A collaboration with Tomas Svoboda, Migrating Message, Concerto for Xylophone and Tape, op. 195
and with the sculptures of Steve Tilden.
The Japanese poet Sugawara no Michizane was one of the most important officials in the Heian court. He was born in 845 and died in 903, about a century before the composition of Lady Murasaki Shikibu’s Tale of Genji, the most vivid depiction of Heian court life.
Michizane suffered two bitter episodes of separation from the center of Japan’s political and cultural world. The first was his appointment as governor in a western province; later he was accused of corruption by his enemies at court and sent into exile on the island of Kyushu. These two experiences appear to have awakened in him a sympathy for some of the provincials he encountered, and to have given rise to many of his greatest poems, almost all written in Chinese, the literary language of the day. Some years after his death in exile his innocence was recognized, and he was deified as Tenjin-sama, the patron of scholars and students, and as Tenjin is still venerated in many shrines across Japan.
His life has been admirably described by Robert Borgen in Sugawara no Michizane and the Early Heian Court (University of Hawaii Press, 1994) to whom I am greatly indebted. The italicized portions are freely adapted from Borgen’s scholarly translations of Michizane’s poems.
Michizane in Exile
Far distant bell chime
on heavy evening air
short grumble of thunder, a warning growl
four crows tumble, flung by some giant hand
with harsh cries they fly apart
Clouds boil and build
spilled ink spreading on pale gray
in heavy darkening air the crows flare upwards
fall like torn paper
first tick of rain on window screen
a quiet beat, accompaniment to this heavy air
Now ice has stilled the rain puddle
on the cold air he hears the cries of geese searching
a line south they cannot sense
Baying like hounds
that have lost their quarry
in the crisp air the geese form and reform a skein
too thin to hold its shape
No coherence among the frozen stars
the geese have lost their way and are flying blind
winter is early this year
Michizane sings his heavy air
Scattered like thistledown
his family five hundred leagues away
unwelcome at court
this alien island
another world
ice lies on the ponds in folds
a sheet thrown on a bed
dull sheen
of unpolished silver plate worn from long use
* * *
Journeying to exile I traveled a sunken road
drowned in mist
my horse stopping to eat flowers
we stand on shifting ground
chance governs all
Once a valued courtier
then suddenly in disgrace
worth less than a peppercorn
my road into exile a pattern of muddy ox-prints above my head the sparrow-hawks screaming
I carried four volumes
the Hundred and One Remedies for my well-being
the five thousand words of the Tao, reminder of the life beyond words
the Last Poems of Po Chü-i
and my lecture text, the History of China
My boat has always struggled against the wind
and here I am again, lost in strange country
drifting I escaped the world’s touch
but forgot to ask how things were at home
The house they found for me was a diplomat’s abandoned cottage
set in a garden twenty paces by twenty paces
I replaced its rotted roof-beams dug the silt from the well
rebuilt its crumbling wall
I split bamboo to mend the garden fence
nothing growing
but a spindly row of horseradish plants
one mossy rock thrust up its fist
a garden neglected one hundred years
and I too will leave it unimproved
I thought the house would be a cage
but as the months went by
I grew accustomed to it
despite early promise
my life has been marked by storms
rain has poured through the roof
still, frogs have sung on my porch steps
water cascaded round the house, undermining its walls
and my garden turned to a muddy cataract
When the farmer’s daughter brought me vegetables
my cook would make a thin porridge from them
Ice imprisons the fish-pond
water has nothing to say
snow flowers on the boughs blossom an instant
Sleepless, I think of my home in the east district
its bamboos and flower beds untended. This July
my daughter gave birth to my first grandson
* * *
His cottage overlooks a bay
with paired rocks
husband and wife
The first day he climbed down to the shore
a golden light was warming the pines
The sandy cliffs slipped
grain by grain into the ocean
sadly he followed the sound of the waves
traveling down the beach
Another day he braved the storm
to hear the waves crash over the marriage rocks
a cloud of spray half hiding them
foam boiled on the shore-line
rain slanted across his face
His old family had weathered many storms
sons lacking interest in public service daughters too plain
to attract suitors
their father’s talents, such as they were
did not run to parenting
Was he successful as a governor?
On the birch tree’s chalky trunk
a woodpecker bobs its rhythm
so studious in his scholar’s robe
* * *
These days it seems statesmen are rare
In the moonless night
the wind cuts like a blade as a deep sadness descends
I find grey hairs in my beard, placed there by grief and exile
in my province dreaming of justice
how bitter it was to be surrounded by corrupt officials
a cloud of mosquitoes
I have known happiness, but this evening
everything makes me sad: the cricket singing in a chill wind
the rain-soaked leaves falling
What is to be done?
I drink wine
listen to music
write this poem
The moon gleams white as new-fallen snow
plum blossoms glisten like constellations
as I follow the silver ball across the sky
petals perfume the midnight air
And now my friends are leaving me
last year old Wang clung to my hand as we said goodbye
today they tell me, “I little while ago. That
small grave over there.”
The days lengthen to summer
I sleep less and teach the boys in the village to read
Some days I meet the kind old fisherman
we share our dreams
no talk of fish
the river keeps changing direction
My fisherman, old and alone
has just one task
that boat a leaf on the water
his thin line shivers in the wind
He has no philosophy
he just wants to spend every day like this
if I need a fishing pole
there’s a bamboo grove outside my study window
But winter has come early for my friend
who has no land, not even enough
to stand a needle upright
pull oars all your life, you will always be poor
My friends tell me I’m wasting whole days
but what is more important than thought?
One can overdo contemplation, of course
but I’m sorry it took us so long to find each other
And now I hear this silver-haired man has given up fishing
his little boat, he says
is filling up with tears
once he could call the craft his own
but today he’s studying his empty hands
though he’d like to be out on the swell, setting nets
he’s too old and decrepit to battle the winds
this hook was carved by his grandfather
he turns it in his hands and the tears fall
What life will he pass to his children?
How will he feed and clothe his family?
As a ploughman? He’d be a failure
Herding sheep? He’d lose the flock
it’s not that he lacks the courage to change
he just can’t abandon what he did so well
once a monk gives up his robe and bowl
the monastery gate is closed to him for ever
when a scholar goes to govern a province
he can expect to be ridiculed
This is why the old man’s crying so bitterly. He dreamed
of being a fisherman to the end
Leaving home, I wrote
Cherry blossoms / don’t forget your master
if you will / please send me news
on the wind
Free for a day, and spring almost over
I am mesmerized by a flower on the river bank
I look eastwards, longing for home
my neighbors think I’m losing my wits
The flowers are wilted
the spring birds are gone
full of poetry I go outside
in the dusk I linger, chanting verses
and now my neighbors think me mad
Was I given a task too hard for me, crossing the river?
I can’t even manage my little boat
every day I write poems with my worn brush
snatching at thoughts elusive as mist
my incurable addiction to beauty
who will reply to them?
Longing for my garden, I wrote
Let the eastern breeze / carry your fragrance
plum blossoms / even in my absence
don’t neglect the spring
I watch the geese in their long line flying north
and dream of clearing my name
but I will never see my old garden again
The hut with its thatched roof looks out on the dark ocean
I shall end this life right here
they will wrap my bones and bury them
in this distant place
Imitating the ancients in their bamboo groves
let’s drink a cup or two of wine
and toss some verses back and forth
The hours fly past
no one can call them back
and look, it’s dusk already
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