Anthology of Japanese Literature
Page 18
5 The Shinto god Hachiman (the god of war) was officially also considered a bodhisattva.
6 The nembutsu is an invocation to Amida Buddha practiced by members of the Jōdo (Pure Land) sect.
7 Kenreimon'in was born in 1155.
8 A priestly sovereign (hōō) was an emperor who had abdicated and taken Buddhist orders. The sovereign in question was Goshirakawa (1127-1192).
9 A quotation from an unknown source.
10 Yen Yüan and Yüan Hsien were disciples of Confucius. The allusions here to Chinese and Japanese literature would be tedious to unravel.
11 The meeting between the former Empress and the Priesdy Sovereign, here omitted, consists almost entirely of a recounting, by the Empress, of the events of the past few months.
12 In Jōdo Buddhism, the believer on his deathbed grasps a cord attached to a picture of the Buddha, and is supposed thus to be drawn into Paradise.
SHINKOKINSHŪ
The "Shinkokinshū," or "New Collection of Ancient and Modern Poems," was the eighth of the anthologies of Japanese poetry compiled by Imperial order. It was completed in 1205 by a committee headed by the celebrated Fujiwara no Teika (1162-1241), the leading figure in the world of letters of his day. The Emperor Gotoba,1 who ordered the compilation, took an active interest in the "Shinkokinshū" and worked on it while in exile on the island of Oki.
The "Shtnkokinshū" is often considered to be the greatest Japanese collection after the "Man'yōshū." It is known particularly for the craftsmanship displayed by its poets, although this same quality has been denounced by some critics as "artificiality." The attempt of its poets was to fill the elegantly wrought framework of their verses with content as poignant and moving as possible. With such poets as Saigyō (1118-1190) new heights in Japanese poetry were thereby reached. Needless to say, however, the technical perfection of the "Shinkokinshū" poems is largely lost in translation.
Murasame no The hanging raindrops
Tsuyu mo mada hinu Have not dried from the needles
Maki no ha ni Of the fir forest
Kiri tachinoboru Before the evening mist
Aki no yūgure Of autumn rises.
The Priest Jakuren (died 1202)
TRANSLATED BY KENNETH REXROTH
. .
Sayo chidori The cries of the night
Koe kaso chikaka Sanderlings draw closer
Narumi-gata To Narumi Beach;
Katabuka tsuki ni As the moon sinks in the sky
Shio ya mitsuramu The tide rises to the full.
Shōsammi Sueyoshi
. .
Katami to te Nothing whatsoever
Hono fumi wakeshi Remains of you in this grass
Ato mo nashi We once used to tread;
Kishi wa mukas hi no How long ago it was we came—
Niwa no ogiwara The garden now is a wilderness.
Fujiwara no Yasusue
. .
Hana wa chiri The blossoms have fallen.
Sono tro to naka I stare blankly at a world
Nagamureba Bereft of color:
Munashiki sora ni In the wide vacant sky
Harusame zo kuru The spring rains are falling.
Princess Shikushi (died 1201)
. .
Hakanakute When I tell over
Suginishi kata wo The years of a past spent in
Kazōreba Empty promises,
Hana ni mono omou How many springs have gone by
Haru zo henikeru Lamenting with the blossoms!
Princess Shikushi
. .
Omoiamari When I stare off
Sonata no sora wo At the far sky where you are,
Nagamureba In excess of grief,
Kasumi wo wakete Filtering through the mists
Harusame zo kuru The spring rains are falling.
Fujiwara no Shunzei (1114-1204)
. .
Uchishimeri The irises,
Ayame zo kaoru Their petals damp, are fragrant.
Hototogisu Listen! The cuckoos
Naku ya satsuki no Are calling now, this rainy
Ame no yūgure Evening in May.
Fujiwara no Yoshitsune (1169-1206)
. .
Ima komu to He promised me then
Chigirishi koto wa He would come to me at once—
Yume nagara That was in a dream:
Mishi yo ni nitaru And yet the moon at daybreak
Ariane no tsuki Looked as it did the night we met.
Minamoto no Michitomo (1171-1227)
. .
Haru no yo no When the floating bridge
Yume no ukihashi Of the dream of a spring night
Todae shite Was snapped, I awoke:
Mine ni wakaruru In the sky a bank of clouds
Yokogumo no sora Was drawing away from the peak.
Fujiwara no Teika
. .
Wasureji no It will be hard
Yukusue made wa To keep forever the vow
Katakereba Never to forget—
Kyō wo kagiri no Would today could be the limit,
Inochi to mo gana And with it see our lives expire!
The Mother of Gidō Sanji
. .
Wasureji to You said you would not
Iishi bakari no Forget me—those were but words;
Nagori to te All that still remains
Sono yo no tsuki wa Is the moon which shone that night
Meguru kinikeri And now has come again.
Fujiwara no Artie (1155-1216)
. .
Sabishisa wa Loneliness does not
Sono iro to shi mo Originate in any one
Nakarikeri Particular thing:
Maki tatsu yama no Evening in autumn over
Aki no yūgure The black pines of the mountain.
The Priest Jamuren
. .
Kokoro naki Even to someone
Mi ni mo aware wa Free of passions2 this sadness
Shirarekeri Would be apparent:
Shigi tatsu sawa no Evening in autumn over
Ahi no yūgure A marsh where a snipe rises.
Saigyō
. .
Miwataseba In this wide landscape
Hana mo momiji mo I see no cherry blossoms
Nakarikeri And no crimson leaves—3
Ura no tomaya no Evening in autumn over
Aki no yūgure A straw-thatched hut by the bay.
Fujiwara no Teika
. .
Furuhata no In a tree standing
Soba no tatsu hi ni Beside a desolate field,
Iru hato no The voice of a dove
Tomo yobu koe no Calling to its companions—
Sugosiyūgure Lonely, terrible evening.
Saigyō
. .
Toshi tacete Did I ever dream
Mata koyubeshi to I should pass this way again
Omoiki ya As an old man?
Inochi narikeri I have lived such a long time—
Sayo no Nakayama Nakayama of the Night.4
Saigyō
. .
Haruka naru Living all alone
Iwa no hazama ni In this space between the rocks
Hitori ite Far from the city,
Hito me omowade Here, where no one can see me,
Mono omowabaya I shall give myself to grief.
Saigyō
Footnotes
1 See page 242.
2 Meaning here a monk.
3 Cherry blossoms and crimson leaves were the conventionally admired natural objects of spring and autumn respectively.
4 A place name famous in poetry; such common place names as Nakayama were often identified as here by some descriptive term. See also page 249.
AN ACCOUNT OF MY HUT
[Hōjōi] by Kama no Chōmei
"An Account of My Hut" was written in 1212, the same year as the death of Hōnen, the great leader of Japanese popular Buddhism. There is a deeply Buddhist tinge to the work, a Buddhism quite unlike the intellectual, aesth
etic religion which Kūkai had taught. The new Buddhism—and this work—was pessimistic, as was not surprising in view of the disasters which befell Japanese society in the late Heian Period. The author, Kamo no Chōmei (1153-1216), describes in this work some of the calamities which he personally witnessed; he does not allude, however, to the fighting between the Taira and the Minamoto which also ravaged the country. In such terrible times men often turn to religion as he did, and his account of the life he led before and after "abandoning the world" is still very moving.
The flow of the river is ceaseless and its water is never the same. The bubbles that float in the pools, now vanishing, now forming, are not of long duration: so in the world are man and his dwellings. It might be imagined that the houses, great and small, which vie roof against proud roof in the capital remain unchanged from one generation to the next, but when we examine whether this is true, how few are the houses that were there of old. Some were burnt last year and only since rebuilt; great houses have crumbled into hovels and those who dwell in them have fallen no less. The city is the same, the people are as numerous as ever, but of those I used to know, a bare one or two in twenty remain. They die in the morning, they are born in the evening, like foam on the water.
Whence does he come, where does he go, man that is born and dies? We know not. For whose benefit does he torment himself in building houses that last but a moment, for what reason is his eye delighted by them? This too we do not know. Which will be first to go, the master or. his dwelling? One might just as well ask this of the dew on the morning-glory. The dew may fall and the flower remain—remain, only to be withered by the morning sun. The flower may fade before the dew evaporates, but though it does not evaporate, it waits not the evening.
THE GREAT FIRE
In the forty and more years that have passed since first I became aware of the meaning of things, I have witnessed many terrible sights. It was, I believe, the twenty-eighth day of the fourth month of 1177, on a night when the wind blew fiercely without a moment of calm, that a fire broke out toward nine o'clock in the southeast of the capital and spread northwest. It finally reached the gates and buildings of the palace, and within the space of a single night all was reduced to ashes. The fire originated in a little hut where a sick man lodged.
The fire fanned out as the shifting wind spread it, first in one direction and then another. Houses far away from the conflagration were enveloped in the smoke, while the area nearby was a sea of flames. The ashes were blown up into the sky, which turned into a sheet of crimson from the reflected glare of the fire, and the flames, relentlessly whipped by the wind, seemed to fly over two or three streets at a time. Those who were caught in the midst could not believe it was actually happening: some collapsed, suffocated by the smoke, others surrounded by flames died on the spot. Still others barely managed to escape with their lives, but could not rescue any of their property: all their treasures were turned into ashes. How much had been wasted on them!
Sixteen mansions belonging to the nobility were burnt, not to speak of innumerable other houses. In all, about a third of the capital was destroyed. Several thousand men and women lost their lives, as well as countless horses and oxen. Of all the follies of human endeavor, none is more pointless than expending treasures and spirit to build houses in so dangerous a place as the capital.
THE WHIRLWIND
Again, on the twenty-ninth day of the fourth moon of 1180, a great whirlwind sprang up in the northeast of the capital and violently raged as far south as the Sixth Ward. Every house, great or small, was destroyed within the area engulfed by the wind. Some were knocked completely flat, others were left with their bare framework standing. The tops of the gates were blown off and dropped four or five hundred yards away, and fences were swept down, making neighboring properties one. Innumerable treasures from within the houses were tossed into the sky; roofs of bark or thatch were driven like winter leaves in the wind. A smoke-like dust rose, blindingly thick, and so deafening was the roar that the sound of voices was lost in it. Even so must be the blasts of Hell, I thought.
Not only were many houses damaged or destroyed, but countless people were hurt or crippled while repairing them. The whirlwind moved off in a southwesterly direction, leaving behind many to bewail its passage. People said in wonder, "We have whirlwinds all the time, but never one like this. It is no common case—it must be a presage of terrible things to come."
THE MOVING OF THE CAPITAL
In the sixth month of the same year the capital was suddenly moved, a most unexpected occurrence. It had been hundreds of years since the reign of the Emperor Saga when the capital was fixed in Kyoto.1 The site of the capital was not a thing lightly to be changed without sufficient reason, and the people were excessively agitated and worried by the news.
However, complaints served no purpose and everyone moved, from the Emperor, his ministers, and the nobility on downward. Of all those who served the court, not a soul was left in the old capital. Those who had ambitions of office or favors to ask of the Emperor vied to be the first to make the move. Only those who, having lost their chances of success, were superfluous in the world and had nothing to hope for, remained behind, although with sorrow. The mansions whose roofs had rivaled one another fell with the passing days to rack and ruin. Houses were dismantled and floated down the Yodo River, and the capital turned into empty fields before one's eyes. People's ways changed completely—now horses were prized and oxcarts fell into disuse. Estates by the sea in the south or west were highly desired, and no one showed any liking for manors in the east or the north.2
About this time I happened to have business which took me to the new capital. The site was so cramped that there was not even enough space to divide the city into the proper number of streets.3 To the north the land rose up high along a ridge of hills and to the south sloped down to the sea. The roar of the waves made a constant din, and the salt winds were of a terrible severity. The palace was in the mountains and, suggesting as it did the log construction of the ancient palaces, was not without its charms.
I wondered where they could have erected the houses that were daily dismanded and sent down the river so thick as to clog it. There were still many empty fields, and few houses standing. The old capital was now desolate but the new one had yet to be finished. Men all felt uncertain as drifting clouds. Those people who were natives of the place lamented the loss of their land, and those who now moved there complained over the difficulties of putting up houses. I could see on the roads men on horseback who should have been riding in carriages; instead of wearing court robes they were in simple service dress. The manners of the capital had suddenly changed and were now exactly like those of rustic soldiers.
Everywhere people could be heard wondering if future disorders were portended, and indeed, with the passage of the days, the country came to be torn by disturbances and unrest. The sufferings of the people were not, however, entirely in vain—in the winter of the same year the capital was returned to Kyoto. But what had happened to the dismantled houses? They could not all have been re-erected in their former grandeur.
Some faint reports have reached my ears that in the wise reigns of former days the country was ruled with clemency. Then the Imperial palace was thatched with straw, and not even the eaves were aligned.4 When the Emperor saw that the smoke rising from the kitchen fires was thin, he went so far as to remit the taxes, although they were not excessive. That was because he loved his people and sought to help them. If we compare present conditions with those of ancient times, we may see how great is the difference.
THE FAMINE
Again, about 1181—it is so long ago that I cannot remember for certain—there was a famine in the country which lasted two years, a most terrible thing. A drought persisted through the spring and summer, while the autumn and winter brought storms and floods. One disaster followed another, and the grains failed to ripen. All in vain was the labor of tilling the soil in spring or planting in summer, for there w
as none of the joy of the autumn reaping or winter harvest. Some of the people as a result abandoned their lands and crossed into other provinces; some forgot their homes and went to live in the mountains. All manner of prayers were begun and extraordinary devotions performed, but without the slightest effect.
The capital had always depended on the countryside for its needs, and when supplies ceased to come it became quite impossible for people to maintain their composure. They tried in their desperation to barter for food one after another of their possessions, however cheaply, but no one desired them. The rare person who was willing to trade had contempt for money and set a high value on his grain. Many beggars lined the roads, and their doleful cries filled the air.
Thus the first year of the famine at last drew to a close. It was thought that the new year would see an improvement, but it brought instead the additional affliction of epidemics, and there was no sign of any amelioration. The people were starving, and with the passage of days approached the extremity, like fish gasping in insufficient water. Finally, people of quality, wearing hats and with their legs covered,5 were reduced to going from house to house desperately begging. Overwhelmed by misery, they would walk in a stupor, only presently to collapse. The number of those who died of starvation outside the gates or along the roads may not be reckoned. There being no one even to dispose of the bodies, a stench filled the whole world, and there were many sights of decomposing bodies too horrible to behold. Along the banks of the Kamo River there was not even room for horses and cattle to pass.
The lower classes and the wood-cutters were also at the end of their strength, and as even firewood grew scarce those without other resources broke up their own houses and took the wood to sell in the market. The amount obtainable for all that a man could carry, however, was not enough to sustain life a single day. Strange to relate, among the sticks of firewood were some to which bits of vermilion or gold and silver leaf still adhered. This, I discovered, came about because people with no other means of living were robbing the old temples of their holy images or breaking up the furnishings of the sacred halls for firewood. It was because I was born in a world of foulness and evil that I was forced to witness such heartbreaking sights.