Pathway to Japanese Literature

When I first began discussing poetry, a certain person advised me to examine the Toshiyori Collection, the Fumio Collection, and the Akemi Collection.
The reason they said this was because these three collections differed from ordinary poetry anthologies.
First I examined Minamoto no Toshiyori’s *Sanboku Kika Collection* and found disappointment.
Beyond employing some unusual vocabulary, there proved nothing else remarkable about it.
Next I examined Inoue Fumio’s *Chōkaku Collection* and met disappointment again.
This too contained nothing remarkable apart from using words found in tales that ordinary poems avoided.
Finally, when I examined Tachibana Akemi’s *Shinofunosha Collection of Poems*, I realized for the first time that this was no ordinary anthology.
Those poems neither fell into the stale conventions of the *Kokinshū* and *Shinkokinshū* nor succumbed to the stereotypes of Mabuchi and Keiki; having learned from the *Man'yōshū* yet transcending it, they captured trivialities and mundanities to wield them freely—all while maintaining refined maturity utterly devoid of vulgarity.
Above all, how their themes disdained nature’s ornamental trappings to directly express inner convictions demonstrated a discernment so lofty that one could perceive their transcendence over the commonplace.
Thus did the world know Toshiyori and Fumio while remaining ignorant even of Akemi’s very name.

Regarding Akemi’s deeds and conduct, I have yet to hear of this.
Based on what is found in his poetry collection, one can infer that a man from the Fukui region had extensively studied ancient learning and had long harbored loyalist ideals.
Matsudaira Shungaku held him up as a master of classical poetry; he most earnestly declined the recommendation.
However, dwelling constantly in a hovel as if destitution itself had been scrubbed clean, he remained at odds with the world.
Amidst piles of ancient texts, leaning on a solitary, worn desk, he delved into antiquity and found joy in the Way.
Though composing poetry was by no means his primary pursuit, his inner grievances—having no outlet elsewhere—must have coalesced into thirty-one syllables to manifest themselves; it is precisely this that allows his poems to shed worldly dust and refrain from flattering the age.
He himself composed and declared:

My songs bring joy yet spill tears; at the night window where demons wail their cries.

Come night after night beneath this lamplight, demons—I shall let you hear my songs to their fullest.

These are not songs for humans reeking of humanity; should demons come when night deepens, I shall not speak of them.

My songs that exquisitely leak heaven-and-earth's heart shall never reach ordinary ears.

What complaint could there be? What arrogance? Though he titled these verses "In Jest," what reader would fail to recognize this jest as no mere jest? Yet he felt compelled to use that title—through it we see depths holding a veritable deluge of tears. Ah, this unrecognized man! These unrecognized poems!

The relationship between him and Shungaku, along with the general state of his life, was detailed in the text of *Shungaku’s Autobiography*.
The text stated:

Account of Tachibana Akemi’s House

One who seeks those surpassing oneself in knowledge does not discriminate between high or low status, always meeting them to inquire and hear their tales. Today—rare for this season—with sunlight warm and skies serenely clear since dawn, thinking the scenery of mountains, rivers, and fields must be extraordinary, they set out on an outing around the Hour of the Snake. Upon reaching a place called Mitsuhashi, Nakane Morozane remarked, “That over there is Akemi’s house,” prompting them to abruptly decide to visit. A small plank hut stood wretchedly unenclosed, its corners uncleared—perhaps why dust had piled into hills—with no proper brushwood gate. They precariously entered the dwelling. Morozane, flustered, cried out in alarm, “Lord Sangikan’s arrival!” Startled, someone from within crawled out on bent knees, prostrating themselves...●

Upon entering a slightly wider space, they saw walls crumbling, paper screens torn, tatami mats worn thin enough to let rain leak through. Yet atop the desk lay thousands of books piled high, and within a crude cabinet stood a statue of Hitomaro. They changed out of their garments into patched robes resembling those worn by paupers. At this moment, he bestowed a single folding fan upon Hatai Tamotsu and commanded Akemi to compose a poem. He remarked: “The name ‘Straw Hut’ for your dwelling ill suits it; since you share ties with the Tachibana clan, rename it ‘Hut of Endurance’ from this day forth.” The filth of the house defied comparison—one could almost imagine lice crawling about.

Though his form appeared wretchedly poor, how refined and precious was the heart within! I, though dwelling in mansions and halls as one of noble status—lacking nothing in material comforts—yet found myself deficient in the myriad volumes of wisdom within my breast, my spirit chilled and impoverished compared to Akemi. This truth needing no further words, I felt my face flush with shame unbidden. Henceforth, let me revere not only Akemi’s poems but also the refinement of his heart—thereby washing clean my soul’s impurities and making companions of moon and blossoms beyond this fleeting world. These words were recorded by Councilor, Senior Fourth Rank, Assistant Minister of the Treasury Minamoto no Ason Yoshinaga upon returning to his residence in the Sixth Month of Genji 2 [1865].

The manner in which Akemi dwelled in austere poverty while finding peace alone, and conversely, the manner in which Shungaku, despite his noble status, humbled himself to visit the scholar—both can be well understood by reading this text.
This bond of mutual understanding exists.
Akemi should rest in his grave.

[*Nihon*, March 22, 1899]

While Akemi’s state of austere poverty was largely revealed in this text, the actual conditions of his clothing, food, and shelter—that is, the degree of his livelihood—could be known in even greater detail through his poems.
Those poems are presented below.

When someone had borrowed an umbrella from another and failed to return it for an extended period, he sent a child to retrieve it but could not get it back.

A dwelling without even a single kerria bloom / Also possesses not two umbrellas—so it goes.

The extent of that poverty was something we too had experienced.

Having spread a mat on bare earth within that perpetually desk-crammed low hut, they left a bamboo shoot growing tall just as it was.

In the window where bamboo pierced through walls to brush against frames, each time it stirred those branches would wave.

A hut so cramped there was barely room to sit—now overtaken by bamboo—he kept shrinking himself within.

We who were born in Meiji cannot have become so poor.
(There are not a few examples in his collection where “kusa-ya” [草屋] is read as “kusa no ya” [grass hut] and “kusabana” [草花] as “kusa no hana” [grass flowers].)
(not Sino-Japanese terms)

At times when coins were scarce,

the rice fund still remained unfilled; though he composed poems and writings to sell,

The method by which he earned rice money can be somewhat inferred from this poem.
(“泉” should be read as “zeni” [coins]).

One day, Mr. Tada sent someone from his Cave of Ordinary Life—a diligent man who came to repair the crumbling wall of his hermitage. Disregarding Akemi’s protests of “Leave this area as it is!”, the man seized the desk and everything else, hauling them hither and thither. I, feeling as if thieves might break in that night, panicked and shrank myself into a corner to watch this lad’s bustling movements—yet even I could not help finding it absurdly comical.

Chasing the master here and there, the plasterer went around painting all the walls of the hut.

The narrowness of the house and the master’s indifference were evident in this written account, and both the man himself and the scene appeared as vividly before one’s eyes as if they were present.

Though he had moved his dwelling many times, everywhere he went lacked a household well, and when tallying the years his wife had to fetch water by carrying it, it amounted to over twenty. Ah, now that her eyes too had gradually aged, wondering how long they could endure this state even amidst poverty, he at last managed to have a well dug—and from it surged forth exceedingly clear water, so abundant that one could draw it with ladles endlessly. How joyous! Once, at some forgotten time, he had muttered: “Morning and evening, drawing water that wets my sleeves—this bitter world!” But now, feeling these once-drenched sleeves would dry in an instant, he named the new well “Sleeve-Drying Well.”

How joyous it was—the waters of Sleeve-Drying Well, where my wife’s sleeves were soaked and dried, gushing forth in abundance.

The house had no servants, and the Saimai Well was far away; we too grew accustomed to hearing the grumbling on snowy mornings and rainy evenings.

There were over fifty poems titled *Solitary Pleasures Recitation*. Though not exceptional as poetry, they proved most valuable for understanding his nature, lifestyle, and preferences. Among them:

What brings me joy is when rice fills the empty storage chest, and I say, "This month will be alright."

What brings me joy is when I cook fish on rare occasions and all the children say “Delicious! Delicious!” as they eat.

There were also those that sang of poverty’s harsh realities.

For literati to dwell in poverty was commonplace, and for them to somewhat exaggeratedly record that poverty in writing was equally ordinary.
Within such writings too, it remained ordinary to find pessimistic or cynical phrases—reactions to resentment smoldering in their hearts.
These were not ones content in poverty, but ones tormented by poverty.
Was Akemi truly among those tormented by poverty?
Once again I shall seek evidence in his poems.

[*Nihon*, March 23, 1899]

I maintain that Akemi’s poverty was more profound than that of ordinary literati, and his equanimity amid privation more steadfast than theirs. Not that he lacked grievances—but his discontent concerned the nation’s very foundations rather than petty complaints over food or shelter. Even toward those worldly souls who neglected their own preservation only to discard themselves utterly, he might on occasion let slip a curse or two; more often, however, he would laugh such matters away and refrain from contention. Within his *Solitary Pleasures Recitation*—

What brings me joy is when I boil tree buds and stuff my cheeks with one large manju.

What brings me joy is when I skillfully cook grilled tofu that I always enjoy and eat it.

What brings me joy is when I take cold red bean rice and turn it into tea-soaked rice to eat.

There is no need for lengthy explanation; consider whether these poems could have emerged from the lips of anyone but Akemi.
Can those pseudo-literati who ostensibly delight in austere poverty while secretly nursing resentment truly recall the taste of manju and grilled tofu under the title *Solitary Pleasures Recitation*?
They will either sing of pools of wine and forests of meat or else surely sing of barley rice and goosefoot soup.
Those who take manju and grilled tofu and deliberately compose them into thirty-one syllables—only through Akemi's peace of mind could such a thing exist.
Ah, what delightful manju and grilled tofu!

In a person of peace of mind there must be no exaggeration; in poems of tranquility there must be no ornamentation.
I proceeded further to prove that in Akemi there was not a trace of exaggeration or ornamentation.
Pseudo-literati declared, “A million strings of gold are like the dog’s excrement before their gate.”
Akemi said:

What brings me joy is when, after money had run out and I was in distress, someone came and gave me coins.

What brings me joy is when I have someone buy things, and they give me the proceeds without begrudging a good price.

Akemi does not deceive.
He does not declare money to be like excrement; with childlike sincerity, he sang forth the joy of receiving coins.
Moreover, with complete honesty, he confessed the unexpected joy of times when he received many coins.
Akemi—like an immortal sage, like a Buddha, like a child, like a deity—is one I behold in the realm of ideals; as a human in the real world, I can scarcely acknowledge him.
His heart—pure and unsullied; his poems—crystalline and penetrating.

Poverty—thus; nobility—thus.
Having once encountered this and felt reverence, Shungaku attempted to recruit him by sending a retainer to convey the offer, but Akemi declined and did not respond.
Having sold his writings and lamented the lack of rice, he—upon receiving unexpected compensation and bursting into laughter—now came to regard fame and profit as no different from the excrement of the dog before his gate.
Approaching with the authority of feudal lords and summoning with Shungaku’s talent—why then did they fail to make Akemi rise from his dilapidated hut amidst bamboo shoots?
Was it humility, arrogance, or did his theory of national polity simply not wish to serve recklessly?
In any case, he never departed from the circumstances of manju and grilled tofu.
In the summer of Keiō 3 (1867), when he first became a person receiving a stipend, a mere two years later—in the autumn of Meiji 2 (1869?)—he ascended to the divine realm.
That Akemi mastered the classics and immersed himself in scholarship requires no separate explanation.
Amidst such poverty and hardship, the mere fact that he “had a thousand or eight hundred coins piled high upon his desk” is more than sufficient to attest to this.
Among the songs that express his principle of reverence for deities and respect for the emperor,

Takayama Hikokurō Masayuki

The Great Imperial Gate leans; on the bridge above they bow their heads to earth—how noble their sincere hearts!

When occasions moved him, he continued composing (Record 1).

Though unseen by the wind's eye, deities dwell within this very world.

*Solitary Pleasures Recitation* (Record 2)

What brings me joy is when—in this world where barbarians revel—I see those who keep faith with our imperial nation.

What brings me joy is being born after Master Suzunoya and imagining myself receiving his august teachings.

*Loyal Heart Serving the Nation* (Record 1)

Should any wretch defile our land—I draw my blade and rail at walls that bear no enmity.

*Demonstrating (Record 1)*

The Emperor is made into a god! If it be called the Emperor’s decree, revere it with awe.

Even Akemi—supremely at peace and supremely tranquil—would pour forth the hot blood filling his breast to compose songs revering deities and verses of discontent whenever his thoughts turned to matters of national polity.
Fervor poured forth; his brush became like a sword.
This was no longer the impoverished Akemi of ordinary days.
How overjoyed he must have been to have barely encountered the grand ceremony of the Meiji Restoration.

In the spring of Keiō 4, in Naniwa,

When there comes an imperial visit—I,

As one served in attendance upon Lord Shungaku’s retinue—when Lord Kagemitsu was summoned to make the arduous journey to the capital—on preparing a parting gift for his horse—

Serving before His Majesty the Emperor: To Naniwa-tsu where plovers rest in calmness—

His Majesty’s rare imperial procession—serving in your attendance—your good fortune brings me joy too.

The imperial envoy had solemnly descended; amidst gathering strange disheveled folk, he mingled among them and reverently observed the august demeanor.

The hermit too lay prostrate in the city’s main thoroughfare, worshiping the noble one above the clouds.

Upon hearing it was the Great Imperial Envoy, he pressed his forehead to the ground in distant reverence.

It remains profoundly regrettable that he—who showed such awe toward even an imperial messenger through his prostration—was never granted even once the chance to bow before the phoenix carriage beneath Nijubashi.

He ascended to the capital.

On the day following the completion of the late Emperor's august funeral rites, when he visited Sennyū-ji Temple and beheld the scene where remnants of yesterday's august ceremonies had all been offered to the Buddha—though awed, he rejoiced.

"Solemnly enters the path of Buddha—the august carriage; Ah, the world!"

Akemi heard the name of the Meiji Restoration but did not live to see its reality.

[*Nihon*, March 24, 1899]

Akemi as a destitute member of society and Akemi as one of the Japanese people has—albeit through conjecture—nearly given full expression to this.

Hereafter, I shall endeavor to offer some commentary regarding Akemi as a poet.

If one were to ask which collection’s poems Akemi’s verses most resemble in comparison, both I and others would unanimously answer that they resemble the *Man'yōshū*.
His insight in studying the *Man'yōshū* without learning the *Kokinshū* or *Shinkokinshū* is what I first and foremost intend to praise.
The skill with which he studied the *Man'yōshū* and relatively succeeded in emulating it is what I secondly intend to praise.
The corruption of poetry, which began with the *Kokinshū* and reached its extreme in the Ashikaga period, was finally able to sustain a thread of life through Mabuchi and his school’s establishment of ancient studies and interpretation of the *Man'yōshū*.
Yet Mabuchi and his school interpreted the *Man'yōshū* without truly comprehending it; while extolling the *Man'yōshū* with their lips, their own poems imitated the vulgar style of the *Kokinshū* and later works, staging such absurdity that they bequeathed only laughter to posterity.
That the *Man'yōshū* far surpasses other anthologies goes without argument.
The reason for its surpassing excellence lies in this: whereas the poems of other anthologies utterly fail to express their authors’ emotions, those of the *Man'yōshū* excel in doing so.
The reason other anthologies fail to express emotion is that they do not depict feelings as they truly are, while the *Man'yōshū* succeeds in expressing them precisely because it does depict them as they truly are.
In Akemi’s poem it states:

Do not speak of artful deceptions—if one but seeks sincerity, poetry shall flow effortlessly.

"The artful deceptions"
The *Kokinshū* and all subsequent anthologies consist precisely of this.
The single character of "sincerity" constitutes Akemi's essential quality—and indeed, that of the *Man'yōshū*.
This essence belongs to the *Man'yōshū*—and by extension, to classical poetry itself.
What I term "depicting reality as it exists" amounts to nothing other than "sincerity."
Later poets might pay lip service to composing with sincerity and portraying reality unadorned, yet their works remain mired in artful deception—a failure stemming from fundamental misunderstandings of these principles.
One like Saigyō may seem through his adoption of novel materials to approach comprehension of this truth; yet examine his poems and ninety-nine in a hundred prove crafted artifice.
Only two exemplars exist of verse seeking beauty in nature through realist methods: before them stood the *Man'yōshū*, after them only Akemi.

Therefore, the materials Akemi brought forth for his poems were largely the vivid human affairs and living landscapes of his immediate surroundings—not wilted flowers nor clichéd moons composed through contrived themes.
This must surely be the first impression of those who read the *Shinofunosha Collection*.
He composed poems about poverty; he composed poems about principles.
When thinking of deceased parents, he composed “Though there are those who have living parents...”; when thinking of a deceased child, he composed “The child who clung to my sleeve yesterday...”.
When sending off someone serving in an imperial procession’s retinue, he composed “Just hearing of it brings joy”; when sending off someone departing during snowy times, he composed “Take care not to meet avalanches.”
When feeling joy, he composed “joyful”; when angered, “infuriating”; when birds sang, “birds sing”; when katydids flew, “katydids fly.”
This may seem ordinary, but among poets other than Akemi, it was entirely absent.
When there was nothing amusing, they composed “How amusing”; when no fragrance existed, “Fragrant with scent”; when no longing stirred, “Yearning with love.”●

That poets following Ki no Tsurayuki—composing of distant places they had never seen, oblivious even to the beauty of nature dangling before their very noses—proliferated in countless numbers over hundreds of years, only for Akemi to suddenly emerge amidst them: this could not but strike one as rather wondrous. By what catalyst had he attained realization there? That he, upon encountering things seen and heard in their moments, left nothing unused in rendering them into song resembled how Du Fu detailed his own experiences in poetry. If we followed the example of the ancients who praised Du Fu’s poetry as poetic history, might we not also call Akemi’s songs song history? That I learned of this person’s deeds and character through his collection of poems was also due to their nature as song history. However, there remained no way to know whether he had derived this from Du Fu’s poetry or not. Yet in stark contrast to Du Fu’s life—marked by numerous vicissitudes and upheavals—Akemi’s circumstances were exceedingly tranquil and confined; though his time coincided with the rare dawn of the Meiji Restoration, his failure to capture in his poetic pouch the many human-interest subjects of that era truly stood as an eternal regret.
[*Nihon*, March 26, 1899]

When examining anthologies and personal collections from the *Kokinshū* to the present day, seasonal poems were found occupying the most essential portion of these compilations in every case—accounting for no less than one-third of their contents, with some even reaching three-fourths.
In contrast, it was precisely the *Man'yōshū* and *Akemishū* that contained few seasonal poems while displaying a striking abundance of miscellaneous ones.
This distinction formed the reason these two collections stood apart from all others.
Indeed, seasonal poems largely consisted of thematic compositions, while miscellaneous poems frequently arose from actual experience.
The prevalence of seasonal poems in post-*Kokinshū* anthologies stemmed from the practice of thematic composition; as society declined, love poems too became entirely thematic constructs, with nine-tenths of miscellaneous poems ultimately ending as such.
Even among Akemi’s works, there existed seasonal poems that appeared to be thematic compositions—and many proved inferior.
Thematic composition was not inherently bad; realism was not inherently good.
Yet when observing the actual state of poetry up to modern times, few commendable works existed within thematic composition while few vulgar ones appeared in realism.
Among poems Akemi composed through firsthand observation, those depicting Hida’s mines stood out as particularly rare and remarkable.

In mountain caves where sunlight does not reach, they light fires and dig out metal.

A group of naked men sit together, wielding hammers to crush the ore’s round lumps.

Clang! They set up mortars and pound the sparkling lumps into powder.

When they set up a bamboo pipe in the valley stream and let it flow, white dew spills into their hands.

Black smoke billowing in clusters, without a moment’s pause they smelt, and the metal cascades down.

When smelted, ash parts swiftly, leaving behind clustered beads of silver.

Collecting numerous silver beads into boxes, securing the load ropes, and making the horse gallop.

Leading forth the horse bearing silver’s load to offer tribute in this august reign’s prosperity.

They depicted scenes from mining and smelting through to transport in such meticulous detail that it was as if one were witnessing them firsthand.
Not only were their subjects novel, but the skill in their narration truly constituted a technique seen since the *Man'yōshū*.
Compared to Uohiko—who fruitlessly imitated the *Man'yōshū*’s phrases only to lose its spirit—Akemi’s artistry in conveying that anthology’s essence without mimicking its diction could not be mentioned in the same breath.
Yet Akemi had not striven to emulate the *Man'yōshū* from start to finish.
Rather, it was through composing as his heart dictated that he naturally drew near to its style.
And thus arose this most crucial question: did those aspects of his poems that diverged from the *Man'yōshū* in fact surpass it?

I will venture to assert this: Akemi’s poetic conception has advanced beyond that of the *Man'yōshū*, while his poetic style has yet to reach its level.

First, I shall discuss poetic conception.

[*Nihon*, March 28, 1899]

In poetic conception, there exist both subjective and objective elements.
The *Man'yōshū* primarily articulated subjective poetic conceptions, with objective ones being exceedingly scarce; however, from the *Kokinshū* onward, there emerged a tendency for poems of objective conception to gradually increase in number.

Among subjective poetic conceptions, those that were argumentative proved low in quality, thin in taste, and unworthy of consideration.
In poems from the *Kokinshū* onward, many had tended toward argumentation, but none existed in either the *Man'yōshū* or *Akemishū*.
Non-argumentative subjective conceptions frequently arose from lived experience; since neither ancients nor moderns underwent drastic emotional transformations—particularly within tanka's brevity—these works proved incapable of expressing complex subjective thought, while those fixated on simple notions showed astonishingly minimal divergence between antiquity's crude observations and later eras' refined scrutiny.
Yet differences did emerge in materials and themes due to shifting customs and politics across successive ages.
For instance, whereas love poems grounded in reality had proliferated remarkably during the *Man'yōshū* period, the *Akemishū* contained none whatsoever, instead featuring numerous verses yearning for parents, mourning children, and lamenting temporal circumstances.

Akemi’s poem, having lost his four-year-old daughter:

“Until yesterday she clung to my sleeve, calling ‘Father! Father!’—yet…”

On the Occasion of My Father’s Seventeenth Memorial Service

“Even now—he who should not have departed this world at such an untimely age—alas! I am left without a parent.”

“Though my hair has turned white, there are many who still have parents—yet I have none.”

On the Occasion of My Mother’s Thirty-Seventh Memorial Service

“The sorrow of one who parted as a crawling infant—not even knowing my mother’s face.”

Upon Reading Old Books

Consulting the divination through burning a stag’s shoulder blade and resigning myself to fate’s decree, I contemplate the Age of the Gods.

When the People of Tsukushi Returned to Their Homeland

Though seasons pass without your return, I consult twilight’s oracle—sister, hasten to meet him!

Yet when tanka merely versify longing—be it for women, children, or lovers—one perceives only emotional intensity; there lies no substantive distinction between them.
On this matter, there was no necessity to forcibly contrast the *Man'yōshū* with Akemi.
But regarding objective poetic conception—there Akemi had progressed somewhat.

Seasonal themes were largely objective; although objective poems increased after the *Kokinshū*, they all interwove associative phrases or linguistic embellishments and failed to grasp how to deepen artistic taste—thus those purely objective like paintings were exceedingly few.
The *Shinkokinshū* had made remarkable progress in objective description, forming this anthology’s distinctive feature; yet it thereafter regressed once more, extending into the Tokugawa period.
In the Tokugawa period, haiku first achieved unprecedented progress in objective description, and classical poetry also finally began to show the same tendency.
However, all the poets were stubbornly narrow-minded and incapable of breaking free from old conventions; they merely attempted slight variations within the commonplace materials and themes that predecessors had long employed.
Akemi, emerging at the twilight of the Tokugawa era, first opened his expansive vision; his foresight in incorporating as many new materials and themes as possible into poetry was sufficient both to astonish Mabuchi and Keiki—who sought refinement in a thousand-year past yet lost sight of what lay before their eyes—and to overwhelm Morohira and Fumio, who possessed progressive spirit but faltered in hesitation, ultimately succumbing to timid compromise.
The reason Tokugawa-era poets only partially grasped objective taste yet failed to plumb its depths was due first and foremost to their inability to break free from the longstanding injunction: “Thou shalt not introduce new language or new materials.”
Akemi first broke through this initial barrier and took a step forward in reforming the poetry world.

[*Nihon*, March 30, Meiji 32]

In composing objective scenes, Akemi advanced a step beyond the *Man'yōshū* both through introducing new materials and capturing novel sensibilities, while his employment of innovative language and phrasing achieved a mastery surpassing ordinary poets.

Akita Family

Locusts swarm noisily through autumn skies; people beat beans with joyous hands.

Rooster (From "Twelve Hours" Poems)

Pale evening glories bloom round the sunken hut where a horse stands washed at twilight's edge.

At Matsudo, Spoken Spontaneously (Record 2)

At the voice calling “Grind the paste in the mortar,” sister sets aside her garment and stays up through the night.

With stray threads fashioned into lines to catch fish, Jirō, Tarō, and Saburō spent their day at the river.

*Traveling Rain*

When rain falls, mud clings to your feet on Ōtsu Road; traveler, do not envy me for I have a horse.

*Old Temple Rain*

At a temple where wind-mingled rain falls, a dog hunkers down; in the spray’s drenching gleam, the sacred light flickers.

*Cold Lamp*

The lamp, apt to dim, stirs and flickers; at the window where hemp is spun, the sound of hail strikes.

*Sand Moon Cool*

Along thousand village paths by the outer shore, dust swept like waves; beneath the moon on sand spreads vast coolness.

*Rose*

Bees stir their wings, warmly observed—filling the window as blooms unfold.

Untitled

In the rock's shadow on peaks where none but clouds pass, flowers and grasses breathe forth the fragrance of the Age of the Gods.

*In the Midst of Composed Scenes from a Poetry Gathering (Record 5)*

Before Hitomaro’s honorable statue, they set a desk, hung a lamp, and offered sacred wine.

They composed poems on assigned topics and proceeded to arrange them before the deity.

Seeing the faces of all the poets who had composed verses, they quietly arranged evening meal trays.

They went around urging others to partake of soup meals until dimmed fires nearly extinguished from people jostling against them.

People opened doors to return while remarking on snow piled white and departed apologetically.

*First Horse Pilgrimage*

At Inarizaka, gazing up at the vermilion great torii gate swaying as people come climbing through.

“Assigned topics,” “exploratory themes,” “empty rice chest,” “stuffing one’s cheeks with manjū,” “laughing while chatting and clutching one’s belly.”
“Unfolded, with the breadth of a tanuki’s belly”
Not only did he freely employ new words and phrases as he pleased—such as “Jirō, Tarō, Saburō”—but he also adopted innovative phrasing—like “people threshing beans,” “vast coolness spreads,” and “roses blooming to fill the window”—that had been used in poetry or haiku but not yet in classical verse, demonstrating his extraordinary discernment.
The poem that states, “flowers and grasses exhale the fragrance of the Age of the Gods,” expresses his divine ideal, and it goes without saying that this kind of thought has been scarce among Japanese poets.
(Not even Akemi’s ideals consistently reached such extremes.) Generally, poets’ observations of nature remained exceedingly superficial: they composed merely by describing flowers as “fragrant,” the moon as “pure,” and birds as “singing.” Without first profoundly internalizing the beauty of blossoms, the clarity of moonlight, or the resonance of birdsong before putting brush to paper, their verses not only lacked variation but utterly failed to vividly conjure those scenes before the reader’s eyes.
Akemi’s descriptive technique did not conform to this pattern.
For example, in verses such as “Crimson maple leaves with frost fallen upon them” and “On the frost’s surface, winter trees cast their shadows dusky black,” the deliberate act of adorning “maple leaves” with the epithet “crimson” and supplementing “shadows” with the descriptor “dusky black”—thereby creating layered emphasis—constituted a device to heighten the vividness of the frost’s whiteness.
Regardless of its success, the loftiness of its vision was beyond dispute.

Akemi composed poems in archaic styles and new forms; vehement outpourings alongside serene meditations; verses about house interiors and open fields; odes to Takayama Hikokurō and Oyakana-ya Hachibei; snow on righteous homes and brothels; ants and lice; butterflies pressed in books and specters beyond windows; manjū and ladles.
Everything he saw, heard, or touched became fodder for thirty-one syllables.
The fertility of Akemi’s poetic vision surpassed what the monotonous *Man'yōshū* could ever achieve.

[*Nihon*, April 9, Meiji 32]

There were those in the world who attempted to imitate the *Man'yōshū*: they used no words beyond those employed in the *Man'yōshū*, sought no poetic sensibilities apart from those commonplace in the *Man'yōshū*, and having composed trite verses in this manner, proclaimed themselves practitioners of the “*Man'yō*-style.” This was to mimic the form of the *Man'yōshū* while losing its spirit.
When the authors of the *Man'yōshū* composed poems, it was not that there were restrictions on vocabulary or fixed rules for themes; it was precisely their use of all words to express themes that constituted the *Man'yōshū*.
That Akemi employed new language and composed new themes, unfettered in the slightest by archaic forms and precedents, demonstrated a profound grasp of the *Man'yōshū*’s spirit—one that could not be spoken of in the same breath as the *Kokinshū* and later works, which delimited themselves and remained confined to narrow domains.
However, in the overall tone of his poems, Akemi ultimately did not reach the level of the *Man'yōshū* and was inferior to Sanetomo.
Regrettably, he was not able to become a complete poet.

Shall I discuss the tonal composition of Akemi's poetry through specific examples?
The mining song I previously presented achieves near-perfect cadence, yet poems attaining such rhythmic order are scarce within the collection—to say nothing of any surpassing it.

*Dried Butterfly in the Book*

To a dried butterfly, there can be no means by which to summon forth the *Yamato spirit*.

In those final lines with syllabic overflow, he had learned from the *Man'yōshū* yet lost momentum, lacking the strength to properly conclude a poem. When compared to lines from the *Man'yōshū* such as “How I grieve—could this life ever return?”, the disparity in poetic momentum between them was as vast as heaven and earth.

*Monks and Layfolk Moon-Viewing*

Gathering shikimi and setting hawks, I turned back along the path; what I saw was a single moonlit shadow on the field trail.

This poem’s tone was inferior to that of the *Kokinshū*. Such argumentative poems would have been better concluded using ordinary phrasing like “looking at the moon.” “What I see is the moon’s shadow” and concluding with a tangible object was rather vulgar and distasteful.

*Smoke*

O stifling smoke—they hang the kettle and burn straw; unwilled, only smoke rises.

Placing “Ano ibuse” at the beginning like this disrupted the emotional sequence and was poor.
"In the *Man'yōshū*, they do not speak thus."
One must either abolish this term entirely or, failing that, place it at the end as in “smoke rises, stifling.”
The phrasing of the lower two lines was also vulgar.

Red

Around the humble house one crawls into—the encircling field where crops are raised—the color of ground cherries.

Since this poem takes ground cherries as its principal subject, the first through fourth lines must all flow in a single breath.
Yet the upper half suffers from cluttered composition and contains convoluted terms like “narrowed,” collectively weakening the concluding line “the color of ground cherries.”

Having returned from somewhere I had been, it grows desolate in appearance as I sit by the fire, ah!

The slackened poetic structure resembles Saigyō’s works.
The phrase “grows desolate in appearance” proves clumsy, while the limpness of “sit here, ah!” needs no debate.
One should excise “nari te” and instead insert an adjective like “hibachi,” employing phrasing such as “sitting by the hibachi” for the conclusion—or alternatively, “○○ sitting by.”
Conclude with “sitting ○○” and excise the “ah!”

Striking against the jagged edge of the boulder, raged with a fearsome roar—the mountain’s waterfall.

This poem depicted the waterfall’s force, with ‘raged’ being its focal point in diction.
However, because emphasis was placed on the third line, the conclusion became weak and lacked impact.
One should conclude with something like ‘a raging waterfall.’

Among the Soldiers of Shimazaki Tofushu

The sister’s hand changes into an armor-sleeve pillow; in sleepless ears, do I hear the night storm?

The upper three lines are heavy and the lower two light, creating a sense like an overturned ladle.
Particularly, the fourth line lacks strength.

Koma-kun’s Villa Nirakutei

On the broad expanse of white sands by the water, drawing out the vista of the garden one beholds—mountains too stretch in a row.

This poem shared both its predecessor’s tonal pattern and its attendant criticisms.
[*Nihon*, April 22, Meiji 32]

A drunkard’s stone cast into water—stretching out arms in futile endeavor, ah!

This too had heavy upper three lines and light lower two lines.
Many of Akemi’s poems suffered from this head-heavy, feet-light ailment.

Having been granted bamboo by Lord Shungaku,

Having spread the autumn fragrance of pine boughs, I reverently present them with both hands upraised.

This one too, like the previous poem, has light lower two lines and fails to achieve a proper conclusion.

Unaware even if winding paths existed, I followed someone’s back and trod the autumn mountain.

This too was head-heavy and feet-light.
In this poem, since "being carried on someone’s back" formed the focal point, unless this focal point had been placed in the concluding line, it would not achieve stability.

At the voice calling "Grind the paste in the cloth bag!", undoing her robe, the younger sister stayed up through the night.

Fashioning spilled threads into a net to catch fish, Jirō, Tarō, and Saburō spent the day at the river.

Since these were all poems with complex conceits, their concluding lines needed to possess the force of a thousand jun.
However, in both poems, the force of the concluding lines felt weak compared to the upper three lines.
Particularly when one used terse terms like "Jirō, Tarō, Saburō" in the fourth line, the fifth line increasingly demanded greater weight and force.

If we were to generalize Akemi’s poetic style, we would find that in most cases the second line tends to be heavy while the fourth line remains light, with the concluding line lacking sufficient strength to bind the entire poem together.
In the *Man'yōshū*, this head-heavy and feet-light ailment was naturally absent; it did not exist in the *Kokinshū* either.
By the late Tokugawa period, when poets finally began adopting complex conceits, most could not escape this affliction.
Akemi was no exception.
Akemi hardly comprehended poetic meter.
Because he failed to grasp poetic meter, he ultimately could not become a poet and ended his days as such.

In summation, although Akemi’s poems fell far short of reaching the heights of the *Man'yōshū* and Sanetomo, they utterly overwhelmed the hundreds of poets from Tsurayuki down to our present day.
His visionary insight—employing novel language and pursuing innovative approaches—must be specially recorded in the annals of poetic studies and transmitted to posterity.
He was the sole poet of note since Sanetomo.
Compared to Mabuchi, Kageki, Morohira, Fumio and their ilk, he stood as a solitary crane among chickens.
Even if one were to spend a thousand words and ten thousand phrases praising him as a poet, it would not constitute overpraise.
Yet if we compare his classical poetry to haiku—
He scarcely possessed even the minimal value required to be called a writer.
A century and forty to fifty years before he employed new language, the haiku poets of Bashō’s school had already used far more innovative diction than he ever did.
While one might say his poetic concepts showed advancement compared to other classical approaches, when measured against haiku’s progress they had yet to even glimpse its gates.
Even the most immature haiku poets possessed a diversity of taste that could not be likened to the mere novelty Akemi’s poems attempted.
Had someone made Akemi a haiku poet, his name would likely never have been transmitted.
Needless to say, he utterly failed to grasp meter.
That the decline of our poetic world compels us to praise even such an Akemi as one of antiquity’s greatest poets must indeed be called both pitiable and lamentable.
In discussing Akemi, I found myself truly torn between praise and censure.

If we turn to Akemi’s character and conduct—magnanimous and unconstrained, unbound by worldly fame and gain, upholding righteousness and adhering to justice without shame before heaven and earth—he was truly a man of unparalleled rarity.

While I was halfway through drafting this manuscript, Mr. Imashige, the son of the venerable Akemi, specially came knocking at my humble abode and showed me the old gentleman’s biography and essays. Therefore, I decided to present a brief biography of the venerable gentleman for readers’ perusal. Should one compare the poems with the biography, Venerable Akemi would appear before their eyes.

Take no Satobito Postscript

[*Nihon*, April 23, Meiji 32]