Kokinshu Book Vb: Autumn part 2 (281-313)

[larryhammer]

Continued from the previous installment of (interrupted) autumnal leaves. Oh, for a muse of foliage!

281.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
sahoyama no hahaso no momiji chirinubemi yoru sae miyo to terasu tsukikage	"Since the autumn leaves of the oaks on Mt. Saho     must soon have scattered, look, you, even through the night!" -- thus the shining moonlight.
Back to the autumn leaves -- this time with a focus on their disappearance, starting as usual with anticipation thereof. It's ambiguous whether the quote encompasses the first four lines or just the fourth, an open-quotation mark having not yet been invented. Reading a single line gives a mannered speculation as to why the the moonlight is shining, while four lines just accepts it. Either way, no verb for the saying.
282.  Fujiwara no Sekio Written in seclusion in a mountain village, having not served at court for a long time.
okuyama no iwagaki momiji chirinubeshi teru hi no hikari miru toki nakute	The autumn leaves fenced by cliffs in the mountain deeps     must have scattered -- there's never a time they see the light of the shining sun.
The up-and-down career of Sekio (815–853) included stints in the imperial household and a governorship of a far-eastern province in what's now the Tokyo area. He was noted in his day as musician and calligrapher, and for a love of the hills east of the capital that resulted in the sobriquet Gentleman of the Eastern Mountains -- his estate there became Zenrin Temple after his death. He has two poems in the Kokinshu. ¶ Given the headnote and Sekio's history, the leaves are usually read as symbolic of himself out of the light of imperial favor.
283.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
tatsutagawa momiji midarete nagarumeri wataraba nishiki naka ya taenamu sono uta wa, aru hito, nara no mikado no o-uta nari to namu hôsu	Scattered autumn leaves appear to be drifting on     Tatsuta River. If we cross it, won't we tear the middle of this brocade? Some say this poem is a composition of the Nara Emperor.
As in #90, the Nara Emperor probably means Heizei, but scholars debate this; in Tales of Yamato, completed about fifty after the Kokinshu, this is attributed to Heizei and made a direct response to #284 -- but see the complications in the notes there. The Tatsuta is a tributary of the Yamato River that flows through a part of Nara Prefecture famous for autumn leaves -- its name is another key 5-syllable noun that's therefore usually unmarked, which here could be topic/location, a genitive modifier of the leaves, or address. Note that a brocade implies the leaves are multiple colors.
284.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
tatsutagawa momijiba nagaru kannabi no mimuro no yama ni shigure fururashi mata wa asukagawa momijiba nagaru	Colored autumn leaves drift on Tatsuta River.     On Mt. Mimuro consecrated to the gods winter rains must be falling. Otherwise:     Colored autumn leaves drift on Asuka River.
A very popular poem, collected in multiple classical and medieval anthologies. There is a Mimuro Hill in Kannabi district close to the Tatsuta, upstream of Nara, but it's ambiguous whether to understand mimuro and kannabi as those places or generically as "where the gods reside" and "consecrated to the gods." Reading both as generic gives a highly sacred unspecified mountain, while both as specific loses the sacred connotations. The Asuka variant (another river near Nara) seems to derive from a similar poem in the Man'yoshu. In the generation after the Kokinshu was compiled an attribution to Kakinomoto no Hitomaro surfaced, possibly because of this connection to the Man'yoshu, which heavily features him, and in Tales of Yamato this and #283 are given as an exchange, in the reverse order, between Hitomaro and Emperor Heizei -- even though the two lived a century apart. In response, some Kokinshu textual traditions, though not my base text, specifically deny this attribution. Compare the leaves on the river to spring versions such as #118.
285.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
koishiku wa mite mo shinobamu momijiba o fuki na chirashi so yamaoroshi no kaze	In times of longing I'd like to at least see these     and so reminisce. Mountain storm-winds, do not blow -- don't scatter the autumn leaves.
Much head-scratching from the commentariat over this one, but the usual explanation is that the speaker wants the consolation of at least looking at the already fallen leaves -- thus advancing the season. "Reminisce" is the English word that comes closest to the sense of recalling with admiration or fondness of shinobu.
286.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
akikaze ni aezu chirinuru momijiba no yukue sadamenu ware zo kanashiki	Like the autumn leaves that could not stay but scattered     in the autumn winds, course determined by others, it is I who is wretched.
More literally, the fourth line is "not deciding (one's) course," but adding an active agent lets the clause, like the original, apply to both the leaves above it and the speaker below. In any case, this is not only a seasonal poem, but could just as easily be a poem of parting (leaving for or from an proincial post) from Book VIII or a lament by woman abandoned by a lover who has tired (a double-meaning of aki, "autumn") of her.
287.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
aki wa kinu momiji wa yado ni furishikinu michi fumiwakete tou hito wa nashi	Autumn has arrived. The colored leaves lie scattered     over the garden. There is no one who visits, pushing through them on the path.
This is, grammatically, three complete sentences arranged in the interesting rhythm of 5 / 7-5 / 7-7 syllables -- older poems more typically used a 5-7 / 5-7 / 7 structure. The lack of visitors and imagery that's borrowed from the Lonely Lady genre of Chinese poetry suggests a female speaker. The original last line (my line 4) is almost the same as in #205.
288.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
fumiwakete sara ni ya towamu momijiba no furikakushiteshi michi to minagara	Shall I push through them to visit you once again?     -- for all that I look, the colored autumn leaves have fallen and concealed the path.
Set by the editors as a response to the previous -- to bring this out, I added an interpretive "you" that I'd likely leave out outside of this context. Regardless, it's poor excuse-making, weakened all the more by being ambiguously marked as possibly a rhetorical question (and they, as a rule, expect a negative answer).
289.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
aki no tsuki yamabe sayaka ni teraseru wa otsuru momiji no kazu o miyo to ka	Does the autumn moon illuminate the foothills     so clearly to say, "Look, you, upon the number of dropping autumn leaves"?
Compare #281 -- and as there, the verb for the saying is implied, though here maintaining the order of images means syntax requires supplying it.
290.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
fuku kaze no iro no chigusa ni mietsuru wa aki no ko no ha no chireba narikeri	That the blowing winds appeared variegated     is because they are -- when the leaves of the trees of autumn scatter about.
Same idiomatic use of chigusa as "various" as in #102, though here the wordplay is better integrated into the conceit. The effect of the somewhat indirect syntax of the second half is difficult to reproduce without sounding windy -- which the original does not. The original also has nice sonics, and I like the implied image of leaves whirling about through the forest.
291.  Fujiwara no Sekio (Topic unknown.)
shimo no tate tsuyu no nuki koso yowakarashi yama no nishiki no oreba katsu chiru	The warp of frost and weft of dew must be fragile.     The very moment the brocade of the mountains weaves itself, it comes apart.
A lovely conceit I've never seen in any language. And yes, the brocade is explicitly marked as the subject of "weave" -- it is, of course, the rich covering of colored leaves.
292.  Henjô Written while lingering in the shelter of trees at Urin Temple.
wabibito no wakite tachiyoru ko no moto wa tanomu kage naku momiji chirikeri	Here under a tree visited by the most lonely,     the shelter I once relied upon is no more -- the autumn leaves are scattered.
For Urin, see #75. Because Henjô's friend Tsuneyasu (see #95) died there in 869, giving Henjô control of the temple, this is sometimes read as a lament for his death. Since some sort of personal statement seems likely, given Henjô's connection to Urin, the omitted subject is probably "I."
293.  Sosei Written when the Nijô Empress was still known as Mother of the Crown Prince, on the topic of a painting on a folding screen depicting autumn leaves floating down Tatsuta River.
momijiba no nagarete tomaru minato ni wa kurenai fukeki nami ya tatsuramu	In the river-mouth where colored autumn leaves     float into harbor, might it be there are waves of deepening crimson cresting?
Portable screens were important Heian-era furnishings, used to partition open living spaces according to the needs of the moment. This and the next poem are among the oldest recorded screen-poems, composed to accompany to the painting upon it, and typically inscribed on it. The honorific wording implies the screen is Nijô's (see #4), while the situation suggests she set the topic. Minato is both "harbor" and "river-mouth," but while the latter would apply to the Tatsuta, a tributary of the Yamato, the former overtone remains given tomaru can be either "stop/halt" or "dock/anchor." The waves would be standing ones that rise up where flowing water meets another body that here also deepen in color with the accumulating maple leaves. Lost in translation: the wordplay of tatsu, here "cresting," and the river's name.
294.  Ariwara no Narihira (for the same screen)
chihayaburu kami yo mo kikazu tatsutagawa karakurenai ni mizu kukuru to wa	Unheard of even in the age of the awesome gods     -- with the autumn leaves Tatsuta River tie-dyes its waters Chinese crimson.
At the time, there was a type of red brocade from Sichuan admired in Japan. "Autumn leaves" is my interpolation from the (carried over) headnote. As far as I know, it's not recorded which of the two poems, if either, was written on the screen.
295.  Fujiwara no Toshiyuki A poem from the poetry contest at the house of Prince Koresada.
waga kitsuru kata mo shirarezu kurabuyama kigi no ko no ba no chiru to magau ni	The way that I came cannot even be made out     -- for it is cloaked by the scattering of leaves from all kinds of trees on Mt. Shadows.
For Mt. Shadows, see #39; magau is really closer to "confused," but "cloaked" brings out the wordplay on the place-name. Compare especially #72, which does a little more with its conceit than this one.
296.  Mibu no Tadamine (from the same contest)
kannabi no mimuro no yama o aki yukeba nishiki tachikiru kokochi koso sure	When in autumn I pass by Mt. Mimuro,     sacred to the gods, I've the feeling of donning a robe cut from rich brocade.
Another variation on a standard conceit from Tadamine, one more successful than many of his. Same kannabi and mimuro as #284, though here the syntax makes it harder to read both as generic attributes. Pivot-word: tachikiru is "put on" and "cut up" -- jointing the clauses up requires supplying the implied clothing, here "robe." "Rich" is interpretive, added in part to reproduce the alliteration of the last line.
297.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written when he departed for the northern hills, saying he was going to pick autumn leaves.
miru hito mo nakute chirinuru okuyama no momiji wa yoru no nishiki narikeri	The autumn leaves that deep in the mountains scattered     where there was not even one person to see are just a "brocade at night."
The northern hills are, as in #95, those north of the capital. The effect in the first three-and-a-half lines of modifiers crossed and separated from their head-words (chiranuru="(that) scattered" modifies momiji="autumn leaves" while hito mo nakute="(where) there is not even a person" modifies okuyama="mountain depths") is difficult to recreate in a language without inflections. Although this might read as simply a striking visual comparison, the allusion to a proverbial Chinese comparison of something done to no effect to wearing a brocade coat in the dark where no one can see it (first used in Records of the Grand Historian to describe a man not visiting his hometown after becoming successful) means Tsurayuki is actually being learnedly snarky about the behavior of the leaves. To bring this out, I added "just" and the quotation marks.
298.  Prince Kanemi An autumn poem.
tatsutahime tamukuru kami no areba koso aki no ko no ha no nusa to chirurame	It must be because Tatsutahime makes offerings     to the roadside gods that the leaves of autumn trees scatter as her prayer strips.
Tatsutahime, the goddess of autumn, offers nusa, strips of cloth or paper in five colors, to the roadside guardians as she departs into the west -- "roadside" is a gloss incorporated into the text. Sequence-wise, her leaving marks the ending of autumn.
299.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written on seeing autumn leaves when he was living in a place called Ono.
aki no yama momiji o nusa to tamukureba sumu ware sae zo tabigokochi suru	When the autumn hills offer up these colored leaves     as prayer strips, even I, abiding here, feel I'm making a journey.
Aki no yama ("autumn hills/mountains") is another key 5-syllable phrase unmarked on a line on its own, with the usual grammatical uncertainties: here it could be subject, location, or address. The humble inflection in the headnote (roughly, "lived-and-served") suggests Tsurayuki is tied to the place by duties to his superiors -- thus "abide." The location of Ono ("small field") is uncertain, but some commentaries suggest in the hills northeast of the capital.
300.  Kiyowara no Fukayabu Written on floating autumn leaves when he crossed the Tatsuta River as he passed the mountain in Kannabi.
kannabi no yama o sugiyuku aki nareba tatsutagawa ni zo nusa wa tamukuru	Because it's autumn who travels past the mountain     in Kannabi, it's to the Tatsuta River she offers her prayer strips.
Here kannabi is understood as the specific place, making the "mountain in/of Kannabi" Mt. Mimuro, which the Tatsuta does indeed flow past. I use "she" for the season to identify it, as in #298, with the goddess Tatsutahime.
301.  Fujiwara no Okikaze A poem from the poetry contest held in the palace of the consort in the Kanpyô era.
shiranami ni aki no ko no ha no ukaberu o ama no nagaseru fune ka to zo miru	One might indeed see the leaves of the autumn trees     that are floating upon the white-capped waves as drifting boats of fishermen.
The version in the contest records marks "floating" as the topic instead of, as here, a direct-object that emphasizes the act of seeing. Bringing this emphasis out requires moving the speculation from the final line up to the front, but that suspension is not as important an effect. The verb for the drifting implies a measure of unintentionality, and I might have gone for "set adrift" but for the agency that adds.
302.  Sakanoue no Korenori Written on the bank of the Tatsuta River.
momijiba no nagarezariseba tatsutagawa mizu no aki o-ba tare ka shiramashi	If these colored leaves had not floated upon you,     Tatsuta River, who could have known the coming of autumn to your waters?
"Coming" is another of those omitted-but-understood verbs. Compare to the much better #118. A thoroughly formulaic poem, making its popularity in later anthologies all the more surprising.
303.  Harumichi no Tsuraki Written while crossing Mt. Shiga.
yamakawa ni kaze no kaketaru shigarami wa nagare mo aenu momiji narikeri	In the mountain stream, this fishing weir that the wind     has put together is autumn leaves that cannot flow past, even on the current.
Tsuraki was an obscure minor courtier (d. 920) with three poems in the Kokinshu. ¶ A poem particularly praised for its personification of the wind. That Shigarami ("fishing weir") contains the name of Shiga is lost in translation, while what the leaves cannot do is another of those omitted-but-understood verbs.
304.  Ôshikôchi no Mitsune Written on the bank of a pond on leaves scattering.
kaze fukeba otsuru momijiba mizu kiyomi chiranu kage sae soko ni mietsutsu	Colored autumn leaves that drop off when the wind blows --     the water's so clear, even unscattered reflections can be seen within the depths.
A more lovely poem than Mitsune's usual, with image, sound, and syntax all pulling together -- note especially the implicit antithesis between fallen-and-drifting leaves and unfallen-and-reflected leaves. It's tempting to render the last line as "are seen floating in the depths," just to bring this out, but that would add a metaphor not explicit in the original. At the time, reflections were considered to be within the water, at the bottom -- thus the importance of the clearness.
305.  (Ôshikôchi no Mitsune) Written and presented by [retired emperor Uda's] command for a screen painting in the Teiji Palace of a man about to ford a river who has pulled up his mount beneath a tree from which autumn leaves are scattering.
tachitomari mite o wataramu momijiba wa ame to furu to mo mizu wa masaraji	Oh, I shall stand still and gaze -- and then cross over.     The bright autumn leaves -- even if they fall like rain, the waters still will not rise.
For Teiji Palace, see #68. Given it was probably quickly written, this is surprisingly beautiful in the original. By convention, poems for screen-paintings with people were written from the point of view of a figure within the scene. What doesn't translate well is that the stopping-and-gazing is marked with a particle/exclamation indicating deep emotion. And with that we conclude, somewhat suspensively, the falling leaves segment of our program -- though they're mentioned in passing a few more times. On to the last few topics of the season.
306.  Mibu no Tadamine A poem from the poetry contest at the house of Prince Koresada.
yamada moru aki no kariio ni oku tsuyu wa inaoosedori no namida narikeri	The dew that settles on the temporary hut     guarding mountain fields in autumn are the teardrops of the inaôse birds.
Next topic: harvest. Makeshift shelters were erected near rice fields as the grain ripened, where guards could shoo birds and other critters away full-time. For the inaoosedori, see #208, and compare the avian weeping of #258. Whether they cry because the guard keeps them from the rice or out of seasonal sentiment is entirely up to you.
307.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
ho ni mo idenu yamada o moru to fujigoromo inaba no tsuyu ni nurenu hi zo naki	When I stand guard on the mountain fields where the ears     don't yet clearly show, there's never a day my rough robes aren't soaked by the rice-leaves' dew.
If the phrase ho ni mo idenu (see #242) is taken only in the literal sense of "not yet put out ears of grain," this is an unadorned harvest song; if it's taken in the figurative sense of "not yet made obvious," this can be read as a lover's complaint ("she hasn't made it clear (she loves me)"), with the dew standing in as usual for his tears. (Compare the similar structure of #173, also a love poem, and a few others.) To bring out the possibility, I double-translate the phrase. A fujigoromo is clothing made of rough cloth, especially cloth woven from fibers taken from kudzu vines.
308.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
kareru ta ni ouru hitsuchi no ho ni idenu wa yo o imasara ni aki hatenu to ka	Of the second-growths that sprout in harvested fields     without showing ears, can we say, "Tired of it all, autumn having now ended"?
The meaning of hitsuchi or hitsuji, used to describe wild-growing rice, is uncertain but in context is probably the second growth from a reaped plant. Pivot-word: aki = "be tired of" / "autumn." Exactly who is tired of what is ambiguous, as yo can refer to the "world" in general or the world of a specific relationship -- in which latter context, the idiomatic sense "not become obvious" of ho ni idenu comes to the fore, but what to make of it is murky. Regardless, the overtones of an end-of-love poem are there. "Say" is another omitted-but-understood word.
309.  Sosei Written while going mushroom hunting in the northern hills with Archbishop Henjô.
momijiba wa sode ni kokiirete moteidenamu aki wa kagiri to mimu hito no tame	I wish you'd gather these colored leaves in your sleeves     and carry them out -- so that someone might then see the conclusion of autumn.
Approaching the end of the book, we get poems on the end of the season, starting with a domestic piece about gathering mushrooms with one's father. I'm fond of the contrast of "put in" and "take out" as elements of compound verbs, which is only one element of the poem's lush effect. "Someone" could also be "people," but the personal situation of the headnote suggests a specific. Commentaries puzzle over why use sleeves given they'd have baskets for the mushrooms and over which presumably female relative they're for, while I wonder why Sosei explicitly excludes himself from the action. Compare to his similar #55.
310.  Fujiwara no Okikaze When he was commanded to present old poems in the Kanpyô Era, he wrote down the poem "Colored autumn leaves drift on Tatsuta River" [#284], then composed this in the same spirit.
miyama yori ochikuru mizu no iro mite zo aki wa kagiri to omoishirinuru	Seeing the color of the waters that come down     from the deep mountains, I've realized that indeed it is the end of autumn.
The command would have been from Emperor Uda. Ambiguous orthography: miyama can be read as "beautiful/fair mountains" instead of "deep in the mountains," and possibly both senses should be kept in mind. "It is" is another omitted-but-understood word. Because the model poem is about rain washing leaves into the river, the color is often interpreted as that of leaves, but given its place in the sequence and that iro, here "color," can indicate "face"/"expression," it seems likely the editors want us to see the river as now leaf-free -- evoking the time of early winter rains rather than the rains themselves.
311.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written thinking of the Tatsuta River with the feeling that autumn departs.
toshi-goto ni momijiba nagasu tatsutagawa minato ya aki no tomari naruramu	Tatsuta River where every year the colored     autumn leaves float by -- does its harbor mouth become the anchorage of autumn?
Another touch of leaves. Compare the use of this imagery with #293, and with the less-sophisticated #301.
312.  (Ki no Tsurayuki) Written in Ôi on the last day of the Ninth Month.
yûzukuyo ogura no yama ni naku shika no koe no uchi ni ya aki wa kururamu	Is it in the voice of the stag crying upon     Ogura Mountain like a crescent-moon evening that autumn closes its day?
Ôi is in the western outskirts of Kyoto, across the Ôi River from Mt. Ogura. The Ninth Month, here called nagagatsu, "Long Month," was the last month of autumn, falling from roughly early-October to early-November. Yûzukuyo, literally "night of evening moon" but understood as an evening with a crescent moon (because evening is the only time a waxing crescent is visible after sunset), is a stock-epithet for Mt. Ogura because its name sounds like it means "small darkness" -- that is, "dusk"; that idomatically autumn "darkens" to its end adds to this wordplay. However, at the end of a lunar month, the moon is a sliver of waning crescent not visible in the evening, making the epithet an implied comparison for the mountain rather than literal scene-setting. Pity. Sika deer have been poetically associated with Mt. Ogura since at least the time of the Man'yoshu. Compare to #214ff, where the belling stag is instead a symbol of mid-autumn.
313.  Ôshikôchi no Mitsune Written the last day of the same [month].
michi shiraba tazune mo yukamu momijiba o nusa to tamukete aki wa inikeri	If I knew the road, I'd find it as well and go.     Autumn has offered these colored autumn leaves up as prayer strips and departed.
Once again Mitsune gets the final word on a season. Why this one is a more appropriate ending to Book V than, say, #298 is not obvious, but possibly it's the hint about his life's transience, and so of life in general.

Next book: "Blow, blow, thou winter wind." It's short, like summer, only even more so.

(Index for this series)

---L.

Comments

[swan-tower.livejournal.com]

I really like the conceit of #291. (Possibly because I am a weaver myself.)

[larryhammer]

I like it too. There's also #314, which is not quite as charming but in its way more lovely in the original.

---L.