This is Mount Ogura (小倉山) also called Arashiyama (嵐山) near the city of Kyoto. The place name “Ogura” is where the Hyakunin Isshu gets its full-name: Ogura Hyakunin Isshu.
At that time, it was trendy for aristocrats to compile their own “hundred poems by a hundred poets” anthologies, all named “hyakunin isshu”, but the one that is by far the most famous is the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, which of course is the source and inspiration of this blog. 🙂
Thanks to KyotoDailyPhoto on Twitter for taking this photo. It’s nice to see the place that inspired the anthology.
This poem was composed by Supernumerary Middle Counselor Sada’ie (権中納言定家, 1162-1241), better known as Fujiwara no Teika, or alternatively Fujiwara no Sadaie.1 He is considered one of the greatest poets in all of Japanese history. Teika was the compiler of this Hyakunin Isshu anthology and was also one of the major compilers of the officialShin Kokin Wakashū anthology. He was also the tutor for Shokushi Naishinno (poem 89), and it is thought that they had a romantic relationship too, though eventually they would be separated for good. In any case, his talent and his family’s influence were so great that the family virtually monopolized the Court poetry for centuries to come. But we’ll talk more about that shortly.
Fujiwara no Teika composed many of his own poems in his lifetime, and yet in compiling the Hyakunin Isshu, why did he select this particular poem for inclusion?
Like many of the later poems in the anthology (poem 90, 91 and 94), this poem alludes to a much older one. In Teika’s case, his poem alludes all the way back to the original anthology in Japan, the Manyoshu. Unlike later anthologies, the Manyoshu was a loose connection of poems, compiled 400+ years before Teika, and the particular poem he alludes to was written from the perspective of a man whose love was burning for a woman like the boiling of seaweed at Matsuo Bay. As you can see, Teika reversed the perspective to be that of a woman, while still alluding to the original. Additionally, Teika gives his poem a sadder tone than the poem from the Manyoshu, which came to be a hallmark of Teika’s style.
Incidentally, Matsuo Bay (written as Matsuho 松帆 here) is on the very northern tip of the famous Awaji Island in the Inland Sea. It is a scenic part of Awaji Island, and even has its own homepage. Awaji Island is also the scene for poem 78. The technique of extracting salt by boiling seaweed, or moshio (藻塩) is a time-honored tradition in Japan, and the seaweed gives the salt a special flavor. There’s a really good article about it here.
Fujiwara no Teika was a master of expressing yūgen (幽玄) or subtle, profound beauty in his poetry. This kind of subtle beauty centuries later came to influence other arts in time in Japan including Noh theater, tea-ceremony, etc.
But who was Fujiwara no Teika?
Teika, alternatively read as Sada’ie, was born from an illustrious family of poets though a minor branch of the powerful Fujiwara clan. His grandfather was Fujiwara no Toshitada and his father was Shunzei (poem 83). As a youth, Teika was a sickly boy but as the eldest son, he was obligated to carry on the family legacy. Unfortunately due to complex court politics, Teika was overlooked for much of his early life. However after a fortunate turn of events, he was noticed by Emperor Go-Toba (poem 99) who eventually commissioned him to compile two new anthologies, including the Shin Kokin Wakashū.
Over time though, Teika and Emperor Gotoba disagreed over poetry and compiling the anthology, leading to an increasingly distant and cold relationship. Teika found Gotoba overbearing, while Gotoba didn’t care for Teika’s free-wheeling style. At times, Teika and Gotoba openly criticized one another through poetry, or in their diary entries, and Gotoba even banished Teika for a year from the capitol. Teika meanwhile grew closer to Gotoba’s son who later became Emperor Juntoku (poem 100), while Gotoba became increasingly occupied with the martial arts, and with wresting power back from the samurai rulers in Kamakura (cf. poem 93)
Unfortunately for Emperor Gotoba, his meager forces were utterly routed by the Kamakura army in the short-lived Jōkyū War, and Gotoba was sent into exile (since it was sacrilege to kill the Emperor). Teika was not involved in the war, so he remained in Kyoto, and even reached the Imperial post of Middle Counselor. During this time, he also completed another Imperial anthology, the Shin Chokusen Wakashū, which shows more of his down-to-earth later style.
Finally though, his health declined from old age and from the famine at the time, so he retired and took Buddhist tonsure. It was during his final years in a Buddhist monastery that he was invited by his son’s father-in-law, Lord Utsunomiya no Yoritsuna, to his villa at Mount Ogura near Kyoto.
This stone marker at Jojakko-ji Temple in west Kyoto, near Arashiyama, marks where Teika had compiled the Hyakunin Isshu. More on that in this post. Photo taken in August 2024.
Lord Utsunomiya asked Teika to compile 100 poems in his own hand, so that they could be adorned on the silk screens of his villa, and these 100 eventually became the collection that we know today.
After Teika died at the age of 80, he was interred at Shokoku-ji Temple in Kyoto. The featured photo above shows his grave marker (Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.). His grandchildren formed into three rival schools of Waka poetry that dominated the poetry scene for centuries:
Nijō School (nijō-ha 二条派) – the conservative and dominant school at first. Over time, a series of misfortunes eventually caused the school to decline and fade by the medieval period in Japanese history.
Reizei School (reizei-ke 冷泉家) – the more liberal branch, but a few generations later became the dominant branch. By the middle of the Muromachi Period, two branches had formed: the upper Reizei school (kamireizei 上冷泉家) and the lower Reizei school (shimoreizei 下冷泉家), which the upper school prevailing in the long-run. This school still maintains a large compound in Kyoto to this day.
Kyōgoku School (kyōgoku-ha 京極派) – this school died out in only a couple generations.
But more importantly, the legacy of Fujiwara no Teika is in his celebrated poetry anthologies, particularly this one. Even today, many kids in Japan enjoy playinguta-garuta in school competitions, and there are even Japanese anime about the Hyakunin Isshu. All of this is due to Teika’s talent and taste for selecting good poetry.
And now, this anthology is enjoyed by international readers like yourself. This blog was a originally a little experiment of mine, but I have enjoyed your readership, your comments, and of course your support. Thank you everyone from the bottom of my heart.
As this is the 100th and final poem of the Hyakunin Isshu, that is all I have to offer on this blog. I may take it up again sometime in the future and cover other anthologies like the Kokinshu and the Shinkokinshu, but for now, I decided that I prefer to leave it as it is.
1 The Chinese characters (kanji) for his given name (定家) have multiple readings possible, and both are seemingly correct. However, based on a cursory glance in Japanese, it seems that “Teika” is the more common reading.
The author, Sangi Masatsune (参議雅経, “Counselor Masatsune”, 1170-1221), also as known as Fujiwara no Masatsune, was another editor of the Shin Kokin Wakashū like Yoshitsune (poem 91) and went on to found the poetic house of Asukai (also famous for calligraphy). He also studied under Shunzei (poem 83) earlier in his career.
I had to look up what fulling cloth meant, but apparently it’s the process of beating cloth, especially wool, to improve the texture, or in the case of Japan, give the cloth a nice glossy sheen. You can see an example of this above, in a painting made in the 1800’s, almost 700 years later. I can’t imagine the process changed much within that time. The process was to place the cloth on a wood or stone surface and pound it with a wooden mallet. In Japanese, the process called koromo utsu (衣打つ) just as it is mentioned in this poem.
Also, this poem, like other poems we’ve looked at recently (poem 90 and poem 91), alludes to a much older poem by Korenori (poem 31), which also mentions snow in the village of Yoshino (yoshino-chō, 吉野町), near the old capitol of Nara.
Interestingly, the “former capitol” is referred to by the poetic phrase furusato, which in modern Japanese means one’s hometown. Nara was the capitol of Japan during the early Nara Period, and personally my most favorite place to visit in Japan. The culture at that time was an interesting fusion of early Japanese culture, Chinese art and culture, and Indian Buddhism (via Silk Road). Even after the capitol was moved to Kyoto (another great place), there existed many euphemisms to the “former capitol” by later poets and authors (poem 61, for example) as a kind of nostalgia or the “good ol’ days”. Hence the use of the term furusato I believe.
P.S. Featured photo is Surimono, Woman Fulling Cloth in the Moonlight, by Shigenobu, Brooklyn Museum, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons
This poem was composed by Lady Bettō (dates unknown), known in the Anthology as Kōkamon’in no Bettō (皇嘉門院別当). Lady Bettō served in the house of Empress Seishi, wife of Emperor Sutoku (poem 77). Lady Bettō was also the daughter of Minamoto no Yoshitaka.
Although the life of Lady Bettō is relatively unknown, and she doesn’t appear in many anthologies, Professor Mostow points out that her poem is quite a technical feat. There are not one, but three “pivot words”, or words that carry multiple meanings, and lend multiple interpretations to the poem:
karine can mean cutting a root (刈り根) or a brief nap (仮寝) such as when traveling.
hitoyo can mean either a single segment of a reed (一節) or a single night (一夜).
mi wo tsukushi can mean either to exhaust one’s body (身を尽くし) or one of the famous barriers in Osaka Bay (澪標, see also poem 20)
The poem itself uses many familiar themes too. We’ve seen a lot of poems that feature Osaka Bay, called Naniwa in ancient times, including poem 20, poem 19 and poem 72 among others. Similarly, we see references to reeds, just as we do in poem 39 and poem 19 (again).
What makes this poem stand out is the excellent use of word-play throughout. On the surface, it looks like just another love poem, but Lady Bettō knew what she was doing. 😌
P.S. Featured photo is of reeds (species Phragmites) in Amsterdam, photo by PersianDutchNetwork, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
The author of the poem, Minamoto no Kanemasa (源兼昌, dates unknown) was a frequent participant in poetry contests of the day, but overall very little is known about him, and it doesn’t appear he had any poetry collections of his own.
The first time I read this poem, in Japanese, I misunderstood the phrase chidori (千鳥) to literally mean 1,000 birds (in other words, a lot of birds). But in fact, chidori refers specifically to plover birds. The featured photo above shows a Western Snowy Plover bird on Morro Strand State Beach, Morro Bay, CA, “Mike” Michael L. Baird, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.
In Japanese poetry plover represented winter, and for other seasons, other birds typically were frequently used:
The location, Awaji Island, is a well known part of Japan’s inland sea, and is culturally significant since antiquity. Though at this time in history, it felt a bit remote from the capitol.
Professor Mostow notes that this poem uses some strange grammar though. For example nezamenu would normally mean to not wake up, but in this context means “have they awakened” instead. Also, he notes that this poem apparently alludes to the Tales of Genji, specifically the “Suma” chapter, when the prince Genji was in exile.
All told, this poem paints a sad, somber picture that fits well with wintry days.
Edit: Revamped this page in January 2023 with a lot more information, updated Google Maps links and so on.
Edit 2: Revamped again in August 2023 with even more information.
One of the best ways to appreciate and celebrate the Hyakunin Isshu anthology (besides reading and reciting the poetry) is to play the traditional card game called karuta. I’ve written about it here, here and here before, but for a long time I never owned a set. My wife, who is Japanese, owns a set from when she was young, complete with a cassette tape for reciting the poems, but I wanted to own my own set while respecting her property.
It turns out that purchasing a karuta set can be reallyeasy or somewhat hard, depending on whether you are in Japan or overseas. In Japan, they are easy to find in any local bookstore because kids in Japan often grow up learning the anthology and playing games (even if they lose interest later).
The good news is that you can get a set for relatively cheap (shipping might be pricey though) and there are plenty of good choices. A basic set, minus shipping, is about ¥1800 or $15 USD at current rates, while fancier sets get much more expensive.
This guide is to help folks who are interested in owning a karuta set navigate their options. If you are living outside of Japan, feel free to jump down to the “Purchasing Online” section.
In Tokyo
A while back, I found a good article on the Japan Times about a famous karuta store in Tokyo that has been selling karuta cards for 90 years named Okuno Karuta (奥野カルタ). This is the premiere place to go if you are in Tokyo, particularly in the Chiyoda Ward. You can find it here (Google Maps link):
According to their website they are:
3-min walk from Tokyo Metro Jimbocho Station, A4 exit. This is usually done using the Hanzomon train line.
The Jinbocho Station is the nearest one, and speaking from limited experience the Hanzomon Line is pretty easy to find and covers much of Tokyo.
I did contact Okuno Karuta about ordering online, and while they do have an online store, it usually only ships from within Japan. Your best bet is to simply visit the store in person, or plan to purchase online and ship to some place in Japan you can then pickup.
In Kyoto
If you are closer to the western half of Japan, or traveling through the Kyoto Area, there’s many great karuta shops to visit since it is essentially the home of the Hyakunin Isshu anthology.
My personal favorite is Tengudo (大石天狗堂), founded in 1800. This is the company that made the first karuta set that I purchased, and are located in the Fushimi ward of Kyoto (Google Maps link):
According to their website, the easiest ways to get there by train are:
Similar to Okuno Karuta, you can also order online, but it ships only within Japan.
Local Bookstores in Japan
Further, if you are in Japan, but not near Tokyo or Kyoto (as was my case in December 2022), you can also just visit any local bookstore and find karuta sets there. The selection can be more limited than a dedicated store. The first shop I went to had only one set, but Kinokuniya had several to choose from.
This is a nice middle-ground between big online sites like Amazon or Rakuten, and the smaller but hard to access mom-and-pop stores.
However, again, the shipping options will almost always be limited to Japan only.
Purchasing Online
And finally we come to the last, but most likely option: purchasing online.
If you can’t afford to go to Japan, and just want to get a set of Hyakunin Isshu cards for yourself, there are options for purchasing online.
If you only plan to play, and not read the cards, Tengu-do provides a minimal, tournament-standard set of torifuda cards, available on Amazon JP and Amazon US.1 English is available on Amazon JP.
The torifuda set from Tengu-do. It is a basic, no-nonsense set but still very nice.
But if you’re looking for a full set, maybe with a CD other things, Seattle Karuta Club has other helpful recommendations.
In some countries, Kinokuniya Bookstore has international online stores as well (example link for the USA) which can also ship karuta sets. The USA store can ship to Canada, USA and Mexico for example.
Finally, another option is proxy-buying. This is a niche option that lets you buy Japanese goods from smaller shops like Okuno Karuta or Tengudo, while still being accessible overseas. Japan Rabbit (formerly White Rabbit Express) is one such choice, Rakuten Global Express is another. I haven’t personally use either one, however.
If you go the Rakuten route, they usually have some English translations available, but it’s probably simplest to search for 百人一首カルタ to get accurate results, and then go from there.
Good luck and happy card hunting!
1 These Amazon links are “associate” links, so any purchases made through them give me a small amount of credit in the future.
The author of this poem was known only as Yūshi Naishinnō Ke no Kii (祐子内親王家紀伊, dates unknown) or “Kii of Princess Yūshi’s Household”. She served in the household of Imperial Princess Yūshi, and was the daughter of Taira no Tsunekata and one Lady Koben. The salon of Princess Yūshi included a number of poets and writers and it seems Kii was no exception. She participated in a number of poetry contests and her poems appear in various anthologies.
Speaking of contests, Professor Mostow explains that this poem actually was intended as a response to another poem in a competition held by Retired Emperor Horikawa. Kii was 70 years old at the time according to another source, which is impressive given that she expresses young love so easily after all these years.
The word adanami in the third verse is a particularly interesting phrase. It implies flowers that failed to bear fruit, and thus infidelity. Apparently the women in the poem is not a fool and won’t fall for a dishonest man.
But where is Takashi beach? I checked and it seems to be a famous beach in Osaka Bay, near modern-day Takaishi City in the Osaka Metropolitan Area.
The author of this poem known by the lofty title of Gonchūnagon Sadayori (権中納言定頼, 995 – 1045), or “Supernumerary Middle Counselor Sadayori”, was also known as Fujiwara no Sadayori, son of the eminent poet and critic of the era, Fujiwara no Kintō (poem 55).
Sadayori was also a respectable poet in his own right. According to my new book, when father and son took part in the Imperial precession by Emperor Ichijo to the Ōi River (大堰川, ōi-gawa), part of the modern Katsura River, he was tasked with composing a poem for the occasion and came up with this:
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation
水もなく
Mizu mo naku
How can one possibly
見えこそわたれ
Miekoso watare
look out over
大堰川
Ōi-gawa
the Oi River,
岸の紅葉は
Kishi no momiji wa
when the fall leaves
雨と降れども
Ame to furedomo
rain down on the shore?
Translation by myself
It was a clever way to point out the beauty of fall, and both Kintō and the Emperor were impressed. Later, Sadayori was supposedly flummoxed by Lady Izumi’s daughter, Koshikibu no Naishi in a famous poetry contest (namely poem 60).
In any case, back to the Hyakunin Isshu poem. The phrase asaboraké is apparently short for asa ga oboroge ni aketekuru koro (朝がおぼろげに明けてくる頃) meaning “that time at dawn when things are hazy”, particularly in autumn or winter. It is also used in poem 31, and a challenge for karuta players as a result.
Sadayori’s usage of the Uji River (宇治川, uji-gawa), now known as the Yodo River (淀川, yodo-gawa), may not seem like much to modern audiences, but it carries much meaning in Japanese antiquity. The Uji River was frequently cited Japanese poetry, and runs through the Osaka metropolitan area. It is mentioned in the earliest Japanese poem anthology, such as the Manyoshu, and others. It was a pivotal place at the end of the Tales of Genji, written by Lady Murasaki (poem 57), when the heroine Ukifuné attempts to take her own life, but is rescued from the river and takes tonsure as a Buddhist nun instead. The Uji River was often deeply associated with turbulent relationships between men and women. In a more practical sense, it was also a place where the nobility of Kyoto often had second villas, and was a popular meeting place.
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. You can see an illustration here. Side note: the Salish people here in the Pacific Northwest had a particularly ingenious system of fishing stakes as well.
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.
P.S. The featured photo is the Kennebunk River during fog, photo by David Lounsbury, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
The author, Kawara no Sadaijin (河原左大臣, 822 – 895), “Riverbank Minister of the Left”. His personal name was Minamoto no Toru, renowned for his courtly elegance, and Professor Mostow thinks he may have served as a partial role-model for the famous hero of the Tale of Genji.
The poem is thought to be Toru’s defense to his wife or lover about his faithfulness, but he uses some interesting imagery to convey how upset he is that his faithfulness is questioned. Mostow points out that the poem is a subject of debate because it’s also been interpreted as an expression of secret love to someone else (i.e. “why did you make me feel this way”?).
The place referenced, Shinobu in Michinoku, is the old name for what is now the city of Fukushima in Fukushima Prefecture. Although it is now known for last year’s earthquake and nuclear disaster, the area was originally a frontier area during the time of the Nara and Heian periods, and as evinced in the poem above, famous for it’s patterned cloth called shinobu mojizuri.
The term mojizuri refers to a type of plant, Spiranthes sinensis var. amoena pictured above (photo by Qwert1234, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons), a variety of orchid found in east Asia. It’s also called nejibana in modern Japanese. However, mojizuri also refers to a kind of dyed-cloth pattern made from the plant. The method involves pressing a cloth between the plant and a rock, forming dyed patterns like the ones shown here. This the context that Minamoto no Toru is using in the poem.
This poem was composed by one Semimaru (蝉丸, dates unknown) who is reputedly a blind man who built a hut near Osaka Barrier and was famous for playing the biwa, but the authenticity of this story is questionable, and as Mostow points out, it’s not even certain he existed at all. The story about his life has also changed throughout the generations, so in some cases he’s the servant of the son of an Emperor, and in others he’s the son of an Emperor, abandoned by his blindness.
According to one account in my new book, a high-ranking official named Minamoto no Hiromasa (源博雅) once heard a rumor of a talented blind man with a biwa lute who lived near the Osaka Barrier (see below). He wanted to hear this man’s music, and sought him out for three years until he finally found him on the evening of 15th day of the 8th month (old lunar calendar), and from this man, Hiromasa learned to play the songs that he had been squirreling away. Songs titled such as 流泉 (ryūsen, “flowing spring”) and 啄木 (takuboku, “woodpecker”).
The place in question, Osaka Barrier, is a popular subject of poetry from this era. Poems 62 and 25 also mention the same place because it was a popular meeting spot for people coming and going from the capitol (modern-day Kyoto) eastward. Note that this Osaka has no relation to the modern city of Osaka, which was called Naniwa during that era. In fact the name of Osaka Barrier is also a pun. The Chinese characters are 逢坂, which means “meeting hill”, but is also the place-name.
Anyway, these kinds of check-points, or sekisho (関所) existed in Japan across major roads going in and out of the capitol, but were also popular meeting places for friends and lovers too, as well as having inns nearby for weary travelers. The featured photo above is an example of “sekisho” checkpoint, photo by 663highland, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
The Osaka Barrier in particular was the first check-point leaving eastward from the capitol, so many people probably parted company here, or met old friends at this particular gate more than others. It’s fun to imagine what Osaka Barrier was like in those days. As Mostow points out, this poem probably was originally just a poem about Osaka Barrier, but by the medieval era, it took on an increasingly Buddhist tone in symbolizing the coming and going of all phenomena. Even modern Japanese books on the Hyakunin Isshu tend to reflect this sentiment. Pretty interesting metaphor I think.
One other interesting thing about this poem is its rhythm. If you read this one out loud, the rhythm is very easy to follow, and this is probably one of the easier poems to memorize if you’re looking for a place to start (poem 3 is another good choice in my opinion 😉).
Finally, one random note about Semimaru himself.
His artistic depiction in karuta cards, such as the yomifuda card above based on the famous Korin Karuta collection, leads to frequent confusion by people who play bozu mekuri: is he a monk or a nobleman? Even my new book mentions this conundrum among Japanese players. His lack of verified biographical information makes this question even more mysterious. The book jokes that the author’s house-rule is that if anyone pulls the Semimaru card, then everyone loses what their stack of cards. Feel free to make your own house-rule. 😊
The Hyakunin Isshu 
