Traditional Japanese Literature
Page 45
yume no ukihashi floating bridge of dreams
todaeshite breaks:
mine ni wakaruru sky of cloud drift
yokogumo no sora parting from a mountain peak.42
Fujiwara no Teika43
44
When the poet presented a hundred-verse set of poems.
ume no hana On sleeves scented
nioi o utsusu by blossoms of plum
sode no ue ni moonlight spilling
noki-moru tsuki no through the eaves
kage zo arasou claims its place.
Fujiwara no Teika
45
When the poet presented a hundred-verse set of poems.
ume ga ka ni When I ask of the past
mukashi o toeba in the scent of the plum,
haru no tsuki the spring moon
kotaenu kage zo keeps still
sode ni utsureru glistening on my sleeves.44
Fujiwara no Ietaka
47
For the Poetry Match in Fifteen Hundred Rounds.
ume no hana Never do I tire of their
akanu iro kamo color or their scent:
mukashi ni te plum blossoms
onaji katami no the spring night’s moon
haru no yo no tsuki recalling the past.45
Master of the Household of the Dowager Empress, Shunzei
58
For the hundred-verse poetry match at the regent prime minister’s residence.
ima wa tote The wild geese in the field,
tanomu no kari mo knowing it’s time to leave,
uchiwabinu cry plaintively:
oborozukiyo no mist-shrouded moon
akebono no sora lingering in the dawn sky.46
Priest Jakuren
Spring 2
133
For a picture of Mount Yoshino on a sliding screen panel at Saishōshitennō-in.
Miyoshino no Flowers must be falling
takane no sakura on Yoshino’s peaks:
chirinikeri this spring dawn’s
arashimo shiroki gusting winds
haru no akebono blossom in white.47
The Retired Emperor GoToba
134
For the Poetry Match in Fifteen Hundred Rounds.
sakurairo no Of winds of spring in my garden
niwa no harukaze of the color of cherry blossoms
ato mo nashi not a trace, nor visitor
towaba zo hito no to take these petals
yuki to dani min for fallen snow.48
Fujiwara no Teika
Summer
179
Composed as a poem on “Beginning of Summer.”
orifushi mo As seasons change
utsureba kaetsu they too change
yo no naka no their flowered robes:
hito no kokoro no the fickle hearts of
hanazome no koromo men of this world.49
Daughter of Shunzei50
Autumn 1
361
Topic unknown.
sabishisa wa Loneliness has no
sono iro to shi mo color of its own:
nakarikeri pine trees
maki tatsu yama no on a darkening mountain
aki no yūgure evening of autumn.51
Priest Jakuren
363
For a hundred-verse set of poems composed at the suggestion of Priest Saigyō.
miwataseba Looking out across
hana mo momiji mo the shore
nakarikeri no flowers, no autumn leaves:
ura no tomaya no a thatched hut’s
aki no yūgure evening of autumn.52
Fujiwara no Teika
380
When the poet presented a hundred-verse set of poems, a poem on “The Moon.”
nagame-wabinu Gazing till weary of these skies
aki yori hoka no I long for a dwelling
yado mogana away from autumn:
no ni mo yama ni mo must the moon light
tsuki ya sumuran every field and mountain?53
Princess Shokushi
419
When the poet had a fifty-verse set of poems on “The Moon” composed for delivery at his residence.
tsuki dani mo Heedless that the moon
nagusamegataki brings sadness enough
aki no yo no to this autumn night,
kokoro mo shiranu the wind
matsu no kaze kana sighs in the pines.54
The Regent Prime Minister
420
When the regent prime minister had a fifty-verse set of poems on “The Moon” composed for delivery at his residence.
samushiro ya On a mat of rush
matsu yo no aki no as autumn winds deepen
kaze fukete her night of waiting,
tsuki o katashiku the Maiden of Uji Bridge
Uji no Hashihime spreads a robe of moonlight.55
Fujiwara no Teika
Winter
671
When the poet presented a hundred-verse set of poems.
koma tomete No shelter to rest my horse
uchiharau or brush my sleeves,
kage mo nashi not a shadow
Sano no watari no at Sano Crossing
yuki no yūgure in snow-falling dusk.56
Fujiwara no Teika
Mourning
788
In the autumn of the year his mother died, on a day of windstorms, the poet went to the place where he had once lived with his mother.
tamayura no Not fleeting drops
tsuyu mo namida mo of dew nor tears will pause:
todomarazu winds of autumn
nakihito kouru sweep the dwelling
yado no akikaze loved by one now gone.
Fujiwara no Teika
Travel
939
For a fifty-verse set of poems composed for presentation [to the retired emperor].
akeba mata Yet another mountain peak
koyubeki yama no to be crossed after dawn?
mine nareya White clouds touched
sorayuku tsuki no by the distant reach
sue no shirakumo of the setting moon.
Fujiwara no Ietaka
Love 1
1034
For a hundred-verse set of poems, on the topic “Love Endured.”
tama no o yo If this jewel thread of life
taenaba taene is to break, let it break:
nagaraeba living on
shinoburu koto no would be to endure
yowari mo zo suru love’s torment alone.57
Princess Shokushi
1035
For a hundred-verse set of poems, on the topic “Love Endured.”
wasurete wa Another evening’s sighs:
uchinagekaruru have I forgotten
yūbe kana this hidden longing
ware nomi shirite is mine alone to suffer
suguru tsukibi o as days become months?58
Princess Shokushi
Love 2
1136
Among the poems for the Minase-koi Poetry Match on fifteen topics, on the motif “Spring Love.”
omokage no My loved one’s image
kasumeru tsuki zo shimmers in the misted moon
yadorikeru of a spring now past
haru ya mukashi no dwelling in tears
sode no namida ni on my sleeves.59
Daughter of Shunzei
Love 3
1206
Composed as a poem of love.
kaeru sa no Does he now gaze
mono to ya hito no as one returning might
nagamuran on the moon at dawn
matsu yo-nagara no of this night
ariake no tsuki I waited in vain?60
Fujiwara no Teika
Miscellaneous Topics 3
1764 (1762)
At the Bureau of Poetry, on the motif “Regretting.”
oshimu to mo I do not regret these
namida ni tsuki mo heartfelt tears
kokoro kara nor the earnest moon
narenuru sode ni shining on my sleeves
aki o uramite resenting autumn.61
The same poem might be translated as
oshimu to mo I do not grudge autumn
namida ni tsuki mo nor my sleeves drenched
kokoro kara in heartfelt tears,
narenuru sode ni too familiar moonlight
aki o uramite resenting both.
Daughter of Shunzei
[Introduction and translations by Lewis Cook]
RECLUSE LITERATURE (SŌAN BUNGAKU)
During the late Heian and early Kamakura periods, many aristocrats took holy vows and retreated from the secular world, not to the busy Buddhist monasteries in Nara and the capital (such as Mount Hiei, the headquarters of the Tendai sect), but to retreats outside the cities, which they believed to be a purer form of renunciation. The physical separation from the secular world freed the “recluses” from heavy obligations to their families or superiors and allowed for devotion to their own interests, which often included literary and cultural pursuits. Many of these recluse monks were intellectuals and artists who produced what is now referred to as “recluse literature” (sōan bungaku). Recluse literature, which contains some of the finest writing in this period, is characterized by a deep interest in nature and in self-reflection. Prominent figures are Saigyō in the late Heian period; Kamo no Chōmei, author of An Account of a Ten-Foot-Square Hut (Hōjōki) in the early Kamakura period; and Kenkō, who wrote Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa) in the fourteenth century. Prominent recluse figures in the late medieval period include Sōgi (1421–1502), a renga master and literary scholar; and Yamazaki Sōkan (1465–1533), one of the founders of haikai (comic or popular linked verse).
KAMO NO CHŌMEI
Kamo no Chōmei (1155?–1216) was born into a family of hereditary Shinto priests who had served many generations at the Shimogamo (Kamo) Shrine, a prestigious shrine just north of the capital. Chōmei was the second son of Kamo no Nagatsugu, the head administrator of the shrine. As a child, Chōmei lived in comfortable circumstances and studied classical poetry (waka) and music, but his father died young while Chōmei was still in his teens, leaving him without the means for social advancement. Chōmei, however, continued to devote himself to the study of poetry and music, two fields in which he excelled.
In 1200, Chōmei began composing with the prominent poets of the day and was invited in 1201 by the retired emperor GoToba to take a prestigious position in the Imperial Poetry Office, where the imperial waka anthologies were edited and compiled. In the spring of 1204, at around the age of fifty, Chōmei suddenly took holy vows. It is generally believed that the cause for his sudden retirement was his disillusionment in not having received a high position at the Tadasu Shrine, part of the Shimogamo Shrine complex, a position for which he had long hoped but which was blocked by the shrine’s existing head administrator.
AN ACCOUNT OF A TEN-FOOT-SQUARE HUT (HŌJŌKI, 1212)
Chōmei wrote An Account of a Ten-Foot-Square Hut at the end of the Third Month of 1212 while in retirement at Hino, in the hills southeast of Kyoto. It is written in a mixed Japanese–Chinese style that draws heavily on Chinese and Buddhist words and sources. Probably the most noticeable rhetorical feature of this style is the heavy use of parallel phrases and of metaphors. The work is noted for its vivid descriptions of a series of disasters in the capital during a time of turmoil (the war between the Taira and Minamoto at the end of the twelfth century) and for its description of the law of impermanence of all things, one of the central tenets of Buddhism, which had a profound impact on Japan at this time. As a recluse who retreats from society and turns toward the pursuit of the Pure Land, a western paradise envisioned by the Pure Land Buddhist sect, the author is representative of a larger movement among the cultural elite at this time. In the end, however, Chōmei finds himself in the paradoxical position of advocating detachment and rebirth in the Pure Land while at the same time becoming attached to the beauties of nature and the four seasons and the aesthetic life of his ten-foot-square hut at Hino.
The current of the flowing river does not cease, and yet the water is not the same water as before. The foam that floats on stagnant pools, now vanishing, now forming, never stays the same for long. So, too, it is with the people and dwellings of the world. In the capital, lovely as if paved with jewels, houses of the high and low, their ridges aligned and roof tiles contending, never disappear however many ages pass, and yet if we examine whether this is true, we will rarely find a house remaining as it used to be. Perhaps it burned down last year and has been rebuilt. Perhaps a large house has crumbled and become a small one. The people living inside the houses are no different. The place may be the same capital and the people numerous, but only one or two in twenty or thirty is someone I knew in the past. One will die in the morning and another will be born in the evening: such is the way of the world, and in this we are like the foam on the water. I know neither whence the newborn come nor whither go the dead. For whose sake do we trouble our minds over these temporary dwellings, and why do they delight our eyes? This, too, I do not understand. In competing for impermanence, dweller and dwelling are no different from the morning glory and the dew. Perhaps the dew will fall and the blossom linger. But even though it lingers, it will wither in the morning sun. Perhaps the blossom will wilt and the dew remain. But even though it remains, it will not wait for evening.
In the more than forty springs and autumns that have passed since I began to understand the nature of the world, I have seen many unexpected things. I think it was on the twenty-eighth of the Fourth Month of Angen 3 [1177]. Around eight o’clock on a windy, noisy night, a fire broke out in the southeastern part of the capital and spread to the northwest. Finally it reached Suzaku Gate, the Great Hall of State, the university, and the Popular Affairs Ministry, and in the space of a night they all turned to dust and ash. The source of the fire is said to have been the intersection of Higuchi and Tominokōji, in makeshift housing occupied by bugaku dancers. Carried here and there in the violent wind, the fire spread outward like a fan unfolding. Distant houses choked on smoke; nearby, wind drove the flames against the ground. In the sky, ashes blown up by the wind reflected the light of the fire, while wind-scattered flames spread through the overarching red in leaps of one and two blocks. Those who were caught in the fire must have been frantic. Some choked on the smoke and collapsed; some were overtaken by the flames and died instantly. Some barely escaped with their lives but could not carry out their possessions. The Seven Rarities and ten thousand treasures all were reduced to ashes.62 How great the losses must have been. At that time, the houses of sixteen high nobles burned, not to mention countless lesser homes. Altogether, it is said that fire engulfed one-third of the capital. Thousands of men and women died, and more horses, oxen, and the like than one can tell. All human endeavors are foolish, but among them, spending one’s fortune and troubling one’s mind to build a house in such a dangerous capital is particularly vain.
Then, in the Fourth Month of Jishō 4 [1180], a great whirlwind arose near the intersection of Nakanomikado and Kyōgoku and raged as far as the Rokujō District. Because it blew savagely for three or four blocks, not a single house within them, large or small, escaped destruction. Some were flattened; some were reduced to nothing more than posts and beams. Blowing gates away, the wind carried them four or five blocks and set them down; blowing fences away, it joined neighboring properties into one. Naturally, all the possessions inside these houses were lifted into the sky, while cypress bark, boards, and other roofing materials mingled in the wind like winter leaves. The whirlwind blew up dust as thick as smoke so that nothing could be seen, and in its dreadful roar no voices could be heard. One felt that even the winds of retribution in hell could be no worse than this. Not only were houses damaged or lost, but countless men were injured or crippled in rebuilding them. As it moved toward the south-southwest, the wind was a cause of grief to many people. Whirlwinds often blow, but are they ever like this? It
was something extraordinary. One feared that it might be a portent.
Then, in the Sixth Month of the same year, the capital was abruptly moved.63 The relocation was completely unexpected. According to what I have heard, Kyoto was established as the capital more than four hundred years ago, during the reign of the Saga emperor.64 The relocation of the capital is not something that can be undertaken easily, for no special reason, and so it is only natural that the people were uneasy with this move and lamented together about it. Objections having no effect, however, the emperor, the ministers, and all the other high nobles moved. Of those who served at court, who would stay behind in the old capital? Those who vested their hopes in government appointments or in rank, or depended on the favor of their masters, wasted not a day in moving, while those who had missed their chance, who had been left behind by the world, and who had nothing to look forward to, stayed sorrowfully where they were. Dwellings, their eaves contending, went to ruin with the passing days. Houses were disassembled and floated down the Yodo River as the land turned into fields before one’s eyes. Men’s hearts changed; now they valued only horses and saddles. No one used oxen and carriages any more. People coveted property in the southwest and scorned manors in the northeast. At that time I had occasion to go to the new capital, in the province of Tsu. I saw that there was insufficient room to lay out a grid of streets and avenues, the area being small. To the north, the city pressed against the mountains and, to the south, dropped off toward the sea. The roar of waves never slackened; a violent wind blew in off the saltwater. The palace stood in the mountains. Did that hall of logs look like this?65 It was novel and, in its way, elegant. Where did they erect the houses they had torn down day by day and brought downstream, constricting the river’s flow? Open land was still plentiful, houses few. Even though the old capital had become a wasteland, the new capital was yet unfinished. Everyone felt like the drifting clouds. Those who had lived here before complained about losing their land. Those who had newly moved here bemoaned the pains of construction. In the streets, I saw that those who should have used carriages rode on horses, and most of those who should have dressed in court robes and headgear wore simple robes instead. The ways of the capital had changed abruptly; now they were no different from the ways of rustic samurai. I heard that these developments were portents of disorder in the land, and it turned out to be so: day by day the world grew more unsettled and the people more uneasy, and their fears proved to be well founded, so that in the winter of the same year the court returned to this capital.66 But what became of all the houses that had been torn down? Not all of them were rebuilt as they had stood before.