Kokinshu Book VIII: Partings (365-405)

[larryhammer]

Book VIII is poems of partings of various sorts. This was a standard genre in Chinese tradition: close male friends bidding each other farewell, especially as one left to take a new post (Chinese officials were rotated regularly, to reduce the chance they'd build local alliances), and the results are frequently lachrymose.

The Kokinshu includes these sorts of poems from a range of public and private occasions, but also mixes in farewells by lovers -- never a common genre in China -- and even chance encounters. The result is a diversity of tone (or least, more diversity than the previous book -- I know, not hard) and a distinct and unexpected progression.

365.  Ariwara no Yukihira Topic unknown.
tachiwakare inaba no yama no mine ni ôru matsu to shi kikaba ima kaerikomu	Though I now depart, should I indeed hear you pine,     waiting like pines that grow on Inaba's mountain peaks, I shall return home at once.
Scholars have long assumed Yukihira wrote this in 855 when he was appointed governor of Inaba Province (the eastern half of modern Tottori Prefecture), making this traditional in subject, but rather than imitating the tone of Chinese models, he went for playful wit by using two pivot-words: the old standard matsu meaning "pine tree" / "to wait" (worked in more naturally here than, say, in #162) and inaba as the province / an auxiliary verb meaning "if (I) go." Given the tradition (and since Yukihira was known in his day for his poetry in Chinese, he'd be quite familiar with it), this was more likely a farewell to a friend than a flirtation with a court lady, but it's possible to read it either way. That the poetic language of male friendship can be nearly identical to that of lovers will become clearer as this book goes on. The second pivot is most readily understood as an implicit comparison, but as pine trees don't actually pine for anyone, I triple-translated the word to bring out the pun. (Note, btw, the peak echoes the last poem of the previous book -- more evidence the editors intended us to read the collection as a whole.)
366.  Author unknown (Topic unknown.)
sugaru naku aki no hagihara asa tachite tabiyuku hito o itsu to ka matamu	How long must I wait for the one who this morning     starts his journey through autumn fields of bush-clover where the digger-wasps drone?
In contrast, this is most easily read as a parting of lovers. The sugaru is an old name for any of several wasps (used poetically in the Man'yoshu as a comparison for a woman's waist), often specifically identified as a digger wasp. Keeping the smooth sweep of a direct lyrical statement (also a Man'yoshu styling) meant almost exactly reversing the order of images.
367.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
kagiri naki kumoi no yoso ni wakaru to mo hito o kokoro ni okurasamu ya wa	Even parted from him somewhere beyond the high clouds     without limit, is it ever possible for my heart to desert him?
Again, this is most easily read as a parting by lovers. "Beyond" is interpretive but makes idiomatic sense. It's also possible to read hito, "person," as a sort of indirect and so polite way of referring to the listener, making this an address to "you" remaining behind (and a response to the previous) instead of asking about a departed "him." The rhetorical question expects, as usual, a negative answer.
368.  [Mother of Ono no Chifuru] Written by his mother when Ono no Chifuru left to become Vice-Governor of Michinoku.
tarachine no oya no mamori to aisouru kokoro bakari wa seki na todome so	You barrier gates, at least don't stop this heart of     a doting parent that accompanies her child as protection from dangers.
Chifuru and his mother are otherwise unknown. Some medieval traditions held that Chifuru was the son of Ono no Michikaze, the founder of the distinctly Japanese styles of calligraphy, but since Michikaze was born in 894 and the last datable poem in the Kokinshu is from 915, this is *cough* extremely unlikely. Regardless, this is her only credited poem in the Kokinshu. ¶ Another one not at all in the traditional Chinese manner, as it's not written by a male friend, though at least it's for a departing official. Michinoku was the northernmost province of the main island of Honshu, comprising modern Fukushima, Miyagi, Iwate, and Aomori prefectures -- a decidedly frontier post in a region only recently conquered by the southern capital, with control still uncertain. Officials and aristocrats needed travel permits to pass the barrier gates or check-points between administrative regions -- we'll see one in action later this book. Tarachine no is a stock epithet for a parent of uncertain meaning: although it is now sometimes written with kanji meaning "breasts overflowing with milk," it originally was used of both sexes and probably had a sense closer to "overflowing with affection." Omitted-but-understood: "her child," though it's strongly implied by a form of "accompany" that indicates an action done together. OTOH, "from dangers" is purely interpretive. Lost in translation: the doting parent comes right at the start of the poem.
369.  Ki no Toshisada Written the night of a farewell party at the house of Prince Sadatoki when Fujiwara no Kiyofu was leaving to become Vice-Governor of Ômi.
kyô wakare asu wa au mi to omoedomo yo ya fukenuramu sode no tsuyukeki	Today we part and, though I think that tomorrow     we'll meet in Ômi, it must be that night has grown late -- my sleeves are getting dew-soaked.
This begins a group of traditional partings between male friends, most composed for public occasions. That said, neither this occasion nor appointment are otherwise recorded, though it must have been before Toshisada's death in 881. Pivot-word obscured by historical sound changes: au mi is both "one(s) who meet" / Ômi Province (modern Shiga Prefecture, pronounced Aumi at the time). The soaking is clearly and conventionally meant to be from tears.
370.  (Ki no Toshisada) Written and sent to someone had gone to Koshi.
kaeruyama ari to wa kikedo harugasumi tachiwakarenaba koishikarebeshi	Even though I hear there's a Mt. Returning there,     if you've departed amid the rising spring mist, I must indeed long for you.
Koshi is the old name for what's now called the Hokuriku region on the north coast of the main island, comprising several provinces that roughly correspond to modern Fukui, Ishikawa, Toyama, and Niigata prefectures. Returning Mountain is a literal meaning of Kaeruyama in Fukui -- it will *ahem* return in other poems because of its name. Pivot-word: tachi- is "rise" for the mist and the "de-" of "depart" (much as in #103, though here reading double is required to make sense of things). The implication seems to be that mists would somehow delay the friend's return, though it's also possible to read an implied comparison: "If you've risen like the spring mist and departed ... "
371.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written at someone's farewell banquet.
oshimu kara koishiki mono o shirakumo no tachinamu nochi wa nani kokochi semu	As I make my regrets, already I long for you!     After you've ridden off into the white clouds risen, what emotion will I feel?
Again, tachi- is "rise" for the clouds and "start" for the person. It's possible here to read a coherent and competent poem by understanding only one of those senses, given Tsurayuki, the double meaning is almost certainly intended. Notice also his telescoping of layers of time. To reproduce at least a little of the soundplay, this rendering is more free than usual.
372.  Ariwara no Shigeharu Written for a friend traveling into the country.
wakarete wa hodo o hedatsu to omoeba ya katsu minagara ni kanete koishiki	Is it that at parting I feel the separation     of distance, so that even while I still see you I already long for you?
In these headnotes, the verb rendered as "travel"or "go" is specifically a motion away from the capital, with a strong connotation of going "down" from it, but this is the first poem to more directly expose the implied courtly worldview of the one imperial city and everything else. The poem has much the same import as the previous, embodied with less grace than Tsurayuki managed, though there is some nice alteration going.
373.  Ikago no Atsuyuki Written and sent to someone who'd gone to the eastern provinces.
omoedomo mi o shi wakeneba mi ni mienu kokoro o kimi ni taguete zo yaru	Although I long to, I cannot split my body --     so I shall send you as a companion a heart that can't be seen with the eye.
Atsuyuki is otherwise unknown aside from this one poem in the Kokinshu. ¶ The recipient's destination, azuma, was a general name for eastern Honshu, everything from what's now the Tokyo metro area on north. What is longed for is unstated -- the traditional interpretation is "to go with you," but this reading feels more natural. The original plays on the homophone mi meaning both "body/self" and "eye" -- similar to the soundplay of "I" / "eye," though my rendering doesn't really bring this it out. Not a bad poem, but the conceit was more charming when a mother sent her heart in #368.
374.  Naniwa no Yorozuo Written when parting with someone at Ôsaka.
ôsaka no seki shi masashiki mono naraba akazu wakaruru kimi o todomeyo	If, Meeting Hill Gate, you are a true barrier,     detain my lord -- the one we're not tired of yet who separates from us.
Yorozuo is also otherwise unknown aside from this one poem in the Kokinshu. ¶ Ôsaka is not the modern city but rather the first checkpoint on the road east from the capital, in the hills south of modern Ôtsu City. Because a travel permit was required to pass through, it was a common place for final farewells -- one beloved of poets because you part at a place that sounded like it means "meeting hill." The nameplay is irrelevant here, but I translate it to be consistent with later poems, such as #390. Omitted-but-understood word: "barrier." Note, btw, that here kimi cannot be read as a formal "you" as the gate itself is directly addressed with an abrupt command.
375.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
karakoromo tatsu hi wa kikaji asatsuyu no okite shi yukeba kenubeki mono o kono uta wa, aru hito, tsukasa o tamawarite atarashiki me ni tsukite, toshi ete sumikeru hito o sutete, tada asunamu tatsu to bakari ierikeru toki ni, to mo kau mo iwade yomite tsukawashikeru	I'll not hear of it, the day you start, cutting us     like a Chinese robe -- for, left behind like morning dew, I must vanish when you go. A certain man, having been named to an official post, took a new wife and abandoned the one he'd lived with for years. When he said to her merely, "I leave tomorrow," she said nothing but wrote and sent him this poem.
Now for a short break from male friendships for another three partings by lovers -- all written in contemporary, Chinese-influenced styles, in marked contrast to the older, plain manner of #366–368. That the editors give the story as a footnote rather than headnote suggests they did not entirely trust it, even without hedging it with "some people say." Two contrasting pivot-words here, both used to attach decorative phrases that essentially act as adverbial stock epithets: tatsu is "cut" for the Chinese robe and "start (out)," and oku is "settle" for the dew and "leave (behind)." All this plus that "dew" and "vanish" are imagisticly related words makes this a technically elaborate piece.
376.  Minamoto no Utsuku Written and sent to Fujiwara no Kimitoshi when travelling to Hitachi.
asa na ke ni mibeki kimi to shi tanomaneba omoitachinuru kusamakura nari	Since I can't rely on you, a Kimitoshi     not constantly seen, my decision is to sleep on grass pillows in Hitachi
Utsuku's birth and death dates are unknown, but she was a daughter of Minamoto no Kuwashi and seems to have been active in the years around 900. (Kimitoshi, a high-level official active in the decades around 900, was probably born around 870.) She has 3 poems in the Kokinshu. ¶ Textual note: my base text has the first line asa na ge ni, which is pretty much nonsense, and most editors remove two dots to emend this to asa na ke ni, "(every) morning and day" = "constantly." In the headnote, it's ambiguous who's going to Hitachi (in modern Ibaraki Prefecture), but in the poem it's clearly the speaker. A "grass pillow" is metonymy for traveling, as travelers conventionally slept on them; "to sleep on" is a gloss-in-the-text added for clarity. The recipient's name is worked into line 2 and the destination into line 4, though this latter is obscured by modern orthography. This working in is done in much the way of the acrostics of Book X, but given their relevance and that it's possible, with a little stretching, to read them as pivot words, I've double-translated them as such. Utsuku's manner is in the tradition of the Lonely Lady of Chinese models, though her traveling is not.
377.  Author unnamed When Ki no Munesada went to the eastern provinces, he spent the night at someone's house, and as he was making his farewells before dawn had broken, a woman wrote and sent this out.
e zo shiranu ima kokoromiyo inochi araba ware ya wasururu hito ya towanu to	We don't know for sure -- now let's put it to the test:     As long as we live, will it be I who forgets? will that person not visit?
Whom Munesada spent the night with (a male friend? the poet? another woman?) and the poet's relationship with him (wife? lover? would-be lover?) are all ambiguous. Commentaries have no consensus, though some note that because of directional prohibitions, it was not uncommon to start a journey by staying overnight at a nearby house that's in a different direction from one's distination. While it's clear the poet is being snarky, it'd be nice to know just how snarky (viciously? archly? exaggeratedly for effect?) and how justified she is, as that'd help fill in some of the lacunae in this "reasoning style" poem, such as whose life is being staked. Best guesses, and all that.
378.  Fujiwara no Fukayabu Written when left behind by a beloved friend traveling to the eastern provinces.
kumoi ni mo kayou kokoro no okureneba wakaru to hito ni muyu bakari nari	Even if you are among the far-distant clouds,     this traveling heart is not left behind -- and so we only seem separated.
Back to male friends, this time in less public modes -- the "beloved friend" part indicating that this is a more private affair than the previous official sendings off. That said, compare #367. Omitted-but-understood words: "if you are." The verb for "traveling" in the poem implies going back and forth (the modern sense is "commuting"), giving an implied image of being used as a messenger, which doesn't quite fit the context.
379.  Yoshimine no Hideoka Written when a friend traveled to the eastern provinces.
shirakumo no konata kanata ni tachiwakare kokoro o nusa to kudaku tabi ka na	Your departure now for hither and thither     among the white clouds is a journey that, ah!, shreds my heart into prayer strips.
Hideoka (parentage and dates are unknown, though presumably he's somehow related to Henjô and Sosei) appears in court records during the last two decades of the 800s as a middling courtier, and has this one poem in the Kokinshu. ¶ For nusa prayer strips, see #298. Here's another example of what's in effect an adverbial stock epithet on a pivot-word: shirakumo no, "of/among the white clouds," modifying tachi-, the "de-" of "depart" but "rise" for the clouds. Omitted-but-understood verb: "is." The conceit is a little odd, but the poem's sound is not bad and I'm kinda charmed by it. (I should explicitly explain, btw, that I call aristocrats of the Fourth or Fifth rank "middling courtiers." In the terms of the time, they were the lowest of the high court officials -- with access to the court and so actual courtiers, but not movers-and-shakers; most provincial governorships were a Fourth-rank office. Third rank and up, being ministers, regents, and the like, I call "high-level officials," while Sixth through Eighth ranks are "lower-level bureaucrats," not that there's many of the latter in the Kokinshu.)
380.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written and sent to someone traveling to Michinoku.
shirakumo no yae ni kasanaru ochi nite mo omoamu hito ni kokoro hedatsu na	Even when you are in a distance where white clouds     pile up eight-layered, do not shut out the heart of one who will long for you.
Another use of eight as a generically large number -- rather elegantly here, though I cannot but feel that this was written with more grace than sincerity. Still, the assumption of, rather than the insistence on, a traveling heart is a nice touch. Omitted-but-understood verb: "are."
381.  (Ki no Tsurayuki) Written when parting from someone.
wakare chô koto wa iro ni mo aranaku ni kokoro ni shimite wabishikaruramu	This thing called "parting" doesn't even have color,     so how can it be it penetrates the heart and dyes it sorrowful.
It's been a while since we've seen a "reasoning style" supposed-paradox this polished. "Penetrate" and "dye" double-translate shimu to bring out the point of the color.
382.  Ôshikôchi no Mitsune Written when a beloved friend came back to the capital after several years in Koshi, but returned again.
kaeruyama nani zo wa arite aru kai wa kite mo tomaranu na ni koso arikere	Returning Mountain, what on earth are you good for?     All your name means is that even if they do come, they will not remain here.
The promised return of Returning Mountain. Colloquial translation reflects idiomatic phrasing.
383.  (Ôshikôchi no Mitsune) Written and sent to someone who traveled to Koshi.
yoso ni nomi koi ya wataramu shirayama no yuki mirubeku mo aranu waga mi wa	I shall continue, it seems, longing for you     only from afar -- I who cannot even go see the snows of White Mountain.
White Mountain in Koshi, here called Shirayama, is modern Hakusan (same meaning only in Chinese) on the border of Gifu, Fukui, and Ishikawa Prefectures. It also reappears in later poems (and Mitsune gets to see it in #414). Possible pivot-word: yuki can be "going" and "snow," but you get an understandable if less idiomatic statement if you just read "snow" (and many texts write it with the kanji for snow). Possibly irrelevant detail: the original second line (the first two of the translation) is the same as the last line of #180 (equivalent to l.4 of the translation).
384.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written when parting with someone near Mt. Otowa.
otowayama kodakaku nakite hototogisu kimi ga wakare o oshimuberanari	Crying so loudly up high in a treetop     on Mt. Otowa -- it must be that this cuckoo cannot bear parting from you.
A return of summer's cuckoo, and of the naku/"sing"/"cry" wordplay. For Otowa, see #142. Other wordplays: Otowa's name includes oto, the "sound" of the bird, and -dakaku is both "loudly" crying and "high up" in the tree. That the bird "also" regrets the parting is to be understood. The sentiment may seem a little thin, but the sound is lovely and elegant.
385.  Fujiwara no Kanemochi Written at a drinking party held by high court officials for Fujiwara no Nochikage, who was leaving at the end of the Ninth Month to become inspector of Chinese goods.
morotomo ni nakite todomeyo kirigirisu aki no wakare wa oshiku ya wa aranu	Stay here, you cricket, and cry together with us --     for isn't it true this autumn's departure is something to be regretted?
Fujiwara no Kanemochi. His birth date is unknown, but given his younger brother Kanesuke (see #391) was born in 877 and his own career as a middling courtier starting in 897, it was probably around 870. He died in 923 and has two poems in the Kokinshu. (Incidentally, he also provided a poem for Fujiwara no Sadakuni's 40th birthday that was not included in #357ff.) ¶ Kanemochi, Nochikage (author of #108), and the father of Motonori (author of the next poem) all received their first official appointments, as imperial archivists, shortly after Daigo's enthronement in 897. The inspector of imports from the mainland was a Kyushu duty station; the appointment is not otherwise recorded but was probably a few years after 900. For the kirigirisu, see #196 -- and again we get the naku/"sing"/"cry" pun, providing our link to the previous poem. Grammatical ambiguity with a significance pointed up by the headnote: the departure could be "in autumn" or "of autumn," the latter (at the end of the Ninth Month) being what the cricket traditionally cries for.
386.  Taira no Motonori (from the same party)
akigiri no tomo ni tachi'idete wakarenaba harenu omoi ni koi ya wataramu	If you're to rise up along with the autumn mist     and depart from us, I should keep loving you with longings that (too) never clear.
Motonori's birthdate is not recorded, but given a stint in the imperial guards starting in 897 and the career of his father, Taira no Nakaki (see #1048), it was probably around 880. After a promising career start, he disappears from the records after 908 and is presumed to have died around then. This is his only poem in the Kokinshu. ¶ Pivot-word: tachi- is again the mist's "rise" and the "de-" of Nochikage's departure -- a double-meaning carried through the poem by a verb for "clearing" used of both weather and emotions. Omitted-but-understood, added to bring out this last: "too." The last line (my l.4) is again the same as #180; I suspect it reappears in the love poems as well.
387.  Shirome Written while seeing off Minamoto no Sane at Yamazaki when he was traveling to Tsukushi to bathe in the hot springs.
inochi dani kokoro ni kanau mono naraba nani ka wakare no kanashikaramashi	If only our lives somehow corresponded to     our hearts' desires, would separation still be something so agonizing?
Shirome (also called Shiro in Tales of Yamato) was a ukareme or female entertainer active in the reign of Emperor Uda, but no other personal details are recorded. This is her only attributed poem in the Kokinshu. ¶ For Sane, see the next poem. Tsukushi was a province corresponding to modern Fukuoka Prefecture but could also refer to Kyushu as a whole, and Yamazaki on the Yodo/Uji River (it's a waterway that changes name frequently), downstream from the capital at the border of modern Kyoto and Osaka prefectures, was the embarkation point for travelers to the western provinces. Ukaremes could be commoner or of aristocratic birth, but either way had more freedom of behavior than court ladies (the role, later called asobi, came to imply a sexual component to their entertaining), which may explain how she could travel so far with Sane. As for the poem itself, whose life, whether hers, his, or both, is ambiguous -- hers is the traditional reading, reasonably enough given the Lonely Lady trope, but the arduousness of the journey to Kyushu suggests the hot-springs are intended as a cure for serious health issues, making his also a topic of concern.
388.  Minamoto no Sane Written when people, loath to part with him and return, traveled from Yamazaki to the sacred forest to see him off.
hitoyari no michi naranaku ni ookata wa ikiushi to iite iza kaerinamu	Since it's not a road I'm compelled to by others,     I just have to say it's heartbreaking all over -- well then, let's all return home!
Sane had a career as middling courtier between 880 and his death in 900. This is his only poem in the Kokinshu, though he also appears in the headnotes of the previous and next poems. ¶ This is assumed to be from the same sending off as the previous, a little while later. The sacred forest (kannabi no mori) is sometimes conjectured to be a place now called Kanmaki somewhat downstream the Yodo of Yamakazi, in modern Osaka Prefecture. Where the quote begins is, as often, ambiguous, though it matters little to the general sense here (either he's calling everything "heartbreaking" or saying "everything's heartbreaking"). Non-literalisms: "just have to" is interpretive addition, while "all" is added on the assumption that the next poem is an immediate reply. A valiant attempt to lighten the mood, but I'm not so sure it works all that well as poetry.
389.  Fujiwara no Kanemochi Written when Sane said, "Now return home from here."
shitawarete kinishi kokoro no mi ni shi areba kaeru sama ni wa michi mo shirarezu	Because I have gone out of my mind with yearning     to come along with you, I can't even comprehend which road is the way for home.
Apparently a direct reply to the previous. While "heart" usually encompasses the most relevant senses of kokoro, the conceit here hinges on a sense involving awareness or intelligence. To convey this, my rendering is more free than usual -- more literally it's "Because my yearning-and-has-come spirit/heart is with you, I don't know even the road that's the return way." Either way, not the best of poems, though the echo of kinishi/mi ni shi is a neat touch.
390.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written while seeing off Fujiwara no Koreoka, who was crossing Ôsaka [Gate] on his way to becoming vice-governor of Musashi.
katsu koete wakare mo yuku ka ôsaka wa hitodanome naru na ni koso arikere	He crosses over, parting from us as he goes!     Meeting Hill Gate, I find that all your name does is make me rely on you.
For Ôsaka/Meeting Hill, see #374. Musashi Province corresponds to modern Tokyo City plus a portion of Saitama Prefecture, and Koreoka's appointment was in 898. Same last line as #382, rendered slightly differently because of context. The implication is, of course, that he relies on it in vain. Even more earlier poems, the language and manner makes this all but indistinguishable from a love poem. (Compare #387 in this regard.) The original, as expected from Tsurayuki, is quite polished.
391.  Fujiwara no Kanesuke Written when seeing off Ôe no Chifuru when he traveled to Koshi.
kimi ga yuku koshi no shirayama shiranedomo yuki no manimani ato wa tazunemu	Although I don't know this White Mountain in Koshi     where you are going, I'll go follow your tracks in the snow wherever they lead.
Kanesuke (877–933), younger brother of Kanemochi (see #385) and son-in-law of Sadakata (see #231), was a middling courtier, a patron of other poets (including Tsurayuki), and great-grandfather of Murasaki Shikibu (author of The Tale of Genji). He has 4 poems attributed to him in the Kokinshu, but see also #35n. ¶ Ôe no Chifuru (?–923) was a younger brother of Chisato (see #14) and tutor of Emperor Daigo as a young prince. Pivot-word: yuki again meaning "go and" / "snow," and here (in contrast to #383) both senses are needed to make sense of things. There's also a sort of "uncollapsed" pivot-word: the sound echo of shirayama, "White Mountain," and shiranedomo, "although not know." The sentiment may be hyperbole but it's in a way fitting for a sensitive aristocrat, and the sound-play is appealing.
392.  Henjô Written when someone came to worship at Kazan and was returning home at dusk.
yûgure no magaki wa yama to mienanamu yoru wa koeji to yadori torubeku	If only, at dusk, our brushwood fence would appear     to be a mountain -- "I cannot cross that at night." you might say, and take lodgings.
The start of a group of poems by monks saying farewell to lay visitors to temples. For Kazan, see ##119. Henjô may not have been the best poet of the era, but I find his poetic personality the most appealing of the Kokinshu.
393.  Yûsen Written while parting with people who climbed the mountain to worship and were returning.
wakare o-ba yama no sakura ni makasetemu tomemu tomeji wa hana no manimani	Our separation -- I shall entrust it to     the mountain cherries: whether you stay or not is at the whim of the flowers.
Yûsen (836–900) was a Fujiwara, personal lay name unknown, who took vows as a Buddhist priest. He has 2 poems in the Kokinshu. ¶ It's generally understood that the mountain is Hiei (see #87) and that Yûsen resided in a temple there. Omitted-but-understood verb: "is." It's unclear whether he's hoping the flowers will scatter and confuse the path (as in the next poem) or the visitors will be entranced enough to stay (as in the poem after). Not a satisfying translation -- but then, not a satisfying poem.
394.  Henjô Written under the cherry blossoms when the Prince of Urin Temple had climbed the mountain for a memorial service and was returning.
yamakaze ni sakura fukimaki midarenamu hana no magiri ni tachitomarubeku	If only the cherries whirled about in disorder     in the mountain wind -- you might then be detained in the confusion of flowers.
For the Urin Prince, Tsuneyasu, see #95. This is structurally very similar to #392. Compare also #349 and #403.
395.  Yûsen (Written under the cherry blossoms when the Prince of Urin Temple had climbed the mountain for a memorial service and was returning.)
koto naraba kimi tomarubeku niowanamu kaesu wa hana no uki ni ya wa aranu	With things as they are, I wish you were so splendid     that my lord stayed here. If we see him off, wouldn't that be shameful for your flowers?
Same occasion. In context of the previous, it's possible "things" points toward flowers being already in bloom, but it seems easier to read it as the prince's departure. The phrase hana no uki is also obscure, provoking much commentary -- "shameful for (your) flowers" is my best guess.
396.  Kengei Written when the Ninna Emperor was a Crown Prince, when he was returning from viewing Furu Waterfall.
akazu shite wakaruru namida taki ni sou mizu masaru to ya shimo wa miruramu	My tears of parting -- for I'm not weary of you --     join the waterfall. Downstream, they might even see that the waters are rising.
Not much is known about this monk aside from that he's a grandson of Minamoto no Tôru (born 822, see #724), was active before Emperor Kôkô's 884 enthronement, and has 4 poems in the Kokinshu. ¶ Kôkô being the Ninna Emperor again (see #21); for Furu, see #248 (there's no indication this is from the same visit). The final couplet can also be read as a question, and that may even be the more natural way. Another where the language of friendship (or flattery) is indistinguishable from love poetry.
397.  Ki no Tsurayuki One day he was invited [by the emperor] into Kannari-no-Tsubo to drink sake, and at the moment of departing into the heavy rain at dusk, taking up his sake-cup:
akihagi no hana o-ba ame ni nurasedomo kimi o-ba mashite oshi to koso omoe	Although the flowers of the autumn bush-clover     are soaked by the rain, it is leaving you, my lord, that I regret even more.
For the Kannari-no-Tsubo, see #190; the unidentified emperor would, as usual, be Daigo. Omitted-but-understood verb: "leaving." Also understood: getting rained on ruins the flowers. See the next poem for a response.
398.  Prince Kanemi Written in return.
oshimuramu hito no kokoro o shiranu ma ni aki no shigure to mi zo furinikeru	And while unaware that someone's heart might regret     our parting now, my body has descended (like autumn rain) into age.
Not bad for improv, especially given he worked in the wit of a pivot-word, if a bog-standard one: furu is "fall" of the rain and "get old" of himself -- "descend" is the bog-standard translation. Omitted-but-understood again: "our parting now."
399.  Ôshikôchi no Mitsune Written when parting with Prince Kanemi after first conversing with him.
wakaruredo ureshiku mo aru ka koyoi yori aiminu saki ni nani o koimashi	Even though we part, I am filled with happiness.     Who in the world might I have loved before we met each other this evening?
Again, this sounds a lot like a love poem -- though of course, it's also easy to see mere overheated courtier flattery. The rhetorical question is strengthened by a counterfactual conjugation. Changes made for idiomatic-sounding English: "who in the world" is a bit stronger than the original's "who," even with the counterfactual, and technically it's "saw" rather than "met."
400.  Author unknown Topic unknown.
akazu shite wakaruru sode no shiratama o kimi ga katami to tsutsumite zo yuku	As a memento I wrap the white gems on this sleeve     that is departing, although not tired of you -- and only then do I go.
The same opening as #396, though this is obscured by English syntax. The gems are, of course, tears and the sleeve metonymy for the departer. This is most easily read as a man taking his leave of a woman, with the sleeve and tears being his, but other permutations are possible. More properly, "of you" modifies the memento, but moving it sounds more idiomatic.
401.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
kagiri naku omou namida ni sohochinuru sode wa kawakaji awamu hi made ni	This sleeve that is soaked through by tears of love     without limit will never dry out -- not until the day we meet.
Speaker could be either gender, but after the previous it's easiest to read a woman's response: "Maybe you can wrap up your tears ... " The original is interestingly balanced, with "soak" (sohochi-) and "dry out" (kawaka-) flanking the central "sleeve" (sode), and the whole bookended by "without limit" (first line) and "until we meet" (last line). (My version is more off-form than usual but language of the original is stripped down, to the point that padded phrasing really sticks out.)
402.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
kakikurashi koto wa furanamu harusame ni nureginu kisete kimi o todomemu	With things looking dark, I wish it fell anyway.     Then I would hang the soaked clothes on the spring rains and so detain my lord here.
Textual issue: in l.2 I've emended the goto of my base text to koto for the same reasons as in #82. The speaker is almost certainly a woman talking to or about her lover, given a higher-level courtier wouldn't be making visits to a lower one. Nurekinu kisete means literally "make (someone) wear soaked clothing" but idiomatically "put the blame on (someone)," often especially to frame them -- and both meanings are relevant here, which English can almost reproduce. Kakikurashi also has a double-meaning, to get dark from being overcast and to be depressed.
403.  (Author unknown) (Topic unknown.)
shiite yuku hito o todomemu sakurabana izure o michi to mioyu made chire	He's going anyway, this person I would detain.     O cherry blossoms, scatter until he's confused over which way is his road.
Again it's easiest to read this as a woman and her lover -- but then, compare #394.
404.  Ki no Tsurayuki Written when parting with someone he'd talked with at a rocky spring in Shiga Pass.
musubu te no shizuku ni nigoru yama no i no akade mo hito ni wakarenuru ka na	As an offering from a mountain spring muddied     by drops from cupped hands is unsatisfying, so too parting from, ah!, this person.
To transition into the travel poetry of the next book, the first of two poems of parting while traveling. In addition to being set outside the sophisticated capital, it's written in an old-fashioned manner with a description prefatory to the main subject hinging on the pivot-word aka, a water offering to the Buddha / akade, "not satisfied," which latter in turn explicitly applies to the clauses before and after it. (The offering sense is required, though many commentaries and translations ignore it, as otherwise the spring's genitive marker makes no sense.) Effect lost in translation: the original is bookended with musubu, here "scoop up (in the hand)" but can also mean "bind (together)," and wakarenuru, "have parted." The poem was immediately and enduringly popular, and frequently referenced by other Heian writers. It is often specifically interpreted as a love poem, with the "someone" a woman -- it wouldn't be the only time Tsurayuki flirted on this road.
405.  Ki no Tomonori Written upon parting with someone he'd flirted with whose carriage he'd met on the road.
shita no obi no michi wa katagata wakaru to mo yukimegurite mo awamu to zo omou	Even though the ends of your undersash head off     in different ways, they still wrap around -- so too, I believe, we shall meet again.
In the headnote, "flirt" is not an exact translation: the verb indicates talking with someone in a courting or at least making-a-pass sort of way. An undersash is a cord tied at the waist of inner layers of clothing, a word with strong erotic connotations. Omitted-but-understood: "the ends of" and "again." The image of being bound together (as by fate) applies here.

And so the book of partings ends with informal words after momentary meetings -- a far cry from the formal banquets of the start. Next up: the logical consequence of farewells -- traveling.

(Index for this series)

---L.

Comments

[mount-oregano.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[larryhammer]

De nada.