosasara to strengthen the family line. Relations in the family were complicated. Later after Emperor Tenji died, Prince Oama went to war against Tenji’s son, and overthrew him to become Emperor Tenmu. Game of Thrones, Japanese ediiton.
Yet what makes this exchange of poems surprising is that both Princess Nukata’s poem, and Prince Oama’s were recited not in secret, but at a big public banquet in front of Emperor Tenji.
So, what’s going on here? Are they professing their love in defiance of the Emperor?
Well … no. My book on the Manyoshu strongly suggests that given the circumstances these poems were likely recited in jest. Maybe they did still have lingering feelings for one another, but the poems were not meant to reflect real life; they were meant to paint a beautiful, but surreal scene. The imagery is fantastic, and a testament to their poetic skills, but the scene described likely did not happen. This is not unusual with the poetry we’ve seen thus far on the blog: many poems paint idealistic scenes that might be based on real life, but didn’t necessarily happen.
Then again…. what if they recited their poems in jest in order to hide true feelings after all?
While re-reading the Pillow Book lately, one of the people in Sei Shonagon’s anecdotes recites a poem from an Imperial anthology: the Kokin Wakashu (Kokinshu for short).1 When I looked up the poem, it really struck me when I read it. Since I have an English translation of the Kokin Wakashu, and since many of the poems from the Hyakunin Isshu were originally published in the Kokin Wakashu, I figured it would be fun to post other poems from the same anthology.
This poem, poem number 52 of the Kokin Wakashu, reads as follows:
Japanese
Romanization
Translation
年ふれば
Toshi fureba
As the years stream by
よはひは老いぬ
Yowai wa oinu
my own life passes from me
しかはあれど
Shika wa aredo
still I am renewed
花をし見れば
Hana oshi mireba
when I but see the blossoms
物思もなし
Mono omoi mo nashi
my heart’s sorrows disappear
Translation by Laurel Rasplica Rodd and Mary Catherine Henkenius
The headline of this poem reads “seeing cherry blossoms in a vase before the Somedono Consort [Empress]“.2
The author of the poem, Fujiwara no Yoshifusa (藤原良房, 804 – 872), was the first member of the Fujiwara clan to assume the post of Regent to the emperor. This was at a time when the Fujiwara were a rising star in the Imperial court, had married into the Imperial family, and Yoshifusa was the grandfather of the young Emperor Seiwa. So, he had much to celebrate. However, even the powerful grow old and die, and Yoshifusa was no exception.
What I really like about this poem is that in spite of his own fears of growing old, he still can enjoy life here and now and feel young again.
I am at the age where I can definitely start to feel my age, and the years ahead of me are likely fewer than the years behind me, and yet I am rarely bothered by it. I often find moments of joy in life, playing with my kids, enjoying nerdy fandom, and savoring poetry like this, so I know how Yoshifusa feels.
1 Nowadays, people quote movies, TV shows and such. I can quote more gags from The Simpsons than I care to admit. Back then, people quoted poetry from earlier generations.
2 Many poems in the Kokin Wakashu included a headline to explain the scene of the poem, or provide some background. These were not carried over when the poems were collected in the Hyakunin Isshu since they were already well-known poems, or possibly just for the sake of brevity.
You may have noticed the blog looks a bit different now. I have been struggling since the big blog refresh I started in December 2022 to get the appearance just right. Design isn’t my forte (I am a history nerd), so I’ve struggled with finding the right design for this blog. The original blog template on WordPress was so old (this blog was started in 2011) that it was no longer supported by WordPress, so I had to find something else that works. After dabbling with a few designs this past year, I’ve settled on current blog template as of last week and I am pretty happy with it. I hope you all like the new design. I liked it so much I applied the same template to the other blog.
Next news: I will be off to Japan again this summer … though only briefly. The family and I will visit the ancient capitol of Kyoto, just like last year,1 but the visit overall is much more limited and I probably won’t get to see many things related to this blog. I won’t have time to visit Oishi Tengudo again, or Kitano Tenmangu Shrine, but I do however plan to make a stop at Kurumazaki Shrine (mentioned here) to pick up one of those Sei Shonagon (poem 62, yo wo komete) charms. I may try to work in a few other tourist spots related to the Lady Murasaki drama given that it’s popular right now. I also expect to melt under 35C(95F)-degree weather with 75% humidity again like last year.2
I have a few more posts coming up between now and the trip (late July), and I hope you will find them interesting.
Finally, just as a fun bonus, I wanted to share a one-off poem by Lady Izumi (poem 56, arazan) that I recently heard on a different Japanese historical drama. Lady Izumi is one of my personal favorite figures in the Hyakunin Isshu, and this poem was first recorded in an Imperial anthology, the Goshūi Wakashū (後拾遺和歌集), poem 755:
It’s not clear from this poem which lover she is referring to, since she had a number of relationships over the years, nonetheless it is a very sincere, romantic poem and expresses her passionate style nicely.
Happy Summer!
P.S. speaking of history nerd, I’ve debated about making a Japan / history podcast (like many other fine podcasts I follow), but have struggled to find a good theme. I might simply do the “history of the hyakunin isshu” podcast someday. It’s a bit commitment though, so we shall see.
1 While we do visit Japan yearly so my kids can spend the summer with their grandparents and extended family, visits to Kyoto are rare because of cost, time, and so on. Our last visit was almost 15 years ago. It just so happens that we could make two trips in two years. After that, who knows when we will visit next?
2 Without going into too many details, the humidity, heat and fluid loss aggravated an old medical issue I have. A reminder to stay hydrated, and avoid junk food. I like getting older in many ways, except at times like this. 😋
One of most iconic places in the world of Karuta is a placed called Omi Shrine, also called Omi Jingu (近江神宮, おうみじんぐう) in Japanese. It is here that the big championship events are often held, and it is a big part of season one of the anime series Chihayafuru. Not to sound like a cliché, but it is a kind of mecca for the Karuta world and the Hyakunin Isshu.
A scene from Chihayafuru as Chihaya approaches the Rōmon gate.
What is Omi Shrine though?
You see, Japan has essentially two religions that co-exist: the native Shinto religion and imported Buddhist one. We don’t need to go into detail about how they differ; I have an entire blog on the subject. Suffice to say, they differ. Even the place names are different. Buddhist temples are called otera or end with -ji. Shinto shrines are called jinja, jingu or taisha.
Anyhow, Omi is a Shinto shrine located in the city of Ōtsu, in Shiga Prefecture. This area was once the province of Omi, hence the name. The shrine’s constructed began in 1937 and finished by 1940. It is a young shrine, but has a deep connection to the past.
Like all Shinto shrines, Omi Shrine venerates a kami, a divine figure. A kami can be a god (think ancient Greek gods) from Japanese mythology, a local spirit, or even a historical figure. Some shrines venerate more than one kami.
Omi Shrine venerates none other than Emperor Tenji, who wrote poem one of the Hyakunin Isshu (あきの). During his reign, the capitol of Japan was moved to Otsu city and there he reigned until his death. Here, he carried out many essential reforms that provided the foundation for Japanese society for centuries. Because Tenji also wrote the opening poem of the Hyakunin Isshu, the shrine became quickly associated with the anthology and with Karuta.
The shrine website even has a handy catalog of the Hyakunin Isshu poems, not unlike mine. 😉
The English website is pretty limited, but the Japanese site has a lot of great information about the shrine, Karuta and so on.
The shrine is a bit removed from the usual touristy areas, so you might not be able to get there. However if you do go, it’s good etiquette to pay respects to the kami there. Per Shinto tradition (explained here) the process is:
Bow deeply at the waist twice.
In reverence, clap twice.
Bow once more.
You can also use the water font nearby to wash your hands a bit (just watch how other Japanese do it) and your face a bit before facing the kami.
One of the first challenges when you start a game of karuta is to figure out where to put your cards. You’ve been dealt 25 torifuda cards out of 100 total (or 8 if you’re playing online) and they need to be arranged somehow in 3 rows (2 online) such that you can remember where they are, and hopefully make it harder for your opponent to take your cards.
An arrangement of cards, might look something like the picture above: 3 horizontal rows, 1cm between them, and cards arranged across these three rows usually clumped into corners.
Sounds easy … right?
Nope.
The concept of card position or tei-ichi (定位置) has plenty of strategy, and also plenty of personal habits. The first time I ever played, I didn’t know any of this and so my tei-ichi made no sense. I called it the “chaos strategy” as a joke:
It wasn’t even using the correct arrangement or spacing, but I lost 25-0 so I guess it didn’t matter. In time, my arrangement got somewhat better:
In any case, along as you adhere to the basic dimensions of the game layout, you can arrange your cards anyway you like. But also keep in mind that you have constantly remember the current board state (i.e. where every card is) because they often move around as the game progresses. This takes considerable concentration and good mastery of the kimari-ji.
During the start of the match, a lot of people, myself included, like to place their favorite cards in certain areas, or arrange them in a certain way to help relieve the pressure of memorizing so many card positions. I am told by much better players that if you play an opponent enough times you’ll start to figure out where they usually put their cards and can anticipate this (making it easier to remember board state). I have yet to reach this state.
If you watch the anime Chihayafuru1 you may recall that the chubby kid Nishida2 explains some basic tips for good tei-ichi:
Keep the one-syllable kimari-ji cards on the row closest to you. SInce they are taken very quickly, that little extra bit of distance may help you.
Keep the tomofuda (友札) cards, the ones with similar kimari-ji, separate from each other. We’ll get to that in a moment.
These are merely suggestions though. Some players seem to prefer to a more offensive style of play, where they focus more on getting their opponent’s cards and less on their own card arrangement. Other players prefer a more defensive style where they focus on taking their own cards first, and making it as difficult for the opponent as possible.
A very common strategy I see for new and veteran players is to keep your tomofuda together (despite Nishida saying not to). For example, if I have the two cards starting with kono (poem 24) and konu (poem 97) as their kimari-ji, I might go ahead and keep them together. That way, I know where all my “ko” cards are. If I also have koi, then I might put all 3 together.
On the one hand, it’s easier for me to remember. On the other hand, your opponent will likely notice this too, and it makes their job easier.
You can also do as Nishida suggests and intentionally keep them separate. More work for you, but also more work for them.
Notice too that people often keep their cards towards the left and right edges. As with the single-syllable kimari-ji, that extra bit of distance makes it harder for your opponent to reach over and take the card before you do. In close games every bit counts.3
By the way, it is possible, within certain rules and customs, to rearrange cards into new positions during the match. People often do this in the late game when they have only 3-4 cards left and just want to clump them into a single spot, but this is a personal choice. I am told that moving your cards too often is frowned upon. However, if a card in between others was taken, it’s quite alright to shuffle the remaining cards on the row to the edges to take its place (keeping everything neat and tidy).
Since I am kind of a lousy player, I am not adverse to sharing my strategy here, but keep in mind that it is neither expert strategy, nor is it static. It changes and evolves as I gain more experience.
Because of my experience with Japanese language, I like to arrange mine based on columns of the hiragana syllabary, not so much tomofuda:
For example, if I have cards that start with “a” or “i” kimari-ji, for example, I’ll lump them together since they’re in the same column of the hiragana chart. I often group “yo”, “ya” and “yu” together similarly. Of course, I often have tomofuda among them, but that’s not always the case. I have areas where I almost always lump the “a”-row cards, the “ya”, “wa”, and “mi” cards, the “o” cards and so on. It can vary quite a bit depending on which cards I get at the start of the game, but I’ve definitely evolved some habits, for better or worse.
If I have too many cards like this, then I might break them up into two groups so they don’t clump too much. If I get seven “a”-row cards, it’s a bit silly to keep “all my eggs in one basket”.
I do follow Nishida’s advice and keep my one-syllable cards in the corners, but that’s almost a universal strategy, I’ve noticed. Even if you’re reflexes aren’t great, that extra little bit of distance away from your opponent can help.
Further, sometimes, if there’s a card that I am pretty comfortable with, such as the ooe card (poem 60), wasura (Poem 38), or shira (poem 37), I like to isolate it in the middle of the back row. It’s very easy for me to grab, and its unique position is easy for me to remember. Sometimes I do that with the iconic chiha card (poem 17) as well, though it rarely works for me. Of course, this strategy sometimes backfires too.
Thus far, we’ve talked a lot about starting positions. Let’s talk about things moving around.
As cards move around either due to penalties, or because a card from the opponent’s side was taken, things will move around. This can make things hard to remember when you’ve barely got a grasp on where the cards were previously, and that can lead to penalties. One advice I found in Japanese was to send cards to your opponent that have lots of impact (i.e. easy to remember), so you have an easier time remembering the new board state. You can also send tomofuda cards to your opponent so that they are forced to keep them together, or keep them separate. You can also break up your own tomofuda this way.
In any case, as gameplay continues, I try to scan and rescan the board state over and over again to refresh the current card positions. I even close my eyes and try to remember the board state in my mind without any visual distractions. I found closing my eyes to be especially helpful. I think in Chihayafuru, the kids even played a game where the cards were face-down, so the entire game was done from memory. I haven’t tried this yet, but might try it with a smaller set of cards someday.
Based on limited experience, I have noticed that if I stay focused and keep re-scanning the board state over and over, while paying close attention to what the reader is reciting, I tend to play better. When I lose focus, everything goes off the rails.
So, initial card position is something important to consider, but even more important is updating that “mental map”, and of course good listening skills.
Good luck!
P.S. This is pretty amateur advice, so take this with a grain of salt.
1 To be honest, I never finished season one of Chihayafuru. I watch plenty of Japanese TV, but I just don’t watch anime very much. I don’t really watch Ghibli movies either. However, in a feat of hypocrisy, I loveFire Emblem: Three Houses.
2 I forget his English nickname, but his Japanese nickname is Nikuman-kun where nikuman are just the Japanese version of Chinese hum-bao. Anyhow, you probably know the guy, right? Right? 😅
3 If you’re playing against me though, you’re probably going to win. I think my win rate is about 2-3% thus far.
The Hyakunin Isshu 
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