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.
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?
The Moon is not surprisingly one of the most powerful images in the Hyakunin Isshu anthology, but the myriad ways it is used as imagery shows a remarkable variety and depth. There are 43 poems in the Hyakunin Isshu that cover topics of love and romance, but only 12 that pertain to the Moon.
However, within those twelve poems, and in Japanese waka poetry as a whole, the moon itself is a very popular subject and expressed in many ways. As one book on the subject points out, the Moon expresses different themes depending on the situation:
Print #98 from the One Hundred Aspects of the Moon by Yoshitoshi. This picture features Semimaru from the Hyakunin Isshu (poem 10, これ)
This is only for the Hyakunin Isshu of course. For larger anthologies like the Kokinshū and the vast corpus of Chinese poetry, the Moon is a persistent symbol of so many aspects of human emotion.
But also in Japanese language, many poetic terms for the moon and its phases have arisen over time:
ariake (有明) – moon visible during sunrise, appears in the latter half of the lunar cycle
misokazuki (晦日月) – the night before the new moon, the moon is a barely visible crescent.
shingetsu (新月) – new moon
tsugomori (つごもり) – last day of the moon (i.e. new moon)
mochizuki (望月) – full moon, 15th day of the old lunar calendar.
izayoizuki (十六夜月) – moon on the 16th day, just after full moon.
tachimachizuki (立待月) – moon on the 16th day of the cycle.
fukemachizuki (更待月), also called hatsukazuki (二十日月) – the three-quarters waning moon. The implication of the first word is that the moon rises late in the evening.
fushimachizuki (臥待月) – waning half-moon
nemachizuki (寝待月) – another term for waning half-moon
A lot of these terms are pretty obscure (some I couldn’t find in a common dictionary), while a few like mangetsu and mikazuki are used in standard Japanese.
According to my new book, Ōshikōchi no Mitsuné (凡河内躬恒, dates unknown) was a middling bureaucrat in the Imperial Court, serving in provinces such as Tanba, Izumi, and Awaji, but never reaching beyond the sixth rank in the Court hierarchy. Nobility usually were fifth rank or higher by default so he hit the “glass ceiling” so to speak.
On the other hand, Mitsune was very prodigious poet and his works appear in many later anthologies in Japanese history, and is also one of the compilers of the famous Kokinshū anthology, a prestigious honor. Not surprisingly he is among the Thirty-Six Immortals of Poetry too.
Professor Mostow notes that this poem is subject to many different interpretations ranging from simple word-repetition, to rhetorical questions or the speaker’s mental debate.
In any case, the imagery of white frost on white chrysanthemum’s, and how it’s hard to distinguish one from the other, is in large part why this poem is so highly prized in antiquity, and made it into the Hyakunin Isshu anthology. However, the 19th century poet Masaoka Shiki criticized the imagery as unrealistic. But my new book points out that that probably wasn’t the point. Mitsuné was trying to be surreal in his imagery and that the poem executes this brilliantly.
But you decide: is the imagery of first frost on a white chrysanthemum too much? Or is it brilliant imagery?
The author of this poem is Teishinkō (貞信公, 880-949), also known as Fujiwara no Tadahira, a scion of the increasingly powerful Fujiwara clan. The name “Teishinkō” is his posthumous name. The Fujiwara clan’s descendants grew increasingly powerful and ultimately monopolized the government during the Heian Period through intermarriage with the Imperial Family. By this point, you also may have noticed the increasing number of poets in the Hyakunin Isshu with the surname Fujiwara, gradually crowding out other noble families within the Imperial Court.
As Mostow notes, this poem seems to describe an excursion to the Ōi River by retired emperor (上皇, jōkō), Emperor Uda, who comments that his son the reigning emperor (天皇, tennō), Emperor Daigo, should visit too. Hence the author is beseeching the fall leaves to wait for Daigo’s arrival. This visit seems to have led to a seasonal tradition of visiting the Ōi River yearly by the Imperial Family. Further, compare this poem to a similar fall (poem 24), when Uda was still the reigning emperor.
Also, it should be noted that Ogura Mountain is none other than the place where the Hyakunin Isshu itself was compiled.
Side note: there are in fact two Oi Rivers in Japan, one near Kyoto the old capitol, and another in modern Shizuoka Prefecture. Due to location of the Imperial Court, the Emperor and his retinue almost certain visited the near Kyoto. It is, as the photo above helps illustrate, a very scenic and venerable of Japan. It is also mentioned in the Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon (poem 62) in note 59 under “Rivers”.
One other note: the term miyuki in the poem refers to an imperial outing. Such an outing was, naturally, an important occasion and so it has its own term in Japanese. According to the Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten, the “kanji” Chinese characters for miyuki differ if a retired emperor has an outing (御幸), or the current reigning emperor has an outing (行幸).
P.S. Featured photo is the Togetsukyo Bridge near the Ōi River which passes through the Arashiyama district of Kyoto. Photo taken by me in August of 2024.
This poem was composed by Fun’ya no Yasuhidé (文屋康秀, ? – 879?), but according to Mostow, it is known that he lived around the time Narihira (poem 17) and Sosei (poem 21). He is also one of the Six Immortals of Poetry. My new book points out that he was upper-sixth rank in the Imperial bureaucracy, a middling rank, so he was a somewhat minor official. And yet as a poet, he achieved great fame.
Yasuhide was also known for carrying on a tryst with Ono no Komachi (poem 9) and invited her to come away with on a retreat to Mikawa Province. She reportedly accepted the offer but other details of the story are unclear.
In any case, from the English translation, it’s hard to see what is so remarkable about this poem, until you look at the last two lines.
The fourth line talks about mountains 山 and wind 風, but the fifth line mentions the word arashi (あらし) which means “storm” and whose kanji (chinese character) is composed of both mountain and wind 嵐. It makes even more sense when you see it on karuta card (yomifuda) for this poem:
Circled in blue is the word arashi (あらし) using hiragana script, but in red are the Chinese characters for mountain and wind. When looked at closely, they also look like the Chinese character for arashi (嵐).
According to the Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten, this poetic method, called moji-asobi (文字遊び) is not limited to this poem, or even Japanese poetry. It appears to be a poetic method employed originally in China, and adopted by early Japanese poets. For example, in the first Imperial anthology, the Kokin Wakashu, you can find this poem by Ki no Tomonori (poem 33 in the Hyakunin Isshu):
Japanese
Romanization
Translation
雪降れば
Yuki fureba
Because the snow fell
木毎に花ぞ
Kigoto ni hana zo
White “blossoms”, one by one,
吹きにける
Fukinikeru
Sprout on the tree.
いづれを梅と
Izure wo ume to
How am I to tell the blossoms from the snow
わきて折らまし
Wakite oramashi
Without snapping them off?
Rough translation by me, based on Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten
Here, the word for plums (as well as plum blossoms), umé 梅, is made up of the Chinese characters 木 and 毎 which happen to appear on the second line of the poem.
Pretty clever, really.
In any case, the Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten and Professor Mostow both point out that the word arashi also has a double-meaning. The basic meaning is “storm”, but it is also the noun-form of the verb arasu meaning to ravage, hence the translation above: arashi (荒らし).
Amazing what people could do with a few lines of verse and some Chinese characters. It’s no surprise that the author, Fun’ya no Yasuhide, was counted among the original Six Immortals of Poetry and later the Thirty-Six Immortals.
The poet, Ariwara no Narihara Ason (在原業平朝臣, 825 – 990) or “Sir Ariwara no Narihara”, was the closest thing to a poetic genius during his time, and this poem is a prime example. Originally published in the Imperial anthology, the Kokin Wakashū, as poem number 294, it is considered one of the most iconic of the one-hundred Hyakunin Isshu poems.
Narihara is also credited for writing what is considered the greatest Waka poem on cherry blossoms (桜, sakura) ever composed:
Japanese
Romanization
Translation
世の中に
Yo no naka ni
If in all the world
絶えて桜の
Taete sakura no
there were of cherry blossoms
なかりせば
Kanariseba
no trace anywhere
春の心は
Haru no kokoro wa
ah, how truly peaceful then
のどけからまし
Nodokekaramashi
spring would be for everyone!
Translation by Dr Josha Mostow and Dr Royall Tyler from the Ise Stories, the poem is also number 53 in the Kokin Wakashū.
Returning to this poem, there is a lot to unpack. The imagery of red, autumn leaves flowing along the river provides a very memorable contrast. The Tatsuta-gawa River can be found in modern-day Nara Prefecture, and is a scenic, gentle flowing river near the town of Ikaruka. I’d love to see it someday. I cover more about the Tatsuta-gawa River and iconic Mt Mimuro in poem 69, but several poems in the Kokin Wakashū anthology also refer to fall leaves floating on it.
Lastly, the opening line of this poem, chihayaburu, is a prime example of “pillow words” in Japanese poetry. It literally means something like “a thousand swift swords”, but really is an honorific epithet when referring to the gods, similar to how Homer used to use special epithets for each of the Olympian gods. Nevertheless, it’s a famous line, and can be found in Waka poetry written even in modern times, and is also the title of the popular manga exploring the Hyakunin Isshu card game.
If there is one poem worth learning in all the Hyakunin Isshu, I would argue, it is this one.
The author of this poem Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (柿本人麻呂, dates unknown), was one of the pre-eminent poets of the Asuka Period in Japan, and contributed to the Manyoshu anthology as well. According to my new book, he served in the courts of emperors Tenmu, Jitō (poem 2), and Monmu as a kind of “court poet” (kyūtei-kajin, 宮廷歌人). During official outings, or former occasions, the court poet was relied upon to compose a fitting poem for the occasion. So revered was Hitomaro at his job that he, alongside his contemporary Yamabe no Akahito (poem 4), were later called kasei (歌聖, “saints of poetry”).
Hitomaro is also possible candidate for authorship of the famous iroha poem: a poem that uses every hiragana letter only once.
While the poem above looks like any other love poem, the composition, imagery, rhythm and such, make this one really stand out. 😁
The yamadori (山鳥) is actually a species of bird called the Copper Pheasant, known for its long tail, and is our featured photo for today (photo by KKPCW, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons). There’s a great photo here as well. Traditionally, it was thought that the male and female birds slept separately at night, hence Hitomaro was comparing this to his own feeling of loneliness.
One thing I like about this poem, and why I have a particular interest in it, is the repetitive sounds using の (no) throughout. If you recite the poem out loud, it has a particularly nice rhythm to it, and for me it is thus easy to memorize/recite. Try it out and you’ll see what I mean. The frequent use of の also links various words together in a way that stretches out the verse. Thus, Hitomaro isn’t sleeping alone, it feels like a looooooong night alone.
According to the Hyakunin Isshu Daijiten, there are certain birds in Japanese culture that are frequently used to represent autumn. In addition to the Copper Pheasant, other birds include:
The wild goose (kari, 雁)
The quail (uzura, うずら)
The bull-headed shrike, or Lanius bucephalus (mozu, もず)
The opening verse of this poem is also a nice example of pillow words in the Hyakunin Isshu, originally taken from the Manyoshu.
Finally, one thing to note is that my new book about the Hyakunin Isshu suggests the authorship of this poem is doubtful. In the original Manyoshu anthology, this poem was listed as “author unknown”, poem number 2802, and looked noticeably different:
Original Manyogana
Modern Japanese
Romanization
Rough Translation1
念友
思へども
Omoedomo
Even as I try not to think about it,
念毛金津
思ひもかねつ
Omoi mo kanetsu
I can’t help but think
足桧之
あしひきの
Ashihiki no
how long this night will
山鳥尾之
山鳥の尾の
Yamadori no ō no
be, like the tail of a
永此夜乎
長きこの夜を
Nagaki kono yo wo
copper pheasant.
1 Rough translation by me, apologies for any mistakes.
… but by the time of Fujiwara no Teika (poem 97, こぬ) who compiled the Hyakunin Isshu, it was probably assumed to be Hitomaro. Teika might know something we don’t today though, so it’s quite possibly Hitomaro’s poem, but sadly we’ll never know for sure. But this mystery of how the poem came to be will be covered in a future post someday.
The Hyakunin Isshu 
