Jewels of melted snow...

Poem 3 of the Shinkokin wakashuu (新古今和歌集), from the book of spring poems.

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百首歌たてまつりし時、春の歌
hyakushu uta tatematurishi toki, haru no uta
山ふかみ春ともしらぬ松の戸にたえだえかかる雪の玉水
yama fukami haru tomo shiranu matsu no to ni taedae kakaru yuki no tamamidzu
式子内親王
Shikishinai shinnou

Presented at the time of a One Hundred Poem Meet, a spring poem

Deep in the mountains / where one wonders if spring comes, / waiting at the gate / of pine branches, pure drops of / melting snow fall here and there

Princess Shikishinai

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This is another poem about the coming of spring. In this case, the drops of melting snow signify the slow approach of spring, coming in drop by drop. Additionally, the pine in the pine branch gate (matsu in Japanese) operates as a kakekotoba--the homonym of matsu (pine) is, again, matsu (to wait). As such, I have incorporated "waiting" and "pine" into the same sentence, as closely as possible, in an attempt to signify their connection. Additionally, the Japanese for the "pure drops" of melting (tamamidzu) is literally "jewel water"--metaphorical language for pure, clean water drops. Finally, in the Japanese, the poet does not literally "wonder" if spring will come, instead she doesn't know if spring will come this deep in the mountains. Obviously this is a hyperbolic description of the poet's Hermitage, but it is an image full of miyabi (or elegance) that so thoroughly informs classical Japanese poetry--and, indeed, most of classical Japanese culture.

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Thanks for reading today! This is a much shorter post than usual, but I expect to continue with shorter posts (maybe not quite this short) as I'm trying to spend more time studying Japanese with the goal of taking the JLPT ikkyu by the end of next year. But that doesn't I'll stop posting! Please keep reading!

Mist lingering about Heavenly Kagu Mountain

Today we'll be continuing with the Shinkokin wakashuu (新古今和歌集) and moving on to the very next poem: poem 2 in the book of spring poems.

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春のはじめの歌
haru no hajime no uta
ほのぼのと春こそ空にきにけらし天の香久山かすみたなびく
honobono to haru koso sora ni kinikerashi ama no ama no Kaguyama kasumi tanabiku
太上天皇
Daijou tennou

A verse on the beginning of spring

Faintly, in the dawn, / spring has arrived from the sky / and from the peak of / Heavenly Kagu Mountain / mist descends, hangs in the air

Retired Emperor Gotoba

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Taken from the personal collection of waka by Retired Emperor Gotoba (who ordered the compilation of the Shinkokin wakashuu after abdicating the throne [from The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese Literature]), this poem paints a beautiful image of the beginning of spring. It also suggests the image of spring (embodied in the mist) descending from the heavens and slowly settling over the land as a gift from the deities to the Japanese people. (And, for me at least, brings to mind the Man'youshuu poem of the Emperor surveying the land to bring good fortune to his people in the coming year.)

This poem contains some interesting rhetorical language that I would like to look at. In addition to its beautiful images, this poem contains an allusion a Man'youshuu poem which I have quickly translated as: "It seems certain that / spring will come flowing in on / this night as fine mist / lingering about ancient / Heavenly Kagu Mountain." (As I don't have a copy of the Man'youshuu with me right now, I'm offering this an approximation of the meaning only.) I would also like to explain my use of "mist descends, lingers in the air". かすみたなびく (kasumi tanabiku) literally means "mist hangs/lingers in the air". However, the editors have pointed out that 天の (ama no; "heavenly"), coupled with 空にきにけらし (sora ni kinikerashi; "came from the sky") has a nuance of mist falling from towering heavens.

Yesterday, I mentioned some differences between the Shinkokin wakashuu and the Kokin wakashuu in terms of poetic thought. Today, I'd like to discuss Retired Emperor Gotoba's role in the compilation of the Shinkokin wakashuu. He reigned as emperor from 1183 to 1198 (the beginning of the Kamakura period, which directly follows the Heian period) until he abdicated to have more political power. At the time, the power of the Imperial Court was in decline and the power of the military leaders was rising. (If you'd like to read more about the rise of the military powers in the period, I would recommend Karl F. Friday's Samurai, Warfare and the State in Early Medieval Japan.) However, there was an even older trend whereby the Fujiwara regents ("advisors") to the emperor had essentially taken control of power by putting younger and younger emperors on the thrown and then forcing them to abdicate before they grew old enough to develop any power of their own. As such, many retired emperors eventually realized what they had missed out on and began attempting to consolidate power in their homes outside the capital. While this more an issue of political history than of poetry, I mention it to give you an idea of the type of man Retired Emperor Gotoba was. In addition to spending much of his life struggling for political power, he was also very dedicated to the arts--hence his command to compile the Shinkokin wakashuu. While he was characterized as being strong headed (and arguing with Fujiwara Teika, chief comiler of the anthology), his poetry, as we've seen today, had an incredible beauty to it.

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I hope you've enjoyed today's poem! I'll be back on Wednesday with more poetry from the Shinkokin wakashuu!

Misty snow fall...

Today we'll be starting in the Shinkokin wakashuu (新古今和歌集), the eighth of the imperial anthologies of the Heian period. It, along with the Kokin wakashuu and the Man'you wakashuu, is considered one of the three most important waka anthologies compiled. However, before we get into the anthology, let's look at one of it's poems.

Poem 1 from the First Book of Spring Poems.

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春たつ心をよみ侍りける
haru tatsu kokoro wo yomihaberikeru
み吉野は山もかすみて白雪のふりにし里に春はきにけり
miYoshino ha yama mo kasumite shirayuki no furinishi sato ni haru ha kinikeri
摂政太政大臣
Setsujou Dajoudaijin

Composed on the "heart" of the coming of spring
In Yoshino and / in the mountains, too, the mist / rolls in; white snow fall / still covers the old village / at long last, spring has arrived
Setsujou Dajoudaijin

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Let's start by discussing the poem. If you remember the first poem I posted, you probably noticed the surprising similarity the poems have. This is due in part to the "motto" of the Shinkokin wakashuu--"kotoba furuku, kokoro atarashi" which translates most simply as "old words, new heart". This was the compilers' way of maintaining the classical waka tradition while simultaneously allowing room for new personal and artistic expression. It is important to note that, as the eighth imperial anthology, the Shinkokin wakashuu compilation was officially completed in 1205, about 300 years after the Kokin wakashuu and about 400 years after the Man'youshuu, the oldest extent collection of Japanese poetry. I mention these dates to give you a sense of the length of the tradition the compilers were drawing from and carrying on with their completion of the Shinkokin wakashuu.

Of additional significance is, once again, intertexuality. Like the Kokin wakashuu, the arrangement of the poems tells a contiguous story, moving through the seasons and onto a variety of topics ranging from departing to love. Additionally, as each poem is so brief, the poets had to rely on allusions to enhance their poems beyond simple sentences. Each poem is imbued with the weight of all the poems it directly and indirectly references. So, while the words are old (i.e. the allusions, vocabulary, and grammar all hearken back to poems from the last four hundred years), they can express a new feeling. If a poet is feeling sad, for example, at the departure of a loved one, he or she can use place names that invoke similar feelings, kakekotoba (or pivot words--homonyms that can have multiple grammatical functions as well as definitions) that allow for closer connections between clauses (as well as more meaning per syllable), and allusions to other poems that may be expressing similar sentiments. For a modern (or postmodern) reader, this can result in a particularly challenging read--contemporary audiences were expected to memorize and be fluent in the poems and language of their tradition. Thankfully most modern editions have editors who will point out poems of significant allusory importance!

Please look over the first posted poem if you need a bit of a refresher on the significance of Yoshino (as well an idea of what the "original" poem was).

For today's poem, I'd like to first point out the differences between the Kokin wakashuu poem and the Shinkokin wakashuu poem. In the Kokin wakashuu poem, spring has officially arrived (according to the calendar), but the snow is still falling (leading the poet to wonder where the mists could be rolling in). In the Shinkokin wakashuu poem, the mist has rolled in--despite the snow cover still laying over the village. While both poems exist in very nearly the same temporal space (the beginning of spring), they express distinctly different sentiments--the first the longing for spring to arrive and the second a quiet thankfulness and amusement at its arrival.

Additionally, this poem features a kakekotoba. Furinishi (in between the fourth line) has two meanings. The first (and most obvious grammatically) is "has fallen", as in the rain or snow has fallen. Furi is the ren'youkei of furu and has ni (the ren'youkei of nu, a past tense suffix) attached, which in turn has shi (the rentaikei, or adjectival/nomintive form of ki, which is an additional past tense suffix) attached. You may be wondering why there are multiple past tense suffixes attached to one verb. While one suffix indicates past-tense-ness, the other indicates super-past-tense-ness, if you will. One is a past tense suffix, the other is the completed-past-tense-suffix. If this sounds confusing, please ignore it and move on. While it is these kinds of nuances that make waka be waka, I do not think that it is necessary to understanding the translation.

The other meaning of the previously discussed verb is a bit more complicated. Furusato is literally old village. You'll notice the lack of a "furusato" in the original. This is not a mistake. Instead, the poet knew that his audiences would immediately pick up on the intended meaning, so it was not necessary to use an exact homonym.

For the waka poets of old (and, indeed, even of today) the beauty of the poems lied not only in the images and emotions expressed, but also in the way they are expressed and how the poet "plays" with the language.

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I hope you've enjoyed today's poem and discussion! If you have any questions or comments, please post them in the comment section below!

My apologies

Sorry, no post this Wednesday, but Friday I'll be starting with the first book of spring poems from the Shinkokin wakashuu (新古今和歌集). See you then!

Of rain soaked flowers and...

Poem 133 of the Kokin wakashuu, from the last book of Spring poems.

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弥生のつごもりの日、雨の降りけるに、藤の花を折りて人につかはしける
yayohi no tsugomori no hi, ame no furikeru ni, fudi no hana wo worite hi ni tukaha shikeru
濡れつつぞしひて折りつる年の内に春はいくかもあらじと思へば
nuretsutsu zo shihite woritsuru toshi no uchi ni haru ha ikukamo araji to omoheba
在原業平
Ariwara Narihira

On the last day of the 3rd month, attached to broken off wisteria flowers soaked with rain

The flowers are soaked / and have been torn asunder / as I'm wondering / how many days of spring yet / linger this year, I think of...

Ariwara Narihira

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There are two aspects of Narihira's poem I'd like to talk about today: the first is the metaphorical meaning of the poem and the other is the classical Japanese calendar and the seasons.

Let's start with the poem itself. It's grammar is pretty straightforward, as is the vocabulary. The metaphorical implications of the poem lie in it's unfinished thought. The poem ends with the verb 思へば (omoheba) which is conjugated such that ba can be affixed. The peculiar aspect of this conjugation is that ba, in classical Japanese (and similar to that of contemporary Japanese), can indicate causation, temporal condition, contrast, or although. Obviously, something is supposed to come after the clause. Clearly, the thought is not finished--something is left unsaid, which leads us to the metaphorical implication of the poem. In wondering how many days of spring are left in the year, Narihira is also wondering how many springs he has yet to see. (The editors of the volume even go so far as to suggest that he is wondering how many happy springs of youth he has left.) In my translation, I've tried to leave the thought unfinished as in the original, but I felt it necessary to add an additional clause to the end ("I think of..."). In the Japanese, the ba clearly indicates an strong relationship between the remaining days of spring and the unfinished thought. As such, I wanted to lead the reader down a similar train of thought, without spelling anything out too explicitly.

There are some more interesting aspects of the poem, but first we need to talk about the classical Japanese calendar. As noted in The Princeton Companion to Classical Japanese Literature, like an number of older civilizations, the Japanese calendar was lunar with months of 29 or 30 days and the occasional extra month added to keep the calendar in place with the actual time of year. So when we read in the head note that the poem was written in the third month, it does not necessarily mean March. Additionally, each month had an animal associated with it, as with the Chinese zodiac. Of greater interest for this poem is the seasons: the first through the third months were spring, regardless of the amount of snow on the ground. Additionally, as the editors note, it's a bit odd to ask how many days of spring are left on the last day of the third month as it's also the last day of spring. They suggest that it could be Narihira's way of complaining about his declining fortunes, due to some complications with court politics, but that's not exactly clear. (One interesting bit of evidence they supply is his mention of the wisteria [藤] which is read as fudi or fuji like that of the Fujiwara family [藤原], to whom he had requested a promotion.)

Thus, Narihira is wondering about the future of himself and spring. He is also, simultaneously, indicating their decline--like that of the wisteria flowers overwhelmed and broken by the heavy rains that accompany the end of spring.

Ariwara Narihira is the famed poet of Ise monogatari, as well as being one of the six poetic geniuses (rokkasen) named in the Kana Preface of the Kokin wakashuu by Ki no Tsurayuki. He is famed for both his poetry and his romantic exploits--including the alleged "conquest" of the high priestess of Ise. The Princeton Companion indicates that he was born in 825 and died in 880.

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Sorry this post is a day late! It's Golden Week in Japan, and I've been a little off. I should be back tomorrow with another poem, this time from a new collection!

The heart of fickle flowers and lovers...

Sorry for the delay, this week! Today we'll be looking at poem 101 from the second
Book of Spring Poems of the Kokin wakashuu.

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寛平御時后の宮の歌合の歌
Kanpyou ontokikisai no miya no utaawase no uta
咲く花はちくさながらにあだなれど誰かは春をうらみはたてる
saku hana ha chikusa nagara ni adanaredo dare kaha haru wo uramihatateru
藤原の興風
Fujiwara no Okikaze

A poem from the poetry meet in the fifth year of Kanpyou (893) at the Imperial Court

Despite how swiftly / every blooming flower / scatters here and there / who could hardly bear a grudge / for the spring that brings them forth

Fujiwara no Okikaze

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As noted in my previous post, poems grouped into the seasonal books often have multiple meanings completely unrelated to the actual season. In the last poem by Ki no Tsurayuki, we explored the implications of its metaphors in relation to his daughter's death. Today's poem also carries an additional metaphorical meaning, although of a romantic nature. As I believe I've mentioned before, the idealized development of love in classical Japanese literature is not dissimilar to that of the development of the seasons through the year. Let's look more closely at poem 101 of the Kokin wakashuu to see an example.

Taken at face value, the poet, Fujiwara no Okikaze, is extolling the beauty of the spring flowers and expressing lamentation of their inevitable scattering. However, the editors have illuminated an interesting dimension of the poem. While the poet is clearly saddened by the thought of the flowers' scattering, he's expressing, in so many words, the old adage: "'Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all." While this sentiment is overtly about the flowers, its double meaning becomes more obvious as we look more closely at the poem.

The editors point out that the "every blooming flower scatters here and there" is a metaphor for the flightiness of the human heart. So, while the flowers must eventually scatter and the hearts of our lovers are so fickle, who can begrudge the spring (or love) for bringing the flowers and our lovers. Whether in spring or in love, all the beauty we see and experience inevitably ends, but the poet does not hold ill will and cannot imagine anyone else would either.

Personally, I think it's a wonderful sentiment, and I hope you'll agree with me!

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Thanks for reading today! See you Monday.