Back to our regularly scheduled program, I wanted to share a neat little poem, composed by none other than Princess Nukata using the theme of Autumn and of a night tryst:
Original Manyogana
Modern Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation
君待跡
君待つと
Kimi matsu to
As I wait for you
吾戀居者
我が恋ひをれば
A ga koi oreba
in anticipation
我屋戸乃
我が宿戸の
A ga yado no
the blinds
簾令動
簾動かし
Sudare ugokashi
of my window flutter
秋之風吹
秋の風吹く
Aki no kaze fuku
but it is only the autumn breeze…
Princess Nukata needs little introduction in the blog. She was the loveinterest of two powerful men, issued a call to war, and made quite a contribution to the Manyoshu anthology which the Hyakunin Isshu and other later anthologies are all based upon. My book about the Manyoshu, in talking about spring versus fall, listed this poem as an early, early example in Japanese poetry of using autumn to symbolize other things. In this case, a romantic meeting at night, and a woman who eagerly awaits her lover. The blinds alluded to here are sudaré blinds used in Japanese culture since antiquity and even to this day.
Illustrated scroll of the Tales of Genji, chapter 34, 17th century. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Ever since I picked up this book which explores the Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon (poem 62 of the Hyakunin Isshu, よを), it’s been fun to learn many of the hidden meanings and cultural allusions of this famous literary work.
It’s also fun to see how the Pillow Book is viewed by Japanese students in Japan. I talked with my wife and her friends about it, and they confirmed that kids in Japan study the Pillow Book in school, but like all students everywhere, they tend to forget most of it.1 My book jokes that most students in Japan only remember the very first line: haru wa akebono.
I bring this up because with the recent changing of the weather, I’ve been thinking a lot about seasons, especially after writing this post. So, I went back and looked at the first chapter of the Pillow Book.
The opening section begins with Sei Shonagon’s analysis of the four seasons, and what’s great about each one. This website posts the original text in Japanese (tl;dr it’s fairly different than modern Japanese) and even has a nice recording. It’s worth a listen, even if archaic Japanese is not your hobby.
Separately, if you want to hear how it was pronounced at the time you can see this video (00:47 onward):
Anyhow, let’s look at how Sei Shonagon describes each of the four seasons, starting with Spring…
Natsu wa yoru. Tsuki no koro wa sarinari. Yami mo nao, hotaru no ooku tobichigaitaru. Mata, tada hitsotsu futatsu nado, honoka ni uchi hikarite iku mo, okashi. Ame nado furu mo, okashi.
“In summer, the night — moonlight nights, of course, but also as the dark of the moon, it’s beautiful when fireflies are dancing everywhere in a mazy flight. And it’s delightful too to see just one or two fly through the darkness, glowing softly. Rain falling on a summer night is also lovely.”
Aki wa yuugure. Yuuhi no sashite, yama no hai to chikau nari taru ni, karasu no nedokoro e ikutote, mitsu, yotsu, futatsu mitsu nado, tobiisogu sae awarenari. Maite, kari nado no tsuranetaru ga, ito chiisaku miyuru wa, itokashi. Hiirihatete, kaze no oto, mushi no ne nado, hata, iiubeki ni arazu.
“In autumn, the evening — the blazing sun has sunk very close to the mountain rim, and now even the crows, in threes and fours or twos and threes, hurrying to their roost, are a moving sight. Still more enchanting is the sight of a string of wild geese in the distant sky, very tiny. And oh how inexpressible, when the sun has sunk, to hear in the growing darkness the wind, and the song of autumn insects.”
Fuyu wa tsutomete. Yuki no furitaru wa, iubeki ni mo arazu. Shimo no ito shiroki mo. Mata sara demo, itso samuki ni, hi nado isogi okoshite, sumi motewataru mo, ito tsukizuki shi. Hiru ni narite, nurukuyurubi moteikeba, hioke no hi mo, shiroki hai ga chininarite, waroshi.
“In winter, the early morning — if snow is falling, of course, it’s unutterably delightful, but it’s perfect too if there’s a pure white frost, or even just when it’s very cold, and they hasten to build up the fires in the braziers and carry fresh charcoal. But it’s unpleasant, as the day draws on and the air grows warmer, how the brazier fire dies down to white ash.”
As someone who likes to “nerd out” about such things, I try to shorten this to the following for easier memorization:
Spring: haru wa akebono (spring daybreak)
Summer: natsu wa yoru (summer nights)
Fall: aki wa yuugure (fall sunsets)
Winter: huyu wa tsutomete (early winter morning)
… and now you too know some authentic Japanese literature from the Heian Period.
1 Despite being a nerd now, I was actually a pretty lazy student in school. I was assigned to read various English classics like Ivanhoe, Treasure Island, etc, but usually didn’t read them, and faked my way through exams and such. My grades were mostly C’s and even some D’s. In high school, I finally took an interest in reading after picking up J.R.R. Tolkein’s Fellowship of the Ring, and have loved reading since. Looking back, I suppose a chaotic home life, and also just lack of structure and inspiration were to blame.
As fall is approaching, I wanted to share an interesting anecdote provided by my book on the Manyoshu. It seems that throughout Japanese antiquity, poets frequently debated which is better: spring or fall.
The first example comes from Princess Nukata in the 7th century, whom we discussed here and here, she wrote a lengthy poem (a chōka poem, not the usual tanka poem) in the Manyoshu (poem 16). She discusses the pros and cons of spring and of fall:
Original Manyogana1
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation2
冬木成 春去來者
冬ごもり 春さり來れば
Fuyu gomori haru sari kureba
When winter passes and spring comes
不喧有之 鳥毛来鳴奴
鳴かざりし鳥も來鳴きぬ
Nakazarishi tori mo nakinu
Birds that didn’t sing before, now come and sing
不開有之 花毛佐家礼抒 山乎茂
咲かざりし 花も咲けれど 山を茂み
Sakazarishi hana mo sakeredo yama wo shigemi
Flowers that didn’t bloom before now bloom, but because the mountains grass is so thick
入而毛不取 草深 執手母不見
入りても取らず 草深み 取り手も見ず
Irite mo torazu kusabukami torite me mizu
One cannot go and pick flowers, let alone see them.
秋山乃 木葉乎見而者
秋山の 木の葉を見ては
Aki yama no ko no ba wo mite wa
When you look at the leaves in the mountains during fall,
黄葉乎婆 取而曾思努布
黄葉をば 取りてそしのふ
Momiji wo ba torite soshi no fu
collecting the yellow leaves is especially prized.
青乎者 置而曾歎久
青きをば 置きてそ歎く
Aoki wo ba okite so nageku
Leaving the green leaves as they are is regrettable.
曾許之恨之 秋山吾者
そこし恨めし 秋山われは
Sokoshi urameshi akiyama ware wa
In spite of that, autumn in the mountains is spectacular…
a – I am heavily indebted to this site for both the original text. Translation is based in part on that site, but also my Manyoshu book, but probably lots of mistakes. Translating a five-line poem in archaic Japanese is hard enough… 😅
Speaking of the Manyoshu, its compiler Otomo no Yakamochi (poem 6 of the Hyakunin Isshu, かさ) left us some very nice poetry about spring:
Original Manyogana1
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation2
春苑
春の苑
Haru no sono
Beneath
紅尓保布
紅にほふ
Kurenai ni hofu
the shining crimson
桃花
桃の花
Momo no hana
orchard of
下照道尓
下照る道に
Shita deru michi ni
peach blossoms
出立オ嬬
出で立つ少女
Idetatsu otome
a young maiden lingers.
Poem 4139, book 19
and about fall:
Original Manyogana1
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation2
秋去者
秋さらば
Aki saraba
When fall comes
見乍思跡
見つつ思へと
Mitsutsu shinoe to
think fondly of those
妹之殖之
妹が植ゑし
Imo ga ue shi
pink blossoms
屋前乃石竹
やどのなでしこ
Yado no nadeshiko
of days gone by
開家流香聞
咲きにけるかも
Saki ni keru kamo
and remember me.
Poem 464, book 3
Otomo no Yakamochi wrote both of these poems about his beloved wife, but the second was composed shortly after her parting. The word nadeshiko has special meaning in Japan and has a very feminine, demure3 meaning.
Returning to the debate between spring and fall, Ki no Tsurayuki (poem 35 of the Hyakunin Isshu, ひとは) took up the same topic centuries later. This is poem 509 from an imperial anthology, the Shuishu :
Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation2
春秋に
Haru aki ni
Spring or Fall?
おもひみたれて
Omoi mitarete
My thoughts are a mess,
わきかねつ
Waki kanetsu
and I cannot decide.
時につけつつ
Toki ni tsuketsutsu
The more time passes,
うつるこころは
Utsuru kokoro wa
the more my heart shifts back and forth.
1 This is a rough translation, all mistakes are my own.
The debate was even cited in the famous 12th century novel Tales of Genji written by Lady Murasaki (poem 57 of the Hyakunin Isshu, め):
“Since antiquity, in the debate about spring versus fall, many people lean toward fall, and yet some very noteworthy people who view the Imperial gardens in spring may yet change their mind, as is the way of the world.”
Princess Nukata all the way back in the Manyoshu seemed to imply that autumn was preferable, and it seems that most of the aristocracy shared this view. In fact if we divide up the poems of the Hyakunin Isshu by season, there are more fall poems than spring:
Note: summer only has 4 poems, winter has 9 (same as spring).
But what do you think? Are you Team Spring, or Team Fall?
Edit: added Hyakunin Isshu poetry chart.
1 If you’re wondering why I post Manyogana for some poems, but not others, it depends on the era. The Manyoshu is the oldest anthology by far, and at that time, there was a brief writing system that took Chinese characters, but used them in a phonetic way for Japanese language (a.k.a. Manyogana). By the time of Ki no Tsurayuki and Lady Murasaki, centuries later, this had been replaced with hiragana script. This blog strives to both be accurate and accessible, so I try to balance both needs.
2 These are all rough translations on my part, and likely have mistakes. Any such mistakes are entirely my own.
3 Not to be confused with the “very demure, very mindful” meme. 😛
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 sad, miserable poem was ironically composed by a famous poet of his era named Gokyōgoku Sesshō Saki no Daijōdaijin (後京極摂政前太政大臣, 1169-1206) or ”The Gokyōboku Regent and Former Chancellor”, also known as Fujiwara no Yoshitsune. He was the grandfather was Jien (poem 95). He was another member of the elite poetry family, the Mikohidari (see Jakuren poem 87) and was very well-represented in the Shin Kokin Wakashū poetry anthology which he was an editor. Elsewhere, as a scion of the Fujiwara family, he served as regent to the young Emperor Tsuchimikado, but unexpectedly died at the age of 36.
Astute readers may have noticed that this poem sounds similar, especially in Japanese, to a very early poem in the anthology by Hitomaro (poem 3). Even the last line is the same.
But part of the poem also seems similar to another poem in the Shin Kokin Wakashū anthology according to Professor Mostow, which relates to cold reed-mats and waiting alone. So, in a sense, this poem blends two famous poems and adds the novelty of crickets (kirigirisu) which symbolize autumn.
But as we’ve seen with poem 90, it was an accepted practice at the time to write poetry which allude to older poems in the poems. Indeed, as the author of the blog, I admit I kind of enjoyed this poem more when I noticed the final line and realized I had heard it before. So, I guess the amusement is not limited to 11th century Japanese aristocrats. 😉
Yoshitsune certainly never had to spend a night in the cold as a member of the elite Fujiwara family, but his ability to weave old poetry verses together and paint such a sad picture help explain why he was such a famous poet.
This poem was composed by Jakuren Hōshi (寂蓮法師, 1139 – 1202), “Dharma-master Jakuren”, whose name was originally Fujiwara no Sadanaga before he took tonsure. He is a nephew of Shunzei (poem 83) and according to Professor Mostow a leading poets in the house of Mikohidari. He helped to compile the official poetry anthologies at the time, but died before completion.
Professor Mostow points out that Fujiwara no Teika (poem 97), another member of the House of Mikohidari, didn’t praise this poem at first, and it made the “cutting floor” of the Imperial anthology that Jakuren helped compile, the Shin-Kokinshū, or in other anthologies. And yet, years later, it appears here in the Hyakunin Isshu by Fujiwara no Teika. The poem is generally viewed as a simple, straightforward descriptive poem, which is perhaps why it wasn’t as highly revered as other more subtle poems, or poems with more of a backstory.
Still, I think anyone can appreciate the scenery painted in this poem even today.
Interestingly, the poetic verse kiri tachinoboru (霧立ち上る) or “the mist is already rising”, was coined by Jakuren and was associated with him by later poets and commentators.
P.S. I’ve been away from the blog for a couple months raising our new little boy and keeping up with holidays. Now that things are finally quieting down, I hope to complete the final 7 poems (aside from this one). I’m still debating on further topics for this blog, and suggestions or requests are always appreciated.
This poem was composed by the Saigyō Hōshi (西行法師, 1118 – 1190), or “Dharma Master Saigyō” a famous Buddhist monk and poet from the era. Saigyo’s story is interesting in of itself, and I blogged more about it on the other blog, including additional poetry, but let me post a summary here.
However, Norikiyo grew disillusioned with the nasty politics and infighting in the Court, and abruptly decided to throw it all away. He left behind his career, his wife and children, and became a wandering mendicant. He took on the Buddhist name Saigyo (西行) and stayed at the famous mountain-monastery of Koyasan for monastic training. Later, he returned to the capitol to find everything had changed. The Hogen Rebellion had destroyed much of the capitol, Emperor Sutoku was exiled (having lost), and Kiyomori ruled as a warlord. A few years later, Kiyomori and the entire Heike clan were utterly destroyed in the famous Genpei War, which also spelled the end of the historical Heian Period. What might have happened had Norikiyo stayed and followed his career, rather than leave the capitol?
In any case, with the new samurai government at Kamakura (thus, the Kamakura Period of Japanese history), things settled down in Japan and Saigyo traveled around. He devoted his life to writing poetry, lamenting the loss of his former patrons, admiring the beautiful nature in Japan, and about life in general. He finally settled down in the outskirts of Osaka, and passed away at the age of 73. It was said that when he passed away, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom and that he died on the same day that Shakyamuni Buddha died (February 15th according to solar calendar).
He was also friends with Shunzei (poem 83), according to Professor Mostow.
Anyhow, this poem is, according to Professor Mostow, possibly inspired by a poem by famous Chinese poet Bo Juyi centuries earlier, and is supposed the express the feelings of a resentful lover. Is the moon making him/her tearful? Maybe, maybe not, but gazing up at the moon brings them such sadness anyway.
Saigyo’s talent with poetry and his interesting life story have certainly helped him earn a place in the Hyakunin Isshu, but also inspired many later poets such as Basho and others. Basho the Haiku master, in his travels, went to visit places frequented by Saigyo among others.
The author is Sakyō Dayū Akisuke (左京大夫顕輔, 1090 – 1155), or “Grand Master of the West Akisuke”. His personal was Fujiwara no Akisuké, and he served as the administrator of the western “left” half of the capitol of Kyoto. In those days, the capitol was modeled off of the Chinese capitol of Chang-an of the illustrious Tang Dynasty, and was divided into a “western” and “eastern” half with an administrator for each one.
Additionally, Professor Mostow explains that Akisuke was the father of Kiyosuke (poem 84) with whom he had a poor relationship. Akisuke also inherited the Rokujō School of poetry in opposition to Shunzei (poem 83)’s Miko-Hidariké (御子左家) School. Although Akisuke was the rival of the father of Fujiwara no Teika (poem 97), the compiler of the Hyakunin Isshu, Teika apparently didn’t mind including his poems in the anthology anyway. Being a pre-eminent poet, Emperor Sutoku (poem 77) also commissioned him to compile a new anthology, the Shika Wakashū.
The poem itself is somewhat unusual in the Hyakunin Isshu, because the poem is completely straightforward. The poem literally paints a wonderful image of a hazy autumn moon-lit night, with no additional allusions. When you compare otherpoemsintheHyakunin Isshuabout the moon, usually they have some additional meaning. This poem is unusually genuine and still well-composed.
So, as you enjoy the Harvest Moon this evening, take a moment to enjoy this poem if you can. If you’re in Japan, happy o-Tsukimi!
The author of the poem, Fujiwara no Mototoshi (藤原基俊, 1060 – 1142), was a leading poet of the famous Insei Period of Japanese history, along with his contemporary Toshiyori (poem 74), but according to my new book, was never particularly successful as a bureaucrat.
According to both Professor Mostow and my new book, this poem was written as a complaint to the former Chancellor and Buddhist lay-novice (upasaka) named Tadamichi, the same man who composed poem 76.
Mototoshi’s complaint is that his son, better known as Bishop Kōkaku of Kofukuji Temple, wanted to preside over the annual lecture on the Vimalakirti Sutra, an important Buddhist text. This occasion was known as the yuima-e (維摩会) and was rather prestigious within the bureaucratic monastic system of the time. Being the chosen lecturer would have fast-tracked Mototoshi’s son to other opportunities. In spite of Tadamichi’s promises to help, year after year Mototoshi’s son was passed up, and so Mototoshi sent this poem as a complaint.
The term sasemo is another way of saying sashimo, which in modern Japanese is the yomogi (ヨモギ) plant. In English, this is better known as the Japanese mugwort, pictured above. We saw the use of mugwort as well back in poem 51, though for a very different reason. The featured photo above shows Japanese Mugwort (yomogi, ヨモギ) leaves, photo by Sphl, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.
Sasemo plants inspired an earlier, more Buddhist poem, which Mototoshi alludes to:
This was attributed to Kannon, the Buddhist deity (bodhisattva) of compassion who promised to rescue all beings in the world. This poem was in the Shinkokin wakashū, number 1917.
Thanks to Professor Mostow for the double-translation this week. If you haven’t already, definitely show him some love and check out his excellent translations. 🙂
The poet, Dainagon Tsunenobu (大納言経信, 1016 – 1097) or “Major Counselor Tsunenobu”, also known as Minamoto no Tsunenobu, had a number of poets in his family. He was the father of Toshiyori (poem 74) and grandfather of Shun’e (poem 85), contributed a number of poems to the official anthologies and had a rival or two in his time.
Rice fields in Chiba prefecture, taken while aboard a moving train in 2019 by author
According to Mostow, this poem was composed by Tsunenobu when he was visiting the villa of his friend, Minamoto no Morokata. Unlike other poems of the era which are often composed for poetry contests, apparently he composed this while watching the view from the villa. The villa in question was in a place called Umezu (梅津), on the outskirts of Kyoto the capital. Nowadays, you can find Umezu within the suburbs of Kyoto now, but it’s interesting to imagine an earlier time when it was a country villa surrounded by rice fields, and to imagine a cold autumn wind blowing across them.
This poem catches the spirit of autumn better than many others, I feel. 🙂
The Hyakunin Isshu 
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