Fuyugareno shinonoosusuki sodetayumi manekimoyoseji kazenimakasemu

English Translation

Winter-withered now,
the small pampas in the reeds—
my sleeve hangs slackly;
I will not beckon you near
but leave it all to the wind

Meaning

Like the small pampas grass among the winter-withered reeds, my sleeve hangs slack; I will not beckon you over, but leave it to the wind.

Commentary

Section 25: Life in Court Service

On the twenty-fifth of the twelfth month the author was summoned for the Buddha-Names rite at the princess's residence, and went, thinking it would be for that night only. Some forty women sat there in white robes over deep-dyed glossed silk. Hiding behind the woman who had brought her in, she showed herself among them only faintly, and withdrew at daybreak. Snow was drifting down, and the moon of a bitterly cold dawn lay faintly on the deep-dyed silk of her sleeve, so that the sleeve looked truly like a face wet with tears. On the road home she made a poem.
Having once gone out like this, she might in time have grown used to service, lost herself in the world, and—so long as no one thought her perverse—come to be treated like anyone else; but her parents, understanding nothing of it, shut her up at home before long. Not that her circumstances turned brilliant on the instant; the outcome was as far from her groundless expectations as could be. She murmured one more poem to herself, and left it at that.
Afterwards, distracted by one thing and another, she forgot even the tales, and once her mind had turned wholly practical she came to regret the long years spent lying about to no purpose without devotions or pilgrimage. Is there a Shining Genji in this world? she thought; this is no age in which a Captain Kaoru hides a woman away at Uji; what madness, what a worthless turn of mind—and yet she could not live wholly by such practicality either. In time, drawn along by a young woman she had been obliged to send in answer to a summons for one, she began to attend from time to time. Beside those who were at ease with everything, she was neither one of the young women nor senior enough to be deferred to, and was kept at a distance like an occasional guest; but since she was not staking everything on service, she found the position easy enough.
Attending in the imperial palace, with the dawn moon very bright, she thought that Amaterasu Ōmikami, in whom she put her faith, must reside there, and on a bright moonlit night around the fourth month she went quietly to worship. The next night too the moon was bright, and as she and others sat by the opened eastern door of the Fujitsubo looking at it, the sound of the Umetsubo Consort going up to the emperor's apartments was full of quiet elegance; when the others said that had the late princess lived she would have gone up in just such a way, it moved her, and she made a poem.
In winter, on a night with no moon and no snow but the whole sky clear and cold with starlight, she talked until dawn with the women in the great lady's apartments, and at daybreak they parted and went their ways. Someone who remembered this sent a poem, and the author, feeling the same, replied. Lying before her mistress, she heard the birds on the pond crying and beating their wings all night, and murmured a poem, which a woman lying beside her heard and answered. And on a day when she and a friend passed the hours talking with the sliding door between their rooms pushed open, someone who kept calling that friend down said that if it were truly urgent she would come—and the author sent her a poem attached to a withered pampas stem.

The author is known only as the daughter of Sugawara no Takasue. She entered the service of Princess Yūshi, daughter of Emperor Go-Suzaku. The "late princess" is Yūshi's mother, already dead by this time. The Umetsubo Consort is the consort whose apartments were the Umetsubo, and the Hakase no Myōbu a lady in waiting at the hall of the sacred mirror. Of "the woman of the same mind," "the woman lying beside her" and "the friend," the text gives neither name nor station.

Winter, on the day they sat talking with the sliding door between their rooms pushed open.

Someone above her friend kept calling her down, and the friend said that if it were truly urgent she would go. The author sent this poem to her, attached to a withered pampas stem.

The section closes with it, and the next turns to the talk about whether spring or autumn is the finer season.

Fuyugare no, withered by winter, modifies the small pampas of the second line. Osusuki, the lesser pampas grass, has long been used in poetry to lead into maneku, to beckon, because its plumes waving in the wind look like a hand summoning someone. Sode tayumi is a sleeve hanging slack and without strength, laying the drooping plume of the withered grass over her own listless sleeve. In the fourth line ji is the auxiliary of negative intention: I will not press you to come. The close ends on mu, the auxiliary of intention: I shall leave it to what happens. Osusuki, maneku and kaze run together as associated words. Sent with a withered stem to a friend who had said she would go if she were truly needed, it says that she will not insist—and yet the desolate image of dead grass carries at the same time the wish that she would stay. Up to "Mashiteomoe mizunokarineno hododanizo uwagenoshimoo haraiwabikeru" the poems of this section have been about the hardness of service; this one is about affection between colleagues, and set at the end of the section it shows that the place of service was also, for the author, a place of attachments.

Author

Sugawara no Takasue no Musume

Source

Sarashina Nikki

Other