One Hundred Leaves: A new annotated translation of the Hyakunin Isshu

by Blue Flute

They were generally composed by aristocratic men and women, especially those revolving around the Imperial Court.

Furthermore, unrelated aristocratic men and women could not directly see or speak to each other in open forums during much of this period so they communicated by letters and wooed each other by writing poetry.

Another example is poems that do not mention directly waiting for a missing lover overnight; rather they might mention seeing the morning moon alone.

An autumn refuge— My sleeves Are wet with dew.

So long, like this night If I’m to sleep alone

A trampling deer lets out a cry— A voice that’s heard In autumn sadness

The frosty white Is laid across As night grows old

The vibrant flower’s Face has faded— While I gaze in vain

Stop your blowing, please— I see a maiden’s form And want to stay awhile.

We stand apart From pines that spring Along Inaba’s peak— But if I hear your pining song, I’ll come back soon, or die trying.

Traditionally, crimson tears allude to “tears of blood,” reflecting scandalous rumors.

I’m grieving for our scene, But now it’s all the same:

Just because you said “Coming soon” I’ve hung around waiting Through the longest night’s Morning moon

The blowing wind Uproots and snaps The autumn grass and trees— Fitting then that “temper” Makes a “tempest,” as they say.

When looking at the moon A thousand things Become sadness—

Isn’t there some secret way For her to come and sleep with me?

When did I see you? When abandoned? Our parting—my yearning

Thinking of The people, the grass— All have withered and died.

The first frost Has placed a veil of confusion Over the white chrysanthemum And if I pluck it, it will be by chance.

Since our parting, nothing is so loveless As the break of day.

Eternal moon And fading light— This spring day, A restless heart And scattered blossoms

Indeed, the hearts of men Cannot be known— But I can smell the fragrance Of blossoms long ago From my native town

On a summer’s night It’s evening still, Yet the dawn appears— And where among the clouds Did the moon find its lodging?

Though I’ve concealed myself so far, I wonder if my love for you Is too much to hide.

But the secret... they could not know! So how did my feelings show?

You kindle my heart

And I will hold the flame

Until the end—

When I compare My heart since Our rendezvous To what it was before— It is as if I hadn’t loved.

If our rendezvous Were to cease, By no means Would I carry hatred— For her or for myself

The vines and weeds Entangle this cottage Alone And no one saw The coming autumn

It’s dawn and though I know The night’s love scene Will play again— I still curse The light of day

Sighing continuously I find myself sleeping In an empty room Through the long dawn— Do you know that feeling?

If it’s my fate That you will find it hard To remember me, I wish my life Restricted to today.

Soon, we will not be In this world together And all will be a memory: Now, for just a moment, How I wish to meet.

I waited But should’ve slept— Alas, the night grew late, And I saw The setting moon

Now that Our love must die I only wish I could tell you Without a messenger

On a short spring night To rest amid your arms Is but a dream— How regrettable it would be To ruin my name so pointlessly.

But if I stay long I’ll yearn for the midnight moon

But everywhere’s the same In autumn twilight

Oh nearby mountain mist, Do not suppress my view!

Alas, another autumn And this year too shall pass

A torrent abrupt Is torn by rocks And though it’s smashed This broken brook Shall meet again

Cuckoo— I look in the Singing sound’s direction But only the morning Moon remains

As people hear but do not see the bird, a poetic legend has it that the bird is coming from the spirit world to warn the farmers that it is time to sow rice. Another legend has it that the bird’s singing is inviting a tryst that will lead to the underworld.

Grieving Though life Remains And sadness cannot Contain the tears

If I live long I may reminisce Of this time too; For now I miss that age When I saw the world in fear

“Lament!” Says the moon As I ponder things— But what an excuse For the tears of my troubled face

A burden I carry... Cut off from former times My black sleeves... a cold shoulder.

Flowers pointing To garden snow That vanished in the storm, Passing away: Perhaps... it was me?