The author of the poem, Dōin Hōshi (道因法師, 1090 – 1179?), or “Dharma Master Dōin”. He lived as Fujiwara no Atsuyori, and served under Emperor Sutoku (poem 77), but wasn’t particularly successful. Later in life, he took tonsure in 1172 and became a Buddhist priest. It’s not clear if this poem was written before or after he took up the religious life.
According to Mostow, it’s not clear if the poem is a real expression of pain or part of poetry contest. Unfortunately, none of the poetry collections of Dōin survive, though he frequented poetry contests since 1160. He became a member of a famous poetry group called the Karin-en (歌林苑), though, and spent much time around other influential poets of the day.
P.S. Featured photo is Il Triste Messaggio (“The Sad Message”), by Peter Fendi, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
According to Mostow, this poem was composed in answer to the question of whether Fall or Winter was the lonelier season. Obviously the author, Minamoto no Muneyuki Ason (源宗于朝臣, ? – 939), “Sir Minamoto no Muneyuki”, favored winter. Minamoto no Muneyuki was the grandson of Emperor Kōkō (poem 15) and had a large portfolio of poems published in official anthologies, and earned himself a place among the Thirty Six Immortals of Poetry as well.
To me at least, the poem reminds me also of nobleman from the Heian Court who were required to do at least one tour of duty in remote provinces as a provincial governor for 4 years. The more remote the province, the more menial and degrading the task. Very well-to-do men could usually get themselves out of this obligation but most middle and lower ranking officials could not. Being cut off from the Heian Court was often a lonely affair as evinced in the writings of men like Sugawara no Michizane and others so imagine the author was also conveying this familiar sense of the time of loneliness officials stuck in a remote mountain village away from the Court in winter and from friends.
As Mostow notes the author, Kiyohara no Motosuke (清原元輔, 908 – 990) was the grandson of Kiyohara no Fukayabu of poem 36 and also the father of Sei Shōnagon who authored the Pillow Book and poem 62. Motosuke is also one of the Thirty-six Immortals of Poetry.
Sue-no-matsu is an actual mountain in Japan in Miyagi Prefecture, called sue no matsuyama (末の松山). This same mountain is said to have been visited by the Haiku poet, Basho, in a later age. The term matsuyama here (松山) refers to pine-clad mountains, so the idea is that the mountain will never wash under the waves, and thus the lovers’ feelings for each other would never die.
The poem’s intent here, as stated by the author himself in writing, was not to express Motosuke’s feelings, but rather for a friend whose lover’s feelings seemed to have grown cold. We see another example of a poet writing on behalf of another in poem 59. Still it serves as a sobering reminder that passion might be wonderful at the time, but is fickle too.
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.
In our last episode, we talked about a famous poetry contest in 960 which pitted two excellent poems against one another. For fans of the anime Chihayafuru, this contest is also mentioned in season one episode 23. Poem 40 by Taira no Kanemori was judged the winner, and this poem was the loser, though only just barely:
The author Mibu no Tadami (壬生忠見, dates unknown), son of Mibu no Tadamine (poem 30) was not a high-ranking or successful member of the Court. It is said that Tadami often appeared in provincial clothes and behaved like a country bumpkin. Even so, like his father, his skills as a poet earned him acclaim. Thus he was included among the Thirty Six Immortals of Poetry.
Mostow points out that even though the poem won 2nd place, it has been highly prized throughout the ages, just as poem 40 has been. According to my new book, what made this poem so prized is the way it inverts things between the upper verses (unrequited love) and lower verses (I have to hide it anyway from public eye). The ni keri in the third verse is an archaic way of expressing regret (poem 40 uses it too), or grumbling.
Mibu no Tadami was said to be so distraught over losing the contest that he wasted away and died, though this story may not have actually happened. Mostow points out that additional poems by the author in later collections, suggest that he was alive and active for many years to come. Nonetheless, although the story of Tadami’s death is a fabrication, it is likely, given his prospects, that Tadami was bitter over the loss.
According to Mostow’s book, this poem by Taira no Kanemori (平兼盛, ? – 990) was part of a famous poetry contest in 960, and was pitted against Mibu no Tadami (poem 41). Both were recited under the theme of hidden love. For fans of the anime Chihayafuru, this contest is also mentioned in season one episode 23.
The judges couldn’t decide which poem was the winner, so after consulting with other poetry experts (who also couldn’t decide), they came before Emperor Murakami and sought his opinion about which poem was superior. According to the story, the Emperor hummed to himself the verses from this poem under his breath, tactfully judging Taira no Kanemori’s poem the winner.
My new book points out that what makes this poem highly prized (along with Tadami’s poem) is the excellent use of prose. It isn’t just that the character is hiding love, but that it’s become painfully obvious to everyone around them, and they are compelled to ask. The ni keri in the second verse is an archaic way of expressing regret (poem 41 uses it too), or grumbling so it has a natural sound to it. Mostow’s opinion agrees with the excellent style, mixed with a more natural style at the end. Anyone who’s been secretly in love before can certainly sympathize.
Taira no Kanemori is also one of the Thirty-Six Immortals of Poetry (sanjūrokkasen, 三十六歌仙), and was friends with Egyo Hoshi (poem 47). According to my new book, there is a theory that his daughter is Akazomé Emon (poem 59). He had divorced Emon’s mother, but she was already pregnant. Further, after she remarried and gave birth to Emon, Kanemori petitioned to have parental rights but ultimately failed.
The Taira Clan or Heike (平家), which Kanemori belongs, was not particular powerful at this time, but would later dominate Japanese politics centuries later under Taira no Kiyomori, only to be tragically swept aside in the disastrous Genpei War by their rivals, the Minamoto.
The Hyakunin Isshu 
