One Hundred Poets, One Poem Each Read online

  The image of Tenji as an ideal and benevolent ruler dates from the time of the Gosenshū (951), the collection from which Teika took the poem (no. 302), as does the poem’s attribution to him, though he was not the original author. The original poem, with slightly different wording appears in the Man’yōshū (no. 2178), as ‘anonymous’. It is more than likely that the poem underwent modifications as it was passed down from the time of the Man’yōshū to the Gosenshū.

  Emperor Tenji (626–72; r. 661–72) was the thirty-eighth emperor. He vanquished the Soga clan with the help of Nakatomi no Kamatari, on whom he bestowed the family name Fujiwara in 669. He was especially revered by the Fujiwara clan, including Teika (see also the Introduction, here). After his death, a succession dispute broke out between his brother Prince Oama and his son Prince Otomo, an event known as the Jinshin disturbance. Oama eventually prevailed and ascended the throne with the name Tenmu.

  2

  Summer follows autumn in the second poem of the collection. Jito was Tenji’s daughter, so by placing her poem after her father’s, Teika is stressing the hereditariness of both poetic craft and the imperial house. A famous episode in the Kojiki (Record of Ancient Matters; 711–12) describes the sun goddess, Amaterasu, retreating behind a stone door and temporarily plunging the world into darkness. The widely believed setting of the rock door – the supposed rock can still be seen – is Takachiho in present-day Miyazaki Prefecture, but an alternative version of the legend associates it with the Mount Kagu of Yamato Province (present-day Nara Prefecture) in this poem. There is an obvious desire to link the mythic tradition and the empress’s earthly benevolence: everything in the poem is whiteness and light, shining with divine auspiciousness.

  Commentators have debated whether the white robes mentioned in the poem are meant to be read literally as garments hung out to dry, or as a metaphor for mist or flowers covering the mountain. In medieval times the latter view was prevalent but commentators from the Edo period onwards favoured the former interpretation as it makes the poem more direct and realistic.

  Perhaps because of the difficulty of deciphering the writing of the Man’yōshū, there are significant differences between the poem as it appears in that collection and as Teika included it both here and in the Shin-kokinshū (no. 175). Lines 2 and 4 of the poem in the Man’yōshū as we know it today read ‘summer seems to have come’ and ‘robes are hung out to air’, making for a direct, observational poem. The later version used by Teika adds an element of indirection (‘I hear that …’), which is not typical of poetry of the Man’yōshū period. The indirection detracts rather from the immediacy of the poem in English, so my translation does not reflect the later emendation, and is closer to the original eighth-century version.

  Empress Jito (645–702; r. 686–97), the forty-first ruler of Japan, was the daughter of Emperor Tenji (poem 1). Many of the outstanding poems in the Man’yōshū were composed during her reign and it was most probably also during her reign that the idea of compiling the anthology of waka that eventually became the Man’yōshū was conceived.

  3

  Poem 3 plays on the great length of a pheasant’s tail, the slow passing of a night spent alone, and the belief that the male and female pheasants spent the night in separate valleys. The use of nature to evoke a state of mind is perhaps the single, most conspicuous feature of classical Japanese waka. The layout of the poem is a visual representation of the long tail. In five lines, it would read:

  The long tail of the copper pheasant

  trails, drags on and on

  like this long night alone

  in the lonely mountains,

  longing for my love.

  Rhetorically, the poem offers a textbook example of the preface (jokotoba), in which the initial part of the poem (the preface), describing the landscape, and the second part, describing the feelings of the poet, are connected by a pivot word (the adjective ‘long’, naganagashi) that links the first part of the poem – ‘the long long tail of the copper pheasant’ – with the latter part: ‘long long nights spent alone’.

  In the original, the repetition of the sounds na and o makes the night seem even longer, and the translation attempts to create a similar effect by employing assonance and alliteration (e.g. ‘long’, ‘alone’, ‘lonely’, ‘love’ and ‘longing’). The feelings of longing for the beloved in the last four lines are only implied in the original, which limits itself to saying ‘alone I sleep’.

  Although Teika and his contemporaries believed the poem to be by Hitomaro, the authorship is in fact unknown. A variant of the poem in the Man’yōshū (no. 2812) is given as ‘anonymous’, with a note stating that in other works it is attributed to Hitomaro. Given Hitomaro’s unrivalled fame, it is quite possible that this poem originally opened the One Hundred Poets, and that it came to be the third poem only when Teika decided to place verses by an emperor and an empress at the beginning of the collection.

  Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (fl. late seventh century) is universally considered one of the greatest Japanese poets of all time. The poems that can be safely attributed to him all appear in the Man’yōshū. They total eighty-eight poems, eighteen chōka and seventy tanka, but many more have been attributed to him in later collections, more or less dubiously. He is one of the four great poets of the Man’yōshū period; the others are Akahito (poem 4), Yakamochi (poem 6) and Yamanoue no Okura (660?–733?).

  Hitomaro’s greatness was already recognized by Tsurayuki (poem 35), who hails him as the ‘sage of poetry’ (uta no hijiri) in the Kokinshū preface. His fame grew only in later centuries when he came to be regarded as the god of Japanese poetry (uta no kami), a reputation that is well deserved. Whereas much later poetry tends to be purely elegant and decorative, Hitomaro’s poems often fuse refinement of expression with majesty and power. He coined many of the images and expressions that later become stock phrases in poetry. Scholars believe that many of the ‘pillow words’ (makura kotoba) used in waka were created by him.

  4

  This is an early example of one of many poems, especially in classical Japanese literature, that feature Mount Fuji. The snow-covered top and gently sloping sides of the mountain have inspired writers and artists for centuries, famously Hokusai (1760–1849) in his Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji (c.1830–32), one of which, ‘The Shore of Tago Bay, Ejiri at Tokaido’, is based on this very poem. The poem is also an early example of ‘landscape poetry’ (jokeika). The majestic silhouette of Mount Fuji, covered in white snow and towering over the dazzling blueness of Tago Bay (both famous poetic locations – see utamakura), is evoked in all its breathtaking beauty. Fuji is depicted mostly as a female mountain in Japanese literature, hence the female attribution, though it can be referred to as male or, on rare occasions, both male and female.

  Teika took the poem from the Shin-kokinshū (no. 675); an earlier version of the poem in the Man’yōshū (no. 321) has ‘has fallen’ (furikeru) in the last line instead of ‘still falling’ (furitsutsu). This rather minor difference has been the subject of much debate. Medieval commentators seem to have preferred ‘continues to fall’, and the ethereal beauty it conveys, to the original wording; later critics held the opposite view, arguing that replacing furikeru with furitsutsu greatly diminished the value of the poem by making it less immediate and direct.

  Yamabe no Akahito (fl. first half of eighth century) was a Nara-period courtier and bureaucrat who served under Emperor Shomu (r. 724–49). Akahito is ranked as one of the four great poets of the Man’yōshū period (see commentary to poem 3). He has thirteen chōka and thirty-seven tanka in the Man’yōshū, and is listed by Kinto (poem 55) among his Thirty-Six Poetic Geniuses.

  5

  Seasonal poems of the Kokinshū period (early tenth century) often combine two or more images from nature, a poetic device known in Japanese as kumiawase. This poem presents one of the classic autumnal combinations: maple leaves (momiji) and deer (shika). Other common combinations are cherry blossoms and the bush warbler for
spring, and orange blossom and the cuckoo for summer.

  The deer’s plaintive cry has featured in Japanese poetry since earliest times, usually as a metaphor for longing for a distant lover. Classical Japanese poetry often avoids use of the subject marker and this poem is a good example. Two different readings are possible depending on whether one takes the deer or the poet as the subject of ‘making a path through the fallen leaves’ (see the Note on the Translation, here).

  The poem is traditionally attributed to the legendary poet Sarumaru, about whom very little is known except that he is mentioned in various Heian texts. Teika also attributes the poem to Sarumaru, although he would have known that it was in fact composed for a poetry contest at the house of Prince Koresada (c.893), an important early competition at which many of the conventions of what is today known as the ‘Kokinshū style’ were first established. The poem appears in the Kokinshū (no. 215) as ‘anonymous’ and the author remains unknown.

  Sarumaru Taifu (fl. mid eighth century, according to tradition, though there are no records to prove that he was an actual historical figure), aka Sarumaru Dayu, is listed by Kinto (poem 55) among his Thirty-Six Poetic Geniuses. A later collection entitled Sarumaru Dayū exists, but the attribution of the poems in it to him is doubtful.

  6

  Poem 6 is based on the Tanabata legend, a prominent poetic topic (dai) since early times. Originating in China, the legend has long been popular in Japan and many poems have been written on it from the Man’yōshū onwards. According to the legend, the Weaving Maid, Orihime (the star Vega), can meet her lover, the Herd Boy, Hikoboshi (the star Altair), only once a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month – the day on which the festival associated with the legend is also held – when a flock of magpies form a bridge over the Milky Way. The Tanabata festival is today celebrated every year on 7 July at the end of the rainy season. In the lunisolar calendar, in use in ancient times, however, it fell in mid August, in full summer.

  Opinions differ, however, as to whether the poem is to be interpreted literally, as a rendering of the Tanabata legend, or allegorically, as a beautiful description of palace life making use of elements of the legend. Commentators from the Edo-period scholar Kamo no Mabuchi (1696–1769) onwards have argued that the bridge of magpie wings is probably a picturesque way to refer to bridges or stairs within the imperial compound, especially those that lovers would cross at night on their way to and from their secret liaisons. Secrecy was of the utmost importance in the ritual of courtly love, and being seen on a nightly wander by the frost-covered bridge mentioned in the poem would have been considered highly elegant. The bridge of magpie wings itself (intended for those who lived above the clouds) could designate the imperial palace as much as the legend. In my translation, both readings of the poem are possible and the reader may choose one or the other or enjoy both. The line ‘the lovers will cross’ is not in the original.

  Otomo no Yakamochi (718?–785) is one of the four great poets of the Man’yōshū period (see commentary to poem 3), with the largest number of poems in the Man’yōshū, 479 in total (forty-six chōka, 431 tanka, one sedōka and one poem in Chinese (see kanshi)). The last four parts of the Man’yōshū read almost like a poetic diary, giving rise to the theory that Yakamochi must be the compiler of the final version of the anthology.

  7

  Poem 7 is the first of many in the collection that features the moon (poems 21, 23, 30, 31, 36 and 57 are some other examples). Here the moon reminds the poet of his distant home in the city of Nara. The poem appears in the Kokinshū (no. 406) with an accompanying headnote (kotobagaki) stating that it was composed by Abe no Nakamaro when he was in China. Nakamaro went to China in 717 as part of an official mission. He attempted to travel back to Japan in 753 after being granted permission by the Chinese emperor, but his ship was wrecked on the coast of Vietnam and he was forced to return to China, where he died without ever making it back home.

  Kasuga Shrine, by Mount Mikasa in the city of present-day Nara, was where courtiers went to pray for a safe return before leaving for China, and Nakamaro probably had paid his respects there before leaving Japan. The shrine and the mountain are both famous poetic locations (see utamakura). Nakamaro is said to have composed this poem on the very night of his farewell party before attempting to return to Japan. For centuries the poem has epitomized the traveller’s nostalgia for home.

  Abe no Nakamaro (701–770) was a courtier and poet. During his time in China he befriended poets Li Bai (701–62) and Wang Wei (701–61) and was noticed by Emperor Xuanzong of Tang (r. 712–56), who inducted him into his entourage. At the age of thirty-seven, he was made Director of Protections and put in control of the Three Offices (Arms, Arsenal and Palace Guards). After the shipwreck in 753, he was forced to return to Chang’an in China, where he stayed until he died.

  8

  The theme of poem 8 is the gossip that has followed the poet’s decision to leave the capital for a life of quiet retreat. Uji, south-east of Kyoto, is a place name (utamakura) that was frequently used in poetry, whether in the form of the mountain, as here, or the river (see poem 64). In the Japanese, Uji can be read as ushi (sad, sorrowful) and hence was often used as a pun. In early kana orthography there were no vocalization markers, so when words were written down, no difference was made between voiced and unvoiced consonants (shi and ji, ha and ba, etc.). Thus Uji and ushi can be read in the same way.

  Some commentators – including Teika himself – believed that there was another pun between the emphatic particle shika and shika meaning ‘deer’, known for its plaintive cry, but that view is not generally held today, and is not reflected in the translation. Lexical acrobatics of this kind were particularly popular in the author’s time, which literary historians call the period of the Six Poetic Geniuses (Rokkasen jidai, c. mid ninth century). In the translation, I have translated Uji as ‘Hill of Sorrow’ to convey the flavour of the original pun.

  Uji is also well known as the setting of the last ten chapters of The Tale of Genji, which, in keeping with the name of the location, are characterized by a particularly gloomy tone.

  Priest Kisen (fl. mid ninth century). Next to nothing is known about him except what can be deduced from this one poem – that he was a Buddhist monk and lived in the Uji area. In the headnote (kotobagaki) to the poem in the Kokinshū (no. 983), Kisen’s diction is said to be vague, and his poems are said to lack a clear structure, but as no other by him survives, it is impossible to tell if this criticism is justified. The present poem displays none of these flaws. Another work he is said to have written, the Kisen shiki (Kisen’s Rules of Composition), is almost certainly apocryphal.

  9

  Poem 9 is the most rhetorically brilliant and sophisticated in the collection, and a full description of the techniques can be found in the Introduction (here) and Note on the Translation (pp. xliii–xlv). The main theme is the evanescence of all things (mujōkan), a prominent concept in Japanese literature that is expressed here with extraordinary verbal artistry.

  The poem contains a pivot word, itazurani (in vain), linking the first part, ‘the flowers lose their colour in vain’, with the second, ‘in vain I have passed through this world’. There are also two puns (kakekotoba): furu (both ‘to rain’ and ‘to pass’) and nagame (‘to gaze at’ and ‘long rains’). Through punning, two different but interconnected layers of meaning are created: an image of endless rains slowly washing away the colour of the flowers; and a picture of a woman past her prime who just sits in idle longing.

  While the loss of youthful beauty is lamented universally, it was especially feared in Heian-period Japan. A woman’s fortune at the imperial court depended upon her appearance, hence great importance was attached to it. The poem can be read either as the cry of an ageing lady whose days of glory at court have passed or as the lament of a woman who knows that her prime is passing as her lover now neglects her. I have chosen to follow this latter interpretation, although the other is equally acceptable an
d perhaps more common. (See the Introduction, here, for more on this.)

  Ono no Komachi (fl. mid ninth century) was probably a lady-in-waiting during the reigns of emperors Ninmyo (r. 833–50) and Montoku (r. 850–58). She is said to have been a great beauty who treated her lovers cruelly, though this is almost certainly a later legend. Only her twenty-one poems in the Kokinshū and Gosenshū are considered authentic, but a great many more are attributed to her in later sources. The Komachi-shū (Collected Poems of Komachi), compiled long after her death, includes poems by others too. She appears in seven extant Noh plays, five of them in the regular repertory, and even a new Noh play, Fumigara (The Love Letters), by Tsumura Kimiko (1902–74), which shows the enduring interest in her. She is in Kinto’s list of Thirty-Six Poetic Geniuses, as well as the Thirty-Six Women Poetic Geniuses, and is the only woman poet in Tsurayuki’s Six Poetic Geniuses. So many details about Komachi’s life have been fabricated that it is impossible to separate the real person from the literary creation. But what is in no doubt is the majestic power of her best poems and their exquisite depiction of the frailty of the human condition.

  10

  Poem 10 is unique in the collection in the way in which the rhythm of its lines creates a marvellous sense of movement. The theme is once again the fragility of life, this time expressed through the evanescence of life’s encounters, including those of love.

  The Osaka Barrier (translated here as ‘the Gate of Meeting Hill’), situated on the edge of Lake Biwa, near Kyoto, marked the border between the ancient provinces of Yamashiro and Omi, dividing the eastern and western parts of Japan. In poetry it was used to signify a meeting place between travellers and, by extension, lovers, because the au in Ausaka, the archaic spelling of Osaka, puns with au, to meet, especially in the context of a romantic encounter, and hence the name meant something like ‘meeting hill’. (See also utamakura and poems 25 and 62.)