(1644–1694)
VERY EARLY on the twenty-seventh morning of third moon, under a predawn haze, transparent moon still visible, Mount Fuji just a shadow, I set out under the cherry blossoms of Ueno and Yanaka. When would I see them again? A few old friends had gathered in the night and followed along far enough to see me off from the boat. Getting off at Senju, I felt three thousand miles rushing through my heart, the whole world only a dream. I saw it through farewell tears.
Spring passes
and the birds cry out—tears
in the eyes of fishes
With these first words from my brush, I started. Those who remain behind watch the shadow of a traveler’s back disappear.
At Ashino, the willow Saigyō praised, “beside the clear stream,” still grows along a path in fields of rice. A local official had offered to lead the way, and I had often wondered whether and where it remained. And now, today, that same willow:
Rice-planting done, they
depart—before I emerge
from willow shade
We spent several days in Sukagawa with the poet Tokyu, who asked about the Shirakawa Barrier. “With mind and body sorely tested,” I answered, “busy with other poets’ lines, engaged in splendid scenery, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t write much”:
Culture’s beginnings:
from the heart of the country
rice-planting songs
Here three generations of the Fujiwara clan passed as though in a dream. The great outer gates lay in ruins. Where Hidehira’s manor stood, rice fields grew. Only Mount Kinkei remained. I climbed the hill where Yoshitsune died; I saw the Kitakami, a broad stream flowing down through the Nambu Plain, the Koromo River circling Izumi Castle below the hill before joining the Kitakami. The ancient ruins of Yasuhira—from the end of the Golden Era—lie out beyond the Koromo Barrier where they stood guard against the Ainu people. The faithful elite remained bound to the castle, for all their valor, reduced to ordinary grass. Tu Fu wrote:
The whole country devastated
only mountains and rivers remain.
In springtime, at the ruined castle,
the grass is always green.
We sat a while, our hats for a seat, seeing it all through tears.
Summer grasses:
all that remains of great soldiers’
imperial dreams
The road through the Nambu Plain visible in the distance, we stayed the night in Iwate, then trudged on past Cape Oguro and Mizu Island, both along the river. Beyond Narugo Hot Springs, we crossed Shitomae Barrier and entered Dewa province. Almost no one comes this way, and the barrier guards were suspicious, slow, and thorough. Delayed, we climbed a steep mountain in falling dark, and took refuge in a guardshack. A heavy storm pounded the shack with wind and rain for three miserable days.
Eaten alive by
lice and fleas—now the horse
beside my pillow pees
In Yamagata province, the ancient temple founded by Jikaku Daishi in 860, Ryūshaku Temple is stone quiet, perfectly tidy. Everyone told us to see it. It meant a few miles extra, doubling back toward Obanazawa to find shelter. Monks at the foot of the mountain offered rooms, then we climbed the ridge to the temple, scrambling up through ancient gnarled pine and oak, gray smooth stones and moss. The temple doors, built on rocks, were bolted. I crawled among boulders to make my bows at shrines. The silence was profound. I sat, feeling my heart begin to open.
Lonely stillness—
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone
At the Echizen Province border, at an inlet town called Yoshizaki, I hired a boat and sailed for the famous pines of Shiogoshi. Saigyō wrote:
All the long night
salt-winds drive
storm-tossed waves
and moonlight drips
through Shiogoshi pines.
This one poem says enough. To add another would be like adding a sixth finger to a hand.