Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900

by Shirane, Haruo, ed.

  [Kinsei kabunshū ge, SNKBT 68: 39, 44–47, 67, translated by Peter Flueckiger]

  RYŌKAN

  Besides being a noted kanshi poet, the Zen monk Ryōkan (1758–1831) also wrote various kinds of poetry in Japanese: the thirty-one-syllable waka, the thirty-eight-syllable sedōka, and the chōka (long poem). The latter two forms are found in the Man‘yōshū but afterward were used only infrequently. Ryōkan deeply admired the Man‘yōshū for its seeming simplicity and openness, and he often borrowed its archaic diction and “pillow words” (makurakotoba), or epithets, to depict the everyday life around him. He also stressed rhythm and melody in his poems.

  WAKA

  Yamakage no Faint trickle of

  iwama wo tsutau mossy water from

  koke mizu no a crevice in the mountain rock:

  kasuka ni ware wa the clear still way

  sumitaru kamo I pass through the world.7

  [RZ 1: 89, translated by Burton Watson]

  Hachi no ko wo I’ve forgotten

  waga wasururedomo my begging bowl

  toru hito wa nashi but no one would take it

  toru hito wa nashi no one would take it—

  hachi no ko aware how sad for my begging bowl.8

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 217, translated by Burton Watson]

  Kasumi tatsu On a long misty

  nagaki haru hi ni spring day—

  kodomora to hitting the handball

  temari tsukitsutsu with the children,

  kono hi kurashitsu I pass the whole day.9

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 180, translated by Haruo Shirane]

  Tsukiyumi no Wait for the moonlight

  hikari wo machite before you try

  kaherimase to go home—

  yamaji wa kuri no the mountain trail’s

  iga no shigeki ni so thick with chestnut burs!10

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 232, translated by Burton Watson]

  Composed on the evening of the fifteenth day of the Seventh Month:

  Kaze wa kiyoshi tsuki The breeze is fresh,

  wa sayakeshi the moonlight bright—

  iza tomo ni let’s dance together

  odori akasamu the whole night through,

  oi no nagori ni a lasting memory for my old age.11

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 198, translated by Burton Watson]

  KAGAWA KAGEKI

  Kagawa Kageki (1768–1843) was the second son of a samurai in Inaba Province (Tottori Prefecture). When Kagawa Kageki was seven, his father died, and he was adopted by his uncle. At the age of twenty-six, he moved to Kyoto to study waka and work as a masseur, using the name Arai Genzō. Three years later Kageki was adopted as the son of a Nijō school waka master, Kagawa Kagemoto, and assumed the name by which we know him. But after he became acquainted with Ozawa Roan and was influenced by his notion of “direct-word poetry” (tadakoto uta), he turned against the Nijō school, which had maintained its authority through the Kokin denju (secret transmissions of the Kokinshū), had an amicable separation from his adopted father, and set up his own school, the Keien school. Although Kageki composed in the Kokinshū style, he also used colloquial language and emphasized actual feelings and direct observation, giving his poetry a highly modern tone. The Keien school, which gained a national following and came to include as many as a thousand adherents, remained a major force in waka through the early Meiji period. Kageki’s most famous collection of poetry is Katsura Garden, a Branch (Keien isshi), in which the following poems appear.

  WAKA

  Fuji no ne o Looking back upon

  konoma konoma ni the peak of Fuji

  kaherimite through the trees, through the branches,

  matsu no kage fumu walking in the shade of pines

  ukishimagahara at Ukishimagahara12

  TOPIC UNKNOWN

  Tomoshibi no While reading

  kage nite miru to under the light of a lamp,

  omohu ma ni before I know it,

  fumi no uhe shiroku the day has arrived white

  yo ha akenikeri on top of the page.13

  PLACE WHERE THEY SELL BLACK LOGS

  Mese ya mese Buy it! Buy it!

  yuhuke no tsumaki firewood for your dinner

  hayaku mese Buy it quick!

  kaherusa tooshi It’s a long way home

  Ōhara no sato to Ōhara!14

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 357, 364, 378, translated by Haruo Shirane]

  OBJECTIONS TO NEW LEARNING (NIIMANABI IKEN, 1811, PUBLISHED 1815)

  In Objections to New Learning, a selection from which is translated here, Kageki criticized the archaic revival in waka, attacking Kamo no Mabuchi’s earlier poetic treatise New Learning (Niimanabi) for its attempt to return to the eighth-century Man‘yōshū. Despite his respect for the Kokinshū, Kageki, under the heavy influence of Ozawa Roan, argued for modernity in poetry and offered his famous “theory of rhythm” (shirabe no setsu), which meant composing poetry that expressed natural feelings in a mellifluous rhythm (shirabe). Roan had contended that “the poetry of the current age should use the language of the current age and the rhythm of the current age,” a position that had a profound influence on the future direction of waka.

  Mabuchi wrote in New Learning, “In ancient poetry it is rhythm [shirabe] that is primary, and this is because it is sung.”

  In my opinion, the only reason both the rhythm and the content in ancient poetry are well ordered is that this poetry was produced by the true heart [magokoro]. Poetry that comes from the true heart is filled with the rhythm of heaven and earth. Just as the wind gusting in the skies makes sounds when it blows against something, everything the true heart encounters has a rhythm.

  This process can be compared to clouds and water. When clouds form, they rise up like waves or hang down in the shape of flowers or flow out like women’s sleeves or gather in the form of a peak. When water flows, it forms chaotic patterns or gathers in deep pools and acquires a bluish tinge or freezes and becomes like a mirror or forms a jewel-like spray. Although clouds and water go through hundreds and thousands of such transformations, they do not do so out of any conscious intention. Rather, the clouds simply float along with the breeze, and the water just flows along the ground.

  The language of poetry is like this as well. When a poem is short, it takes the form of a tanka [short poem], and when it is long, it becomes a chōka [long poem], and everything is manifested just as it is seen and heard. Poetry is the form taken by the emotions upon encountering things. This form naturally has rhythm, and the fact that its patterning [aya] is unparalleled and appears to be constructed and embellished is because there is nothing in heaven and earth more graceful and beautiful than the sincerity [makoto] out of which this poetry emerges. We should say, then, that the rhythm of ancient poetry is produced naturally [onozukara]. It is greatly mistaken to think that it was consciously given rhythm. . . .

  Mabuchi wrote, “Always look to the Man‘yōshū to learn the spirit of poetry. If over time, one composes with the aim of making one’s own poetry like that of the Man‘yōshū, its rhythm and spirit will surely enter one’s heart.”

  I consider this to be greatly in error. Poetry naturally acquires rhythm in accordance with the movement of the heart. It is not something to which one gives conscious thought, so how could there be time to imitate the past? If one were to imitate the past, it would just be an embellished falsehood. And even if one tried to imitate the past, could one really do so successfully? It is quite ridiculous to think that one has been successful in imitating the past. The emergence and transformations of the rhythm of poetry originated in heaven and earth, and unconsciously this rhythm takes on the form of each age. In addition, each person is born with a particular rhythm. It is different for each person, just as each person’s face is different. But although each person’s rhythm is different, it adheres to the style of the age. . . . Poetry of the current age should use the language of the current age and the rhythm of the current age. Still, among the various rhythms wit
h which each person is individually endowed, some naturally resemble the style of the Man‘yōshū or the Kokinshū or various other styles. The rhythm cannot go outside the style of the current age, though, so in reality it is not the style of the Man‘yōshū or the Kokinshū but, rather, the style of the current age.

  [Karonshū, NKBZ 50: 585–586, 597–599, translated by Peter Flueckiger]

  TACHIBANA AKEMI

  Tachibana Akemi (1812–1868) was born the eldest son of a paper merchant in Echizen (Fukui Prefecture), on the Japan Sea coast. Akemi’s parents died when he was young. He became a priest for a short time but then returned to secular life and studied kokugaku (nativist studies) with Tanaka Ōhide, a disciple of Motoori Norinaga. Akemi’s poetry, however, differed significantly from Norinaga’s in being fresh in both expression and subject matter. Akemi was a “life” poet, drawing his material from everyday life. After returning to Echizen, he handed over the family business to his half brother and became a recluse, occasionally becoming impoverished.

  During his lifetime, Akemi’s waka were known only to those from Echizen, but in 1899, Masaoka Shiki, the pioneer of the modern tanka (thirty-one-syllable modern waka) movement, wrote in the newspaper Japan (Nihon) that Akemi “learned from the Man‘yōshū and went beyond the Man‘yōshū. With regard to sight, sound, and touch, there is nothing that he does not include in his thirty-one syllables. . . . As a poet, there has been no one like him since Sanetomo.” The article made Akemi nationally famous, and his poetry about his personal experiences came to have considerable influence on modern tanka.

  WAKA

  Although it was the kokugaku poet Kamo no Mabuchi who had called for serial composition (rensaku), a series of waka on the same topic, it was Akemi who was probably its most successful practitioner. The following selections are from serial compositions in the Poetry Collection of Shinobunoya (Shinobunoya kashū), a title taken from one of Akemi’s pen names. The first two poems are from a sequence of eight poems on mining, which begins with the entrance into the mines and ends with the excavation of the ore. Akemi’s friend Tomita Iyahiko had received an order from the bakufu in 1859 to open a silver mine in Echizen. Akemi visited the mine the next year. This is probably the first waka to be composed on hard labor and is notable for its focus on the human body and the suffering of the miners.

  WALKING AROUND WATCHING THE MINERS DIGGING

  Hi no hikari Deep in mountain caves

  itaranu yama no where no sun rays reach

  hora no uchi ni they enter,

  hi tomoshi irite torches flaming

  kane horiidasu digging out metal

  Mahadaka no Stark naked,

  wonoko murewite the men crowd forward,

  aragane no flailing hammers

  marogarikudaku to smash

  tsuchiuchifurite lumps of ore

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 406, translated by Burton Watson]

  GATHERED ANTS

  Ari to ari One ant and another

  unazukiahite nodding to each other,

  nani ka koto something seems to have

  arige ni hashiru happened—they rush

  nishi he higashi he to the west, to the east15

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 441, translated by Haruo Shirane]

  The next two poems are from Compositions on Solitary Pleasures (Dokurakugin), a series of fifty-two waka that begin with the phrase “Pleasure is” (tanoshimi wa). This series is reminiscent of the lists created by Sei Shōnagon in The Pillow Book, but unlike her elegant lists, Akemi focuses on everyday, commoner life. Married with three sons, Akemi took delight in the simple pleasures in life, especially with regard to family life. In the second poem, it is clear that he is poor (only rarely eating fish) but finds happiness in his children’s enjoying this rare treat.

  Tanoshimi ha Pleasure is

  mare ni uwo nite when you rarely cook

  kora mina ga fish, and the children

  umashi umashi to all say “Yum, yum”

  ihite kuhu toki as they eat.

  Tanoshimi ha Pleasure is

  yo ni tokigataku when you understand

  suru fumi no all by yourself

  kokoro wo hitori a book that people

  satorieshi toki find impenetrable.

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 429, translated by Haruo Shirane]

  ŌKUMA KOTOMICHI

  Ōkuma Kotomichi (1798–1868) was born into a merchant family in Chikuzen (Fukuoka Prefecture), in Kyūshū. When he was thirty-nine, he turned over his family business to his younger brother and concentrated on composing waka. Later he became a student of kanshi poetry, and in his waka he was influenced by Kagawa Kageki’s notion of expressing one’s true emotions (but not by his notion of rhythm, or shirabe). When he was sixty, Kotomichi moved to Osaka, and five years later, in 1863, he published The Grass Path Collection (Sōkeishū), a compendium of his own poetry. Kotomichi returned to Fukuoka in 1867 and died the following year.

  WAKA

  Kotomichi wrote a number of poems about children that capture their innocence and charm. In the second poem here, the poet does not notice the sound of the evening temple bell until he hears the last ring, which seems to linger. This kind of attention to the small surprises in everyday life is typical of Kotomichi, who avoids traditional poetic associations and instead looks directly at everyday life, in a way anticipating modern tanka.

  Warahabe no The kite

  makura no moto no at the child’s

  ikanobori bedside

  yume no sora ni ya must be soaring high

  maiagaruramu in the sky of his dreams.

  [Ŭkuma Kotomichi to sono uta, p. 107, translated by Haruo Shirane]

  VESPERS

  Itsu yori ka Since when

  iriahi no kane ha has the temple bell

  naritsuramu been ringing?

  kokorozukitaru noticing

  hate no hito koe the last sound

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 463, translated by Haruo Shirane]

  A PINWHEEL

  Imogaseni Sleeping on

  neburu waraha no the mother’s back—

  utsutsu naki the pinwheel spins

  te ni sahe meguru even in the baby’s

  kazaguruma kana unconscious hand.

  [Kinsei wakashū, NKBT 93: 468, translated by Peter Flueckiger]

  WORDS TO MYSELF (HITORIGOCHI, 1844)

  In a poetic treatise entitled Words to Myself, some of which is translated here, Kotomichi condemns those who study the ancients (specifically the nativist scholar Motoori Norinaga) and try to imitate ancient poetry but end up creating only “wood-puppet poetry” (deku uta). He argues that those who do not imitate the ancients—which Kotomichi certainly did not—and instead compose with fresh eyes and emotions actually come closer in spirit to the ancients.

  There is something I will, for now, refer to as “wood-puppet poetry” [deku uta]. It lacks a spirit [tamashii], and both its form and its content are from the past. No matter how many such poems one composes, it is like trying to scoop up water with a net. There is little in the poetry of people today that does not resemble such a leaky net. How long will it be before these puppets acquire a spirit? When I examine the poems of rural people, I find many who spend their entire lives as puppets.

  The ancients are my teachers, but they are not me. I am a person of the Tenpō era [1830–1844]; I am not one of the ancients. When people pointlessly follow the ancients, they forget who they are. On the surface, they assume the appearance of high ministers, and the poetry they compose indeed seems exalted, but this is like a merchant dressing up as a nobleman. It is entirely an imitation, like what one sees when watching kabuki.

  As I advised a certain poet, imitation is easy—even a kabuki actor can make himself into Sugawara no Michizane.16 But can those who truly wish to become like Sugawara no Michizane do so by acting? And can those who wish to compose poetry resembling that of the ancients do so through artistry? If one wants to be a good person, one must begin with one’s hea
rt, and if one wants to compose good poetry, one must also begin with one’s heart. When one composes poetry by taking one’s heart as the seed, at first it will naturally contain lowly and vulgar [zoku] sentiments and will not resemble the appropriate form. With the passage of time, though, it will gradually come closer to the ancients. I consider those who do not resemble the ancients at all to be close to them, and those who greatly resemble the ancients to be distant from them. . . .

  Poetry expresses human emotions [ninjō] and does not contain anything else. As I said earlier, poetry cannot be created by reflecting on things, so the Way of poetry does not insist that things be a particular way but, rather, is entirely based on human emotion. Therefore, if the Chinese heart is my true heart [magokoro], there is nothing I can do about it. If the Buddhist heart is my true heart, I cannot help it. If we compose poetry by avoiding the Chinese heart and the Buddhist heart, we may believe that we are producing poetry in the style of our country. But our country has used Confucianism and Buddhism since ancient times, and people today have absorbed them since they were born. Therefore it is difficult to get rid of them, and moreover, Confucianism and Buddhism are not things that we should try to get rid of.

  [NKT 8: 473, 479, translated by Peter Flueckiger]

  ________________________

  1. Roan composed this spring poem by the banks of the Ōi River, at the foot of Arashiyama, in Kyoto, where he was relaxing with his friends after a day spent viewing the cherry blossoms. The poem presents an implicit contrast between the unobstructed afternoon view and the misty evening. The verb kasumu (to be obscured by spring haze), which is usually associated with visual phenomena, brings into sharp focus the sound of waves, which break the implicit quiet of the misty evening scene.