Kokinshu Book VI: Winter (314-342)

[larryhammer]

Like summer, winter is a short book with a single overriding image: snow. Also like summer, there is a narrow range of responses compared to the longer and more varied spring or autumn books. Despite this, I was surprised to find myself moved by some of the stark black-and-white imagery -- for there are hints of what would in medieval times develop into the aesthetics of wabi-sabi, especially the aspects dealing with austere beauty.

But mostly, it's about the isolation of heavy drifts in an age without snowplows. Keep in mind, while reading these, that the Kyoto area had heavier winters in the Heian period than today.

314.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
tatsutagawa nishiki orikaku kannazuki shigure no ame o tatenuki ni shite	Tatsuta River weaves a brocade of bright leaves     spread over itself -- using as its warp and weft the Godless Month's winter rains.
Before we get to the snow, however, there's a few introductions to make first -- and some old friends by way of continuity. Speaking of whom, "bright leaves" is another of those omitted-but-understood words. For the Godless Month, the first month of winter, see #253, and for the Tatsuta, see #283. Compare also #291.
315.  Minamoto no Muneyuki Written as a winter poem.
yamazato wa fuyu zo sabishisa masarikeru hitome mo kusa mo karenu to omoeba	The mountain village grows ever more desolate     in the wintertime -- knowing that people are gone, that the grasses have withered.
Zeugmastic pivot-word: karenu means "were far off/separated" when the subject is people and "withered" when it's grasses. That we all wither like the grass is, of course, the intended overtone.
316.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
ôzora no tsuki no hikari shi kiyokereba kage mishi mizu zo mazu kôrikeru	Because the shining of the moon in the wide sky     was so very clear, the waters where I had seen its image are frozen first.
Picking up the freezing first previewed in #277. Semantic ambiguity: kage can, depending on context, mean "shadow," "reflection," or the "light" from a celestial object. That it's the speaker and not the moon/light who saw the kage ("see" is inflected as a personal past experience) reduces the possibilities but does not entirely resolve matters. Understanding the most romantic/poetic option of its reflection unfortunately somewhat obscures the argument that cold moonlight is cold. The waters are traditionally understood to be a pond that the speaker is looking at the next morning.
317.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
yû sareba koromode samushi miyoshino no yoshino no yama miyuki fururashi	As evening descends the sleeves of my robe are cold.     There in Yoshino, beautiful Mt. Yoshino, the deep snow must be falling.
Compare #3 and its similar old-fashioned manner of direct expression. Lost in translation: the repetition of the prefix mi-, meaning "beautiful"/"fair" on Yoshino and "deep" on the snow.
318.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
ima yori wa tsugite furanamu waga yado no susuki oshinami fureru shirayuki	Would that, from now on, it fell without ceasing --     the falling white snow that piles on and bends over the miscanthus by my house.
The flakes are falling harder, with a romantic image of snow on pampas grass -- and hints of what would in later times develop into an aesthetic appreciation of loneliness. For miscanthus, see #242. And yes, the original repeats "fall" in slightly different inflections. Compare the this initial enthusiasm for the season to the melancholy of later snow poems.
319.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
furu yuki wa katsu zo kenurashi ashibiki no yama no tagitsu se oto masaru nari	As soon as it fell the snow must have melted --     the rushing sound of the foot-weary mountain stream is growing ever louder.
This may be one of many Kokinshu examples of the "reasoning technique," but it's one of the rare sound-based ones plus has a neat antithesis between the loss of snow and increasing sound -- not to mention the implicit visual of a stream's wet-black rocks in a partly snowy landscape. More literally, it's the "sound of rushing rapids" -- I had to shuffle things to handle the stock-epithet "foot-weary" (see #59) with anything resembling grace.
320.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
kono kawa ni momijiba nagaru okuyama no yukige no mizu zo ima masarurashi	Here in this river, autumn leaves are floating by --     deep in the mountains the water from melting snow must now be increasing.
Autumn leaves continue to echo forward, though possibly here brown ones long on the ground are intended. A "reasoning technique" poem using a pattern we've seen many times before -- and as well, the contrast between disappearance and increase isn't as neatly contrasted as in the previous.
321.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
furusato wa yoshino no yama shi chikakereba hitohi mo miyuki furanu hi wa nashi	In the old village, because it is so close to     Yoshino Mountain, there's not a day, not even one, when the deep snow doesn't fall.
As in #111, the "old village" may allude to the former capital of Nara -- or possibly Asuka, the capital before that, which was even closer to Mt. Yoshino.
322.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
waga yado wa yuki furishikite michi mo nashi fumiwakete tou hito shi nakereba	At my house the snow blankets everything -- there is     not even a track -- for there isn't anyone pushing through the drifts to visit.
More on the loneliness of winter. Compare #287, though instead of separate statements here we get an inverted sentence structure -- and a better excuse for not visiting. "Drifts" is interpretive, implied by the verb for pushing through them.
323.  Ki no Tsurayuki [Written] as a winter poem.
yuki fureba fuyugomori seru kusa mo ki mo haru ni shirarenu hana zo sakikeru	When the snowflakes fall, both the grasses and the trees     dormant for winter are blossoming with flowers that are unknown in springtime.
I've no idea why, in the headnote, the "written" is omitted (the "as" is not). Note the first explicit mention of the season. Compare to the snow/blossom confusion in early spring of #6 & 7 -- as well as some of the next several poems.
324.  Ki no Akimine Written in Mt. Shiga pass.
shirayuki no tokoro mo wakazu furishikeba iwao ni mo saku hana to koso mire	When the white snow settles over every place     without distinction, I see it, yes, as flowers blooming also on the crags.
For Shiga pass, see #115. Grammatical ambiguity: the first two lines could be a separate sentence or part of a continuous statement about the blanketing. The former would make a better poem ("The white snow makes no distinction of place. When it settles over (the world) ... "), but that Akamine explicitly likens the snow to flowers instead using of a stronger direct metaphor, not to mention seeing flowers requires that the snow not actually be uniform, suggests reading the slightly weaker continuous statement. (This also happens to be the traditional reading.) I still like the image of white patched on dark rocks, though.
325.  Sakanoue no Korenori Written in his lodgings when he had gone to the Nara Capital.
miyoshino no yama no shirayuki tsumorurashi furusato samuku narimasaru nari	The white snows of beautiful Mt. Yoshino     must be piling up -- in the fallen capital it grows increasingly cold.
In the Heian period, this was considered Korenori's best poem -- though by medieval times, his #332 was preferred. Literally, it's the "old town" that gets cold, but given the headnote, the association with the former capital of Nara, abandoned a century before, is clearly intended (compare #90 and #321). (Bonus amusement: a wood-block print, inscribed with this poem, of repairing a shôji screen, presumably in preparation for winter.)
326.  Fujiwara no Okikaze A poem from the poetry contest held in the palace of the consort in the Kanpyô era.
ura chikaku furikuru yuki wa shiranami no sue no matsuyama kosu ka to zo miru	The driven snow that comes falling close to the shore --     might I be seeing the white waves crossing over Pine Mountain in Sue?
The location of Sue is uncertain, but its Mt. Pine appears in #1093, a folk song from the Michinoku region (roughly corresponding to the entire east coast of northern Honshu) in which a lover protests he will be faithful until waves wash over the mountain, from which the place became a "poem pillow," or location with poetic associations -- one that makes this not a seasonal poem but an accusation pointed at an unfaithful lover. In any case, given Kyoto is nowhere near the coast, it's a purely imagined scene, if a dramatically visual one. "Driven" is interpretive, but implied by the verb and the comparison. Note the implied contrast of white flakes and dark waves/trees.
327.  Mibu no Tadamine (from the same contest)
miyoshino no yama no shirayuki fumiwakete irinishi hito no otozure mo senu	That person who had pushed through the drifts of white snow     and entered into beautiful Mt. Yoshino, sending not even one word ...
The converse of #322, and like there, the "drifts" is interpretive. The Yoshino area was common one for religious retreats, and the implication is that the person has taken orders and cut off contact with the secular world, with the snows being a plausible excuse.
328.  (Mibu no Tadamine) (from the same contest)
shirayuki no furite tsumoreru yamazato wa sumu hito sae ya omoikiyuramu	In the mountain town where the white snow has fallen     and piled into drifts, might even he who lives there be worn down in dejection?
Continuing on the isolation of winter. On its own, hito ("person"/"people") would be most easily understood as plural, but placed in the context of the previous and next poems, the editors probably intend us to read a single person living there. Untranslatable wordplay: the snow, the hi="fire" of omo(h)i ("feeling"), and the kiyu="melt" of omoikiyu (literally "feelings vanish," idiomatically "be despondent") are words that associate with each other. The fire part of this somewhat undercuts the poem's tone, giving the impression that Tadamine is being too clever for his own good -- or just didn't notice that possibility.
329.  Ôshikôchi no Mitsune Written on seeing snow falling.
yuki furite hito mo kayowanu michi nare ya atohaka mo naku omoikiyuramu	A track when snow falls with nobody passing through --     is it all like that? Not a trace of transience and worn down in dejection ...
Same last line as the previous. One of more effective uses among the seasonal poems of the external world symbolizing a personal situation, made all the more powerful by leaving "I" unstated. If you prefer stating it, replace the interpretive "it all" with "my life." Debatable pivot-word: atohaka mo naku = "without even a trace" / haka naku = "transitory" -- I render it because, while this tangles the syntax a bit, it does add to the personal statement.
330.  Kiyowara no Fukayabu Written on falling snow.
fuyu nagara sora yori hana no chirikuru wa kumo no anata wa haru ni ya aruramu	Although it's winter, with this scattering of flowers     come down from the sky -- might it be that it's springtime away beyond the clouds?
In the spring, falling petals are mistaken for snowflakes (see for example #9) -- in winter, it's the reverse. This poem was collected in multiple Heian-period anthologies and cited in Wakatai jisshu ("Ten Styles of Japanese Poetry," believed to be by Mibu no Tadamine) as a model for using plain expressions with profound emotional overtones.
331.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written on fallen snow covering the trees.
fuyugomori omoikakenu o ko no ma yori hana to miru made yuki zo furikeru	How unexpected in the dormancy of winter --     from between the trees I almost see them as flowers, the snowflakes that have fallen.
A more delicate and visual presentation of #330's conceit. Note the implicit contrast of white flakes and black trees, and possibly also the grey sky. Compare also #184.
332.  Sakanoue no Korenori Written on seeing snow falling when he was traveling in Yamato Province.
asaborake ariake no tsuki to miru made ni yoshino no sato ni fureru shirayuki	At the break of day I almost see it as     full-moonlight at dawn -- the white snow falling over the village of Yoshino.
One of the more lovely examples of an "elegant confusion" of sensory impressions, for snow can be mistaken for things other than flowers. Omitted-but-understood word: the "light." Lost in translation, because English doesn't have names for moon phases by individual day: the moon being compared to is specifically from a few days after full, when it is still large and bright and about to set at daybreak.
333.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
kenu ga ue ni mata mo furishike harugasumi tachinaba miyuki mare ni koso mime	Come down once again -- cover what's not yet melted.     Should the spring haze rise, we surely would seldom see the fair snow anymore.
The grammar and manner suggest this is a very old poem. Note the contrast of the snow's falling and the haze's rising.
334.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
ume (no) hana sore to mo miezu hisakata no amagiru yuki no nabete furereba kono uta wa, aru hito no iwaku, kakinomoto (no) hitomaro ga uta nari	Though the plum flowers are there, they cannot be seen     -- for the snow that shrouds the eternal heavens is falling on everything. Some say this poem is a poem by Kakinomoto no Hitomaro.
A jump forward to not just mistaking snow for flowers, but the actual first flowers of spring -- matching #6ff from early in Book I. In contrast to #333, this reads like a product of the Kokinshu period, as the trope of "elegant confusion" (here, of snow disguising the white flowers) wasn't borrowed from Chinese models until a couple generations after Hitomaro died. The stock epithet hisakata no (see #84) is applied to the ama, "sky/heaven," part of amagiru, "to obscure the sky." "Are" is another omitted-but-understood verb. Compare to the similar #40, which has the same second line (I've revised that one to bring this out this connection).
335.  Ono no Takamura Written on snow falling on plum flowers.
hana no iro wa yuki ni majirite miezu to mo ka o dani nioe hito no shirubeku	Though your flowers' hue is mingled with the snowfall     and cannot be seen, give us your glorious scent -- people should know where they are.
A leading Chinese poet and scholar of his generation, Takamura (802–852) was a deputy to a 834 embassy to Tang China but after its first ship was wrecked he refused board a second, for which he was exiled to Oki Island off the north coast of Japan (see #407) and pardoned a few years later. He is a candidate for being grandfather or adoptive father, or possibly both, of Komachi (see #113), and he has six poems in the Kokinshu. ¶ A well-crafted poem -- and a good example of how Chinese manners were repurposed as part of nativizing them into Japanese: although plums blossoms are important in Chinese poetry, their scent is almost never mentioned, while perfumes were important in Japanese aristocratic culture. Compare #39, which was written later and possibly is alluding to this, and the structurally similar #91, which could have been written around the same time.
336.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written on plum blossoms amid the snow.
ume no ka no furiokeru yuki ni magaiseba tare ka kotogoto wakite oramashi	And yet if the scent of the plums mingles into     the settling snow, who could possibly pick out and pluck only the flowers?
If this wasn't written as a direct response to #335, it must have been to another, similar sentiment. Some cliches deserve skewering.
337.  Ki no Tomonori Written on seeing fallen snow.
yuki fureba ki-goto ni hana zo sakinikeru izure o ume to wakite oramashi	When the snowflakes fell, flowers did indeed blossom     on every tree. How can I ever construe the plum and so pluck it?
The kanji for "plum" (梅) is a combination of those for "every tree" (木+毎). This visual pun, which was probably borrowed from Chinese examples, is even more untranslatable than the one in #249—for while physically snow might make us "read" every tree as a flowering plum, even the worst handwriting can't make us read "every tree" as "plum." Fortunately, unlike #249, the pun isn't all that's going on here, though without it this otherwise reads like another reuse of #335's conceit. Another thing lost in translation: this has the same last line as the previous poem.
338.  Ôshikôchi no Mitsune Written on the last day of the Twelfth Month, waiting for someone who'd gone someplace.
wa ga matanu toshi wa kinuredo fuyukusa no karenishi hito wa otozure mo sezu	Even though the year I don't wait for has arrived,     that distant person (withered like the winter grass) sends not even one word.
The final arc of the season is on the New Year. The Twelfth Month, the last of the year, ran from roughly early-January to early-February. The poem uses the same pivot-word as #315, karenishi meaning "had gone far away" / "had withered," and then adds to it fuyukusa no, "of/like winter grass," a stock epithet used for things that are withered. Also repeated is the same last line as #327 (with a slighly different conjugation on the verb).
339.  Ariwara no Motokata Written at the end of the year.
aratama no toshi no owari ni naru-goto ni yuki mo waga mi mo furimasaritsutsu	Every single time the always-renewing year     comes to an end, both the snow and my body continue to ever fall.
Pivot-word: furi- is "fall" for the snow and "get old" for himself, a wordplay that's almost as tired as "pine"/"wait" for matsu (see #162 et cet.). Aratama no is a stock epithet for units of time that is now written with kanji meaning "like/of an uncut gem" (parsing it as ara-tama) but seems to have originally meant "of fresh/new intervals" (arata-ma), conveying a sense of something like "ever-renewing." If this original meaning was still generally known in his time (which is not clear), by playing this against the falling/aging chestnut, Motokata actually got more than one thing going in a poem -- mark him as managing interesting for a second time. (This competence makes the padding of "single" even more unjustified, as he isn't really that emphatic.)
340.  Author unknown A poem from the poetry contest held in the palace of the consort in the Kanpyô era.
yuki furite toshi no kurenuru toki (ni) koso tsui ni momijinu matsu mo miekere	When snow has fallen and the year drawn to its close,     it is only then that we can see in the end the pines do not change color.
Commentaries speculate that this is based on a passage in Analects where Confucius claims that only when the year grows cold do we see that it's the pines and cypress trees that fade last. Contrast #24, also from the same contest. Note the implicit contrast between dark green needles and white snow.
341.  Harumichi no Tsuraki Written at the end of the year.
kinô to ii kyô to kurashite asukagawa nagarete hayaki tsuki hi narikeri	"Yesterday," I say, then "Today" as time passes --     and so Tomorrow the Asuka River flows on and is the swift months and days.
For the Asuka, see #284. Its name is a pivot-word on asu, "tomorrow." How to join the phrases is not entirely clear -- I read tomorrow as an adverb of time, but it could just as easily be an impled genitive ("tomorrow's Asuka flows") or even the subject of flow ("tomorrow (like the) Asuka flows"). Slightly more natural in English would be a comparison "like the swift months and days," but the original really does say that whatever is flowing "is" passing time. Compare the wordplay to #933, where in the Asuka yesterday's depths become today's shallows, and the compassing of three times in this second-to-last seasonal poem to the three seasons contained in #the second poem.
342.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written and presented when he was commanded to present a poem.
yuku toshi no oshiku mo aru ka na masukagami miru kage sae ni kurenu to omoeba	For the parting year I am filled, ah, with regret     -- for in the clear mirror, even on my reflection the shadows have descended.
Were it up to me, I'd probably end the season with #341 instead of this. However, some commentaries note that the context of an imperial command transitions us into Book VII's coronation and birthday felicitations -- thus pointing up that the Kokinshu was intended to be read as a whole. Though of course that one's age count went up on New Years, making it everyone's birthday, already points toward that topic. Wordplay lost in translation: kurenu means "has ended" for the year and "has darkened" for the reflection (which is also itself a "shadow").

And with that, the seasons come round to where we started. Book VII takes the collection in an entirely new, more social direction. It's another short one, so I should have it in two months or so.

(Index for this series)

---L.

Comments

[mount-oregano.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[puddleshark.livejournal.com]

Lovely - #329 most especially. Thank you!

[larryhammer]

De nada.

---L.

[larryhammer]

There's a surprising number of ones to like here.

---L.