Two Tanka Poems from “A Hundred Verses from Old Japan” or the “Hyaku-Nin-Isshiu”

SARU MARU, A SHINTO OFFICIAL or SARU MARU TAIU

Oku yama ni
Momiji fumi wake
Naku shika no
Koe kiku toki zo
Aki wa kanashiki.

HEAR the stag's pathetic call
Far up the mountain side,
While tramping o'er the maple leaves
Wind-scattered far and wide
This sad, sad autumn tide.

NOTE: Very little is known of this writer, but he probably lived not later than A.D. 800. Stags and the crimson leaves of the maple are frequently used as the symbolism of autumn.

-------------------

NAKAMARO ABE or ABE NO NAKAMARO

Ama no hara
Furisake-mireba
Kasuga naru
Mikasa no yama ni
Ideshi tsuki kamo.

WHILE gazing up into the sky,
My thoughts have wandered far;
Methinks I see the rising moon
Above Mount Mikasa
At far-off Kasuga.

NOTE: The poet, when sixteen years of age, was sent with two others to China, to discover the secret of the Chinese calendar, and on the night before sailing for home his friends gave him a farewell banquet. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and after dinner he composed this verse. Another account, however, says that the Emperor of China, becoming suspicious, caused him to be invited to a dinner at the top of a high pagoda, and then had the stairs removed, in order that he might be left to die of hunger. Nakamaro is said to have bitten his hand and written this verse with his blood, after which he appears to have escaped and fled to Annam. Kasuga, pronounced Kasunga, is a famous temple at the foot of Mount Mikasa, near Nara, the poet's home; the verse was written in the year 726, and the author died in 780

-------------------------

From: A HUNDRED VERSES FROM OLD JAPAN

ISBN: 978-1-907256-19-6

http://www.abelapublishing.com/hvoj.html

A percentage of the profits will be donated to the CHRISTCHURCH EARTHQUAKE APPEAL.

Three Poems from the book WHEN HEARTS ARE TRUMPS

Today we take a brief branch away from our usual folkore and fairy tales and have a look at three poems from the book WHEN HEARTS ARE TRUMPS.  The verse in this volume were  selected from works that had appeared in various periodicals, LIFE, TRUTH, TOWN TOPICS, VOGUE, and MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE during the five years 1893-1898 and whose editors kindly gave Tom Hall permission to republish them. So popular was this collection of poetry, that it had at least six editions. Read on and enjoy……….

THE OLD-FASHIONED GIRL.

There's an old-fashioned girl in an old fashioned street,

Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet;

And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way

Of caring for poor people's children all day.

She never has been to cotillon¹ or ball,

And she knows not the styles of the Spring or the Fall;

Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs,

And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads.

And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true

To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,

With its buttons all brass,—who is waiting above

For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.

¹ The Cotillion was a popular 18th and 19th century dance in the French Courts that preceded the Quadrille style of dancing.

- - - - - - -

A RHYMING REVERIE.

It was a dainty lady's glove;

A souvenir to rhyme with love.

It was the memory of a kiss,

So called to make it rhyme with bliss.

There was a month at Mt. Desert,

Synonymous and rhymes with flirt.

A pretty girl and lots of style,

Which rhymes with happy for a while.

There came a rival old and bold,

To make him rhyme with gold and sold.

A broken heart there had to be.

Alas, the rhyme just fitted me.

- - - - - - -

VANITY FAIR.

Oh, whence, oh, where

Is Vanity Fair?

I want to be seen with the somebodies there.

I've money and beauty and college-bred brains;

Though my 'scutcheon's not spotless, who'll mind a few stains?

To caper I wish in the chorus of style,

And wed an aristocrat after a while

So please tell me truly, and please tell me fair,

Just how many miles it's from Madison Square.

It's here, it's there,

Is Vanity Fair.

It's not like a labyrinth, not like a lair.

It's North and it's South, and it's East and it's West;

You can see it, oh, anywhere, quite at its best.

Dame Fashion is queen, Ready Money is king,

You can join it, provided you don't know a thing.

It's miles over here, and it's miles over there;

And it's not seven inches from Madison Square.

- - - - - - -

From WHEN HEARTS ARE TRUMPS compiled by Tom Hall

ISBN: 978-1-907256-55-4

URL: http://www.abelapublishing.com/cg_what.html  

Click on the URL for more info, a table of contents and to order in USD or GBP.

A percentage of the profits will be donated to The BRITISH HEART FOUNDATION.

The Golden Ball – An English Folk Tale from "More English Fairy Tales"

There were two lasses, daughters of one mother, and as they came from the fair, they saw a right bonny young man stand at the house-door before them. They never saw such a bonny man before. He had gold on his cap, gold on his finger, gold on his neck, a red gold watch-chain -- eh! but he had brass. He had a golden ball in each hand. He gave a ball to each lass, and she was to keep it, and if she lost it, she was to be hanged. One of the lasses, 'twas the youngest, lost her ball. I'll tell thee how. She was by a park paling, and she was tossing her ball, and it went up, and up, and up, till it went fair over the paling; and when she climbed up to look, the ball ran along the green grass, and it went right forward to the door of the house, and the ball went in and she saw it no more.

So she was taken away to be hanged by the neck till she was dead because she'd lost her ball.

But she had a sweetheart, and he said he would go and get the ball. So he went to the park gate, but 'twas shut; so he climbed the hedge, and when he got to the top of the hedge, an old woman rose up out of the dyke before him, and said, if he wanted to get the ball, he must sleep three nights in the house. He said he would.

Then he went into the house, and looked for the ball, but could not find it. Night came on and he heard bogles move in the courtyard; so he looked out o' the window, and the yard was full of them.

Presently he heard steps coming upstairs. He hid behind the door, and was as still as a mouse. Then in came a big giant five times as tall as he, and the giant looked round but did not see the lad, so he went to the window and bowed to look out; and as he bowed on his elbows to see the bogles in the yard, the lad stepped behind him, and with one blow of his sword he cut him in twain, so that the top part of him fell in the yard, and the bottom part stood looking out of the window.

There was a great cry from the bogles when they saw half the giant come tumbling down to them, and they called out, 'There comes half our master; give us the other half.'

So the lad said, 'It's no use of thee, thou pair of legs, standing alone at the window, as thou hast no eye to see with, so go join thy brother'; and he cast the lower part of the giant after the top part. Now when the bogles had gotten all the giant they were quiet.

Next night the lad was at the house again, and now a second giant came in at the door, and as he came in the lad cut him in twain, but the legs walked on to the chimney and went up it. 'Go, get thee after thy legs,' said the lad to the head, and he cast the head up the chimney, too.

The third night the lad got into bed, and he heard the bogles striving under the bed, and they had the ball there, and they were casting it to and fro.

Now one of them has his leg thrust out from under the bed, so the lad brings his sword down and cuts it off. Then another thrusts his arm out at other side of the bed, and the lad cuts that off. So at last he had maimed them all, and they all went crying and wailing off, and forgot the ball, but he took it from under the bed, and went to seek his true-love.

Now the lass was taken to York to be hanged; she was brought out on the scaffold, and the hangman said, 'Now, lass, thou must hang by the neck till thou be'st dead.' But she cried out:

'Stop, stop, I think I see my mother coming!
O mother, hast brought my golden ball
And come to set me free?'

'I've neither brought thy golden ball
Nor come to set thee free,
But I have come to see thee hung
Upon this gallows-tree.'

Then the hangman said, 'Now, lass, say thy prayers, for thou must die.' But she said:

'Stop, stop, I think I see my father coming!
O father, hast brought my golden ball
And come to set me free?'

'I've neither brought thy golden ball
Nor come to set thee free,
But I have come to see thee hung
Upon this gallows-tree.'

Then the hangman said, 'Hast thee done thy prayers? Now, lass, put thy head into the noose.'

But she answered, 'Stop, stop, I think I see my brother coming!' And again she sang, and then she thought she saw her sister coming, then her uncle, then her aunt, then her cousin; but after this the hangman said, 'I will stop no longer; thou'rt making game of me. Thou must be hung at once.'

But now she saw her sweetheart coming through the crowd, and he held over his head in the air her own golden ball; so she said:

'Stop, stop, I see my sweetheart coming!
Sweetheart, hast brought my golden ball
And come to set me free?'

'Aye, I have brought thy golden ball
And come to set thee free,
I have not come to see thee hung
Upon this gallows-tree.'

And he took her home, and they lived happy ever after.

---------------------------

From More English Fairy Tales

ISBN: 978-1-907256-09-7

URL: http://www.abelapublishing.com/cg_meft.html

Verse from "A Hundred Verses From Old Japan" or Hyaku-nin-isshiu

Today we resume our eastwards journey and find ourselves in Japan. I have selected two poems from the Hyaku-nin-isshiu, or 'Single Verses by a Hundred People', which were collected together in A.D. 1235 by Sadaiye Fujiwara. The poems are in approximately chronological order, and range from about the year 670 to the year of compilation.

Japanese poetry differs very largely from anything we Westerners are used to; it has no rhyme or alliteration, and little, if any, rhythm, as we are used to. The verses in this collection are all what are called Tanka, which was for many years the only form of verse known to the Japanese. A tanka verse has five line and thirty-one syllables, arranged thus: 5-7-5-7-7. As this is an unusual metre in our ears, the translator, William N. Porter, adopted a five-lined verse of 8-6-8-6-6 metre for the translation, with the second, fourth, and fifth lines rhyming, in the hope of retaining at least some resemblance to the original form, while making the sound more familiar to English readers.

The Japanese section of each tanka has been written phonetically so western readers may at least be able to get a feel for what the poem would have sounded like in it’s native Japanese.

The Emperor Tenchi reigned from A.D. 668 to 671, his capital was Otsu, not far from Kyōto, and he is chiefly remembered for his kindness and benevolence. It is related, that one day he was scaring birds away, while the harvesters were gathering in the crop, and, when a shower of rain came on, he took shelter in a neighbouring hut; it was, however, thatched only with coarse rushes, which did not afford him much protection, and this is the incident on which the verse is founded.

The picture shows the harvesters hard at work in the field, and the hut where the Emperor took shelter.

1 - THE EMPEROR TENCHI or TENCHI TENNŌ

Aki no ta no              
Kari ho no iho no      
Toma wo arami         
Waga koromode wa 
Tsuyu ni nure-tsutsu.

OUT in the fields this autumn day

They're busy reaping grain ;

I sought for shelter ’neath this roof,

But fear I sought in vain,—

My sleeve is wet with rain.

Because the tanka are so short I feel it only right to spoil you with a second. I have selected the tanka from the compiler of this volume which is listed at number 97.

Sada-iye, of the Fujiwara family, was the Compiler of this Collection of verses; he was the son of Toshi-nari, the writer of verse No. 83 , and he entered the priesthood, dying in the year 1242, at the age of eighty.

Matsu-hō is on the north coast of the Island of Awaji, in the Inland Sea; but the word also means 'a place of waiting and longing for somebody'. Kogare means 'scorching or evaporating' (sea-water in the saltpans), but it also has the meaning 'to long for, or to love ardently.'

The illustration shows two men carrying pails of sea-water to the salt-pans.

97 - THE ASSISTANT IMPERIAL ADVISER SADA-IYE or GON CHU-NAGON SADA-IYE

Konu hito wo
  Matsu-hō no ura no
Yūnagi ni
  Yaku ya moshio no
Mi mo kogare-tsutsu.

UPON the shore of Matsu-hō
  For thee I pine and sigh;
Though calm and cool the evening air,
  These salt-pans caked and dry
  Are not more parched than I!

From “A Hundred Verses from Old Japan” translated by William N. Porter

ISBN 978-1-907256-19-6

URL - http://www.abelapublishing.com/hvoj.html

Finding Home - THE TEARS OF ARAXES – A Poem from Armenia

Over the weekend this blog received a “like” from a Canadian/Armenian. As such, I followed the link to her post and read with great interest about how she felt she had “come home” the minute she stepped onto Armenian soil despite having grown up in Canada.

I grew up in South Africa and even as a child knew that South Africa would not be my home. This feeling of “not belonging” was intensified through my teenage years especially during my post-high school period when I completed 2 years national service.

Immediately after national service I toured Europe and on landing in Luxembourg and travelling into Germany, I knew that my future lay somewhere other than South Africa. I ended up working in London and did many backpacking mini-tours into European countries, but none really felt like “home”.

I returned to South Africa, trained as a computer programmer, but always had a sense that my future lay elsewhere.

In 1987 I married a Kiwi (New Zealand) Occupational Therapist on assignment to the South African Leprosy Mission. Even though married we never “put down roots” in South Africa and when her contract ran out it was an easy decision to “up sticks” and move to New Zealand.

Our route to New Zealand took us via London, where we had both worked in earlier days, New York, Los Angeles and eventually Auckland. The USA was stimulating but did not have that “this is where I’m meant to be” factor. On disembarking in Auckland in May 1988, I knew straight away that I was “home”. This was where I was meant to be. Why or how did I know this? Don’t ask me, I just knew.

I currently work and live in London (again) but we still have our family home in Papkowhai just North of Wellington, New Zealand.

Here’s a poem from Zabelle Boyan’s “Armenian Poetry and Legends” for you Tamar and all those who have a feeling in their gut that their future lies somewhere beyond the end of their street……

THE TEARS OF ARAXES

BY RAPHAEL PATKANIAN

I WALK by Mother Arax
     With faltering steps and slow,
And memories of past ages
     Seek in the waters' flow.

But they run dark and turbid,
     And beat upon the shore
In grief and bitter sorrow,
     Lamenting evermore.

"Araxes! with the fishes
     Why dost not dance in glee?
The sea is still far distant,
     Yet thou art sad, like me.

"From thy proud eyes, O Mother,
     Why do the tears downpour?
Why dost thou haste so swiftly
     Past thy familiar shore?

"Make not thy current turbid;
     Flow calm and joyously.
Thy youth is short, fair river;
     Thou soon wilt reach the sea.

"Let sweet rose-hedges brighten
     Thy hospitable shore,
And nightingales among them
     Till morn their music pour.

"Let ever-verdant willows
     Lave in thy waves their feet,
And with their bending branches
     Refresh the noonday heat.

"Let shepherds on thy margin
     Walk singing, without fear;
Let lambs and kids seek freely
     Thy waters cool and clear."

Araxes swelled her current,
     Tossed high her foaming tide,
And in a voice of thunder
     Thus from her depths replied:--

"Rash, thoughtless youth, why com’st thou
     My age-long sleep to break,
And memories of my myriad griefs
     Within my breast to wake?

"When hast thou seen a widow,
     After her true-love died,
From head to foot resplendent
     With ornaments of pride?

"For whom should I adorn me?
     Whose eyes shall I delight?
The stranger hordes that tread my banks
     Are hateful in my sight.

"My kindred stream, impetuous Kur,
     Is widowed, like to me,
But bows beneath the tyrant's yoke,
     And wears it slavishly.

"But I, who am Armenian,
     My own Armenians know;
I want no stranger bridegroom;
     A widowed stream I flow.

"Once I, too, moved in splendour,
     Adorned as is a bride
With myriad precious jewels,
     My smiling banks beside.

"My waves were pure and limpid,
     And curled in rippling play;
The morning star within them
     Was mirrored till the day.

"What from that time remaineth?
     All, all has passed away.
Which of my prosperous cities
     Stands near my waves to-day?

"Mount Ararat doth pour me,
     As with a mother's care,
From out her sacred bosom
     Pure water, cool and fair.

"Shall I her holy bounty
     To hated aliens fling?
Shall strangers' fields be watered
     From good Saint Jacob's spring?

"For filthy Turk or Persian
     Shall I my waters pour,
That they may heathen rites perform
     Upon my very shore,

"While my own sons, defenceless,
     Are exiled from their home,
And, faint with thirst and hunger,
     In distant countries roam?

"My own Armenian nation
     Is banished far away;
A godless, barbarous people
     Dwells on my banks to-day.

"Shall I my hospitable shores
     Adorn in festive guise
For them, or gladden with fair looks
     Their wild and evil eyes?

"Still, while my sons are exiled,
     Shall I be sad, as now.
This is my heart's deep utterance,
     My true and holy vow."

No more spake Mother Arax;
     She foamed up mightily,
And, coiling like a serpent,
     Wound sorrowing toward the sea.

                 Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.

If you haven’t worked it out or looked it up, the Araxes is a river that rises in northeastern Turkey (near the source of the Euphrates) and flows generally eastward through Armenia emptying into the Caspian Sea.

From “Armenian Poetry and Legends”  compiled and illustrated by Zabelle Boyajian

ISBN 978-1-907256-18-9