Japanese Death Poems

 

 

Zen Monks, Haiku Poets and some Samurai

On the Verge of Death.

Many of these haiku and tanka are hysterical.  They speak of the freedom a person has when confronting death and throwing off conformity.

Death in Japan has multiple contexts. A Samurai death is usually on battlefields, or by ritual suicide. Zen Monks describe a different death. There are different rituals with each parting, incorporating different Buddhist and Shinto deities.

Where this book has too many examples of death poems, I will just pick a few and these are just samples from these extensive book.  It also has a very informative text on the different concepts of death in Japan.

Lady Nyo

 

“Bury me when I die

Beneath a wine barrel

In a tavern.

With luck

The cask with leak”

 

“Should someone ask

Where Sokan has gone

Just tell them: Sokan

Had business in another world.”

 

“On a journey: ill

My dream goes wandering

Over withered fields”

 

“Locked in my room:

My dream goes wandering

Over brothels.”

 

“To Hell with the wind”

Confound the rain!

I recognize no Buddha

A blow like a strike of lightning

The world turns on its hinge”

 

“Child of the way

I leave at last

A willow on the other shore.”

 

(My own Death Poem written too early)

 

“Shall an old gray wolf

subdue a woman like me?

I shall be born soon.

The wolf head I will cut off

and nail the pelt to the cross.”

 

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2019

“The Stillness of Death” from “Song of the Nightingale”

 

THE STILLNESS OF DEATH

–

Kneeling before her tea,

Lady Nyo did not move.

She barely breathed,

Knowing tomorrow depended

Upon her actions today.

–

Lord Nyo was drunk again.

When in his cups

The household scattered.

Beneath the kitchen

Was the crawl space

Where two servants hid their heads-

A third wore an iron pot.

–

Lord Nyo was known

For three things:

Archery-

Temper-

And drink.

–

Tonight he strung

His seven foot bow,

Donned his quiver

High on his back.

–

He looked at the pale face

Of his aging wife,

His eyes blurry, unfocused

And remembered the first time

He pillowed her.

–

She was fifteen.

Her body powdered petals,

Bones like butter,

Black hair like bo silk.

The blush of shy passion

Coursed through her veins

Like a tinted stream.

–

Still beautiful  was she,

Too fragile for his tastes now.

Better a plump courtesan,

Not all delicate and saddened beauty.

–

He drew back the bow

In quick succession-

Let five arrows pierce

The shoji.

Each grazed the shell ear

Of his wife.

–

Lady Nyo’s life hung on her stillness.

She willed herself dead.

Death after all these years

Would have been welcome.

---

This started out in 2011 to be a single poem but had weaved itself into a story of 13 episodes. In part I was greatly influenced by the tanka (poetry) of the great Man’yoshu, an 8th century document (collection) of over 5000 poems by lovers, emperors, court ladies, peasants (represented in their songs), priests and others.  It was a great literary achievement not done at this time anywhere else in the world.

It became a story of a middle aged couple, he much older, an arranged marriage.  He is a general in his daimyo’s (warlords) army and has forgotten the love of a normal family.  Her patience and devotion breaks open his crusty heart. Both are samurai, she from a titled samurai family.

“Song of the Nightingale” was published by Amazon.com in 2016.

 

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted , 2019

Painting by the author.

“The Stillness of Death”

 

From “Song of the Nightingale”.  this is the first episode of “Song”.  A few readers were curious about this series, so…..

Lady Nyo

 

 

“My heart, like my clothing
Is saturated with your fragrance.
Your vows of fidelity
Were made to our pillow and not to me.”
—-12th century

–

Kneeling before her tea
Lady Nyo did not move.
She barely breathed-
Tomorrow depended
Upon her action today.

Lord Nyo was drunk again.
When in his cups
The household scattered.
Beneath the kitchen
Was the crawl space
Where three servants
Where hiding.
A fourth wore an iron pot.

Lord Nyo was known
For three things:
Archery-
Temper-
And drink.

Tonight he strung
His seven foot bow,
Donned his quiver
High on his back.
He looked at the pale face
Of his aging wife,
His eyes blurry, unfocused.
He remembered the first time
pillowing her.

She was fifteen.
Her body powdered petals,
Bones like butter,
Black hair like trailing bo silk.
The blush of shy passion
Had coursed through veins
Like a tinted stream.

Still beautiful
Now too fragile for his taste.
Better a plump whore,
Than this delicate, saddened beauty.

He drew back the bow
In quick succession
Let five arrows pierce
The shoji.
Each grazed the shell ear
Of his wife.

Life hung on her stillness.
She willed herself dead.

–
Death after all these years
Would have been welcome.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted , 2015

 

“Kimono” Chapter 47…..

 

I have been writing this novel for 10 years.  It is finally finished, except for the final edit.  Nick Nicholson, in Canberra, Australia has helped tremendously with some of the later chapters.  Nick designed and produced my last 3 books, “Pitcher of Moon”,  “Song of the Nightingale” and the second edition of “A Seasoning of Lust”.  If we both survive the final edit, this will be the fourth book Nick has been involved in.  His unflagging interest in  the story has helped spur me on.

This short chapter is mostly about battle:  In the 17th century there were set patterns for battle, but the time was generally a peaceful time under the Tokugawa regime.  This lasted for almost 250 years.  And a population of man samurai without battle makes for unhappy and contentious warriors.  Mari is a 21st century woman who has been zapped back into 17th Japan, to be confronted by a daimyo, Lord Mori, of the region of Akito, north of just about everything.

Lady Nyo

 

Kimono, Chapter 47

Lord Mori thought perhaps he was possessed by some frightful kami. His sleep had been disturbed, before battle, and that was to be expected.  But the sleeplessness had continued.  One could expect satisfaction, a fulfillment after a victory.  And that attack on Kiyama’s castle was successful. But he could not shake the fear he felt when going through the fire with his men and Mari. Was this fear unworthy of a samurai?  His whole life had been one in service to samurais and daimyos.  First, to his swordmaster, later to his uncle the daimyo. Even his uncle’s retainers, daimyo in their own right, with much small fiefs, dominated his life.  Some of them even now were sitting in the Council of Elders, asleep during most attendances.

 

Except for becoming an excellent swordsman and archer, he had not known really what he wanted.  It was never a question to consider.  The code of bushido, the control of tradition was his air and bread.

 

The death of Lord Yoki struck him hard.  He had lost many warriors over his life, but the tengu Yoki was different.  Both he and Ekei had planned the force against the castle, and though their luck held for various reasons, he knew it was just some planning and a twist of fate he survived.  He had lost men, some he knew, and more he didn’t.  This wasn’t the first skirmish.  But times had been relatively peaceful, and only the aggression of Kiyama had violated that.  He wondered at his reaction to Mari being kidnapped.  She was just a woman, but of course he knew better. He was a daimyo in the man’s world and women were minor elements.  But still.  When he heard she was abducted by what had to be Kiyama’s men, he almost lost control of himself.  It was with great concentration and resolve that he didn’t betray his emotions like a woman.

All this had taken a toll on him. It was not the first time he had wanted to give up the position of daimyo and disappear into the mists. The thought of this was new to him, and he had never verbally voiced this thought except to Lord Ekei.  He was not an old man yet, only in his fifties, but life had closed around his throat and was strangling him.  Perhaps the woman had opened his eyes too much.

One night Mari asked how battles were organized and fought.  He was surprised at her interest, as these things were not discussed with women. Women were the ones to wash the heads and present them to the generals.  War was the territory of samurai and daimyos, warriors, not women. The fact that there had only been skirmishes during his time didn’t help, but he did relate stories of some famous battles to Mari.  Also how a daimyo goes to war, the responsibilities of his retainers to procure soldiers and weapons, (mostly peasants from the fields) and how a battle might go.  Some battles they just taunted each other from the battle field, shouted the worst insults they could come up with and then everyone went home, declaring a draw and the ministers of both sides would meet and iron out issues.   That practice didn’t last long, just a footnote in history.  A daimyo would direct it from behind lines but this was hard because once a battle began it became a general melee where everyone was trying maim and kill the other.  In his grandfather’s time, it was the practice just to send two small opposing forces out to do battle, while everyone else watched from the hillsides.  But blood lust is lust for battle, for the smell of blood and the noise of combat, where one man strains to survive the blood lust of another.  What was the point of carrying two swords if you didn’t intend to kill?  To kill the enemy was honorable and loyalty to your lord was the first commandment.  Perhaps he had become soured by the traditional ways.  Perhaps he should have shaved his head and become a Buddhist priest.  He might find peace in that way.  But he also knew how political the priests were. They lined up for one side or another and fought bitter battles on the temple grounds.  Many were samurai, and though they didn’t carry the swords openly, they plotted and controlled much wealth and power in the land.

Later that morning, Lord Mori was met by forty of his personal guard, escorting him to  the Council of Elders . It was to last three days. He knew his life hung in the balance.  These men could smell weakness and being as loyal as a pack of wolves, they would fall on him if they could.  He long knew of alliances between daimyos, and it was just a luck of the draw he had kept his head this long.  As he told Mari, treachery was the fashion of the day.

 

—-

 

“So, there are rumors he wants to abdicate. Good. But you can bet he won’t lay down his swords.  He will not become a priest.  Not him.”

 

Lord Shumi, one of the  retainers and a member of the Council of Elders, had little patience with a constantly shifting chess board.  He was old and wanted some peace. He preferred the sun in his garden to anything. Right now he had to empty his bladder.

“Bah.  It’s treasonous. He leads when there is relative peace and now?”  Lord Mifune spat on the ground.

“There is sure to be a counter attack by some daimyo of Lord Kiyama’s when the dust and ashes settle.”

“Yes, always in alliance with others.  It will take time for them to decide on a new leader and rebuild the castle.  I understand the burning was only on one quarter.”

“They got in and out fast, I hear.  They used the Amida Tong for the night attack.”

“How did they do that?”  Lord Shumi’s surprise spread across his ugly face.   “Yes, there are monasteries, temples where the priests consort with these fanatics, but it takes a load of silver.”

“Then he had made payment well in advance.  He must have secured their services before any of this debacle happened.”

The two were walking in the gardens of the castle, both shaking their heads at the enormity of how their lives were to change.

“He’s growing old and he thinks there is more to this life and he is missing it.”

“Between you and me?  He has always been a little off.  This skirmish on Lord Kiyama’s lands and the burning of his castle will have him on his knees explaining to the Shogun.  If he maintains his head I will be surprised.”

 

“Hai.  It’s that witch of a woman he has squired away.  She is a strange one.  Hardly Japanese.”

“He certainly moved his ass and the asses of the gods to get her back from Kiyama.  You would think she possessed the only place for his illustrious sword.”

Lord Mifune laughed.  “She certainly is ugly.  And I would bet my katana she has big feet.  Hardly an acceptable consort for a daimyo.”

“Love is blind and makes jackasses out of all of us.  You remember, my lord.  When you are young the whiff of woman would make you do shameful stuff.  We all did.”

“Yes, yes. I remember my misspent youth.”  Lord Shumi walked with the usual samurai pigeon toed gait. His legs were much bowled.

“Did you hear the rumor this Lady Mari might be from Hokkaido?  She has a strange caste to her face. Not quite….us.”

“Well, I hear she has his royal cucumber leased to her obi.”

Both old men laughed.  Though sex was something they rarely could rarely rise to they took great joy in these affairs of other men.  It was only human.

Perhaps Lord Mori?…..

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lord Nyo’s Lament, from “Song of the Nightingale”, Episode 3.

 

Lord Nyo’s Lament

 

Oh my wife!

My feet take me over mountains

In the service to our lord

But my heart stays tucked in the bosom

Of your robe.

–

Lady Nyo, circa 2015

 

 

The song of the arrow

As it arced into the sea

Was as tuneless

As a badly strung samisen.

 

Gun- metal clouds

Stretched across a dull horizon

The sun still asleep

As he should be

His quiver empty

His heart, too.

 

When had the callousness of life and death

Become as comfortable as breath to him?

He had become too much the warrior

And too little the man.

 

His distance from his wife,

From most of life

Was as if some unseen object

Kept them ten paces apart.

Perhaps it was the cloud-barrier

Of earthly lusts which obscured

The Sun of Buddha?

 

 

Perhaps he should pray.

What God would listen?

Then it came to him

That joker of a Buddha, Fudo

With his rope to pull him from Hell

And his sword to cut through foolishness-

Fudo would listen.

Fudo knew the quaking hearts

The illusions embraced

To stomach the battlefield

The fog of drink,

To face life

In the service of Death.

Fudo would save him from

The yellow waters of Hell.

 

He remembered those years

When she could bring him to his knees

With the promise of dark mystery

Between silken thighs,

And the glimpse of her white wrist-

A river of passion

Just beneath the surface.

How he had steeled his heart

Believing himself unmanned

For the love she induced!

 

Three cranes flew low to the shore,

Legs streaming like black ribbons behind.

Three cranes, three prayers, three chances

To find his way back

Bound up in Fudo’s ropes,

Prodded in the ass by Fudo’s sword.

 

He would write a poem

On a bone-white fan

To leave on her cushion.

She would know his love

She would know his sorrow.

 

The sea took his arrows

Beyond the breakers,

The glint of sleek feathers

Catching thin rays of light.

An unexpected peace came over him

As they journeyed far from his hands.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011, 2016 (Song of the Nightingale was published on Amazon in 2015 and can be bought online)

 

 

 

 

‘Lord Nyo’s Lament’ from “Song of the Nightingale”

–

http://amzn.to/1Cm8mZi

–

 

Oh my wife!

My feet take me over mountains

In the service to our lord

But my heart stays tucked in the bosom

Of your robe.

—

–

Lord Nyo’s Lament

–

–

The song of the arrow

As it arced into the sea

Was as tuneless

As a badly strung samisen.

–

Gun- metal clouds

Stretched across a dull horizon

The sun still asleep

As he should be

His quiver empty

His heart, too.

–

When had the callousness of life and death

Become as comfortable as breath to him?

He had become too much the warrior

And too little the man.

–

His distance from his wife,

From most of life

Was as if some unseen object

Kept them ten paces apart.

–

Perhaps it was the cloud-barrier

Of earthly lusts which obscured

The Sun of Buddha?

Perhaps he should pray.

–

What God would listen?

Then it came to him

That joker of a Buddha, Fudo

With his rope to pull him from Hell

And his sword to cut through foolishness-

Fudo would listen.

–

Fudo knew the quaking hearts

The illusions embraced

To stomach the battlefield

The fog of drink,

To face life

In the service of Death.

Fudo would save him from

The yellow waters of Hell.

–

He remembered those years

When she could bring him to his knees

With the promise of dark mystery

Between silken thighs,

And the glimpse of her white wrist-

A river of passion

Just beneath the surface.

How he had steeled his heart

Believing himself unmanned

For the love she induced!

–

Three cranes flew low to the shore,

Legs streaming like black ribbons behind.

Three cranes, three prayers, three chances

To find his way back

Bound up in Fudo’s ropes,

Prodded in the ass by Fudo’s sword.

–

He would write a poem

On a bone-white fan

To leave on her cushion.

She would know his love

She would know his sorrow.

–

The sea took his arrows

Beyond the breakers,

The glint of sleek feathers

Catching thin rays of light.

–

An unexpected peace came over him

As they journeyed far from his hands.

–

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted,  2015, “Song of the Nightingale” is published by Createspace, Amazon.com, 2015

Lord Nyo’s Lament, from “Song of the Nightingale” just published.

http://amzn.to/1Cm8mZi

–

Lord Nyo’s Lament

 

Oh my wife!

My feet take me over mountains

In the service to our lord

But my heart stays tucked in the bosom

Of your robe.

–

The song of the arrow

As it arced into the sea

Was as tuneless

As a badly strung samisen.

–

Gun- metal clouds

Stretched across a dull horizon

The sun still asleep

As he should be

His quiver empty

His heart, too.

–

When had the callousness of life and death

Become as comfortable as breath to him?

He had become too much the warrior

And too little the man

-.

His distance from his wife,

From most of life

Was as if some unseen object

Kept them ten paces apart.

Perhaps it was the cloud-barrier

Of earthly lusts which obscured

The Sun of Buddha?

–

Perhaps he should pray.

What God would listen?

Then it came to him

That joker of a Buddha, Fudo

With his rope to pull him from Hell

And his sword to cut through foolishness-

Fudo would listen.

–

Fudo knew the quaking hearts

The illusions embraced

To stomach the battlefield

The fog of drink,

To face life

In the service of Death.

Fudo would save him from

The yellow waters of Hell.

–

He remembered those years

When she could bring him to his knees

With the promise of dark mystery

Between silken thighs,

And the glimpse of her white wrist-

A river of passion

Just beneath the surface.

How he had steeled his heart

Believing himself unmanned

For the love she induced!

–

Three cranes flew low to the shore,

Legs streaming like black ribbons behind.

Three cranes, three prayers, three chances

To find his way back

Bound up in Fudo’s ropes,

Prodded in the ass by Fudo’s sword.

–

He would write a poem

On a bone-white fan

To leave on her cushion.

She would know his love

She would know his sorrow.

–

The sea took his arrows

Beyond the breakers,

The glint of sleek feathers

Catching thin rays of light.

–

An unexpected peace came over him

As they journeyed far from his hands.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011, 2015

Saigyo, Warrior Priest and Poet, some of his poetry and a little of mine.

was to be the cover painting for “Pitcher of Moon” but didn’t work out. Jane Kohut-Bartels, small watercolor.

–

–

This is a very  little of Saigyo, the Heian-era priest and poet.  Reading Saigyo is like falling into the rim of the Universe: you have no idea where you will land nor what you will learn.  But the trip will  profoundly change you.

In “Mirror For the Moon”, a collection of translations by William LaFleur of Saigyo, one gets the idea that Saigyo transcended the usual route, the accepted and comfortable route of poet/priests of that era.

There were tons of poetry written by many poets, officials, etc. about the moon, nature, flowers, etc.  But Saigyo’s poetry had an ‘edge’, a difference:  his view of blossoms, moon, nature, was not just the usual symbol of evanescence and youthful beauty:  his view of blossoms, nature, were more a path into the inner depth of this relationship between humanity and nature.   He spent 50 years walking the mountains, road, forests, fields all over Japan and his poetry (waka) reflected his deep understanding of the physicality of nature:  all seasons were felt and experienced not from the safety and comfort of a court, surrounded by other silk-clad courtier/poets,  but out there in the trenches of nature.  His poetry is fomented in the cold and penetrating fall and spring rains, the slippery paths upon mountain trails, the ‘grass pillows’ and a thin cloak, the deep chill of winter snows upon a mountain, the rising  mists that befuddle orientation,  and especially, the loneliness of traveling without companionship.

Saigyo became a poet/priest, but before that he was and came from a samurai family.  He was, at the age of 22, a warrior.  He always struggled with his past in his long years of travel, wondering how this  former life impacted on his religious vows.  His poetry reflects this issue.

I have begun to re-acquaint myself with Saigyo and his poetry, having first come across his poems in 1990. There is something so profound, different, that calls down the centuries to the heart.  His poetry awakens my awe and wonder of not only nature-in-the-flesh, but in the commonality of the human experience.

Lady Nyo

—

Not a hint of shadow

On the moon’s face….but now

A silhouette passes–

Not the cloud I take it for,

But a flock of flying geese.

–

Thought I was free

Of passions, so  this melancholy

Comes as surprise:

A woodcock shoots up from marsh

Where autumn’s twilight falls.

–

Someone who has learned

How to manage life in loneliness:

Would there were one more!

He could winter here on this mountain

With his hut right  next  to mine.

–

Winter has withered

Everything in this mountain place:

Dignity is in

Its desolation now, and  beauty

In the cold clarity of its moon.

–

When the fallen snow

Buried the twigs bent by me

To mark a return trail,

Unplanned, in strange mountains

I was holed up all winter.

—

Snow has fallen on

Field paths and mountain paths,

Burying them all

And I can’t tell here from there:

My journey in the midst of sky.

—

Here I huddle, alone,

In the mountain’s shadow, needing

Some companion somehow:

The cold, biting rains pass off

And give me the winter moon.

–

(I love this one especially: Saigyo makes the vow to be unattached to seasons, to expectations, but fails and embraces his very human limitations)

–

It was bound to be!

My vow to be unattached

To seasons and such….

I, who by a frozen bamboo pipe

Now watch and wait for spring.

—

(Love like cut reeds….)

–

Not so confused

As to lean only one way:

My love-life!

A sheaf of field reeds also bends

Before each wind which moves it.

—

(And Love like fallen leaves….)

—

Each morning the wind

Dies down and the rustling leaves

Go silent: Was this

The passion of all-night lovers

Now talked out and parting?

—

From “Mirror For the Moon”, A Selection of Poems by Saigyo (1118-1190)

–

Three of my own “Moon” poems….in the form of Tanka.

–

The moon floats on wisps

Of cloud that extend outward

Tendrils of white fire

Burn up in the universe–

Gauzy ghosts of nothingness.

——–

Shooting star crosses

Upended bowl of blue night

Imagination

Fires up with excited gaze!

A moment– and all is gone.

_______

(and one more….)

——

The full moon above

floats on blackened velvet seas,

poet’s perfection!

But who does not yearn for a

crescent in lavender sky?

———-

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015……these last three poems were from “White Cranes of Heaven”, Lulu.com, 2011, Jane Kohut-Bartels

–

 

‘Introduction to the Characters’, From “The Nightingale’s Song”

Some time in late March I will publish “The Nightingale’s Song”.  Actually, Nick Nicholson and I will publish it.  Nick is travelling the US in a black Mustang convertible, having the time of his life.  Nick comes from Canberra, Australia, and in his last trip here, formatted “Pitcher of Moon” (April, 2014). 

I wrote this saga three years ago, but have added chapters to it, and some essays on the Man’yoshu, the great 8th century Japanese document of poetry that inspired so much of “Nightingale”.

It is good to have this work finished. The cover painting is done, and there are a few surprises inside in the form of graphics.  We will publish this book at Createspace, Amazon.com.

Lady Nyo

–

–

1

INTRODUCTION TO THE CHARACTERS….

 

 

In Old Japan there was an even older daimyo called Lord Mori, who lived in the shadow of Moon Mountain, far up in the Northwest of Japan.  Lord Mori ran a court that did little except keep his men (and himself) entertained with drinking, hawking and hunting.  Affairs of state were loosely examined and paperwork generally lost, misplaced under a writing table or under a pile of something more entertaining to his Lordship.  Sometimes even under the robes of a young courtesan.

Every other year the Emperor in Edo would demand all the daimyos travel to his court for a year.  A clever demand of the honorable Emperor. It kept them from each other’s throats, plundering each other’s land, and made them all accountable to Edo and the throne.  This only worked on paper for the nature of daimyos was to plunder and cut throats where they could.

Lord Mori was fortunate in having an exemption to attend the Emperor. He was awarded this exemption with pitiful letters to the court complaining of age, ill health and general infirmities.  He sent his eldest, rather stupid son to comply with the Emperor’s demands. He agreed to have this disappointing young man stay in Edo to attend the Emperor.  Probably forever.

Lord Mori, however, continued to hunt, hawk and generally enjoy life in the hinterlands.

True, his realm, his fiefdom, was tucked away in mountains hard to cross. To travel to Edo took months because of bad roads, fast rivers and mountain passages. A daimyo was expected to assemble a large entourage for this trip: vassals, brass polishers, flag carriers, outriders,  a train of horses and mules to carry all the supplies, litters for the women, litters for advisors and fortune tellers, and then of course, his samurai. His train of honor could be four thousand men or more!

But this tale isn’t about Lord Mori. It’s about one of his generals, his vassal, Lord Nyo and his wife, Lady Nyo, who was born from a branch of a powerful clan, though a clan who had lost standing at the court in Edo.

Now, just for the curious, Lord Nyo is an old samurai, scarred in battle, ugly as most warriors are, and at a loss when it comes to the refinement and elegance of life– especially poetry.  His Lady Nyo is fully half his age, a delicate and thoughtful woman, though without issue.

But Lord and Lady Nyo don’t fill these pages alone. There are other characters; priests, magical events, an old nursemaid, women of the court of Lord Mori, an ‘invisible’ suitor, birds and frogs, samurai and a particularly tricky Tengu who will stand to entertain any reader of this tale.

A full moon, as in many Japanese tales, figures in the mix. As do poetry, some ancient and some written for this tale.  War and battles, love and hate.  But this is life.  There is no getting one without the other.

The present Lady Nyo, descended from generations past.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015

‘Inspired By The Great Man’yoshu’

Heian era Woman with Tengu

 

This short work will be published in “The Nightingale’s Song”, along with other essays. 

 

Inspired By The Great Man’yoshu

–

 It is right and proper to draw inspiration from other poetry. This pulls your own poetic voice into the mystery of love and passion. It’s fun and also a challenge to ‘fit’ your poetic voice into existing classical poetry. I have taken the words from poems from the great 8th century Man’yoshu and either fashioned an answer…or a continuation of the top poem. What I believe to be termed “call and answer”.

The Man’yoshu’s poems are in bold type. All else are my own poetry. These poems are a small part of poems I am working in this fashion. Most of these poems, both from the Man’yoshu and my own are used to head up the 14 sections of “The Nightingale’s Song”.

“The Nightingale’s Song” will be published late this autumn or early next year.

TENGUS: Tengus are mythological creatures that originated in China but have been very popular in Japanese  literature and mythology.  They are shape shifters and forever are tripping up arrogant Buddhist priests.  They come as a large bird, but assume human dimensions when they want.  They are recognized by long red noses. In mythology (???) they were teachers of martial arts to the yamabushi (mountain (yama) dwellers).  A Tengu figures prominantly in “The Nightingale’s Song”.

–

“My heart, like my clothing
Is saturated with your fragrance.
Your vows of fidelity
Were made to our pillow and not to me.”
—-—

Oh my wife!
My feet take me over mountains
In the service to our lord
But my heart stays tucked in the bosom
Of your robe.

—

Does he know?
Does he know?
Does he know about the letters?
–

“I stay here waiting for him
In the autumn wind, my sash untied,
Wondering, is he coming now,
Is he coming now?
And the moon is low in the sky.
The only company I have tonight,
Now near dawn, is the paling Milky Way,
And Oh, my husband!
There are not stars enough in the heavens
To equal my sorrowful tears.”

—

Strong man as I am,
Who force my way even through the rocks,
In love I rue in misery.
—Man’yoshu—

Perhaps a strong man
Should not offer love without
Having love returned
But this grieving ugly warrior
Still finds his love is growing

–Man’yoshu—

“The cicada cries
Everyday at the same hour
But I’m a woman much in love and very weak
And can cry anytime”

—Man’yoshu

My thoughts these days
Come thick like the summer grass
Which soon cut and raked
Grows wild again.
Oh, I wish these
Obsessive love-thoughts
Would disappear!
As they fill my head
They empty my sleep!
—

I who have counted me
For a strong man
Only a little less than heaven and earth,
How short of manliness that I love!
On this earth and even heaven
This weakness in love
Turns my sword
Into a blade of grass.
—

—

Come to me
If even only in my dreams
Where my head rests upon my arm-
not yours.
Let this veiled moon
Above and these dark, brooding pines below
Be witness to our love, my man.”

Come to me,
When the rocks have disappeared
Under sheets of snow,
The moon appears through tattered clouds.
I will be
Listening for the sound of
Your footfall in the dark.

Come to me, my man,
Part the blinds and come into my arms,
Snuggle against my warm breast
And let my belly
Warm your soul.
—

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014