Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Regarding the matter of waka, I humbly acknowledged the various advice and admonishments you had graciously offered and deeply appreciated your kindness.
Furthermore, I was truly blessed beyond measure that certain others among you had deigned to bestow upon me both gracious ridicule and scornful rebukes.
I should have promptly expressed my gratitude and offered my greetings; however, having fallen ill and been confined to bed away from my desk those past days, this had caused me to delay.
Just as there were times when waka—which had been perpetually decaying for centuries—experienced particularly severe corruption, those of us who were chronic invalids also found ourselves particularly afflicted by illness, which left us at a complete loss.

Though I was at a loss as to how best to respond, I resolved to state each thought as it came to mind. Regarding the poems published in the March 11th edition under "Supplementary Selections: Ten Out of One Hundred (Submitted by Matsu no Sanjin)," there had been an inquiry as to whether we posted them under a pseudonym; however, all of these were poems from *Kakien Eisho* that differed entirely from our own. As for who submitted the poems from *Kakien Eisho* and how they came to be published in the paper—this remained beyond our knowledge. Now, having heard that some were critiquing these poems as resembling our own, I wished to state my humble views on those verses and clarify that they were not [ours].

In the morning wind, the voices of children selling young greens sound; the willows of Suzaku hurry their brows.

I considered this poem first among the ten.
While the entire piece was engaging, the phrase "brows hasten" struck me as contrived in its artifice.
Whether the expression "brows hasten" had been used since ancient times I could not say, but not only did it strike me as an odd turn of phrase—the use of this personification here was ill-advised.
One might perhaps intend "willow brows" as a description of the children selling young greens, but I must say the absence of such wordplay would instead lend the verse greater poetic depth.
I deemed it better to simply state that the willow had turned green.

Dusk seems to have fallen—violets blooming in the field under a pale moonlit night; the skylark’s voice hangs in mid-air.

This poem is clumsy.
The juxtaposition of "dusk seems to have fallen" followed by "pale moonlit night" strikes me as a glaring contradiction.
The concluding phrase "hangs in mid-air" also proves quite incomprehensible; while one might consider that it refers back to "dusk seems to have fallen," even then it would strike me as far too clumsy.

Going is flowers, returning is flowers—on the middle path;

Such poems may well find favor with popular tastes; we can only perceive them as dripping with affectedness.
I cannot discern what "the limit of blooming and scattering" intends to mean. If one interprets it as denoting a long span of time—the interval during which flowers bloom and fall—then it resembles Hatta’s verse "What I should behold in this ephemeral world’s brief span," lacking any semblance of lived reality. If instead it refers not to time but to the length of a flower-strewn path, this is mere verbal trickery devoid of poetic merit.
However, since this poem is entirely steeped in affectedness, there is no need to analyze individual lines.

Gathering mulberries through parted mist—evening rain falls on the village child’s basket.

This poem had no particular flaws, yet it equally lacked charm.
Though sericulture season is perceived as tranquil, this poem’s first half bore no resemblance to such tranquility, while its latter half failed to evoke it—this being why I believed it lacked charm.
I did not know what an *ebira* was, but in this poem it appeared to denote some manner of basket for gathering mulberry leaves—an interpretation I found questionable.
In Toshiyori’s poem—“In the mountain village’s hut, through gaps in the ebira, even moonlight revealed silken threads of cocoons”—the *ebira* seemed to indicate a household implement, though one might speculate it had also served as a mulberry-leaf container.
I wished to seek guidance from knowledgeable individuals.

The raft pushed by poles passes through a rapid, yet still the shadows of kerria flowers sway.

The phrasing of "the raft pushed by poles" and the wording of "though passing through a rapid" both struck me as exceedingly clumsy.
The use of 'nagara' followed by 'nao' also felt cumbersome, and I questioned whether replacing 'nabiku' with terms like 'yuragu' or 'ugoku' would be appropriate for kerria flowers.
This poem, in striving for cleverness, resulted in forced wording.

The mountain village’s deutzia hedge—its gaps too sparse—the cuckoo lets slip a stealthy cry.

Though this poem may seem ordinary at first glance, we detected affectedness within it.
The poetic intent likely resides in its third and fourth phrases—and it is precisely there that one discerns this affectedness.
There exists no logical connection between sparse hedge gaps and leaking stealthy sounds; framing them as interrelated struck me as mere verbal artifice.
Where such verbal contrivances appear, poetic charm invariably diminishes.
(Meiji 31, March 20)

II

Should someone visit this thatched hut veiled in mosquito-repellent smoke, they would let them hear the water rail.

This poem’s structure faltered, and upon reaching the fourth and fifth lines, there was a loss of rhythmic momentum.
If one were to revise the fourth line to something like “Oh, let someone visit,” I believed the flow might improve somewhat.
Yet even so, the vulgarity of the phrase “let them hear the water rail” stood on another level entirely.

Were they to amend it to “they should hear the water rail” or similar wording, it might somewhat lessen the vulgar air; however, even then, it would not become a good poem.

At the tips of a cluster of cedars, the mountain appears; from the moon resounds the waterfall's sound.

The first three lines depicted ordinary scenes with ordinary language, yet their clarity of impression surpassed other poems that flaunted cleverness and twisted phrases into contrivance. Alas, the fourth and fifth lines did not follow well from those above. Considering the scene described in the first three lines, the mountain appeared as if separated from the cedar forest and did not seem particularly close; yet since it mentioned hearing a waterfall's sound, the mountain had to be extremely nearby—this created a contradiction between the preceding and following elements. While phrases like "resounded from the moon" might have been where this author excelled, they could not entirely escape a degree of affectedness. The poetic intent lay in describing how only the waterfall's sound was heard without its being seen, as if echoing from the moon; however, this very approach became the seed that gave rise to affectedness. Had someone stood beneath a clearly visible waterfall looking upward—supposing there were a moon above it—using a description like "resounded from the moon" would likely have produced less affectedness.

Countless layered mountains shrouded in deep mist; dew drops fall from the sedge hat beneath the lingering moon.

The meaning of this poem remains unclear—if one takes the second line as an imaginative phrase where someone infers mist-shrouded mountains from dew on a traveler’s hat—yet even then I find its wording deficient.

Unless explicitly phrased as “the traveler’s sedge hat,” this third line emerges abruptly and loses impact.

The “mo” particle in “dew drops also fall” serves no meaningful purpose—it must be deemed an obligatory grammatical filler.

(Among these ten poems I do not recall this one appearing in *Kikuen Eisō*—what could explain its inclusion here?)

Clouds hang over the open sea’s midst; making the wild tide fall as rain, a whale surfaces.

The phrase "making the rain fall" was both the core of this poem and its flaw.
In such cases, using causative expressions like 'furaseru' [make fall] diminished the vigor and rendered it unappealing.
It would have been preferable to declare outright, "The whale’s spouted tide became rain."
This poet had an unfortunate habit of inserting such phrases and ruining otherwise majestic poems.
Even in cases like *“Storm winds blow through turbulent clouds heralding tomorrow’s showers on Kasagiyama,”* while I found the fourth and fifth lines compelling, the peculiar diction of the second and third lines rendered the whole devoid of interest.
Moreover, the five characters of the first line “clouds hang” in the whale poem were exceedingly clumsy.
If one were to say this, the traces of having added this superfluous phrase to correspond with “making the rain fall” were all too evident and not at all pleasing to behold.
Moreover, I considered the phrasing “clouds hang over the very center of the sea” utterly awkward.
To speak of clouds in a boundless expanse, in a boundless sea, as "hanging" was utterly inadmissible.
Even were we to allow that, saying “clouds hang” would make it appear as a single cloud, which was utterly absurd.
I asked readers to attempt to imagine the scene of this poem.
The sea stretched boundlessly wide, the sky perfectly clear—when a whale spouted in the ocean’s midst, it conjured a scene where a lone cloud clung directly above the creature. Could this possibly appear as a natural vista?
To us, it did not appear as a cloud crafted by humans.
It would have been better to have no cloud at all; alternatively, composing verses about where the clouds spread out to cover [the sky] would have been preferable.
(March 22)

III

There existed a person (Shimousa Bonshichō) who resubmitted the ten poems previously cited, preserving their meanings while entirely altering their phrasing.
This person’s method of revision, being thoroughly ordinary, avoided the forced phrasing and affectedness we had criticized; however, most drifted into mediocrity.

To cite two or three examples:

Delightfully, larks sing in mid-sky;
the moon’s light appears as day turns to dusk.

The flow of words had become smoother, yet it did not amount to a good poem.

Along Sumida River embankment, cherry blossoms bloom gloriously;
beneath flowers one walks the path and turns back to gaze.

They appeared ultimately incapable of shedding this affectedness.

In mountain village’s deutzia hedge under evening moonlit skies—
stealthily letting its call escape—the cuckoo.

Though it had become ordinary, I believed it rather surpassed
the original’s contrivances.

Countless layered mountains steeped in morning mist;
upon traveler’s sedge hat dewdrops fall without cease.

I approved of having added the five characters "of the traveler."
The ending still left me feeling unsatisfied.

If one gazes out to the open sea's offing: a whale surfaces, blowing wild brine into the sky.

While I wholeheartedly approved of removing the two phrases "making the rain fall" and "clouds hang," I could not deny that even so, the conclusion still felt one step short.
Nevertheless, I considered this poem to be the most successful among them.

A certain person (Hachiōji Mitamura Genryūshi) said: “While it stands to reason that strong poems should employ strong tones and weak poems weak tones, I consider it also intriguing how the *Kokinshū* has expressed myriad forms through a single unified tone.”
…and so he spoke.

“In response I say: Your view contains some validity—but this cannot apply to vulgar styles like the *Kokinshū* that toy with technical polish.”
“In waka poetry, it would be the Man'yōshū style; in haiku, an unadorned style; in verse overall, something akin to the *Classic of Poetry*. Only when rooted in such ancient modes could such claims hold true.”
“When composing in supremely archaic tones, even heroic themes lose their grandeur and elegance its refinement—yet in return, by rendering all things antique and free from any hint of vulgarity, they gain a peculiar charm. Thus I broadly endorse using Man'yōshū style for diverse subjects.”
“But employing Kokinshū style? To this I must express vehement opposition.”
“Particularly baffling are those who speak of the *Kokinshū* as depicting myriad forms and states.”
“To our eyes, the *Kokinshū* appears so dubious that one might question whether it portrays even a single genuine form or state.”

A certain person (the same) said: “Placing the Buson school’s haiku collections alongside the poetry collections of the High Tang is incongruous, I must submit.”
…and so he spoke.

In response I say: This "incongruity" must refer to those who consider Tang poetry superior.

"Now then, how exactly is this deemed incongruous?"

"If one argues that poetry and haiku differ in verse length and consequently in scope—making them incomparable—I would raise no objection. But if this implies a significant disparity in artistic skill, I find it difficult to concur."

"Even were poets like Li Bai, Du Fu, Wang Wei, and Meng Haoran born in Japan during Buson's era to compose haiku, I cannot believe their artistry would far surpass Buson's. Conversely, had Buson been born in the High Tang period, I equally doubt he would have ended as a mere fart-blade poet."

"Though it may be impertinent to ask—is there truly none who, without proper study of haiku, regards Buson's verses and those of conventional masters as differing only superficially?"

Just as waka poets consider their craft supreme under heaven, it's hardly rare for poets to view their own poetry as preeminent.

I earnestly request arguments of greater fairness.

A certain someone styled himself "Kuzuya" and delivered an interminable mockery in tones of "*My my—such lofty theories!* I happened upon Bamboo Villager's poetics in a wastebasket...", achieving such mastery in ridicule that I nearly applauded—only to conclude with an endless attack on a single point in the poetics, an assault so flatulent it utterly deflated.

To summarize his argument: "Bamboo Villager has misinterpreted Mitsune's poem about plucking [chrysanthemums] through guesswork."

"Bamboo Villager likely doesn't know—when frost settles on white chrysanthemums, they redden."

"Mitsune composed this verse about being unable to distinguish white chrysanthemums after their reddening."

To declare "How mortifying that ignorant fools presume to interpret poetry!"—this interpretation truly astounds.

We had long understood white chrysanthemums redden yearly—as poems describe their shift to purple—yet seeing Mr. Kuzuya now pompously expound this phenomenon resembles marveling at Liaodong's white-headed swine; clearly the critic seldom observes real chrysanthemums.

"Moreover—can the phrase 'leaving one perplexed' possibly indicate color change?"

"And if Mitsune—with such grandiloquent phrasing as 'Shall I pluck through guesswork?'—truly labored over verses about color-shifting chrysanthemums, I find myself speechless whether to laugh or despair."

"No matter how logic-obsessed Mitsune might be, hearing this theory would surely confound him."

"For Kuzuya to defend Mitsune thus constitutes disastrous partiality."

(March 24)

IV

Answering Chiba Inajōshi, I responded: Regarding contradictions and misunderstandings, there still appeared to be a misunderstanding.
The contradiction we had pointed out concerned how earlier there was mention of "placing emphasis on objective scenery," while later it stated "solely objectively."
That is to say, "placing emphasis" did not carry the same meaning as the subsequent definitive assertion of "solely."

"Is this phrase 'literary scholars who don't even know the national poetry' an indirect reference to us? We truly did not know the national poetry and were overcome with shame."
However, I believed that those who had failed to impart knowledge of the national poetry were half to blame—and the national poetry itself was half to blame.
For though we had often attempted to study the national poetry by opening its anthologies, whenever we read four or five pages, they proved so dull that sleepiness set in and we could read no further.
In general, with literary works, once one began reading, they proceeded without even realizing it; yet when it came to waka, even if one attempted to read them out of obligation, they proved difficult to read—this was due to nothing other than their lack of appeal and monotony.
It was not only we who did not know the national poetry; even those called poets were thought to largely not know it.
If they had indeed been those who knew the national poetry, there would have been no reason for them not to perceive its staleness.
They appeared to regard themselves as scholars after having read only the Three Imperial Anthologies and perhaps one or two collections by early modern poets.
Though I would have had poets pursue scholarship, since recommending studies outside poetry or foreign literature would likely have proven ineffective, I would at least have had them read through Japanese poetry collections in their entirety.
For those like us who considered poetry stale from the outset, reading however many volumes only deepened our sense of staleness and headache, yielding no result; yet if one were to make those poets—who composed stale verses and delighted in them—read continuously through the imperial anthologies starting with the *Kokinshū* and onward to successive generations' collections, they would surely have been unable to avoid perceiving the staleness.

The close correlation between logical reasoning and emotion had already been stated before; there was no need to repeat it now. I shall now say a word regarding the matter of "not poetry." Since the boundary between poetry and non-poetry was not clearly delineated from the outset, to assert with logical strictness "this is poetry"... To definitively declare "This is not poetry" proved most difficult when dealing with verses occupying the ambiguous space between poetry and non-poetry. Particularly in ordinary evaluations of poetry, the phrase "not poetry" was often employed with exaggeration. That is to say, they referred to bad poems when speaking thus—akin to pointing at a wicked person and declaring them "inhuman." Therefore, it became necessary to distinguish between these two cases. Moreover, our assertion that logical reasoning does not constitute poetry remained a general principle; even when encountering phrases here and there that reeked of logic, one could not immediately declare them "not poetry"—(in the strict sense). If one were to speak strictly, that which contained not a shred of logical reasoning was poetry; one had to assert that what consisted entirely of logical reasoning was not poetry. However, for those works falling between these categories, there existed no way to theoretically explain where to draw the boundary between what constituted poetry and what did not. In practice, there remained only seizing upon a particular composition and judging it through emotion. To attempt explaining this matter as far as possible, one might say that if a work contained one part logical reasoning, it approached being non-poetry by one part; if two parts logical reasoning, by two parts. Yet even this principle, when pushed to extremes in reasoning, would lead to error—as if inferring that a work containing one part logical reasoning was inferior by that one part compared to a work with none at all. While generally sound in theory, actual application would inevitably produce exceptions. It remained fact that some considered verses containing the simplest logical reasoning good, while others deemed poems lacking even a trace of logic bad. The broader one interpreted "logical reasoning," the more these exceptions multiplied—this followed naturally. (The matter of logical reasoning having both broad and narrow meanings was discussed in my response to Akimaro.) The latter two lines of the poem "Though autumn does not belong to me alone" contained logical reasoning.

However，we did not immediately declare this poem to be “not a poem” （in the strict sense）．That this poem had somewhat approached the realm of non-poetry was beyond dispute．Though some doubted whether what we called logical reasoning truly constituted reasoning，whether it did or not was a matter of intellectual concern and thus not worth questioning．“（Whether such reasoning was permissible in literature remained ever questionable．）However，there might indeed have been doubts as to whether the term ‘logical reasoning’ we employed was appropriate or not．”If that was the case，then one could change the wording however they liked．Do not let terminology obscure the intent．

(March 29)

V

The discussion regarding so-called literary standards lacked coherence.
"perfecting a scientific definition"
Though phrases like "and so forth" might be used, there was by no means any need to attach scientific definitions to literary standards.
Though there existed talk of a "perfect standard," by what measure could one distinguish between a perfect standard and an imperfect standard?
He had completely misunderstood the term "literary standard."
Furthermore, "even British, French, and German literary scholars..."
The phrase "and so forth" did not strike me as words coming from someone partial to Japan.
He acted as though what British, French, and German scholars could not accomplish, Japanese people could not accomplish either.
Though we did not pride ourselves, we did not revere Westerners to such an extent, nor did we despise Japanese to such an extent.
Do not misunderstand—we were not Western-worshippers like you.

What we called literary standards was not at all some complicated matter. When one viewed poetry and prose or examined paintings and sculptures and judged them beautiful or not, it was because within the critic’s mind there existed a “literary and artistic standard” by which they made their evaluations. What we termed literary standards was precisely this. That is to say, British, French, and German literary scholars likely each had their own standards, and Chinese literary scholars must have had theirs as well. You too must have had standards. We too possessed ours. The misunderstanding seems to have arisen precisely because we spoke of standards transcending all ages and regions. When discussing literary standards, it would have been better left unsaid that they transcend time and place. The standard did not differ whether evaluating ancient poetry or modern poetry, nor whether assessing Eastern verse or Western verse. This is what it means to transcend all ages and regions. It was not that the standards of thousands upon thousands were fixed.

Enumerating definitions of "literature" from the West and China proves entirely useless. For what the ancients called writings and literature differs from our conception not merely in scope and degree, but includes numerous instances bearing wholly distinct meanings altogether. This resembles how in China, *wen* [literature/culture] serves to signify “the Way.” To wield definitions rooted in fundamentally different meanings when refuting our position cannot avoid being misguided. Our so-called literature stands beyond logical reasoning; it does not bear the Way. Our so-called literature refers to what we have frequently expounded. Should even this fail to merit the name literature, let it be called belles-lettres instead. To explicate definitions of terms risks descending into trivialities; thus we shall refrain here.

The theory that literature combines practical utility and entertainment fundamentally differed from our own. (Assuming we interpret “practical utility” conventionally) If elements of science ought to belong to literature, then your so-called literature diverged from ours even more starkly. When practical utility meant imparting moral lessons, we saw their paths grow increasingly distinct. In ordinary circumstances, didactic works lay outside literature’s domain. Yet if you insisted on calling such things literature, that remained your prerogative. Others could not alter this fact. We would simply clarify that they differed in nature from what we termed literature.

The phrase “優艶天地を撼かす” is a slightly odd expression, but upon considering its meaning, it likely refers to something elegant.
Although one might think that in Chinese poetry an elegant poem would not be said to “shake heaven and earth,” since that too would amount to quibbling over words, we shall not say it.
The very act of specifically employing characters like “elegance” or “allure” here—though it may be a random thought—is itself a manifestation of waka’s corrupt tendencies.
Poets say that one should compose waka elegantly; there are even those who go so far as to claim that what is not elegant cannot be considered waka.
This is one cause of waka’s corruption.

If you were to have us speak, we would say: when composing waka, compose them with elegance; compose them with vigor; compose them with classical grace; compose them with startling wit; compose them with solemnity; compose them with levity. Though the words used here may hold no profound meaning, it remains a fact that waka cannot generally free itself from notions of elegance and allure.

“National songs inspire people to persist in loyalty and vigorously encourage them to devote themselves to filial piety.”
“…and so forth: ‘How can it be limited to appreciating flowers and cherishing the moon? [They] contemplate spring haze and fix their hearts upon phoenixes.’”
The several lines containing “and so forth” were strange in both their writing and their argument.
It might have been that waka occasionally inspired people and so forth, but such instances were not abundant in literature.
All the more so in something as lifeless as waka—such instances were nowhere to be found.
“The phrase ‘tasteless sentiments’ and such were strange expressions that I found somewhat difficult to comprehend, but they somehow resembled those who disparaged the love of flowers and the moon.”
We had much interest in appreciating flowers and the moon, but as for didactic matters, we had little interest—this being the theory in question, we were strongly opposed.

(April 1st)

VI

“National songs must exist independently as national songs” was an unintelligible phrase.
“Shouldn’t we have similarly declared ‘haiku must exist independently as haiku’?”
Though I remained uncertain whether independence implied immunity from foreign literary influences, waka’s adoption of Chinese-derived vocabulary had indeed been previously noted.
In matters of ideology too，it stood established that Chinese scholarship and Buddhist thought had exerted measurable influence.
This might suggest residual elements of Japaneseness persisted—yet if those native qualities proved wholly devoid of merit，any claim to independence became intellectually untenable.
Regarding purportedly Japanese characteristics surviving in Restoration-era waka，I maintained they represented precisely such valueless remnants.

“To make literati readers embrace new ideas and cause them to unconsciously come to detest and reject old ideas—one must be prepared” speaks to differing paces of methodology.
We did not necessarily intend to adopt only the gradual method of “unconscious” influence.
It was because we believed there were those who would reform once they understood.

To say that we should import foreign literary thought was not to say that we should plagiarize foreign literature.
Importing without plagiarism had depended on the poet’s skill.
Even ideas obtained from foreign literature, once they entered Japanese poets’ minds and reemerged as songs, must inevitably have been Japanized.
That which had already been Japanized was Japanese thought.
The analogy comparing natural cherry blossoms to artificial roses proved cringeworthy.
With those who revered cherry blossoms as supreme while remaining ignorant of other flowers’ beauty, one found it difficult to discuss art and literature.

Kabaenoko of Akita Prefecture said: “Man'yōshū poems are good when eight or nine out of ten relate to societal morals and people’s sentiments.”
“Post-Kokinshū poetry merely idly admires the moon and plays with flowers.”
“Therefore, we reject them.”
“...and so forth.”

In reply I say: Though I have often spoken of such matters before and think it unnecessary to repeat them now, I must still say a few words.
“Waka are not good simply because they relate to societal morals and people’s sentiments.”
“Among songs concerning societal morals and people’s sentiments，there are both good and bad ones.”
“Waka are not bad because they delight in flowers and the moon.”
Among songs that delight in flowers and the moon，there are both good and bad ones.
Within the *Man'yōshū* there exists the poem： “When I rowed out from Tago Bay and looked—how pure white Mount Fuji’s lofty peak stood，crowned with snow.”
There exists another： “When the tide fills Waka Bay，/ Brine overflowing，/ The waterfowl cry toward the reed shores”—a work people regard as a masterpiece，and we too consider it such.
Yet these have no relation whatsoever to societal morals or people’s sentiments.
To encourage good and punish evil，to teach and guide people—nothing surpasses moral songs.
But moral songs are generally dull.

Moreover, when evaluating the *Man'yōshū*, statements like “Since poetry serves as the path of state governance and moral education, people of that era composed as they felt” already contained contradictions within a single sentence. If one were to compose poetry with the aim of state governance and moral education, it could not be composed with true freedom. If one were to compose poetry freely, poems unrelated to matters like state governance and moral education would naturally be produced. Indeed, the people of the Man'yōshū era composed poems as they felt, and thus created many works that bore little resemblance to matters like state governance and moral education.

Generally speaking, poetry finds its true essence in transcending ethical notions of good and evil.
Its essence resides in observing the swirling dust of mundane society from above the clouds.
While ethics idly lingers nearby, vainly promoting virtue and punishing vice, poetry speaks neither of good nor evil—it instead silently reveals that such a pleasant and peaceful realm exists.
The world races after fame and profit, tormented by earthly desires, madly scurrying across a palm-sized plot of land—yet poets alone gaze upon this from afar, delighting in blossoms and frolicking with the moon as they breathe pristine air within infinite cosmos.
Those vulgar souls who seek poetry amidst moral binaries within this worldly sphere are fundamentally misguided.

(April 2nd)

VII

When I had previously discussed the poem “Mono no fu no yasojiigawa no ajirogi ni izayou nami no yukue shirazu mo” alongside those by Hatta and others in detail, many people criticized this, perhaps thinking I had disparaged it in the same manner as the poems by Hatta and others.
That I did not view this poem in the same light as those by Hatta and others was something I had noted in my writing at the time; yet perhaps my words were insufficient, and thus my meaning failed to convey.
Therefore, I shall now explain anew the reason for citing that poem as an example.

Among poets today, there exist those who worship the *Man'yōshū* and those who worship the *Kokinshū*. Each approach has its merits and flaws, but broadly speaking, we align ourselves with the *Man'yōshū* devotees. Yet these *Man'yōshū* adherents—by obstinately clinging to its domain (or rather, select portions of it), never venturing beyond—find their poetic materials severely limited, leaving them incapable of expressing the manifold beauties we apprehend through our senses. This constitutes our fundamental dissatisfaction with these *Man'yōshū* idolizers. Therefore, I have deliberately examined and critiqued that "mono no fu" poem they incessantly parade as their model.

In beauty there exists simple beauty and complex beauty.
Some literary scholars consider complexity alone to constitute beauty.
We do not accept this view.
Some have taken us to favor exclusively complex beauty.
This is a misunderstanding.
We both appreciate simple beauty and delight in complex beauty.
Yet it stands numerically evident that poems expressing simple beauty cannot be composed as abundantly as those expressing complex beauty.
Suppose there exist ten poetic elements here: composing poems using one element per verse would yield only ten poems, while using two elements per verse could produce ninety; three elements would yield nine hundred; four elements nine thousand—such being the proportional relation.
Moreover, while simple beauty cannot treat matters of slight interest, complex beauty often permits combining elements of little interest with those of greater appeal.
There may also be cases where elements devoid of interest are deliberately juxtaposed with interesting ones to create resonance.
Thus it follows that complex works may be produced prolifically while simple ones cannot.
Yet waka, having striven for a millennium to express only simple beauty, has ended in repetition piled upon repetition and staleness compounded by staleness.
(This constitutes a primary cause of waka’s descent into triteness.)

The reason why the "mono no fu" poem had been composed with such loftiness had already been stated. We rejoiced that such lofty poems existed in the Hitomaro Collection; we rejoiced that they existed in the Man'yōshū; we rejoiced that they existed within Japanese literature. Yet this poem represented the simplest of poetic techniques—even among waka inclined toward simplicity, it stood as particularly unadorned. Its very loftiness resided in this austerity; still, we feared taking this as a compositional model would render verses already stale yet staler still. In later eras, love poems most often mimicked this very cadence.

The hototogisu cries—ah, Fifth Month’s irises! / A love even irises know not—such is my plight.

Yoshino River—its rocky waves high, / The swift-flowing waters— / How quickly they made me think of you.

Through gaps in Kasugano’s melting snow

Starting with those like [the examples above], since love poems composed in such a manner were abundantly found in every anthology—this anthology included—they had become stale to the point where one might think the same poem had been repeated countless times.
However, what we must take care to note here was that what we were currently discussing was a matter of staleness versus its absence, not a matter of refinement versus vulgarity.
If we spoke from the standpoint of refinement and vulgarity, this type of song belonged to the refined among songs and particularly to the refined among love poems.
Among love poems, where many were vulgar or steeped in logical reasoning, this type of love poem broke free from vulgarity and transcended logic; such as the three poems cited above might indeed have been considered fine works among love poems.
However, from the perspective of staleness or its absence—(those like the poems cited above from the *Kokinshū* era were not yet stale)—as we moved into later periods, there was nothing as stale as this type of poem.
In evaluating our poetry, first we had to reject the vulgar as vulgar; second, even among those that were not vulgar, we had to reject the stale as stale.
What was being discussed here lay solely in the matter of staleness.
(The poem "mono no fu" as a famous place would be discussed next.) (April 4th)

VIII

Regarding the criticism that the poem “mono no fu no yasojiigawa no ajirogi ni” failed to exhibit the distinctive features of a famous place, someone had argued: “Since ajiro weirs are unique to Uji Tagami, they cannot be said to lack distinctiveness.” That ajiro was characteristic of Uji was something we too acknowledged.
However, in this poem, neither Uji River nor the ajiro weir stakes were intended to represent those physical entities themselves; they merely served as tools to draw out the emotion of the latter two lines. Thus, it could not be considered a model for poems about famous places.
To put it plainly: even if one were to say, “White waves caught in the flowing embrace of mountains and rivers—their destination unknown,” or reference “the hundred stakes of Sumida River,” if these were apt examples, then this poem could hardly be said to have truly depicted Uji River.

“Someone said: ‘It cannot be said that the first three lines of this poem have no meaning; because of the phrase “mono no fu no,” they benefit the latter two lines.’”
“That may well be the case.”
“Nevertheless, I feel that even without the phrase ‘mono no fu no yasoji’ at the beginning, this poem would still resonate well.”
“How about that?”

“Even if a poem fails to distinctly manifest a famous place’s unique characteristics,” someone argued, “there should be no issue if it was composed after passing through that location.”
“I do not dispute this,” I replied.
“My point is that we must not teach people to use poems lacking a locale’s distinctive features as models for famous-place poetry.”
The “mono no fu” poem belongs rather to the category of anomalies among place-specific verses.
Let me add this: regarding famous places, poets of old had long labored under grave misconceptions.
Since classical poets composed verses about so-called famous sites without ever visiting them, most such poems failed to capture local distinctiveness, merely parroting ancient tropes—declaring this place renowned for plovers or that one famed for kerria blossoms based on literary precedent.
Thus even when plovers never cried there or kerria refused to bloom, they felt no compunction; indeed, one can only marvel at their audacity in casually employing these dubious “famous places” as poetic fixtures.
To be clear: when citing locales in subjective verse—say, as emotional metaphors—ignorance matters little. But when composing objective landscape poetry, true excellence demands firsthand knowledge.
Some might rely on old poems, hearsay, or paintings to grasp a place’s essence before versifying—such methods exist—but they remain exceptions.
Consider those Kyoto court nobles who never ventured beyond the capital yet brazenly claimed poetic insight into distant sites—their recklessness knew no bounds.
This exemplifies waka’s corruption after the Kokinshū era, when the form became confined to court circles. That very confinement poisoned not just place-poems but all waka.
Yet the blame lies not with nobles but country poets themselves.
Until Zaiman’s faction proclaimed waka no court monopoly, rural versifiers groveled before aristocratic tastes, despising their own voices.
Though Mabuchi and Zaiman later wrested poetic authority from the court, their reforms never fully eradicated these malpractices.

In the explanatory notes to his *Shōchi Tokkai Hen*, Kōkei wrote: "Though it's commonly claimed that geographical knowledge poses no obstacle to composing poetry, consider this—when an anthology of famous places simply lists 'Asazuma poetry contest' under Karasaki's entry, some have read this as indicating proximate locations. Yet Karasaki lies east of Hiei in Shiga District, while Asazuma borders Chikuma in Sakata District, separated by a lake spanning over ten *ri*."
That he wrote "and so forth" indeed partially exposes the flaws of imaginary place-name poems; yet understanding famous places should serve purposes beyond merely preventing such errors.
A poem cannot qualify as a song of a famous place simply by being error-free—it must possess distinctive features.

Let me add: In our previous draft, our use of permutation method when calculating the number of poems had been based on a mistaken approach.
When recalculating through permutation method: using two elements per poem yielded forty-five poems; three elements produced one hundred fifty; and four elements resulted in three hundred seventy-five.
(April 7th)

IX

“Your poetry may be acceptable as your own,” someone objected, “but we find it intolerable how you tear down each and every classical verse.”
“And so on.”

In reply, he said: “Having previously declared that we must ‘utterly destroy old ideas,’ I may have inadvertently caused some misunderstanding.”
“By ‘old ideas,’ we refer to the pedantic logic employed from the *Kokinshū* era to the present day and stale techniques such as these—it does not encompass all sentiments expressed in classical poetry.”
“The poems we create may naturally be considered part of the waka tradition, or even half of it. Beyond these, good works may emerge in Man'yōshū style, good works in Kokinshū style, and indeed good poems may arise in a new style belonging neither to ancient modes nor our own—but we absolutely do not hold the narrow-minded view that only poems conforming to our approach qualify as true poetry.”
“However, whether they be poems of antiquity or works by renowned masters, we must persist in condemning any that are steeped in pedantic reasoning or stale techniques.”

“Since ancient times,” someone objected, “what has been called waka bears no resemblance to what you create.”
“Therefore,” they continued, “since your works constitute a distinct category, why not abandon ‘waka’ altogether and devise another name?”
“And so on.”

“How curious to hear such a proposition,” he replied. “We have deigned to borrow the term ‘waka’ and thus called it such, but if that displeases you, name it as you will.”
“Let them be called haikai-style waka or kyōka comic verse; let them be named miso or excrement for all I care.”
“We do not concern ourselves with names.”
“However, do not forget that the playful verses of the *Kokinshū*, which prioritize wordplay, and our works, which value artistic taste, differ fundamentally at their core.”
“Do not forget that the so-called kyōka, which delight in crude wordplay, and our works, which reject such vulgarity, occupy entirely different ground.”
“If you acknowledge this truth, then deign to name them however you please.”

“Since we perceive plum blossom fragrance through our noses,” someone argued, “there can be no reason not to compose them into poetry.”
“And so on.”

“There is absolutely no reason why plum blossom fragrance should not be written about in poetry,” he replied. “However, since there are far too many stale poems on the subject, I previously made a flippant remark about it.”
“If one composes with aesthetic sensibility while avoiding staleness, plum blossom fragrance could indeed make an excellent theme.”

Someone said: “If we indiscriminately adopt Chinese-derived terms and colloquial language in our practice, won’t this produce harmful consequences where uneducated people churn out absurd poems?”

In reply he said: “That you consider even potential drawbacks shows remarkably thoughtful consideration—but we believe we can manage well enough without concerning ourselves with such matters.”
“Harmful effects will naturally arise.”
“Even today, just a month later, we see countless preposterously misguided poems descending upon our desks.”
“However, harmful effects exist everywhere.”
“In an era where one must learn some classical language to compose poems as before—what then?”
“Have poets done nothing but create tasteless, stale poems—bristling with empty pretension over grammar, syntax, and composition methods—obsessively clinging to these things?”
“If there is a prospect that by using Sino-Japanese terms and colloquial language one can create good poems, then it is only natural that we recommend their use without reservation.”
“If preposterous poems appear, we will simply reject them as preposterous poems.”

“Someone said: ‘To claim Mabuchi doesn’t truly grasp the Man’yōshū despite his critiques—that’s downright painful.’
‘The very fact that he venerates the Man’yōshū without imitating it is what defines Mabuchi as Mabuchi.’
‘And so on.’”

In reply he said: “Is this not also a case of overindulgent favoritism? While we may commend Mabuchi for establishing a school outside the Man'yōshū tradition—though whether it can truly be called a school remains debatable—what merit could there be if those belonging to this school prove inferior to Man'yōshū poets? We believe Mabuchi’s poems pale before the Man'yōshū. Indeed, had they imitated the Man'yōshū instead, they might have produced far better works.” This led me to suspect he fundamentally misunderstood the Man'yōshū’s essence. While this critique concerns tanka, regarding chōka Mabuchi did imitate the Man'yōshū. Hence we consider their value to reside in tanka. As for objectors who deem Mabuchi’s chōka inferior to his tanka—this reveals their perspective diverges completely from ours.

(April 12th)

X

A certain person (Genryūshi) said: “When I stated that juxtaposing High Tang poetry collections with Buson-school haiku anthologies is incongruous, it stemmed not from notions of superiority or inferiority, but rather because they neither correspond nor analogize—hence the comparison itself proves inept.”
“This does not pertain to discussions of poetic form, scale, or technical skill—(omitted)—but I faintly discern that your compositions bear kinship to Late Tang literary works.”
“By ‘incongruity,’ I fundamentally mean the act of comparing Buson’s solitary output with High Tang’s multitude of poets, coupled with my conviction that Late Tang instead holds writers apt for such comparison, and so forth.”

In reply, he said: “We have never claimed that Buson’s verses resemble those of the High Tang masters.”
“I merely said, ‘Should one read Buson-school haiku collections or High Tang poetry collections?’”
The intent behind this statement was my belief that to remedy waka’s lack of artistic taste and lax diction, one should read Buson-school haiku collections—and I specifically cited these because they surpass other schools in being richly imbued with artistic taste and having tightly structured diction.
My reference to High Tang poetry collections stemmed from their similar richness in artistic taste and structural rigor.
However, this does not mean the aesthetic sensibilities of Buson-school haiku and High Tang poetry are identical, nor that their structural cohesion matches perfectly.
Moreover, the theory positing Buson’s haiku resembles Late Tang poetry also misses the mark.
When seeking poets akin to Buson, one finds almost none who compare.
If searching for parallels to Buson-era haiku circles, the poetry circles of the early Qing dynasty come closest.
There lies some resemblance in how numerous masters emerged then—their poetic conceptions growing both intricate and graceful while avoiding vulgarity.
Yet should we seek Buson’s counterpart among early Qing poets, none would prove comparable.

A certain person (Inajōshi) said: “Did even a poet-sage like Homer love mere beauty alone, or did he not rather love that which is beautiful and good?”
“And so on.”

In reply, he said: “Beauty that coexists with goodness is acceptable.”
“Beauty that transcends good and evil is equally valid.”
“We remain unacquainted with Homer’s verse—can one truly claim his poetry never deviates from ‘goodness’?”
“Even were Homer’s poetry inseparable from ‘goodness,’ we choose not to emulate him—for we perceive beauty beyond such ethical binaries.”
“We refuse to bow to Plato merely because he propounded that trinity of truth, goodness, and beauty.”
“The beauty we uphold lies beyond the reach of Homer’s quill or Plato’s philosophy.”

To add:

"If we were to rigorously discuss these matters, we must first establish at least the definition of 'good.' If it were a theory that divides all things under heaven into good and evil, that would be another matter; but if we take good and evil as terms used in ordinary discourse to evaluate human actions, then natural things stand outside the realm of good and evil. If natural things already stand outside the realm of good and evil, then it is only natural that poetry describing natural things would often exist beyond considerations of good and evil. Because Western poetry depicts natural themes less frequently compared to Eastern poetry, there may be many in Western discourse who conflate good and beauty. To blindly revere something simply because it is a Western theory is naturally the act of fools; it is not worth discussing. How much less can we say that all theories in the West are uniform?"

A certain person (the same) said: “What you reject through your logical reasoning must be this very notion of good.”
“In that case, you insist on abandoning this ethical thought and composing poems solely from the standpoint of beauty.”
“You teach people to discard human emotions and seek the beauty of nature.”
“In that case, when we intend to compose poems, we must first consider the poetic techniques to employ.”
“And so on.”

In reply, he said: “What sort of misunderstanding is this? What sort of foolish argument?”
“The logical reasoning we have adopted has been stated many times before; to now conflate logic and goodness leaves us utterly astounded.”
“That which we consider beauty is unrelated to ethical good and evil; therefore, beauty can abundantly exist even beyond good and evil.”
“However, it is not that there are none which are both beautiful and good.”
“It is not that that which is good is not beautiful.”
“Why do you claim we reject goodness?”
“We have never sought to reject goodness in even the slightest degree.”
“What we seek to reject is only that which is not beautiful.”
“Even if something is ‘good,’ if it is not beautiful, we naturally reject it.”
“‘Abandon ethical thought and compose poems solely from the standpoint of beauty’ captures half of our intent.”
“However, it is not that we ‘insist.’”
“We do not tell those who lack a sense of beauty to compose poems.”
“‘To teach that we must discard human emotions and seek the beauty of nature’—this is an unintelligible statement.”
“To perceive the beauty of nature is itself an emotional act.”
“There is no way to discard emotions and seek the beauty of nature.”

Or perhaps they meant "discard ethical emotions"?
Even so, the statement "Seek the beauty of nature" remains mistaken.
We are not those who take only the beauty of nature and discard the beauty of human affairs.
(April 17)

XI

A certain person (Shunenshi) said: “It seems I cannot comprehend the meaning of ‘artistic conception being equivalent to tone,’ and so on.”

(On behalf of Shundai Shōin) He replied: “Although the term *chō* has been used in various senses since ancient times, there is no example where it has been employed with the same meaning as the term *ishō* [artistic conception].”
“Tone rather refers to sound patterns unrelated to artistic conception—this is the appropriate understanding.”
“Even if one were to grant that tone bears some relation to artistic conception, such a relation would pertain only to an infinitesimal portion thereof; one can never assert that artistic conception is equivalent to tone.”
“Even with the same artistic conception, depending on how it is expressed, the tone may become elevated or base.”

A certain person (the same) said: “How can literature alone be exempt from class distinctions? (...) In painting, there are hon-ga and ukiyo-e; in poetry, waka and haiku—all are equally necessary forms of artistic literature in society.”
“And must it not be an inescapable fact that differences in dignity exist among them? (...) Even if haiku describing horse manure or roasted sweet potatoes possess literary value worthy of esteem, their dignity ultimately appears unsuitable for nurturing noble spirits,” and so on.

He replied: “I do not dispute that differences in refinement exist within literature and art.”
“What we call good refinement generally refers to qualities that are gentle and unforced.”
“Given that the tone of thirty-one-syllable waka is more measured than seventeen-syllable haiku, one might provisionally accept the claim that waka possesses superior refinement.”
“To judge haiku’s refinement based on verses describing horse manure or roasted sweet potatoes is fundamentally misguided.”
“The vulgarity of haiku about horse manure and sweet potatoes lies not in haiku itself being vulgar, but in the vulgarity inherent to those subjects.”
“However refined thirty-one-syllable waka may be considered, were it to treat such base matters, its vulgarity would equal haiku’s.”
“Moreover, while waka may broadly seem more refined than haiku, this is but a crude comparison—the true refinement of any poem depends chiefly on its conception, material, and tonal qualities.”
“When comparing vulgar waka with refined haiku, haiku proves the more refined.”
“The public fails to understand haiku; taking the verses of vulgar masters circulated among commoners as representative, they dismiss it as irredeemably base.”
“Let them read the haiku of Bashō’s and Buson’s eras—they would find their assumptions half disproven.”
“The term ‘literary class’ is ill-chosen.”
“If meaning ‘refined’ and ‘vulgar,’ let us speak instead of hierarchy in refinement.”
“To speak of literary class requires standards beyond mere refinement.”
(That they prove unsuitable for nurturing noble spirits defies comprehension.)
(I suspect this reflects limitations in the critic’s own expressive capacity.)

A certain person (the same) said: “That haiku, being in a lower class, faces fewer constraints and enjoys a broader scope is precisely what stands to reason; the necessity to extend its influence even to the lower strata of society must inevitably be why its refinement has been diminished.”
“And so on.”

In reply, he said: “This too has fallen into the same fallacy as before. However, since that matter had already been explained beforehand, we will not speak of it. To claim that the necessity of extending influence to the lower strata of society lowers refinement is gravely mistaken.” As for vulgar haiku masters attempting to make a living through selective marking, they might indeed need to exert influence on lower-class society. When Bashō and Buson composed haiku—using various colloquial terms, Sino-Japanese vocabulary, and new materials to write freely—this was neither to influence the lower classes nor because they themselves belonged to those classes. The creation of haiku arose from perceiving its beauty. The use of colloquial language, Sino-Japanese vocabulary, and new materials stemmed from perceiving the beauty inherent in those elements. It bore no relation whatsoever to the lower classes. Waka poets, being ignorant of the world, held many biases because they enshrined waka as supreme. Though waka’s confinement to court circles represented a transformation in the literary world, waka poets likely considered this proper. Waka decayed because it had long been practiced only among the upper classes, while haiku decayed because it was easily adopted by the lower classes. We did not desire waka and haiku to be practiced in court circles, nor did we desire them to be composed in vulgar society. We desired that waka and haiku long be created among literary scholars.

(April 27)

XII

A certain person (Shunenshi) said: “Waka is merely a longer form of haiku, and haiku a shorter form of waka. Those who mistakenly believe waka becomes waka because it has thirty-one syllables and haiku becomes haiku because it has seventeen syllables—those who remain unaware that beyond poetic form [i.e., syllabic count], each possesses its own distinct rhythm—are ultimately unworthy of discussing poetry together.”
“And so on.”

In reply, he said: “The absurdity of the claim that waka and haiku differ in content out of necessity has already been stated.”
“Then if one were to say waka is merely a longer haiku and haiku a shorter waka, there would be no issue—waka and haiku differ only in poetic form.”
However, considering the source of the critic’s argument, it likely stemmed from the assumption that there had been a distinction between refined and vulgar in waka and haiku up to now.
Admittedly, waka was generally more refined than haiku; however, it was not that waka remained refined and haiku vulgar as the critic believed.
The critic had previously cited examples like excrement and roasted sweet potatoes, but verses about roasted sweet potatoes were not found in old haiku anthologies, and those concerning excrement or urine numbered only one or two in works by poets like Sōkaku and Buson.
Excrement verses were by no means something prevalent in haiku.
Conversely, when we examined whether these vulgar materials existed in waka, we indeed found that they did.
Moreover, did not the very *Man'yōshū* that the critic worshipped contain poems that mentioned excrement and privies?
If we spoke of refinement and vulgarity, excrement and privies were undoubtedly vulgar. Yet when evaluating poetry’s merits, within the *Man'yōshū* alone one could count innumerable poems inferior to these excrement and privy verses—how much more so for poetry outside the *Man'yōshū*?
Be that as it may, the fact that poems about excrement, privies, loincloths, armpit hair, and sores had been recorded in writing as poetry was beyond dispute.
Was waka necessarily entirely refined?

A certain person (the same) said: “That waka should be composed with singing as its principal aim is something we also determine through the poems of the *Man'yōshū*,” and so on. “The *Man'yōshū* poems dedicated themselves to refining language and composing with elevated refinement, establishing this as their primary purpose, while the expression of thoughts was treated as secondary.” “This is because they were singers.” “Yet as ages passed, this principle became corrupted.” “Thus later waka came to focus wholly on articulating thoughts, reducing elements like diction and rhythm to mere vehicles for expression—and so waka has long languished in decline.” “And so on.”

In reply, he said: “This is a grave mistake.”
“That songs are meant to be sung goes without saying.”
“Not only did people sing ancient poems—they sing contemporary ones too.”
“They sing not just Japanese poetry but all verse from China, the West, and every nation.”
“It’s precisely because they sing that we have distinct rhythms—five-character lines, six-character lines, seven-character lines. Why else would one bother matching syllables and tones?”
“Yet you err in believing ancient songs were sung while modern ones are not.”
“Though I grant this—the melodies must differ between antiquity and today; even within one era, they vary by individual.”
(We shall discuss rhythm in detail another time.) Moreover, the assertion that *Man'yōshū* prioritized rhythm or diction while later poetry focused on ideas is flawed.
The *Man'yōshū* contains no small number of poems where ideas take precedence.
No—most *Man'yōshū* verses simply give voice to thoughts as they arose.
While its elevated tone owes something to refinement, more crucial was this: those early poets—untainted by later baser styles—composed freely as they felt, achieving loftiness through spontaneity.
By the *Kokinshū* era, poetic concepts grew stale; they strained after verbal tricks and produced lifeless works.
To clarify—they polished language more than their *Man'yōshū* forebears, while ideas stagnated at pre-*Man'yōshū* levels.
The critic’s argument stands inverted.

A certain person (the same) said: “In China too, poetry and song maintain clearly distinct definitions—it is said that poetry articulates intent while song prolongs words through melody.”
“Yet what absurdity! To render as ‘Tang poetry’ that which defines itself through intent-expression—this mistakenly equates our nation’s songs, whose essence lies in being sung, with Chinese poetry that similarly purports to articulate intent.”
“And so on.”

He replied: “I scarcely know how to respond to such extremity. What distinction do you posit between Chinese ‘poetry’ and Chinese ‘song’? What similarities do you posit between Japanese ‘uta’ and Chinese ‘ge’? Do you mean that Chinese ‘poetry’ merely articulates intent without being sung? That Japanese ‘uta’ are sung but do not ‘take the heart as their seed’? Do you truly believe that ‘poetry’ which goes unsung and ‘uta’ divorced from heartfelt expression could ever take root in this world? For one born in this Meiji era to make such claims shows lamentably poor judgment. Might I suggest you devote yourself to more rigorous study? There is no need here to parse the character for ‘uta.’ You would do well to consult Motoori Norinaga’s *Isonokami Sasamegoto*.”

A certain person (the same) said: “That songs which take singing as their principal aim and those which take expressing thoughts as their principal aim should naturally differ in both poetic intent and form is a logical necessity,” and so on.

He replied: “As I have stated before, since there is no waka that is not sung nor any that does not express thoughts, these two are entirely inseparable.”
“If either element were lacking, it could not be called waka.”
“Therefore there should exist no waka that particularly prioritizes singing nor any that prioritizes ideas.”
Yet people casually label loosely chanted verses as ‘sung,’ while deeming those with complex imagery and varied rhythms as ‘idea-focused’—this must be their reasoning.
(May 3rd)

Thirteen

Mr. Natsume said: “The theory that waka has few examples of having moved people since ancient times is mistaken.”
“There are countless examples of waka having moved people.”
“From cases where lives were spared or territories restored due to a single waka poem to instances where valiant warriors were frequently moved—these are all well-documented in historical legends.”
“As for your claim that there are few examples of this, it must be that there are few songs which move you yourself.”
“And so on.”

He replied: “You are quite right. There are indeed countless examples of waka having moved people since ancient times, but since those poems are such trivial compositions that I hesitate to even call them poetry, I excluded them from my considerations.”

“Although I sought examples of songs—those worthy of inclusion in my considerations—that had moved people,” he continued, “I could recall but few; thus having dismissively declared ‘there are scant examples,’ my manner of writing here was rather careless.”

“The fact that waka, haiku, and poetry moved people,” he explained, “was not necessarily because these works themselves were good, but rather depended on the recipient and the circumstances.”

“If the recipient was someone of extremely low taste,” he added, “poems of low taste might move them, but poems of high taste would conversely fail to do so. The so-called boisterous sound does not reach common ears.”

“Though they claim poetry softens the hearts of fierce warriors,” he observed, “since those called fierce warriors were mostly of low taste, the songs said to have moved them were often too vulgar even to be considered lowbrow.”

“Moreover,” he argued, “there were songs not worth considering as poetry; consequently, even if one did not find them good, people might be moved either by their authors’ unexpected composition or the poems’ situational suitability.”

“For instance,” he illustrated, “take Koshikibu no Naishi’s Ōeyama poem: though it held little value as poetry, people were astonished both by its spontaneous composition and contextual aptness.”

“Similarly,” he noted, “when Ōta Dōkan composed a poem praised as ‘such blossoms of language exist!’, people were likely astonished not by its quality but by the mere fact of his unexpected authorship.”

“The story that Yoshiie ignored Sadato’s linked verse,” he analyzed, “and Munemoto astonishing court nobles with plum-blossom poems—though historically doubtful—if true, showed movement through compositional skill in crisis and surprise at eastern barbarians’ refinement.”

“Therefore,” he concluded, “such poems might interest later generations through contextual association, but judged solely as literature, they proved worthless. Thus songs that moved people were not necessarily good—many were bad or clumsy.”

“Even excluding non-poets’ cases,” he conceded, “poets themselves were often moved by exchange poems. However,” he qualified, “this likely stemmed from situational relevance rather than inherent merit.”

“Even if someone considered their moving song good,” he warned, “others would not necessarily agree. When we examine legendary ‘poet-moving songs,’ we find rare emotion stirred—profound feeling more often emerged from obscure verses unknown to most.”

When examining songs that moved anyone at any time—excluding those cases discussed above, which had moved people only in specific moments or for specific individuals—I still could not help but regard most of them as shallow.
As an example of this, I believed it had the power to move the greatest number of Japanese people.

If someone should ask of Shikishima’s Yamato spirit—mountain cherry blossoms fragrant in the morning sun.

When I examined this poem, I found myself not only completely unmoved but also recognizing it as rather shallow and inept. While the overall poetic technique was ordinary, this very ordinariness sounded commonplace partly because people had grown overly familiar with seeing and hearing this song—a point I saw no need to belabor. Even an ordinary technique might have become a noble song if sung with spirited tone, yet this poem had been clumsily composed without such care. The major flaw lay squarely in the line "If someone should ask." When the upper verse contains such a phrase, the lower verse must include "I would answer." Without this answering phrase, the initial question floated aimlessly, producing an affected quality. Yet that most people were moved must stem from both this easily grasped ordinary technique and the effect of that affected phrase ("If someone should ask"), with Norinaga's creative intent likely residing here too. Norinaga's understanding of poetic sentiment and the general public's grasp of it aligned perfectly, thus garnering such great acclaim—though works that receive great applause are not necessarily good.

I too had once experienced a time when this poem moved me. However, I believed my years of dedicated literary study had allowed my dull mind to advance by half a step at least. Those with some literary pretensions regarded dodoitsu folk verses as worthy only of rustic spittle, yet it was precisely these dodoitsu that made base entertainers clap their hands in fervent admiration. Poetry composers dismissed works by Kumoizaka Ryūyū and Saigō Takamori as too shallow and explicit to merit the name of verse, yet students' loud recitations and sword dances—their hair bristling heavenward as they hailed these poems as exhilarating and heroic—must have been stirred by those very Saigō and Kumoizaka compositions. Those with slight appreciation for elegant prose scorned Yamakoshi's Song of the Drawing-Sword Brigade as crude recklessness, yet when soldiers risked their lives storming enemy fortresses, nothing but this brigade's song could have inspired their courage.

Works that received great applause generally followed this pattern: they required simplicity and low taste. At times they needed blunt description; at others, a kind of affected ornamentation.

To put it another way, pandering to the majority of amateurs had to adopt the methods most detested by the minority of connoisseurs. They took what connoisseurs expressed indirectly and stated it bluntly; they took what connoisseurs stated explicitly and added affected descriptions to it—and thus pandering, crowd-pleasing works were born. These were the traditional crowd-pleasing works. Therefore, I would rather take the very fact of being crowd-pleasing works as proof of their vulgarity.

However, this pertained solely to past instances.
Whether it must necessarily remain thus in the future—or not—became a matter of doubt.
If there existed someone who possessed literary taste and won great acclaim, using this to replace those non-literary works was indeed the duty of poets.
(May 12)

(March–May 1898)