Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Masaoka Shiki

Letters to Waka Poets

As stated above, waka had not flourished at all in recent times.
To speak frankly, waka had not flourished at all since the Man'yōshū era and Minamoto no Sanetomo's time.
The man called Minamoto no Sanetomo met an untimely end before even reaching thirty, which was truly regrettable.
Had they kept that man alive for another ten years then, one could not begin to fathom how many renowned poems he might have left behind.
In any case, I consider him a first-rate poet.
He neither licked the spittle of Hitomaro and Akahito nor chewed the dregs of Tsurayuki and Teika; his true stature stood towering, vying with mountains in height and competing with the sun and moon in brilliance—truly inspiring awe and reverence, making one feel compelled to kneel in admiration.
Those who had been labeled mediocre since ancient times must surely have been mistaken; either they were individuals who concealed themselves out of fear of the Hōjō clan, or they were great talents who blossomed late—such was my conviction.
It was generally the case that those who stood above others and attained mastery in literary arts occupied an inferior position among men, but Minamoto no Sanetomo was undoubtedly an exception to this.
To explain why: Sanetomo’s poems were not merely skillful—they possessed vigor, insight, and authority; they neither followed trends nor pandered to society. They could not be discussed on the same day as the usual eccentric dilettantes or those court nobles who composed lifeless waka. Only a person of truly admirable discernment as a human being could have composed such powerful poems as Sanetomo’s.
Mabuchi was one who spared no effort in praising Sanetomo, but I believed Mabuchi’s praise still did not go far enough.
This was because Mabuchi knew only one aspect of the subtle beauty in Sanetomo’s poems and remained unaware of the other.

Mabuchi was a modern authority on poetry whose reverence for the Man’yōshū was truly remarkable in his time; yet through my eyes, even his praise of the Man’yōshū felt insufficient.
Mabuchi’s repeated emphasis on there being both good and bad rhythms in the Man’yōshū may have been because he feared people would seize upon the anthology’s awkward verses and attack it with claims like “This is why the Man’yōshū is worthless.”
Naturally, since Mabuchi himself did not consider those to be good poems either, a weakness likely emerged.
However, among those Man'yōshū poems that people call awkward in rhythm and those Mabuchi deems to have poor cadence, I believe there exist poems I most favor.
To elaborate on this point—not to mention others—even in Mabuchi’s own poems, the Man’yō style that I favor is nowhere to be found.
(However, you should understand that this discussion pertains to tanka.) Upon examining Mabuchi’s personal anthology, I was astonished to realize he was unexpectedly someone who did not comprehend the Man’yōshū.
Even though I say this, it does not mean I am entirely criticizing Mabuchi.
Katori Gyogyoku composed many poems modeled after the Man’yōshū; however, those deemed worthy are exceedingly few.
I had begun to doubt whether ancient styles were truly so difficult to imitate when, of late, I came to realize that among those acquaintances of mine who are not waka poets, there are no few individuals who skillfully replicate those very styles.
Considering this, the poems of past waka poets may be far inferior to those of people today who are not waka poets, and I cannot help but feel disheartened.
Now then, how should one speak of the fact that the poems of today’s waka poets are even more inferior to those of past waka poets?

As for chōka alone, they differ somewhat from tanka.
The chōka of the Kokinshū are utterly useless; however, that such long poems did not gain much popularity either during the Kokinshū era or in later times may indeed be considered a stroke of fortune.
Therefore, even in later generations, among those who composed chōka, many directly took the Man’yōshū as their model—consequently, passable works have been observed.
Today, those who take pleasure in composing chōka have produced works somewhat more skillfully executed compared to tanka.
(The capriciously composed long poems by members of the Utakai faction are inferior even to folk songs.) However, some people derisively laugh at how long poems cannot depart from the Man’yō model.
Admittedly, that may be reasonable; however, were one to demand such difficult things of waka poets, one would have to say there have been almost no new poems since the Kokinshū era.
The various matters I have yet to discuss shall be deferred to a later missive.
End of letter.

[Japan, *Meiji* 31·2·12]

Again: Letters to Waka Poets

Tsurayuki was an unskilled poet, and the Kokinshū stood as a trivial anthology.
While those who declared "To revere Tsurayuki and the Kokinshū defies comprehension" might scorn such devotion, the truth remained that even I—the very one uttering these words—had counted myself among the Kokinshū's devotees until recent years. Thus I understood all too keenly the nature of people's lingering reverence.
During my years of worship, I had genuinely believed poetry to embody elegance itself, with the Kokinshū alone representing distilled refinement—yet awakening from this three-year infatuation in a single morning, I burned with chagrin and fury at having been duped by such a spiritless woman.
First, when one took up the tome called Kokinshū and opened its initial page, there immediately appeared the verse: "Last year—or should I say? This year—or should I say?" A truly vapid composition leaving one dumbstruck.
It mirrored the futility of debating whether to call a half-breed child Japanese or foreigner—resulting in verse neither clever nor coherent, mere trifling nonsense.
The remaining poems proved scarcely better—naught but strained witticisms or logical contrivances.
Even so, were one compelled to praise the Kokinshū, its sole virtue lay in having established a style distinct from the Man'yōshū—a novelty striking to any first encounter.
Truly incomprehensible were those later generations who made mimicry of this their sole artistic pursuit.
Had this persisted ten or twenty years, one might pardon it—but to witness such want of discernment in still sipping its dregs after two or three centuries left me aghast.
No matter which imperial anthology one might name—this collection or that—they amounted to naught but dregs of dregs of dregs from the Kokinshū.

Tsurayuki, too, was no different.
Not a single poem worthy of being called a poem did I see.
Once, when I expressed this to a certain person, they asked, "What of the poem 'The river wind chills; plovers cry out'?" leaving me at a loss.
This poem alone was a tasteful and interesting one.
However, beyond this, I believe there was not a single poem of this caliber.
"Snow unnoticed by the sky" amounted to a contrived jest.
"As for people—truly, even their hearts are unknowable" amounted to a shallow expression.
Yet Tsurayuki was the first to say such things and did not merely rehash the dregs of the ancients.
If we speak in terms of Chinese poetry, the Kokinshū era might be likened to the Song dynasty—vulgar and commonplace to such a degree that it could not compare to Tang poetry. Yet regarding this as a Song-era characteristic, its overall variation proved interesting, and Song thereby stood well on its own merits.
Taking that as their idol and imitating people’s flaws, the poets since the Kansei era became fine laughingstocks indeed.

In the period following the *Kokinshū*, the *Shinkokinshū* appeared somewhat superior.
I had encountered better poems than those in the *Kokinshū*.
Yet even those so-called good poems amounted to what could be counted on one’s fingers.
Teika was a man of indeterminate skill—neither clearly good nor bad. When one examined his editorial work on the *Shinkokinshū*, one might think he possessed some discernment; yet among his own poems there were none of real merit: “Stopping my horse to brush snow from my sleeves” or “Looking out—flowers and crimson leaves alike.”
He remained one feted by people to such a degree.
Were we to compare Teika to Kano school painters, I believed he would closely resemble Tanyū.
Teika had no masterpieces; Tanyū likewise had none.
Yet both Teika and Tanyū possessed considerable refined skill and managed to handle any situation adequately.
The reputations of both men rested in roughly equivalent positions: after Teika came poetic schools, after Tanyū came painting schools, and once both houses had established their respective cliques, poetry and painting alike fell into utter decay.
In any era or any art form, once rigid forms such as those of poetry and painting became established, there could be no further progress.

As for Kawabe no Kiyotomo and his blind devotion to the Kokinshū and Tsurayuki—the low level of his discernment needed no further mention now.
The abundance of vulgar songs was also a matter of course.
However, Kiyotomo did have some good poems.
There were many good poems [by him] that surpassed those of Tsurayuki, whom he himself admired.
Whether Kiyotomo had been superior to Tsurayuki remained unclear; however, given that there had been points of progress in Kiyotomo’s era compared to Tsurayuki’s, it stood to reason that Kiyotomo could produce better poems than Tsurayuki—a natural outcome indeed.
The aspect where Kiyotomo’s poems were a jumble of gems and dross would have been appropriately compared to Ransetsu among haiku poets, I believed.
Ransetsu was a man who had embodied the two extremes of elegance and vulgarity, skill and ineptitude, and these dualities manifested in his verses.
Moreover, in that he had used his full force of charisma to captivate the public and maintained numerous offshoot schools across the country, I believed he bore a striking resemblance [to Ransetsu].
If one studied Kiyotomo, unless they learned his good points, they would fall into a most wicked path; what was called the present-day Kiyotomo school learned only his vulgar aspects and produced works even more inept than Kiyotomo’s own.
The curly-haired person, having considered tying their hair in a topknot to be a good thing—the one who praised topknots seemed to have deliberately curled their hair as if to imitate [them].
I urged you to open your eyes wide here and discern carefully.
If you did not thoroughly compare literatures from ancient and modern times, East and West, but instead remained fixated on trivial poetry books alone, it would be difficult to awaken from your delusions—for your vision remained narrow, and you would be like one who, unaware of their own waterwheel’s motion, mistook it for the neighboring waterwheel’s turning.
End of missive.

[Japan Appendix Weekly, Meiji 31·2·14]

Thrice: Letters to Waka Poets

Previous parts omitted.
There existed nothing else as foolishly complacent as waka poets.
When one heard what waka poets declared—that nothing surpassed waka's excellence—they might perpetually boast this claim; yet since these poets knew nothing beyond verse, they had deluded themselves into believing poetry reigned supreme among arts.
They comprehended not even haiku—waka's closest kin—being so lax as to equate senryū with haiku merely through shared seventeen syllables; let alone studying Chinese poetry, they remained so illiterate and shallowly learned that they scarcely discerned whether poetry existed in the West at all. Should they have heard novels and plays too belonged to literature like waka, they would surely have gaped wide-eyed in astonishment.

If I spoke thus, some might deem me an ignorant fool who knew neither slander nor courtesy—but in truth, there existed no alternative. If you believed my words to be in error, I asked that you kindly point out even a single person among these so-called waka poets who comprehended haiku. Though I bore no grudge against waka poets, circumstances had compelled me to utter such vitriolic words—I humbly asked you to understand this state of mind.

To declare waka supreme was inherently devoid of logical reasoning, with not the slightest reason for its supposed superiority.
Haiku possessed its own merits; Chinese poetry had its strengths; Western poetry theirs; plays and Noh dramas theirs too—all these virtues naturally lay beyond waka's grasp.
Setting logic aside—what exactly did waka poets mean by esteeming waka above all? If mere thirty-one syllables could crown one sovereign of letters regardless of skill, making them superior even to masterful haiku or Chinese verse or Western poetry—then I longed to hear their measure for such claims.
Were even the clumsiest waka to outshine the finest haiku and Chinese poems, no fool would labor at those forms.
Since works exist in haiku and Chinese poetry surpassing waka—and waka contains pieces inferior to those forms—then waka alone could never reign supreme.
I found myself astonished anew at waka poets' shallow vision.

There were those who declared that haiku lacked rhythm while waka possessed it, and therefore waka surpassed haiku. This was by no means the argument of a single individual; I believed there were many among waka poets who held such views. Waka poets gravely misunderstood the matter of rhythm, I must say. In rhythm, there were smooth rhythms and there were intense rhythms. When singing of peaceful and tranquil scenes, one should use a smooth, long rhythm; and when singing of times when emotions surged with sorrow or indignation, or when depicting scenes of intense activity and sudden change in nature or human affairs, one should use an intense, short rhythm—this required no argument. However, it appeared that waka poets understood rhythm to consist solely of smooth ones. The origin of such errors stemmed ultimately from the fact that traditional waka had taken up only smooth rhythms, and given that waka poets who read nothing but anthologies—neither haiku nor Chinese poetry—it was only natural that they would come to think in this manner, I believed. So now, they were truly troublesome individuals indeed. If smooth rhythm was considered the strength of waka, then they did not seem to understand that intense rhythm was the strength of haiku. However, the essence of what were called intense rhythms and strong rhythms—these were things that the so-called waka poets could not possibly comprehend. Mabuchi favored bold and powerful poems; however, upon examining his own works, one found surprisingly few that were truly bold and powerful. As for poems as bold and powerful as Sanetomo’s—not a single one could be found among Mabuchi’s. “The wings of a soaring eagle bend low” and the like were excellent works in Mabuchi’s collection and might be considered strong poems in terms of meaning, yet their rhythm was perceived as weak. Had Sanetomo composed with this conception, he would not have employed such a rhythm. Though a poem such as “The warrior’s arrows being readied” did not possess a concept so fierce as to blow eagles away, its rhythm had no equal; when one recited this poem, it brought forth a sensation akin to hearing the clatter of hail. If Mabuchi was already thus, then those waka poets beneath him needed not be spoken of.

I wished to have such waka poets read Buson-school haiku anthologies or High Tang poetry collections; however, urging these puffed-up poets to engage with writings outside their own sect would be mere boorishness.

As you were aware through your knowledge of such matters—though waka poets deemed me an outsider or amateur; consequently having pursued no rigorous study of poetic forms nor comprehended their grammar—in matters of aesthetic sensibility I held firm convictions; indeed it was precisely here that I found professional poets negligent.
Should my critical words lead some to deem me but an idle meddler—whether such judgment holds truth remains known fully only to yourself.
Should any dissenters exist—whosoever they may be—through your good offices let them call upon me; three days and nights unbroken would I devote to debate.
In fervor’s measure I would not yield even unto common versifiers.
As passion drives my pen’s course—discourteous phrases may abound—for which transgressions I humbly crave your forbearance.
Respectfully yours,

[Japan, Meiji 31·2·18]

Four Times: Letters to Waka Poets

Respectfully,

I found your words most reasonable—that mere abstract theories proved difficult for others to comprehend, and thus one should critique based on concrete examples.
Though I was at a loss as to which examples to critique—for they were without limit—I resolved to begin with the most renowned ones.
I humbly requested that you kindly inform me of any poems that came to mind.
Now then, I wondered what merit there had been in Hitomaro’s poem—

At the wooden fish-weir stakes of Yasoji River where warriors [gather]—

*The drifting waves know not their course.*

This poem, I must say, was one frequently brought up as a prime example.
This poem employed the single-breath cadence popular during the Man’yō period; while containing not a trace of vulgarity and demonstrating well-wrought phrasing, when viewed in its entirety, the first three lines amounted to superfluous elements.
The poem that went “The mountain pheasant’s trailing tail” also had many prefatory phrases, but because those phrases were long, one felt the length of the night.
This, again, was a case where the first three lines served absolutely no purpose.
To cite this poem as a model for famous place poetry was nothing but sheer folly.
In general, poems about famous places needed to possess the distinctive features of their locale; a poem like this one, devoid of meaning, could not be considered a proper poem about a famous place.
However, when compared to the garish poems of later generations, this poem proved immeasurably superior.
Moreover, while this type of poem should not be imitated, having one or two such works among many did hold interest.

When I gaze upon the moon, how countless things fill me with sorrow!
Though it is not autumn for me alone,

This poem was one that people praised most highly.
The first three lines flowed smoothly without issue, but the last two amounted to logical contrivances and superfluous additions.
Poetry exists to express emotions; those who expound logical reasoning do so precisely because they know nothing of poetry.
That these final lines constituted logical contrivance could be discerned even from their negative phrasing—for had one composed it as "autumn for me alone," it would have carried emotion, but merely stating the obvious fact that "it is not autumn" plunged it into contrived reasoning.
That people considered such poems good stemmed from their inability to escape logical reasoning; needless to speak of common folk, even today's so-called waka poets mostly took pleasure in parading such reasonings.
Strictly speaking, these were neither poetry nor poets.

Though I know not what lies beyond Yoshinoyama’s mist,
As far as could be seen, there were cherry blossoms.

They spoke of Yatsuta Tomonori’s so-called masterpieces.
Though I had not yet read Tomonori’s collection, if these were considered masterpieces, their shallowness lay utterly transparent.
This one too, like the previous example, fell into logical reasoning through its negative phrasing: “Though I know not what lies beyond the mist.”
The meaning that “what lies beyond sight remains unknown” was already implicit in stating “as far as is visible,” yet the poet deliberately explained it with “though I know not”—this exemplified poor craftsmanship.
Moreover, the form of this poem—phrases like “as far as is visible, there were cherry blossoms”—stood utterly clumsy and vulgar, while the earlier “Senri” poem, though flawed in logical reasoning, far surpassed this one in form.
To elaborate further: while I had stated that negative phrasing leads to logical reasoning, this did not always hold true. When evoking objective scenery through association, even negative phrasing avoided logical contrivance. For example, “Stopping my horse to brush my sleeves—no shadow remains” merely conjured an objective scene; since emotion could not be expressed otherwise, it naturally contained no logical reasoning.
There existed also poems wholly steeped in logic (such as Buddhist hymns); these might gain modest interest through their phrasing. However, when a poem like this Yoshinoyama piece—wholly objective and scenic—mixed lines of subjective logic within it, all charm evaporated completely.
Furthermore, I wondered what merit could reside in the same poet’s poem—

In this ephemeral world, all I ought to witness in my lifetime—
The cherry blossoms of Arashiyama were!

Such a poem exists—ah, but this is a logical contrivance that leaves one utterly taken aback.
That Arashiyama's cherry blossoms are beautiful is naturally an objective matter, yet this poem presents it through logical reasoning. The phrasing of this poem should be used when crafting entirely logical conceits—to employ it in a context like this, where objective description is essential, strikes me as the work of crass vulgarity.
The act of linking with "beki wa" and concluding with "narikeri" marks precisely where it becomes most logically contrived and devoid of aesthetic charm.
The very notion of dedicating one's life to viewing Arashiyama's cherry blossoms is an utterly banal conceit; this poem possesses not a single redeeming quality.
I shall continue to address these matters systematically as they arise.

[Japan, Meiji 31·2·21]

Five Times: Letters to Waka Poets

The white clouds I casually glimpsed are at the mountain's base.

In skies unforeseen, Fuji's peak stands clear.

This one may have been Harumi's work, I believe.
This appeared to be an improvisation composed while gazing up from Fuji's base; having myself actually experienced such a sensation, I once considered it an intriguing poem, but upon reappraisal now find it a clumsy piece.
First: The term "base" gave me pause—the vantage point of my casual glimpse must have been at least mid-slope in elevation, making its designation as the base questionable.
Second: Even granting some validity to "at the base," this phrase becomes mired in logical contrivance and loses all charm; one should simply state that the casually glimpsed clouds lay higher than this.
Third: To properly convey Fuji's lofty majesty in verse would require considerably more vigor; this poem's feeble form utterly fails to match the mountain's grandeur.
In Kikō's haiku—"A clear day: snow-clad Fuji piercing through clouds"—though described with utmost simplicity, the mountain's essence emerges vividly captured.

Burning seaweed at Naniwa Bay—eightfold mist

The singlefold was the fishermen’s doing.

This poem of Keichū’s is one celebrated by common folk, yet any person of discernment would recognize how it has sunk to vulgarity.
That this poem gains renown lies unquestionably in its punning interplay between “eightfold” and “singlefold”—yet my critique too strikes precisely here. With such verses, the very points some extol to extremes are exactly what others condemn most fiercely.
The so-called “eightfold mist” does not naturally form eight discrete layers; thus this “singlefold” notion rings utterly hollow. Worse still, having first mentioned “burning seaweed,” the poet shies from naming smoke outright, instead forcing the subjective turn “fishermen’s doing”—a choice that plunges the poem into vulgarity.
Had he simply described smoke drifting above mist-veiled shores in ordinary terms, it might have been dull, but never could such distastefulness have arisen.

Should I pluck them at random—the first frost’s...

The white chrysanthemum flowers arranged and laid out

Though Ki no Mitsune’s poem appears in the Hyakunin Isshu and everyone recites it, it remains a worthless poem not worth a penny.
This poem employs a false conceit; there was no conceivable way white chrysanthemums would become obscured merely by the first frost settling upon them.
If a conceit was false, it held neither charm nor substance; indeed, being a trivial falsehood made it trivial, whereas a masterful lie proved engaging.
For example, “When one saw the whiteness of frost laid upon the bridge of magpies, the night had deepened” proved engaging.
Ki no Mitsune’s work merely described trivial matters in an excessively extravagant manner and thus lacked charm, but Ōtomo no Yakamochi’s work presented something nonexistent through imagination and thereby proved engaging.
If one composed lies, they should be grandiose falsehoods of utterly nonexistent matters; if not, it was proper to compose truthfully as things were.
Lies such as sparrows having their tongues cut out or raccoon dogs transforming into old women proved engaging.
Lies that grandiosely deceived people with feigned seriousness, such as claiming white chrysanthemums could not be seen due to this morning’s frost, were utterly devoid of charm.
Many waka poets took pleasure in composing phrases like “the sound of dew falling” or “the moon over plum blossoms being fragrant,” yet these too were uninteresting lies.
All lies might be good once or twice, but when composed time and again, even interesting lies became uninteresting.
Needless to say, uninteresting lies were not worth speaking of.
“The sound of dew” and “the fragrance of the moon”
“As for phrases like ‘the color of the wind,’ they have already been used sufficiently; I wish for them not to appear again in future poems.”
“Phrases like ‘the fragrance of flowers’ are mostly falsehoods—cherry blossoms have no particular scent to speak of, and even ‘the fragrance of plum blossoms’ does not exude as later waka poets since the Kokinshū have described it.”

The darkness of a spring night is absurd—plum blossoms.

Though its color remains unseen, how could its fragrance be hidden?

“Plum blossoms scenting the darkness”—while I had to acknowledge the *laborious effort* of stretching this single phrase into thirty-one syllables, and while such contrivances might still permit being tolerated these days as novelties, O waka poets, should you not put an end to this “fragrant plums in darkness” conceit once and for all?
Not only plums in darkness but even ordinary plum fragrances appear over ten times in the *Kokinshū* alone; from that era to today, those composed by generations of waka poets defy enumeration. Yet even these you should moderately restrain—if you wish to employ them in perfumes and fragrances, that is another matter—but otherwise, resolve to banish them entirely from poetry. How about distancing yourselves [from such tropes] to the point of being ridiculed as stuffy-nosed poets?
The lie of inflating trivial matters appears to be a major cause of waka’s corruption.

[Japan, Meiji 31, February 23]

Six Times: Letters to Waka Poets

In reviewing your correspondence, my intent appeared to have been misunderstood.
What proved particularly strange was how contradictions collided within four or five lines of your letter.
First appeared "One should compose with emphasis on objective scenery," followed by "It cannot be thought that one should compose only objectively."
What precisely did this "and so forth" signify?
I had never stated that poems should be composed solely through objective means.
Though I had never explicitly advocated prioritizing objectivity, this position seemed closer to my humble views.
"The poetry of our nation is founded on emotion"—
What exactly did this "and so forth" purport?
That all literature—not merely poetry—rests upon emotion constituted an unchanging truth across all eras and lands; had anyone based their work on logical reasoning rather than emotion, such creations could not be called poetry or literature at all.
Thus when phrases like "our nation's poetry is..." emerged, I suspected they originated from waka poets who knew nothing beyond conventional verses.
"In what era did which person decree that poems employing logical reasoning are not poems?" stood as a most astonishing inquiry.
That logical reasoning does not constitute literature formed a definition upon which all people—past and present, East and West—unanimously agreed; were there those claiming even logical reasoning qualifies as literature, they would likely prove to be Japanese waka poets.

Regarding the terms "objectivity," "subjectivity," "emotion," and "logical reasoning," my humble intent had perhaps been misunderstood.
Even a poem composed entirely objectively required no verbal declaration if rooted in emotion.
For instance, were one to versify exactly how a solitary willow stood at the bridge's edge, buffeted by wind, that poem would indeed be objective; yet the very act of composition sprang from finding beauty in this scene—thus being emotionally grounded went without saying—with the difference lying solely in whether terms like "beautiful" or "delightful" were explicitly written or omitted.
Moreover, within what we call "subjective," there existed a distinction between emotion and logical reasoning—what I rejected was the element of reasoning within subjectivity, not the emotional aspect.
Poems of emotional subjectivity ought not to be ranked above or below objective ones based merely on this subjective-objective distinction; hence I was no advocate of prioritizing objectivity.
However, believing that short forms like waka and haiku contained more excellent objective phrases than subjective ones, if emphasizing objectivity meant recognizing this reality, no contradiction arose.
Your contention that the boundaries between subjective/objective and emotion/reason lacked clear definition was indeed valid.
Therefore, when assessing qualities as good/evil or skilled/clumsy, no absolute distinctions existed—while extremes left no ambiguity, those between poles defied categorization.
This very condition applied to works hovering between emotion and logical reasoning.

"Even when using the same terms - 'flowers' and 'moon' - it is hardly uncommon for our own conceptions of them to differ from those held by people of antiquity."
"And so forth—this goes without saying—but such matters bear no relation whatsoever to what I discuss here."
"There exists no present need to conjecture about ancient minds; here stands one who appraises literature through a universal literary standard (a standard I myself uphold) that bridges all eras and realms."

There was indeed an era when wind-powered ships were swift; yet through eyes acquainted with steamships, declaring wind-powered ships slow becomes perfectly reasonable. Though Tsurayuki might be deemed a skilled waka poet of his time, should one recognize that numerous poets surpassing him existed both before and after his era—then judging Tsurayuki unskilled stands equally justified.
Were one to praise Tsurayuki historically, I would offer no particular objection; however, this present discourse seeks not historical evaluation of the man himself but literary critique of his poetry.

“The national poetry that could be called the fortress of Japanese literature”—what nonsense is this “fortress” talk? If those imperially commissioned anthologies through the ages were truly our literary ramparts, they would make for pitiful defenses indeed—flimsy walls that would crumble utterly before a single cannon blast. Let me make this clear: I seek not to demolish our national poetry, but rather to rebuild Japanese literature’s citadel into walls so formidable that even when those bearded foreign savages fire their cannons or lay their landmines, they would not so much as tremble. Yet in all this wide world exists not one true patron to aid me in this grand endeavor—only those who, having festered in stagnation for years, now find some petty outlet for their disordered clamor, shrieking wild proclamations until even I question my own sanity. To outside observers, these must surely seem the ravings of a madman. Now seizing this chance to voice my thoughts through newspaper margins, I would lay bare my humble views—yet fearing mere words might fail to convey my intent, I dare submit my own works for your esteemed judgment. But oh how I dread provoking our seniors’ wrath and being silenced! Tormented by fear and hope alike, my chronic illness has left my nerves frayed thin—these sleepless nights render me but a fool or lunatic for your mockery.

To take traditional waka as the foundation and fortress of Japanese literature was akin to attempting to fight with bows, arrows, swords, and spears—it was not something that should have been done in the Meiji era. Though we purchased warships and cannons today, expending vast sums abroad—after all, this served only to fortify Japan—therefore, with modest sums, I earnestly wished to continually import foreign literary thought and thereby reinforce the ramparts of Japanese literature. As for waka, I intended to destroy old ideas and call for new ones; therefore, regarding diction, I planned to employ elegant terms, colloquial language, Chinese-derived words, and Western terms as needed. Details would follow in a subsequent letter.

Though phrases like the divine winds of Ise and the oracle of Usa exist, in literature we do not debate rationality versus irrationality; consequently, I have never claimed that irrationality lies beyond literature's domain.
In literary terms, irrational matters hold no scarcity of intriguing qualities.
What I call realism does not concern itself with distinctions between rational/irrational or factual/nonfactual.
Oil painters must indeed sketch from life - yet through this method they vividly portray gods, yōkai apparitions, and utterly fantastical scenes.
However, even when depicting deities or specters, one must still base them on life sketches - my realism follows this same principle of difference between faithfully recording singular visions versus compiling composite studies.

These are grave misunderstandings.

[Japan, Meiji 31·2·24]

Seven Times: Letters to Waka Poets

I shall now humbly state a few additional matters left unmentioned in my previous correspondence.
Just as mention of masterly haiku immediately conjures vulgarity, so too does mention of waka immediately evoke staleness—such has been the ingrained habit of recent years that even the very character for “waka” has come to be perceived as synonymous with staleness.
I believe there exist none within waka circles who feel this way, yet I understand that non-poets generally harbor such impressions.
When one occasionally asks those who disparage waka, “Well then, how should waka be improved?” and they shake their heads saying, “No—how could there be any means to improve something already utterly decayed? Just abandon it!”—such individuals appear akin to a renowned physician who has cast aside his spoon before a patient at death’s door.
Truly, waka resembles a patient whose complexion has paled and whose breath nears its end.
Yet my humble views differ profoundly: though waka’s spirit has withered, its form remains intact; I assure you that should we now revitalize its essence, it may again become robust waka and gallop across the literary realm.
Though this matter transcends ordinary discourse, when certain persons equate it to a patient already beyond saving, they must be those who—utterly aghast at waka’s extreme corruption—have discarded it after but a glance.
The profound depth of waka’s decay may largely be grasped through this.

This corruption stemmed from stagnant poetic conceits; this stagnation in turn arose from limited vocabulary.
Therefore, those seeking varied conceits must expand their lexical domain—increased vocabulary naturally yields conceptual diversity.
Certain critics mistakenly claim I would constrict waka’s scope when my true aim remains its measured expansion.
Yet however broadly we extend its boundaries, non-literary thought—meaning logical reasoning—finds no admission here.

Though there may indeed be people who consider me a destroyer of Japanese literature for advocating that we should employ foreign terms and adopt literary ideas practiced abroad, this constitutes a fundamental error at its root.
Even if one composes poems in Chinese, in Western languages, or even in Sanskrit, as long as they are created by Japanese people, they remain indisputably Japanese literature.
Even when modeling court ranks after the Tang system, establishing clothing colors and era names accordingly, and donning Tang-style robes and caps, a government organized by Japanese people must still be called the Japanese government.
Even if purchasing British warships and German cannons leads to military victory, provided those operating them are Japanese, it must be recognized as Japan's triumph.
However, should one find the use of foreign elements regrettable and resolve to employ only inherently Japanese ones, I would commend their resolve; yet relying solely on Japanese elements would prove utterly impractical.
In literature too - if we were to eliminate all Chinese-derived terms beginning with words like "horse," "plum," "butterfly," "chrysanthemum," and "writing" - what manner of composition could possibly emerge?
Were we to expunge all works employing Chinese-derived terms starting with *The Tale of Genji* and *The Pillow Book*, how much of Japanese literature would remain?
Nevertheless, should some stubborn soul insist on composing poetry solely with native Japanese vocabulary, that remains their personal prerogative - but imposing this standard upon others serves no purpose.
If all Japanese people were constrained to use only native terms, Japan itself would cease to function; were all Japanese literati thus restricted, our literature would face certain ruin.

There may indeed be those who opportunistically argue that terms like “horse,” “plum,” “butterfly,” “chrysanthemum,” and “writing” should be deemed Japanese since they have been used since antiquity; yet those very ancients employed newly imported terms in their own time—had these expedient theorists lived then, they would have spurned those very words too.

This was an utterly laughable contradiction.
Suppose one were to borrow a step from expedient theorists and use only terms employed in ancient times—if one were to fully utilize even just the Chinese-derived terms used during the Heian period, there would still remain some room for waka to undergo variation.
However, those typical waka poets would claim that the words of waka and prose are inherently distinct—that many terms found in prose cannot be used in poetry.
What a laughable matter this was!
Any words capable of conveying beauty must all be called the words of poetry; there exist none that can be called poetic words outside these.
Whether Chinese-derived terms or Western terms—if employed literarily—all must be called poetic words.

[Japan, Meiji 31·2·28]

Eight Times: Letters to Waka Poets

Having presented examples of inferior poems earlier, I now present examples of commendable ones here. To speak of bad poems and good poems—though offering merely four or five examples would hardly suffice to fully convey my meaning—I nevertheless deemed it preferable to none and thus humbly list them here. Shall we begin with the Kinkai Wakashū?

*On the forearm where warriors ready their arrows,*
*Hail scatters—Nasu’s bamboo plains.*

Though I hear this poem receives universal acclaim, bringing it up anew might seem unnecessary. Yet I present it regardless, fearing no weariness on your part might remain. While all would find its aesthetic charm engaging, and though none could deny the rarity of such conceits in waka or overlook its potency, many likely remain unaware that these phrasing techniques constitute a distinctive feature nearly unique to this work alone. Typically, waka employ auxiliary particles like *nari*, *keri*, *ran*, *kana*, and *kere* for structure, resulting in sparse nouns; this poem alone abounds with them—three instances of *no*, one *ni*, and two verbs in their briefest present forms. Verses so richly furnished with essential material remain truly scarce. The Shinkokinshū contains poems with comparable substance and taut phrasing, yet none achieve this work’s vitality in every syllable. While Man'yōshū poems prevail through simplicity despite meager materials, Sanetomo both emulates that Man'yō style and pioneers such revolutionary works—his prowess truly defies measure.

Again, in a poem praying for clear weather:

"In these dire times, it is the people’s lamentations that overflow; O Eight Great Dragon Kings, cease the rain, I pray."

There exists this poem, which I believe is likely not favored by the general public; however, this is a poem that I cannot help but adore beyond measure. Such a powerfully fearsome poem is unparalleled; the force with which it reprimands the Eight Great Dragon Kings manifests such intensity that even the dragon kings would prostrate themselves. The use of Chinese-derived terms like “Eight Great Dragon Kings” in eight-character phrases and the four-three rhythm in “O rain, cease!” all serve to amplify this poem’s vigor. Though the first three lines were exceedingly clumsy, their very artlessness—being stated in one straight breath—instead demonstrated their unfeigned sincerity, making them most fitting for a prayer for clear weather. Minamoto no Sanetomo had not composed this with the intention of creating a good poem from the outset; yet by simply chanting forth from genuine sincerity, it may well have become a good poem. This lies beyond the reach of those waka poets who merely toy with fingertip dexterity and fixate solely on verbal manipulation. Though I shall elaborate on three-line breaks in detail another day, having encountered a poem employing this technique, I felt compelled to offer a brief remark here. To say “one must not compose poems in three lines” was but stump-guarding theories unworthy of serious discussion; however, poems employing three-line breaks did suffer from the flaw of becoming frivolous. To remedy this flaw, they often employed extra syllables in the latter two lines—this poem being one such example (the previously cited poem by Ōe no Chisato beginning “When I gaze at the moon…” also fell into this category). Moreover, there were countless others too numerous to enumerate. As in this poem, when one employed extra syllables in the latter lines, the three-line break instead gained formidable momentum. In short, this poem was one that demonstrated the necessity of the three-line break. Again,

Oh voiceless things - even broken fragments - how profoundly moving they are! And parents think of their child.

Though there was nothing particularly novel in its poetic conceit, its composition in one breath instead revealed a sincere heart in abundance. Let me briefly address the matter of extra syllables here. This poem becomes fascinating precisely because of the extra syllables in its fifth line. Some may believe extra syllables are reluctantly forced into verse, but this is not so—they may be divided into three general types: first, those made compelling through their extra syllables; second, those made worse by them; and third, those where their presence or absence matters little. Among these, this poem belongs to the first category. Were one to compress “omou” by eliding the “wo” particle into “mou” when reciting it, all interest would vanish utterly. Here, it must be read as eight syllables. Moreover, this poem demonstrates emotional intensity by concentrating force solely on its final line—“parents think of their child”—whereas placing “parents” in the fourth line and rendering the conclusion as “think of their child, ah” or “would they think of their child?” would reduce it to that usual elegant tone, causing the raw emotion to dissipate and rendering the poem ordinary. Since ancient times, waka poets have abused auxiliary particles like Song dynasty poets wielding empty words to produce feeble verse. As for Sanetomo, I consider him truly without peer across a thousand generations.

Though I had been misunderstood in recent days as one who exclusively favored objective poetry, this misconception could be dispelled through the examples above: Nasu’s poem was purely objective, while the latter two were purely subjective—all of which I cherished equally.
However, since these three poems alone leaned too heavily toward forceful styles, someone might again suppose that I favored only powerful poems.
I humbly asked you to await my presentation of a few more example poems.

[Japan, Meiji 31·3·1]

Ninth Time: Letters to Waka Poets

Since discussing each in detail would have proven tedious, I resolved to present two or three poems here before moving beyond the *Kinkai Wakashū*.

Though mountains should crumble and seas run dry in this world, could I ever harbor duplicity toward you?

Crossing the Hakone Pass—ah! The Izu Sea spreads before me, waves drawing near to distant islets offshore.

The world—ever thus and so— / creaking oars row; / the fisherman’s skiff-towline— / ah, how sorrowful!

Waves surging upon primordial rocks of the vast ocean—shattering! crumbling! splitting! scattering—ah!

While I found the Hakone Pass poem profoundly fascinating, such sentiments being timeless through past and present meant there was no cause for astonishment that Sanetomo had composed it. What compelled marvel was rather the technical mastery required to craft verses of ancient sentiment and cadence during the Shinkokin era—that age following Man'yō times when poets vied for splendor—though it would be redundant now to expound further on Sanetomo’s peerless depth.
Might Minamoto no Sanetomo have originated the phrasing technique seen in this vast sea poem?

Moving to the *Shinkokinshū* to present two or three poems:

Gazing through breaks in the haze over Nako’s sea—white waves in the offing wash the setting sun. (Sanetomo)

Those who had skillfully depicted scenery with such objectivity would not have existed before the *Shinkokinshū*; these works too should be recognized as distinctive features of this anthology.
The flaw lay regrettably in the phrase “through breaks in the haze.”
To speak of “gaps” in a haze that hung uniformly across the sky was itself absurd; even had such gaps existed, they would have served no purpose for this poetic conceit.
That both setting sun and sea were seen through the haze—this was where its charm resided.

Dimly, the lingering moon’s moonlight— / the mountain wind that blows down crimson leaves. (Nobuaki)

This too was an objective poem where the scene stood lonely yet alluring; the way words were layered to establish rhythm struck me as remarkably novel.

In this loneliness endured— / may there be more like them! / Let us line our huts together / in this winter mountain village. (Saigyō)

Saigyō’s spirit was fully manifested in this poem.
"A poem as blunt as 'Even this heartless body knows sorrow' became celebrated in the world," yet it vexed me that so few recognized the worth of this verse.
A conceit as innovative and tasteful as “lining our huts together” was something no one but Saigyō could have conceived; even his placement of “winter’s” in “winter mountain village” struck me as no ordinary technique among waka poets.
In later years when Matsuo Bashō newly established haikai could it not be that he gained insight from phrases like “lining our huts together,” and that his method of concluding seasonal references was inspired by expressions like “winter mountain village”?

Partially covering the sleeping chamber, on the broad-leaved oak outside, hail clattered down. (Noin)

This too was an objective poem.
The upper three lines had attempted to present a complex atmosphere but became somewhat muddled; however, the scene of hail clattering against the broad-leaved oak was exceedingly fascinating.

When I sought the village master at the hill's edge, people gave no reply—only the mountain wind. (Jien)

It possessed taste and its phrasing was executed with precision.
Were one to employ phrasing that connected downward, such as using "answer not" for the fourth line in this type of poem, there would be no interest whatsoever.

Rippling waves—when the Hira Mountain wind blew over the sea, the sleeves of the ama divers casting their lines fluttered in return. (Anonymous)

Depicting the actual scene as it was, without employing any artifice, instead held much interest.

Divine winds! Taking sacred sakaki leaves to layer—at Naiku and Geku Shrines, pray earnestly for our lord. (Shunei)

When one spoke of songs for the gods, they typically lined up set phrases like "a thousand and eight thousand generations," yet this poem, in its decisive utterance amidst such conventions, seemed to align with the divine will.
The tightness of the phrasing and the half-objective manner of description deserved attention; though the five characters "Divine winds!" might have seemed devoid of deeper meaning, they resonated most excellently.

May the buddhas of Anuttarā Samyak Saṃbodhi bestow their divine favor upon this timber mountain where they stand apart. (Dengyō)

It was an exceedingly splendid poem.
The use of long phrases stood unprecedented through all ages; while its composer proved undeniably skilled, I believed even greater commendation was due for including such verse in an imperially commissioned anthology.
Though its second line—a ten-character sequence of set expressions—clumsily lingered on one’s tongue through sheer length alone，the fifth line’s nine characters required precise calibration despite appearing accidental; had one concluded with seven characters there，the structural equilibrium against that initial decasyllabic line would have collapsed entirely.
Frequent instances arose where initial lines bearing extra syllables necessitated subsequent ji-amari placements.
Those advocating minimal ji-amari usage—even by single syllables—revealed themselves ignorant of its aesthetic essence.

[Japan, Meiji 31·3·3]

Tenth Time: Letters to Waka Poets

The veneration of seniors exists in every society.
While paying due respect to elders and meritorious figures remains proper, this becomes utter folly when extended to worshipping their skills and techniques.
When country folk hear "Imperial Poetry Bureau," they imagine a gathering of eminent poets; hearing "Director of the Imperial Poetry Bureau," they presume him Japan's foremost waka master. Thus they deem his verses masterpieces unread—a mindset I too once shared.
Recalling this now brings me profound shame.
The Imperial Poetry Bureau hosts no eminent gathering, nor does its directorship guarantee a first-rate poet.
Though today lacks true waka poets, any skilled versifier surpassing those bureaucrats would surely emerge among commoners.
Rustics revere veteran statesmen as political paragons—hence their retort to journalists criticizing ministers: "No matter your bluster, ministers are imperially appointed while you're paupers—moon versus mud turtle!"
Those discerning know these statesmen's incompetence—how ministers rotate into office, even ex-journalists ascending—yet rural teachers cling obstinately to their reverence—most infuriating.
If even politics remains unchanged despite public outcry, small wonder poetry circles sheltering reclusive elders teem with such rustic adulation—yet waka cannot advance without reforming this senile worship.
Waka knows no hierarchy—in poetry, neither age nor status holds sway.
Should any youth wish to compose waka, let him versify freely without bowing to elders—this I implore you convey.
Meiji Chinese poetry flourished precisely because youths cast aside elders.
My revised haiku perspective too stems solely from speaking my mind against trite conventions.

The excessive use of associative wordplay is a flaw in waka; while such wordplay may be effective in certain instances, ordinarily, when one employs combinations of these associations, they end up diminishing the poem’s essence.
Even if one were to fully articulate it, this kind of beauty is, in my view, among the lower ranks of beauty.
Waka poets who insist on cramming their verses with associative wordplay are no different from dilettantes who line up cheap puns without restraint—though the practitioners themselves may swell with pride, to an observer’s eye, the vulgarity is all too evident.
Rather than showing off skill with associative wordplay, speaking straightforwardly appears far more refined.

When it comes to waka, it troubles me that discussions inevitably devolve into quarrels over diction.
In waka circles, some insist it's proper to write "deep-viewing herb" rather than "peony," or declare certain words must follow set conventions—but this fundamentally diverges from my own contemplations.
My humble thoughts neither seek to echo the ancients' dual paths nor slavishly follow tradition; their essential purpose lies solely in manifesting with utmost clarity the aesthetic sensibility I perceive as beauty.
Therefore, if using colloquial language better conveys this aesthetic beauty, one must discard elegant diction and adopt the vernacular; though there exist instances of composing according to age-old conventions, this stems not from upholding tradition itself but because such methods prove apt for revealing beauty—they're employed solely to that end.
Though we speak of the ancients' traditions, those very forebears likely pioneered many innovations themselves.

When attempting to explain the distinction between peony and deep-viewing herb, for someone like myself, saying "peony" rather than "deep-viewing herb" allowed the phantom image of peonies to manifest more swiftly and distinctly. Moreover, the sound "botan" carried greater force that complemented well the actual peony flower's grand, dignified presence. Therefore, if one wished to objectively present peonies' beauty, there were many cases where it proved better to compose them simply as "peonies."

When I urged poets to compose novel subjects, some brought forth so-called tools of civilization like steam engines and railways—but their measure of judgment stood gravely mistaken. These mechanical contrivances largely lacked poetic refinement and resisted incorporation into waka; yet if one insisted on versifying them, blending them with elements possessing aesthetic interest became essential. To render lines like "the wind blows over rails" without such blending elements would achieve nothing but supreme dreariness. At minimum, introducing companion imagery—violets blooming beside tracks, poppies scattering after a train's passage, pampas grass swaying nearby—might render such verses somewhat more palatable. Moreover, aesthetically barren subjects were better viewed from afar: glimpsing a steam engine beyond rapeseed blossoms, or watching one traverse summer grasslands' edge—these methods could serve as viable means to dispel poetic desolation.

I have gathered and set forth all I wished to convey.
Moreover, there may yet come an occasion when I shall explain these matters more thoroughly.

End.

Date.

[Japan, Meiji 31·3·4]