NARA POETRY

While the eighth century has left us little or no [Japanese] prose literature of importance, it was emphatically the golden age of poetry. Japan had now outgrown the artless effusions … [of a previous era], and during this period produced a body of verse of an excellence which has never since been surpassed. The reader who expects to find this poetry of a nation just emerging from the barbaric stage of culture characterised by rude, untutored vigour, will be surprised to learn that, on the contrary, it is distinguished by polish rather than power. It is delicate in sentiment and refined in language, and displays exquisite skill of phrase with a careful adherence to certain canons of composition of its own.

The poetry of this and the following period was written by and for a very small section of the Japanese nation. The authors, many of them women, were either members of the Mikado's court, or officials temporarily stationed in the provinces, but looking to the capital as their home. We hear nothing of any popular poetry. On the other hand, the faculty of writing verse was universal among the higher classes. Nearly every educated man and woman could indite a Tanka upon occasion. There were no voluminous writers. It was not the custom to publish the poems of individual authors separately. Had it been so, very thin volumes indeed would have been the result. Collections were made at intervals by Imperial authority, in which the choice poems of the preceding period were brought together, and if twenty or thirty Tanka of one poet found a place there, it was sufficient to give him or her a distinguished position among the multitude of contributors.

The poetry of the Nara period has been preserved to us in one of these anthologies, known as the Manyōshiu, or “Collection of One Thousand Leaves.” According to the usual account, it was completed early in the ninth century. The poems contained in it belong chiefly to the latter half of the seventh and the first half of the eighth century of the Christian era, and cover a period of about 130 years. They are classified as follows: poems of the four seasons; poems of the affections; elegiac, allegorical, and miscellaneous poems. They number in all more than 4000 pieces, of which the great majority are Tanka, or short poems of thirty-one syllables. The remainder are for the most part Naga-uta or so-called “long poems.” As for the authors, their name is legion. Among them, however, two poets stand out with some degree of eminence—viz., Hitomaro and Akahito. The former flourished at the end of the seventh century, the latter in the reign of Shōmu (724-756). Little is known of either, further than that they were officials of the Mikado's court, and attended him on some of his progresses through the provinces.

The Riakuge edition of the Manyōshiu in thirty volumes, which was formerly the best, has now been totally eclipsed and superseded by the magnificent Manyōshiu Kogi, recently published under official auspices. It extends to 122 volumes, and contains everything (and more) in the way of commentary and indexes that the most ardent student can desire. The print is admirable, and the text a great improvement on that of the Riakuge edition.

The following translations, inadequate as they are, may help to give some idea of the character of the Manyōshiu poetry. The first specimen is by Hitomaro. It is an elegy on Prince Hinami, son of the Mikado Temmu, who died a.d. 687, before succeeding to the throne.

The poet begins by relating the appointment, at a council of the gods, of the deity Ninigi no Mikoto as the first divine sovereign of Japan. In the second part allusion is made to the death of the late Mikado; while in the third the poet gives expression to the disappointment of the nation that Prince Hinami did not live to succeed him, and laments the loneliness of his tomb, which he represents as a palace where the Prince dwells in silence and solitude.

When began the earth and heaven,
By the margin of the River
Of the firmament eternal,
Met the Gods in high assembly,
Met the gods and held high counsel,
Myriads upon myriads gathered.
Then to each high charge was given;
On the Goddess of the Sunlight,
Her who fills the sky with radiance,
They bestowed the realm of Heaven.
To her grandchild they delivered
This, the land of Ashihara,
This, the land of fairest rice-ears,
His with god-like sway to govern,
Long as heaven and earth endurèd
Downward sped, he swept asunder
Heaven's clouds, the many-pilèd,
Earthward gloriously descending.
In the Palace of Kiyomi,
The great seat of power Imperial,
God-like ruled his true descendant,
The august High-shining-sun-Prince,
Till he rose on high divinely,
Flinging wide the gates eternal
On the plain of heaven that open.
Mighty Prince, if thou hadst deignèd
This sublunar world to govern,
Thou hadst been to all thy people
Dear as are the flowers in spring-time,
As the full moon, soul-contenting.
As in a great ship the seaman,
So our trust in thee we rested;
As the welcome rain from heaven,
All the nation did await thee.
Thou hast chosen—why we know not—
By the hill of lone Mayumi
There to raise the massy pillars,
There to build a lofty palace,
But at morn thy voice is heard not;
Months and days have passed in silence,
Till thy servants, sad and weary,
Have departed, none knows whither.

The next specimen is also by Hitomaro. It is an elegy on a lady of the court.

In her face were the tints of the autumn woods,
Buxom was her form as the graceful bamboo.
Unknown to us are her thoughts of the future;
We hoped for her a cable-long life,
Not transitory like the dew which falls at morn
And vanishes before evening,
Or the mist which rises at even
And is dispersed in the morning.
Even we, who knew her by report—
We, who had seen her but by glimpses,
Are filled with deep regret.
What then must be the sorrow
Of her youthful spouse
Who shared her couch—
Their white arms interlaced for pillows?
Desolate indeed must be his thoughts as he lies down,
Despairing must be his longings for her.
Ah me! she who has passed away from us
By so untimely a fate,
Did indeed resemble the morning dews
Or the mists of evening.

The following illustrates the Japanese poet's use of parallelism. It is dated a.d. 744.

By the Palace of Futagi,
Where our great king
And divine lord
Holds high rule,
Gentle is the rise of the hills,
Bearing hundreds of trees;
Pleasant is the murmur of the rapids
As downward they rush.
So long as in the spring-time
(When the nightingale comes and sings)
On the rocks
Brocade-like flowers blossom,
Brightening the mountain-foot;
So long as in the autumn
(When the stag calls to his mate)
The red leaves fall hither and thither,
Wounded by the showers,
The heaven be-clouding—
For many thousand years
May his life be prolonged,
To rule over all under heaven
In the great palace
Destined to remain unchanged
For hundreds of ages.

IN PRAISE OF JAPAN

The land of Yamato
Has mountains in numbers,
But peerless among them
Is high Kaguyama.
I stand on its summit
My kingdom to view.
The smoke from the land-plain
Thick rises in air,
The gulls from the sea-plain
By fits soar aloft.
O land of Yamato!
Fair Akitsushima!
Dear art thou to me.

THE LEGEND OF URASHIMA

This is one of the most ancient and popular of Japanese legends. In its original version it is much older than the Manyōshiu.

On a hazy day in spring
I went forth and stood upon the beach of Suminoye;
And as I watched the fishing-boats rock to and fro,
I bethought me of the tale of old,
How Urashima of Midzunoye,
Proud of his skill in catching the bonito and the tai,
Did not return even for seven days,
But rowed on beyond the bounds of ocean,
Where with a daughter of the Sea God
It was his fortune to meet as he rowed onwards.
When, after mutual courtship, they had come to an understanding,
They plighted their troths, and went to the immortal land.
Hand in hand they two entered
Into a stately mansion within the precincts
Of the Palace of the Sea God.
Here he might have dwelt for ever,
Never growing old, and never dying.
But the foolish man of this world
Thus addressed his spouse:
‘For a little while I would return home
And speak to my father and my mother;
To-morrow I will come again.’
Thus he spake, and his wife replied:
‘If thou art to return again to the immortal lana
And live with me as now,
Beware how thou openest this casket.’
Strongly did she enjoin this on him.
But having returned to Suminoye,
Though he looked for his house, no house could he see;
Though he looked for the village, no village could he see.
Wondering at this, the thought occurred to him:
‘In the space of three years, since I left my home,
Can my home have vanished, leaving not even the fence?
Were I now to open this casket,
Might it not appear as before?’
So saying, he opened a little the precious casket,
Whereupon a white cloud issued from it
And spread away towards the immortal land.
He ran, he shouted, he waved his sleeves,
He writhed upon the earth, and ground his feet together.
Of a sudden his heart melted away;
Wrinkles covered his body, that had been so youthful;
His hair, that had been so black, became white.
By-and-by his breath also failed;
At last his life departed.
And, lo! here once stood the cottage
Of Urashima of Midzunoye.

Like most Naga-uta, the above is followed by a thirty-one syllable poem known as a Hanka. The Hanka sometimes echoes the principal idea of the poem which precedes, and is at others employed as a sort of poetical save-all to utilise any stray scrap of thought or imagery which it may not have been convenient to include in the principal poem. Some Naga-uta have several Hanka appended to them.

HANKA

In the immortal land
He might have gone on to dwell;
But by his nature
How dull was he, this wight!

The authors of the two following lyrics are unnamed.

MOUNT FUJI (FUJIYAMA)

Where on the one hand is the province of Kai,
And on the other the land of Suruga,
Right in the midst between them
Stands out the high peak of Fuji.
The very clouds of heaven dread to approach it;
Even the soaring birds reach not its summit in their flight.
Its burning fire is quenched by the snow;
The snow that falls is melted by the fire.
No words may tell of it, no name know I that is fit for it,
But a wondrous deity it surely is!
That lake we call the Sea of Se
Is contained within it;
That river which men, as they cross it, call the Fuji
Is the water which flows down from it;
Of Yamato, the Land of Sunrise,
It is the peace-giver, it is the god, it is the treasure.
On the peak of Fuji, in the land of Suruga,
I never weary of gazing.

POVERTY

The following is exceptional, as giving a glimpse of the condition of the poorer classes. It contains lines in which Buddhist influence is traceable.

                    'Tis night: mingled with the storm the rain is falling;
                    Mingled with the rain the snow is falling.
                    So cold am I, I know not what to do.
                    I take up and suck coarse salt [fish?]
                    And sip a brew of saké dregs;
                    I cough, I sneeze and sneeze, I cannot help it.
                    I may stroke my beard, and think proudly to myself,
                    Who is there like me?
                    But so cold am I, I pull over me the hempen coverlet,
                    And huddle upon me all the nuno cloaks I have got.
                    Yet even this chilly night
                    Are there not others still poorer,
                    Whose parents are starving of cold and hunger,
                    Whose wife and children are begging their food with tears?
(The poet fancies himself addressing such a person.)
                    ‘At such a time how do you pass your days?’
(Answer.)
                    ‘Heaven and earth are wide, but for me they have become narrow;
                    The sun and moon are bright, but for me they yield no radiance.
                    Is it so with all men, or with me alone?
                    Born a man by the rarest of chances,
                    I am made in human shape like another,
                    Yet on my shoulders I wear a nuno cloak void of padding,
                    Which hangs down in tatters like seaweed—
                    A mere mass of rags.
                    Within my hut, twisted out of shape,
                    Straw is strewn on the bare floor of earth.
                    Father and mother at my pillow,
                    Wife and children at my feet,
                    Gather round me weeping and wailing,
                    With voices as from the throat of the nuye bird.
                    For no smoke rises from the kitchen furnace,
                    In the pot spiders have hung their webs,
                    The very art of cooking is forgotten.
                    To crown all—cutting off the end, as the proverb has it,
                    Of a thing that is too short already—
                    Comes the head man of the village with his rod,
                    His summons [to forced labour] penetrates to my sleeping-place.
                    Such helpless misery is but the way of the world.’