Ashihikino yamainomizuwa kōreruo ikanaruhimono tokurunaruramu

English Translation

Where the hills draw out
the water of the mountain well
lies frozen over —
yet what manner of cord is this
that should be coming untied

Meaning

The water of the mountain well lies frozen — so what manner of cord is this, that comes untied?

Commentary

90 When Her Majesty Sent Out Dancers for the Gosechi

When the Empress sent out a Gosechi dancer she appointed twelve ladies as attendants. Elsewhere it was held improper to draw on the women of an imperial consort's household, yet she sent ten of her own; the remaining two came from the Retired Empress and the Shigeisha, and were sisters besides. On the night of the Day of the Dragon she had them all dressed in blue-printed robes and children's overgowns. Not even her own ladies were told beforehand, and the men of the household still less; the clothes were brought and put on only as it grew dark. The red cords were tied in an elegant loop, and the white robes, brought to a high finish, carried block-printed designs. Worn over figured-silk gowns they looked strikingly unusual, and on the girls more graceful still. Even the lower servants came out in them, and the courtiers and senior nobles were so taken with it that they dubbed them the ladies of the purification, while those gentlemen themselves sat outside and talked.

The Empress is Teishi, consort of Emperor Ichijō. The Middle Captain who addressed this poem is Fujiwara no Sanekata, a celebrated poet. The lady whose red cord had come loose is Kohyōe.

The time is the night of the Day of the Dragon during the Gosechi; the place is the palace.

When Kohyōe said her red cord had come undone and asked to have it tied, the Middle Captain came over and set it right — with a manner that was anything but casual. That is when he spoke this poem.

Kohyōe was young, and perhaps found it hard to answer in so conspicuous a moment; she made no reply. The ladies near her let it pass as well and said nothing. Officials of the Empress's household, who had been listening, felt sorry to see it drag on, came in by another door and whispered to her, asking why she was letting it stand. That exchange is what led the author to answer in her place with "Uwagōri awanimusuberu himonareba kazasuhikageni yurububakario."

The first line is a fixed epithet attaching to hills, introducing the mountain well of the second. In the third line a concessive particle turns the sentence: the water lies frozen, and yet. A cold scene appropriate to the winter festival is set up first, and the question that follows arises from the mismatch between that scene and what is happening in the room.

The fourth line asks what manner of cord this can be, and the close pairs a copular auxiliary with one of present conjecture: how is it that yours, alone, comes untied?

Freezing and coming loose are linked terms through the image of ice, and the fixity of one is set squarely against the motion of the other. At the same time the phrase for a cord coming undone carries the sense of a heart loosening, of reserve giving way, which is what makes it a piece of teasing directed at a young woman. It is a poem of the moment, hinting at the first stir of a courtship, yet built entirely out of the cold of the festival night — and its skill lies in never saying so outright.

Author

Fujiwara no Sanekata

Source

Makura no Soshi

Other