One Hundred People, One Poem Each (part 2)

[larryhammer]

Continued from part 1.

One Hundred People, One Poem Each (continued)

51. Fujiwara no Sanekata
kaku to dani e ya wa ibuki no sashimogusa sa shi mo shiraji na moyuru omoi o	I cannot say it, so how could you even know?     —that my desire burns into my body like moxa grass from Ibuki.
かくとだに えやはいぶきの さしも草 さしも知らじな もゆる思ひを Great-grandson of Tadahira (#26) and another possible model for Hikaru Genji. This has enough wordplay that I’m not entirely certain I understand it—to get something coherent, I had to rearrange phrases. Sashimo grass, modern yomogigusa, also called mogusa and artemesia, is the source of moxa, which is burnt on the skin for medicinal purposes.
52. Fujiwara no Michinobu
akenureba kururu mono to wa shirinagara nao urameshiki asaborake kana	When dawn has broken, even though I know full well     that night will return, I nevertheless resent the cold first light of morning.
明けぬれば 暮るるものとは 知りながら なをうらめしき あさぼらけかな Adopted stepson of the Mother of Michitsuna (#53). Written as a morning-after poem—the Goshuishu headnote says after returning home on a snowy day, thus my interpolation “cold”; for a more colloquial version, replace it with “damn,” extrapolated from urameshii (“resentful”).
53. Mother of Michitsuna
nagekitsutsu hitori nuru yo no akuru ma wa ika ni hisashiki mono to ka wa shiru	The time spent lying lamenting all through the night     alone until dawn does indeed seem oh so long— but then, how would you know that?
なげきつつ ひとりぬる夜の 明くる間は いかに久しき ものとかは知る Author of the Gossamer Diary and a noted beauty of her day. Sent to her husband when he complained about being made to wait outside for longer than he liked during one of his infrequent visits. The last line is marked as a rhetorical question (“you know how ... ?”) expecting a negative answer (mono ka).
54. Mother of Korechika
wasureji no yukusue made wa katakereba kyô o kagiri no inochi to mogana	You won’t forget me? That one will be hard to keep     in the days to come— so much so I wish today was the last day of my life.
忘れじの 行末までは 難ければ 今日を限りの 命ともがな Written upon her marriage to Fujiwara no Michitaka (another stepson of #53 and recipient of #59). Her personal name was pronounced either Takako or Kishi, and while she was a poet of note in Chinese (at a time when most women were not taught the language), she left very few Japanese poems. Her daughter Teishi employed the equally learned Sei Shônagon (#62) as lady-in-waiting.
55. Fujiwara no Kintô
taki no oto wa taete hisashiku narinuredo na koso nagarete nao kikoekere	A long time ago the sound of this waterfall     faded away, but its name flows ever on and is indeed still heard now.
滝の音は 絶えて久しく なりぬれど 名こそ流れて なほ聞えけれ Great-grandson of Tadahira (#26) and father of Sadayori (#64). The waterfall was an artificial one constructed for Emperor Saga (father of #14) in the early 9th century that, two hundred years later, was dry. The version in the Shuishu anthology, which Kintô helped compile, has the waterfall’s “thread” (ito) rather than “sound” (oto), which makes for an interesting image.
56. Izumi Shikibu
arazaran kono yo no hoka no omoide ni ima hitotabi no au koto mogana	In my memories of this world of ours that we     one day will depart, oh, how I wish that there was one more meeting with you now.
あらざらむ この世の外の 思ひ出に 今ひとたびの 逢ふこともがな Mother of Koshikibu no Naishi (#60) and a lady-in-waiting to Empress Shôshi. She is best known for writing the Izumi Shikibu Diary, chronicling one of her affairs with an imperial prince—specifically, her second. Her use-name comes from Izumi Province (now southwestern Osaka Prefecture), where her first husband was governor, plus a title of her father’s. There are more pronoun problems than usual here: the original headnote says it was written when someone was gravely ill, which probably means that the receiver was sick, but in the poem itself, which has no pronouns, who is about to “be outside this world” is most easily read as the speaker. Most commentaries chose one or the other. Given that it’s a Buddhist commonplace that we are all as transitory as the grass, I go with a different solution.
57. Murasaki Shikibu
meguri-aite mishi ya sore to mo wakanu ma ni kumogakurenishi yowa no tsukikage	When we met by chance, I couldn’t make out whether     it was my friend before the midnight moonlight had hidden behind the clouds.
めぐりあひて 見しやそれとも わかぬ間に 雲がくれにし 夜半の月かげ Granddaughter of Kanesuke (#27), mother of Daini no Sanmi (#58), and lady-in-waiting to Empress Shôshi—but better known as the author of The Tale of Genji. As with Izumi (#56), the Shikibu of her use-name is from a title of her father’s; Murasaki is a character in Genji read (creepily) by medieval commentators as an authorial self-insertion. The poem is filled with enough ambiguities and word associations that it’s hard to grasp the basic meaning, let alone render it. Following the headnote that it was written after briefly seeing a childhood friend at night, I treat sore to mo (“if that were”) / sore tomo (“that friend”) as a double-translated pivot. Some traditional texts of One Hundred People end with kana (an exclamation) instead of kage (the light of “moonlight”).
58. Daini no Sanmi
arimayama ina no sasahara kaze fukeba ide soyo hito o wasure ya wa suru	As the winds blow through Ima’s bamboo-grass field     on Mount Arima, susurrating—so—so, how could I forget that man?
ありま山 猪名の笹原 風吹けば いでそよ人を 忘れやはする Daughter of Murasaki Shikibu (#57) and like her a lady-in-waiting to Empress Shôshi. Her personal name is known, but not whether it was pronounced Katako or Kenshi. The Daini of her use-name is a title of her husband, while Sanmi (“third rank”) is one of her own, received for being wet-nurse to Emperor Go-Reizei. Arima is in what’s now northern Kobe. For the record, the archaic particle ya wa indicating an ironic statement is difficult to render—rhetorical question seemed better than “Like I’m so going to forget him.”
59. Akazome Emon
yasurawade nenamashi mono o sayo fukete katabuku made no tsuki o mishi kana	I would have gone straight to bed without waiting,     but no, instead the night wore on while I watched the moon until it went down.
やすらはで 寝なまし物を 小夜更けて かたぶくまでの 月を見しかな The daughter of Kanemori (#40), great-grandmother of Masafuna (#73), and another lady-in-waiting to Empress Shôshi (as well as, before that, to Shôshi’s mother). Akazome is her stepfather’s family name; Emon possibly comes from an otherwise unattested title of her husband. Written on behalf of her sister when Fujiwara no Michitaka (the husband of #54) did’t visit as expected.
60. Koshikibu no Naishi
ôeyama ikuno no michi no tôkereba mada fumi mo mizu ama-no-hashidate	The road that goes past Ôe Mountain and Ikuno     is far, so I have neither word from, nor stepped on, Ama-no-Hashidate.
大江山 いく野の道の とほければ まだふみも見ず 天の橋立 Daughter of Izumi Skikibu (#56) and like her a lady-in-waiting to Empress Shôshi: Koshikibu means “child of Skikibu,” and Naishi is a title for ladies-in-waiting. Shortly before a poetry competition, Sadayori (#64) taunted her with needing to write for help from her famous mother, who was in Tango Province (now northern Kyoto Prefecture) with her husband, the governor; this is Koshikibu’s supposedly extemporaneous response. Ôe, Ikuno, and Ama-no-Hashidate (“Bridge to Heaven”) are all landmarks in Tango, listed in geographic order along the road, plus there’s two pivot words: ikuno = place name / iku = “to go” and fumi = “letter” / “step on.” Impressive improvisation.
61. Ise no Tayû
inishie no nara no miyako no yaezakura kyô kokonoe ni nioinuru kana	These eight-fold cherries from the Nara capital     of old today have blossomed in layered splendor in the Nine-Fold Palace court.
いにしへの 奈良の都の 八重桜 今日九重に 匂ひぬるかな Granddaughter of Yoshinobu (#49). Her father was hereditary priest of the Ise Shrines, but the Tayû (also read Ôsuke) of her use-name is obscure: it’s an office for men, but no one seems to know her association with it. Written as a command performance (at Murasaki Shikibu’s instigation) as a new lady-in-waiting to Empress Shôshi when the emperor was presented with some flowering cherries from Nara. The capital had been moved from Nara to Kyoto (where the imperial palace was called “nine-fold” for its nine walls) two centuries before. The “eight-fold cherry blossoms” (yaezakura), still particularly associated with Nara, are not literally eight-petaled but have many overlapping petals.
62. Sei Shônagon
yo o komete tori no sorane wa hakaru tomo yo ni ausaka no seki wa yurusaji	Though the feigned cock’s crow while the world is wrapped in night     may deceive others, you will never be allowed to pass our Meetinghills Gate.
夜をこめて 鳥の空音は はかるとも よにあふさかの 関はゆるさじ Daughter of Motosuke (#42), author of The Pillow Book, and lady-in-waiting to not Empress Shôshi but her older cousin and rival, Empress Teishi (daughter of #54). Sei is an alternate pronunciation of the kanji for the kiyo part of her family name, Kiyowara; Shônagon is a middling court title for men, possibly held by her father. Scholars speculate that her personal name may have been Nagiko. As for the poem, as she tells it in The Pillow Book, the day after Teishi’s brother had left during the evening, he sent witty regrets for having been called away by the crowing cock, and Shônagon called him on the embellishment by alluding to an episode in Chinese history in which a prince escaped captivity by imitating a cock’s crow, fooling guards into thinking it was near dawn and so opening the city gate. The Ôsaka (“Meeting Hill”) gate is the same as in #10, here doing a pivoty double-meaning for a meeting with her.
63. Fujiwara no Michimasa
ima wa tada omoitaenan to bakari o hitozute narade iu yoshi mogana	As for now, just this— I wish there was a way to     tell you this one thing, and not by a messenger: “I shall think of you no more.”
今はただ 思ひ絶えなむ とばかりを 人づてならで いふよしもがな Written when his affair with the supposedly celibate Ise Priestess, the daughter of Emperor Sanjô (#68), was discovered and guards were put on her.
64. Fujiwara no Sadayori
asaborake uji no kawagiri taedae ni arawarewataru seze no ajirogi	At the break of day the mist on Uji River     is getting patchy— here and there, in the shallows, poles of fishing weirs appear.
朝ぼらけ 宇治の川ぎり たえだえに あらはれわたる ぜぜの網代木 Son of Kintô (#55) and receiver of #60. The haiku-like character of this descriptive poem is often commented on. It’s also grammatically compressed, with particles dropped and at least one verb left understood. Seze means “shallows” or “rapids,” but some texts have Zeze, the name of the place where Uji River flows out of Lake Biwa, northeast of Kyoto; because the river is not very rapid near Uji Bridge, the more likely setting, I take it to be the first.
65. Sagami
urami wabi hosanu sode dani aru mono o koi ni kuchinan na koso oshikere	Bitterness and woe! It’s bad enough that my sleeves     never do dry out, but worse, what’s been rotted by this love is my good name.
恨みわび ほさぬ袖だに あるものを 恋に朽ちなん 名こそ惜しけれ Sagami’s use-name comes from her husband, a governor of that province (modern Kanagawa Prefecture). Her sleeves are as always wet from crying, and love “rots” her name in the sense that the affair has caused a scandal. Ambiguity: is the fabric of her sleeves also rotted or just her reputation? I read it as the latter for greater contrast and wit.
66. Gyoson
morotomo ni aware to omoe yamazakura hana yori hoka ni shiru hito mo nashi	Let us, at least, have pity on each other,     mountain cherry tree, for other than your flowers there is no one who knows me.
もろともに 哀れと思へ 山桜 花より外に 知る人もなし An archbishop (as the Buddhist title is usually translated) and great-grandson of Emperor Sanjô (#68). Written when he “unexpectedly” found a blooming cherry in the mountains. “For” is interpolation, but that seems to be intended relationship between the two statements.
67. Suô no Naishi
haru no yo no yume bakari naru tamakura ni kainaku tatan na koso oshikere	Ah, but with your arm as my pillow for no more     than a spring night’s dream, I’d regret how pointlessly my reputation would fall.
春の夜の 夢ばかりなる 手枕に かひなく立たむ 名こそ惜しけれ Daughter of a governor of Suô Province (in modern Yamaguchi Prefecture) and lady-in-waiting (naishi) to a couple emperors; her personal name was pronounced either Nakako or Chushi. Composed as a quick response to a courtier who playfully offered his arm for a pillow (normally an intimate act) when she was tired one moonlit evening. Literally, she worries that her name would “stand” (tatsu), as in stand out; I took another image from the same metaphoric domain.
68. Emperor Sanjô
kokoro ni mo arade ukiyo ni nagaraeba koishikarubeki yowa no tsuki kana	If against my will I should have a long life in     this transient world, it is this moon at midnight that I no doubt will yearn for!
心にも あらで浮世に ながらへば 恋しかるべき 夜半の月かな Written when facing the prospect of being abdicated for acting with too much independence, on the excuse of ill health, on the tenth night of the month (so at midnight the waxing gibbous moon was low in the west) as part of a poem exchange with his empress. My base text uses writes ukiyo with kanji that mean “transient/sad world” in the Buddhist sense, but some texts use kana, allowing a double reading of “floating world” in a pleasure-seeking sense, making it an elliptical love poem.
69. Nôin
arashi fuku mimuro no yama no momijiba wa tatsuta no kawa no nishiki narikeri	The autumn leaves of maples from Mount Mimuro     where the storm winds blow are indeed a rich brocade here on Tatsuta River.
あらし吹く 三室の山の もみぢ葉は 龍田の川の にしきなりけり A monk whose birth name was Tachibana no Nagayasu. The directness and simplicity of this poem is often commented on. Geographical problem: there are couple mountains named Mimuro in the Nara/Yamato region, but neither are close to the Tatsuta River (see #17). A hill called Mimuro near where the Tatsuta flows into the Yamato River has been suggested.
70. Ryôzen
sabishisa ni yado o tachi-idete nagamureba izuko mo onaji aki no yûgure	When in loneliness I depart my hermitage     and gaze about me, everywhere it is the same twilit evening in autumn.
寂しさに 宿を立出て ながむれば いづこもおなじ 秋の夕暮 A monk we know hardly anything about. It’s grammatically ambiguous whether there’s a stop after onaji (“same”); since English normally has punctuation, I had to chose a reading.
71. Minamoto no Tsunenobu
yû sareba kadota no inaba otozurete ashi no maroya ni akikaze zo fuku	As evening falls, it visits the rustling rice     planted by the gate, and then into my reed hut it blows, this autumn wind.
夕されば 門田の稲葉 おとづれて あしのまろやに 秋風ぞふく Father of Toshinori (#74). One of the more playful poems in One Hundred People.
72. Kii
oto ni kiku takashi no hama no adanami wa kakeji ya sode no nure mo koso sure	The frivolous waves on the beach of Takashi     I hear of so much— I will not let them catch me! —my sleeves would surely get wet.
音にきく 高師の浜の あだ浪は かけじや袖の ぬれもこそすれ A lady-in-waiting to Princess Yûshi; her use-name comes from her older brother, a governor of Kii Province (modern Wakayama Prefecture). Written in a competition as a reply to a poem by Teika’s grandfather about wanting to come to his love like “wind-blown waves against the rocky shore.” Takashi is probably a shoreline in Osaka Bay, but other places have been proposed. Sleeves can, of course, be soaked by both waves and tears.
73. Ôe no Masafusa
takasago no onoe no sakura sakinikeri toyama no kasumi tatazu mo aranan	On the upper slopes of Takasago’s mountains     the cherries have bloomed. O mists of the near foothills, please do not rise in the way!
高砂の 尾の上の桜 咲きにけり 外山の霞 たたずもあらなん Great-grandson of Akazome Emon (#59). Takasago could be the same place as in #34 or used generically in its literal meaning “high dunes”; because onoe (“above the slopes,” sometimes used as a poeticism for “peak”) implies something larger than a dune, I take it to be the place, which does indeed have mountains.
74. Minamoto no Toshiyori
ukarikeru hito o hatsuse no yamaoroshi yo hageshikare to wa inoranu mono o	“Make, O mountain storm of Hatsuse Temple,     that heartless person even more cruel to me!” I didn’t pray for that, yet ...
うかりける 人をはつせの 山おろしよ はげしかれとは 祈らぬものを Son of Tsunenobu (#71) and father of Shun’e (#85). Hatsuse near Nara is the home of Hase Temple, then a common pilgrimage site for lovers, and notorious for its winds.
75. Fujiwara no Mototoshi
chigiri okishi sasemo ga tsuyu o inochi nite aware kotoshi no aki mo inumeri	Your promises were, like “dew on a moxa plant,”     life itself to me— alas, it seems that this year even autumn has passed by.
契りをきし させもが露を 命にて あはれことしの 秋もいぬめり Sent to Tadamichi (#76), a distant relative, after his son was passed over for an appointment. Lots of erudite literary bits in this one. Sasemo is another name for sashimo, the source of moxa (see #51). Tadamichi’s promise included an allusion to an older poem, to the effect of being as constant as fields of sashimo—Mototoshi transformed who is the plant.
76. Fujiwara no Tadamichi
wata no hara kogi-idete mireba hisakata no kumoi ni mayou okitsu shiranami	When I row out on the plain of the sea and look,     white-capped billows of the watery main appear to be the heavenly clouds.
わたの原 こぎ出でて見れば 久方の 雲井にまよふ おきつしらなみ Father of Jien (#95), father-in-law of Sutoku (#77), grandfather of Yoshitsune (#91) and Shokushi (#89), and recipient of #75. As prime minister, he was a leader of the winning side of a civil war over the imperial succession known as the Hôgen Disturbance. The literal meaning of hisakata no is just as unknown as in #32, with the added bonus of here being conspicuously old-fashioned. Kumoi is an archaic word for both “clouds” and “sky” that can also mean high places and the imperial court, and given the possible political context, the waves are sometimes seen as a symbol for Tadamichi's turbulent times—so what is being mistaken (mayou) for what is much debated.
77. Emperor Sutoku
se o hayami iwa ni sekaruru takigawa no warete mo sue ni awamu to zo omou	Although a cascade blocked by a boulder in its     ever-swift current divides, I do believe that like it we shall meet again.
瀬をはやみ 岩にせかるる 滝川の われても末に 逢はむとぞ思ふ Sutoku was exiled to Sanuki Province (now Kagawa Prefecture) for being on the losing side of the Hôgen Disturbance. Without an explicit subject specifying what meets “in the end,” this could be a love poem (“we shall meet”), a simple nature poem (“the currents shall meet”), or a Buddhist meditation (“everything shall meet”), and given the politics, some take the rock for a symbol for Tadamichi (#76). I read it as the first.
78. Minamoto no Kanemasa
awajishima kayou chidori no naku koe ni ikuyo nezamenu suma no sekimori	How many nights have you been awakened by     the cries of plovers come from Awaji Island, barrier guard of Suma?
淡路島 かよふ千鳥の なく声に いくよねざめぬ すまの関守 The poem reflects imagery from the “Suma” chapter of The Tale of Genji—fanfiction being nothing new in this world. Awaji, in the mouth of the Seto Inland Sea, was a common destination for political exiles—thus the need for a travel barrier at Suma across the Akashi Strait, just west of Kobe.
79. Fujiwara no Akisuke
akikaze ni tanabiku kumo no taema yori moreizuru tsuki no kage no sayakesa	The moon begins shining though the parting rifts     of the trailing clouds drawn out by the autumn winds, the light becoming brighter.
秋風に たなびく雲の たえまより もれ出づる月の かげのさやけさ Father of Kiyosuke (#84). This is grammatically simple, being a final noun (“brightening”) modified by a possessive with a stacked relative clause—the equivalent English structure would put the head-word first, but I left it last for the emphasis.
80. Empress Taiken’s Horikawa
nagakaran kokoro mo shirazu kurokami no midarete kesa wa mono o koso omoe	Whether his feelings will also last, I don’t know,     and my black hair is disordered as, this morning, my thoughts certainly are.
長からむ 心もしらず 黒髪の みだれてけさは 物をこそ思へ An attendant of the imperial consort who was the mother of Sutoko (#77); the origin of the use-name Horikawa (“moat river”) is unknown, but it seems unrelated to the earlier emperor of that name. Another poem where the “things” she thinks about are clearly the other person.
81. Fujiwara no Sanesada
hototogisu nakitsuru kata o nagamureba tada ariake no tsuki zo nokoreru	Hototogisu! But when I looked over to     where it had called out, all that I was left with was the waning moon at daybreak.
ほととぎす 鳴きつる方を 眺むれば ただ有明の 月ぞのこれる Nephew of Toshinari (#83) and cousin of Teika (#97). The hototogisu is the lesser cuckoo, no relation to the European common cuckoo. Its name can be read as an exclamation, an address, or the subject of “called” without its case marker.
82. Dôin
omoiwabi sate mo inochi wa aru mono o uki ni taenu wa namida narikeri	Complete misery ... but nevertheless my life,     alas, still exists— instead, it is these my tears that cannot bear my despair.
思ひわび さても命は あるものを 憂きに堪へぬは なみだなりけり A monk whose lay name was Fujiwara no Atsuyori. It’s unknown whether he wrote this before or after he took orders, but Toshinari (#83), his contemporary, placed it among the love poems in the Senzaishu anthology. I read mono o as a pivot word: “thing (that exists), but” / particle indicating complaint.
83. Fujiwara no Toshinari
yo no naka yo michi koso nakere omoiiru yama no oku ni mo shika zo naku naru	In this world of ours there is indeed no path out.     Even lost in thought in the depths of the mountains I seem to hear the stag cry!
世の中よ 道こそなけれ 思ひ入る 山のおくにも 鹿ぞ鳴くなる Father of Teika (#97), uncle and adoptive father of Jakuren (#87), and uncle of Sanesada (#81); he is also known as Shunzei using an alternate pronunciation of the kanji of his personal name. “Out” is another omitted-but-understood word. This would be the same sika deer heard in #5.
84. Fujiwara no Kiyosuke
nagaraeba mata konogoro ya shinobaren ushi to mishi yo zo ima wa koishiki	If I should live on, will I come to think fondly     of this time as well? —just as, yes, I now cherish a world I once saw as harsh.
ながらへば またこの頃や しのばれむ 憂しと見し世ぞ 今は恋しき Son of Akisuke (#79).
85. Shun’e
yomosugara mono omou koro wa akeyaranu neya no hima sae tsurenakarikeri	Those times when I dwell all through the night upon things,     the gap in my room that shows it is not yet dawn— even that seems cruel to me.
夜もすがら 物思ふ頃は 明けやらぬ ねやのひまさへ つれなかりけり A younger son of Toshiyori (#74) who became a monk; his lay name seems to have gone unrecorded. Written in the persona of a woman waiting for her lover to visit, making the “things” thought about the other person again. “Shows” is another omitted-but-understood word, and the “gap” (hima, which can also mean “free time”) is understood to be in her shutters.
86. Saigyô
nageke tote tsuki ya wa mono o omowasuru kakochigao naru waga namida kana	Does the moon tell me, “Lament!” —thus making me     worry about things? No—and yet my tears, alas, are on this complaining face.
なげけとて 月やは物を 思はする かこちがほなる わがなみだかな Saigyô was the pen name of a monk named Eni, whose lay name was Satô no Norikiyo. Although the topic is given as “love before the moon,” this may be an allusive variation on #23, in which case the “things” thought about would for once not be the other person.
87. Jakuren
murasame no tsuyu mo mada hinu maki no ha ni kiri tachinoboru aki no yûgure	The mist is rising among kusamaki leaves     that are not yet dry from the passing rainshower— an evening in autumn.
むらさめの 露もまだひぬ まきの葉に 霧立ちのぼる 秋の夕暮 A monk whose lay name was Fujiwara no Sadanaga, nephew and adopted son of Toshinari (#83) and so older adoptive brother of Teika (#97). Maki is sometimes used generically for any evergreen timber wood and sometimes means specifically kusamaki, a conifer of the yellowwood family vaguely related to the yews, also called yew plum pine. The rising mist could be either growing or dispersing, but is usually understood to be the former.
88. Attendant to Empress Kôka
naniwa-e no ashi no karine no hitoyo yue mi o tsukushite ya koi wataru beki	For one night’s brief sleep short as a root-cut reed’s joint     of Naniwa Bay, must I like a channel mark wear myself out with long love?
難波江の 芦のかりねの 一夜ゆへ 身をつくしてや 恋わたるべき Also known as Lady Bettô (a title for a female steward of a household); Kôka was a consort of Sutoku (#77) and daughter of Tadamichi (#76). Written on the topic of “love meeting at a travel inn”—one-night stands being another thing that’s not new. This has the same Naniwa and the same reed joint as in #19, and miotsukushi / mi o tsukushite is the same pivot-word as in #20, plus there’s two other pivots and the unstated-but-understood-through-allusion “short.”
89. Princess Shokushi
tama no o yo taenaba taene nagaraeba shinoburu koto no yowari mo zo suru	O thread of bright gems, if you must break, break now!     If I continue, my endurance for longing in secret will surely weaken.
玉の緒よ 絶えなば絶えね ながらへば しのぶることの よはりもぞする Shokushi or Shikishi was a daughter of Emperor Go-Shirakawa, granddaughter of Tadamichi (#76), aunt of Go-Toba (#99), and great-aunt and adoptive (or possibly foster) mother of Juntoku (#100). A plethora of double-meanings (tama is a round object, which when on a thread is usually a bead or gem such as a pearl but also possibly a tear, plus a homophone for “soul”; taeru is “to cease/break” and “to die off”; and nagaru is “to live long” and “to flow”) make it possible to read the first three lines as both “O string of gems, if you will break, break now! If I live on” and “O thread of tears, if you will cease, cease now! If you flow on” —both readings being symbolism for her life itself breaking/ceasing. The pivot word shinobu = “to long for (secretly)” / “to endure/hide” is, by comparison, easy to double-render.
90. Attendant to Empress Inpu
miseba ya na ojima no ama no sode dani mo nure ni zo nureshi iro wa kawarazu	Oh, to show him these! The sleeves of fisherwomen     of Male Island, which get soaked and soaked again— even their colors don’t fade.
見せばやな 雄島のあまの 袖だにも ぬれにぞぬれし 色はかはらず The Attendant’s personal name may have been Sukeko. A response to an earlier poem by Shigeyuki (#48) in which he compared the wetness of his sleeves to those of Ojima fishers. Male Island (ojima) may be part of Matsushima in Miyagi Prefecture, though that’s usually written with different kanji. The sex of the fisherfolk is not specified, but a comparison to herself and contrast with the place seems intended, given her sleeves would be wet with tears over a man.
91. Fujiwara no Yoshitsune
kirigirisu naku ya shimoyo no samushiro ni koromo katashiki hitori ka mo nemu	The crickets cry out, and on a frosty autumn night,     I spread out my robe on a single cold straw mat— must I really sleep alone?
きりぎりす 鳴くや霜夜の さむしろに 衣かたしき ひとりかも寝む Grandson of Tadamichi (#76) and nephew of Jien (#95). The last line is the same as Hitomaru’s (#3), though mo is merely emphatic here, plus it alludes to another poem about making a cold, solitary bed. Traditional bedding used thick robes instead of blankets; when a couple slept together, they used both their robes.
92. Sanuki
waga sode wa shiohi ni mienu oki no ishi no hito koso shirane kawaku ma mo nashi	My sleeve is like a rock in the open sea,     unseen at low tide, for no one knows about it and so it never dries out.
わが袖は 潮干に見えぬ 沖の石の 人こそしらね かはくまもなし A lady-in-waiting to retired Emperor Nijô and later to a consort of Go-Toba (#99); her use-name is from Sanuki Province (now Kagawa Prefecture) but her connection to it is obscure. Written on “love compared to a stone.” The original can be read as either people in general or a particular person does not know her sleeves are wet. Sleeves were normally the only thing a modest court lady showed of herself in public, so the implication is she’s hiding hers to not reveal they’re damp from crying over a broken heart, keeping them from drying.
93. Minamoto no Sanetomo
yo no naka wa tsune ni mogamo na nagisa kogu ama no obune no tsunade kanashi mo	Ah, this world of ours— would that it always be so!     How touching, the boat of a rowing fisherman being towed on the seashore!
世の中は つねにもがもな なぎさこぐ あまの小舟の 綱手かなしも The third Kamakura shogun, writing (like #91) an allusive variation on two earlier poems. That the tow-rope is being pulled (possibly hauling the boat onto shore?) is another of those omitted-but-understood words. It could be argued that adding it does not make things any less cryptic than the literal text: “How touching, the tow rope of a small boat of a fisherman rowing along the seashore!”
94. Fujiwara no Masatsune
miyoshino no yama no akikaze sayo fukete furusato samuku koromo utsu nari	In fair Yoshino, autumn wind from the mountain     as evening deepens, and in the old town, coldly I hear them beating out robes.
みよし野の 山の秋風 さよふけて ふるさとさむく 衣うつなり An allusive variation on a poem by Korenori (#31). Fulling was a typical autumn evening task—the converse of spring’s airing out robes in #2—and the sound of beating clothing was a poetic symbol of loneliness. The old village may be intended to evoke the old capitals of Nara or Asuka, near Yoshino.
95. Jien
ôkenaku ukiyo no tami ni ôu kana waga tatsu soma ni sumizome no sode	Unworthy indeed, I shelter the people of     this transient world— I with my ink-black sleeves in these “standing timbers.”
おほけなく うき世の民に おほふかな わがたつそまに 墨染の袖 Son of Tadamichi (#76) and uncle of Yoshitsune (#91). Written a few years before he became archbishop of the Tendai sect of Buddhism. Waga tatsu soma ni (“standing timber-forest I (enter/am) in”) quotes a line by the Tendai founder, referring to both the wooden temples of Mt. Hiei (“woodcutter mountain”) northeast of Kyoto and the forest surrounding them. The black sleeves are part of his clerical garb.
96. Fujiwara no Kintsune
hana sasou arashi no niwa no yuki narade furiyuki mono wa waga mi narikeri	Here in the garden, this isn’t snow but flowers     lured by the storm winds, and that which falls is indeed the years upon my body.
花さそふ あらしの庭の 雪ならで ふりゆくものは わが身なりけり Brother-in-law of Teika (#97) and cousin to Sanesada (#81). “The years upon” is not literal but allows the pivot word furi = “falling” (as in to precipitate) / furi-yuki = “(that) grows old” to be replicated with a pun on “falls.”
97. Fujiwara no Teika
konu hito o matsuo no ura no yûnagi ni yaku ya moshio no mi mo kogaretsutsu	For one who comes not I wait on Matsuo shore     in the evening calm where they burn the salt seaweed I too keep burning with love.
こぬ人を まつほの浦の 夕なぎに やくやもしほの 身もこがれつつ Son of Toshinari (#83) and the compiler of One Hundred People; he is also known as Sadaie, an alternate pronunciation of his personal name. An allusive variation on part of a long poem in the Man’yoshu. Matsuo is on the north tip of Awaji Island, across from the Suma Gate of #78. It was known for its salt production, done by burning seaweed to concentrate the salt in the ashes, which could then be dissolved out as a brine and boiled off; yaku could mean either the “burn” and “boil” part of this.
98. Fujiwara no Ietaka
kaze soyogu nara no ogawa no yûgure wa misogi zo natsu no shirushi narikeru	And on this evening as the wind rustles the oaks     beside the small stream, the misogi cleansings are the only sign of summer.
風そよぐ ならの小川の 夕ぐれは みそぎぞ夏の しるしなりける Brother-in-law of Jakuren (#87). The stream with oaks (Nara-no-Ogawa) is identified as Mitarashi-gawa, which flows through Kamigamo Shrine in Kyoto; misogi purification ceremonies are still performed there on the last day of the sixth month, which in the traditional calendar was the last day of summer. Trees rustling in the wind is a traditional symbol of autumn; compare with #2 as another poem about seasonal change. An allusive variation on two earlier poems, one about wanting to continue an affair even after being purified of the sin.
99. Emperor Go-Toba
hito mo oshi hito mo urameshi ajikinaku yo o omou yue ni mono omou mi wa	People are precious and people are abhorrent:     that’s why, futilely, I worry about the world— this person who worries things.
人も惜し 人も恨めし あぢきなく 世を思ふゆえに もの思ふ身は Father of Juntoku (#100). As a retired emperor (he was abdicated when he reached adulthood), he took advantage of the political turmoil following the assassination of Sanetomo (#93) and revolted against the Kamakura shogunate in 1221, but lost and was exiled to Oki Island (see #11). This is sometimes read as referencing these events, even though it was written nine years beforehand. It’s ambiguous whether the people of the first two lines are contrasting sets or the same set at different times, as is whether they are plural.
100. Emperor Juntoku
momoshiki ya furuki nokiba no shinobu ni mo nao amari aru mukashi narikeri	This stone-built palace has ancient eaves overgrown     with Memory Fern, but even so, there’s too much of the past to remember.
百敷や 古き軒端の しのぶにも なほあまりある むかしなりけり Son of Go-Toba (#99) and great-nephew and adoptive son Shokushi (#89). Written five years before being exiled for joining his father’s unsuccessful 1221 revolt. Pivot-word: shinobu = species of fern / “to recollect”; the line can be read as either that there’s more memories than the ferns can recall, or more memories than there are ferns. Momoshiki (“100 stones”) is a conventional metonymy for a stone castle or palace.

And that's that.

---L.

(Index for this project)