The Origins of Haiku Part 2 - Tanka

Issue #6: Haikai & Haiku

Last week we talked about chōka (lit. ‘long poem’) and hanka. This week we are taking a closer look at the history of Japanese tanka (lit. ‘short poem’), the great-grandparent of haiku (and next week, a range of other short poetic forms). Tanka is a 5-line form of poetry, customarily written in 31 kana, in the pattern 5-7-5-7-7. After the poetry reforms of the late-1800s, led in part by Masaoka Shiki, tanka would go on to become a popular form worldwide—both in 5-7-5-7-7 and free patterns—and today is written and read in almost every language.

In Japan the tanka has an unbroken history stretching back at least 1500 years, if not longer, and it stands as one of the oldest living poetic forms. Translations of tanka were also significantly influential on English-language verse in the late-1800s and early-1900s. For this reason, I believe studying the form closely can teach English-language poets much about our collective forgotten histories . . .

 
        Whilst enjoying
        the sight of the moon crossing
        the dark night—
        On the sleeves of me waiting
        there has descended the dew.
 

—Unattributed (tr. Aston, 1877)

Tan’ka (短歌, i.e. mijika'uta, lit. 'short verse'): “So called to distinguish it from chōka. By far the commonest metre, and when the general term waka (i.e. uta, lit. 'poem', 'song') is used, it is this metre that is commonly meant. It consists of 5 phrases, of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, or 31 syllables in all. Each verse of 31 syllables is an entire poem.” (Aston, 1877)

        When I am gone,
        Though my dwelling become tenantless,
        Do not thou,
        O plum-tree by the eaves!
        Forget the spring.

—Unattributed (tr. Aston, 1877)

“From the beginning there had been an inclination to prefer poems of 5 phrases to those of any larger number. Thus the tanka... was established as the favourite vehicle of poetry. It never was what we call a 'stanza':— [and was not typically] employed as the material out of which to build up longer poems by adding verse to verse.” (Chamberlain, 1902)

             That lover of mine
        Tonight is surely coming
        For the little crabbed way
        In which this spider moves
        Must doubtless have such meaning.

—Sotohoti no Iratsume (5thC; tr. Pfoundes, 1881)¹

“This crystallized into what is called a tanka.. Innumerable numbers of these tanka were written.” (Fletcher, 1918) “The word 'poem' [i.e. uta, waka] alone means the 'short poem', for that is the 'poem' par excellence. It has always had one standard form, called the tanka.” (Page, 1923) “This metre... has persisted in Japan as the classical uta rhythm from [at least] the 6th century, until the present day.” (Waley, 1919)

        When I gaze towards
        the place where the cuckoo
        has been singing—
        Nought remains but the moon
        in the early dawn.

—Tokudaiji Sanesada (1139-1192; (tr. Chamberlain, 1890)²

“The tanka is the most universal and characteristic of the various forms of poetry in Japan. The oldest examples date back to the 7th century, or possibly earlier. Ever since there has been a continual and copious stream of this kind of composition. Even at the present day the Tennō gives out themes at the New Year for their courtiers to show their skill upon, and the pages of the magazines give evidence that tanka are still produced in considerable quantity.” (Aston, 1899)

        Sighing all alone
        Through the long watch of the night
        Till the break of day:—
        Can you realize at all
        What a tedious thing it is?

—Michitsuna no Haha (10thC; (tr. MacCauley, 1899)³

Occasionally tanka were written in sequence: “Sometimes... but only very rarely... the subject overflows from one poem to another as in the sonnet-sequence; thus making the poem into... a 'stanza' form. There is one prominent example in the Manyōshū— by Ōtomo no Tabito—a series of 13 tanka in praise of the ‘flowing bowl’ [i.e. sake!].” (Page, 1923)

 
        If it turned out
        That I was aught else but man,
        I would be
        A sake jar
        For then I should get soaked!

        Talk of priceless treasures!
        Can they be more
        Precious
        Than a single cup
        Of thick sake?

        So long as in this world
        I have my pleasure,
        In the future existence
        What care I though I become
        An insect or a bird?

—Ōtomo no Tabito [Manyōshū] (c. 665-731; tr. Aston, 1899)

Ku'gire (句切れ, lit. 'phrase-divide', 'punctuate', 'pause'): “There is a pause [typically] between the 3rd and 4th feet, the former part being called kami no ku (i.e. 'upper ku'), the latter shimo no ku (i.e. 'lower ku')... This division usually coincides with a break in sense.” (Aston, 1877)

Of course, in practice, the pause can go at the end of any phrase. In earlier times there was a tendency to place it after the 2nd phrase (echoing chōka; 5-7—5-7-7), and in later times, at the end of the 3rd phrase (prefiguring renga; 5-7-5—7-7). Many tanka also make use of a secondary pause, adding further variety (i.e. in patterns like 57—57-5, and 5-75—75, etc.).⁴

        On the plum blossoms
        Thick fell the snow;
        I wished to gather some
        To show you,
        But it melted in my hands.

—Anon. [Manyōshū] (tr. Aston, 1899)

Translations typically indicate kugire with punctuation (i.e. commas, colons, dashes, etc.): “It will be noticed that a dash has been placed after the 3rd line of the Japanese original. This is because the voice pauses in that place, after what is termed the 'upper hemistich' (kami no ku, also hokku), consisting of 17 syllables, and before the 'lower hemistich' (shimo no ku, also ageku), consisting of 14 syllables. The slight pause made between them for rhythmical purposes causes each to be recognised as a semi-independent unit, even when the sense flows on without interruption.” (Chamberlain, 1902)

        In the mountain depths
        Treading through the crimson leaves
        Cries the wandering stag—       
        When I hear the lonely cry
        Sad, how sad, the autumn is.

—Sarumaru Tayū [Hyakunin] (c. pre-800s; tr. MacCauley, 1899)

“The tanka is naturally divided by a pause, more or less, marked at the end of the 3rd line—a sort of 'poem-caesura'; making a first stanza of 17 syllables and a second of 14. Each of these, like the 'thesis' and 'arsis' of classical hexameter, has its distinctive name: hokku (i.e. 'initial stanza') and ageku (i.e. 'completing stanza'), or, kami no ku (i.e. 'upper stanza') and shimo no ku (i.e. 'lower stanza').” (Page, 1923)⁵

        Among the hills
        The snow still lies—
        But the willows
        Where the torrents rush together
        Are in full bud.

—Unattributed [Manyōshū] (tr. Aston, 1899)

Kenyōgen (兼用言, lit. 'double words'): “Another very common device in Japanese poetry is the use of the pun, or of kenyōgen, a word subjected to two definitions, to convey the writer's meaning.” (MacCauley, 1899) Chamberlain gives the following example, using the pun matsu;

        Matsu ga ne no
        Matsu koto tohomi

Interestingly, both Japanese and English share the double meaning of matsu: 1) A kind of tree (i.e. 'pine'), and 2) An act of longing, often romantic (i.e. 'to pine').

        Like the pine,
        I must stand and pine.
 

Chamberlain points out that such 'plays on words' in English poetry would usually be reserved for humourous verse, rather than the realms of 'serious' poetry, however, he notes: “There is nothing in the nature of things constraining us to associate plays on words with the ridiculous. Each literature must be a law unto itself.” (in MacCauley, 1899) Aston reiterates: “It would be hardly fair to stigmatise these wordplays as 'puns'. They are not meant to provoke laughter.” (Aston, 1899) Of course, there are also “common puns, with the same stigma of vulgarity as is attached by ourselves to such sallies of wit; but the line between them and the poetical artifice just described, though difficult to define, is very sharply drawn.” (Chamberlain, 1880)

        Though on every tree
        The flowers are blooming,
        How can it be that
        My darling wife
        Does not blossom again?

—Mitsu Nunaka [Nihongi] (7thC; (tr. Aston, 1896)

Makura'kotoba (lit. 'pillow words'): “Ornamental epithets or phrases” used in the oldest poetry, “and in many cases [are] remnants of a language which existed prior to any written literature and their meaning and grammatical construction are often obscure,” even to most Japanese scholars. Example: “Thus in a poem about the town of Akashi, it has the epithet “tomoshibi no” (lit. 'of the light') because akashi also means 'to throw light upon'.” Though this example seems simple enough, Aston is quick to point out that 'pillow words' “are not invariably of the nature of adjectives,” and that they remain “one of the principal difficulties of (understanding and translating) the old poetry.” (Aston, 1877)

“‘Pillow words’... as a rule, were simply epithets formerly applied quite naturally and appropriately to various objects, places and actions, but which in most cases, by the process of phonetic decay... have suffered such changes either in their own substance or in the connection in which they are used, as to have become almost unrecognisable, and practically devoid of meaning.” (Chamberlain, 1877)

        On that distant mount,
        Over the slope below the peak,
        Cherries are in flower;—
        May the mists of hither hills
        Not arise to veil the scene.

—Gon-Chunagon Masafusa [Hyakunin] (d. 1112; tr. MacCauley, 1899)⁶

Kamuri'kotoba (lit. 'hat word'): “The term preferred to that of 'pillow word' by the great scholar Mabuchi, sets forth the nature of this class of expressions... Perhaps, an illustration drawn from our own English usage may help to elucidate the matter. When we speak of 'the gallant Captain' or 'the learned Professor' do we really mean to say that, after due deliberation, we consider those persons to be respectively gallant and learned? Or, again, are all 'honourable members' of Parliament filled with high notions of honour, and deserving to be honoured by us? What, then, do such expressions mean? The simplest reply is that they mean nothing at all,—that we use them for no other reason than that other people have used them before us, and that it has become the custom to use them. But they ought to mean something, and not only so, but they did once mean something.” (Chamberlain, 1877)

        Over the wide sea-plain,
        As I row and look around,
        It appears to me
        That the white waves, far away,
        Are the ever-shining sky.

—Tadamichi Fujiwara [Hyakunin] (d. 1164; (tr. MacCauley, 1899)⁷⁴

Chamberlain offers 3 kinds of 'pillow words': 1) Descriptive words or phrases of the nature of an adjective or of a simile (which he divides in two: those which have retained some of their original sense, and those which have had their “meanings obscured” by time); 2) Words or phrases alluding to some historical or mythological occurrence; 3) Punning words or phrases.

“The ambiguous position of this class, placed, as it is, between the 'pillow words' on the one hand and the more regular 'plays upon words' on the other, has given rise to many differences of opinion among those best qualified to pronounce on such a matter; and numbers of expressions that are admitted into the category of 'pillow words' by one authority are rejected by another... Suffice to say many terms are both 'pillow words' and 'plays on words', simultaneously, and the distinction between them is fine.” (Chamberlain, 1877)

        Will he be true to me?
        That I do not know.
        But since the dawn
        I have had as much disorder in my thoughts
        As my black hair.

—Taikenmon-in no Horikawa (12thC; tr. E. Powys Mathers, 1919)⁸

Jo'kotoba (序詞, i.e. 'preface words'): “Or 'introductory verse', a more extended kind of makura'kotoba.” (Aston, 1877) Also a kind of 'ornamental epithet' or 'play on words' in which the 'pillow word' is extended to a “a whole sentence [over 2 or more phrases]... serving as an introduction to tickle the ear.” Most often containing a 'pun' on the main content of the poem, but usually “unconnected with the sense of what follows.” (Chamberlain, 1902)

Kake'kotoba (掛詞, lit. 'pivot words', 'hanging words'): “A more complicated species of 'pun', occurring when a word with two meanings is used only once as a sort of 'pivot' on which two wheels turn... Of the three kinds of 'plays upon words', this is certainly the most characteristic; and none has been in greater favour from the 9th century [being popular in the Kokinshū] down to the present day.” (Chamberlain, 1877)

        Like the salt sea-weed,
        Burning in the evening calm,
        On Matsuo's shore,
        All my being is aglow
        Waiting one who does not come.

—Gon-Chungon Sadaie [Hyakunin] (tr. MacCauley, 1899)⁹

“The 'pivot' is a complicated device... in which... a word having two significations serves as a species of hinge on which two doors turn, so that while the first part of the poetical phrase has no logical end, the latter part has no logical beginning. They run into each other and the sentence could not possibly be construed... The impression produced by these 'linked' verses is delightful in the extreme, passing, as they do, before the reader, like a series of dissolving views, vague, graceful, and suggestive.” (Chamberlain, 1880) Pivots, of course, are not always 'puns' (in the Western sense), and can also be extended to whole phrases.

For instance, here the phrase ‘surging as it flows’ is a pivot, applying equally to the waters and the poet’s longing;

 
        Like the flowing water
        Of the River Asuka
        Which surges as it flows,
        Unceasingly
        I long for him!

—Empress Kōgyoku [Nihongi] (594-661; tr. Aston, 1896)

Through the tanka, “Japanese poets... learned better than any others the two arts that can give 'infinite riches in a little room'—condensation, and suggestion. Sometimes the brief poem is clean cut and finished, a carved cherry-stone as perfect as a statue. More often it just begins a picture or a thought, and the hearer may carry it on as far as [their] imagination will or can.” (Page, 1923)

        To what shall I compare
        This life of ours?
        It is like a boat
        Which at daybreak rows away
        And leaves no trace behind it.

—Sami Manzei [Manyoshū] (fl. 720; tr. Aston, 1899)

“One other method besides those of condensation and suggestion helps to make these brief forms adequate for great... poetry, and that is an elaborate system of symbolism. It is highly developed, and in large part conventionalized; the commoner symbols are of course understood at once, and new variations are quickly felt.” (Page, 1923)

“Some of the most elementary may be given as examples. The plum blossom means love; the cherry-blossom, beauty. The fir-tree, the heron, and the tortoise, are symbols of long life, or of anything long-enduring, like loyalty, or sorrow, or memory. The dew, the cherry-blossom, or the separate joints of a bamboo stalk, are symbols of brevity, especially of the brief endurance of love, or of beauty, or of human life it self. If the kimono-sleeves are wet, perhaps nominally with autumn rains, or with dew, it means that they are really wet with tears, most often for loved ones lost, (etc.).” (Page, 1923) These, of course, would go on to become the basis for kigo (i.e. ‘season words’) in haiku.

        The wild geese returning
        Through the misty sky—
        Behold they look like
        A letter written
        In faded ink!

—Tsumori Kunimoto [Tale of Genji] (1023-1103; tr. Waley, 1919)

“The symbolism of the seasons, starting with the obvious meanings of spring for new life and youth and love, autumn for grief and loss, winter for age and death, develops in almost endless complication. The cuckoo, even more than the nightingale, means spring and love; the nightingale, like the cherry-blossom, means all the transient beauty of nature and of life; the cherry-blossom is the accepted symbol of life itself, and especially... Always, to suggest or to symbolize is better than to express in full. The half is more than the whole.” (Page, 1923) Here Page is echoing the Imagist poet F.S. Flint, who wrote in 1908 that when composing tanka and haiku, and short Imagistic free-verse in general; “The half-said thing is the dearest—the suggestion, not the complete picture.”

        Shall we make love
        Indoors
        On this night when the moon has begun to shine
        Over the rushes
        Of Inami Moor?

—Anon. [Manyoshu] (Waley, 1919)

“The classical poetry... is [for the most part] contained in the Manyōshū (lit. 'Collection of Myriad Leaves', c. 750) and in a large number of collections made by Imperial order during the 10-15th centuries, and commonly known as the 'Collections of the 21 Reigns'... The Kokinshū (i.e. 'Collection of Odes Old and Modern', c. 905) [was the first, and]... consists almost entirely of the short 31 syllable tanka... [which] has ever since remained the favourite metre.” (Chamberlain, 1880) The Manyōshū contained “4515 poems, among which are gathered 268 chōka, [and the rest tanka].” The Kokinshū, by comparison, contained “over 1000 tanka, and just 5 chōka.” (MacCauley, 1899)

        When I die,
        burn me not, bury me not—
        Into the wilderness cast me,
        that starving dogs
        may fill their stomachs.

—Ono no Komachi (c. 825-901; tr. MacCauley, 1896)

“The Kokinshu, compiled by Tsurayuki and including many of his own compositions, dates from the 10th century, a period whose style has remained the model which every later poet has striven to imitate. Other collections—all made by Imperial order—followed in the 11th-15th centuries. These together with the Manyoshu are known as 'Collections of the 21 Reigns'.” “Occasionally a poem will be half a page in length. But the immense majority are tiny odes of 31 syllables.” (Chamberlain, 1890) And that’s where we’ll leave it this week. Next week, we’ll look at the even shorter kata’uta (i.e. ‘half poem’) and sedō’ka (i.e. ‘head-spinning poem’), a 6-line variant on tanka.

When tanka was introduced to the West—first through the translations of Aston, Chamberlain, MacCauley, and later Page, and then through the poetry of Yone Noguchi, Sadakichi Hartmann, Amy Lowell, and Jun Fujita (among others)—the short poem was almost exclusively reserved for ‘comic’ verse and English-style epigrams (in distinction to Greek epigrams, which could be both comic and/or considered, sometimes in the same verse). However, after the post-1913 explosion of free-verse happened in English-language poetry, the tanka became a primary model for the very short poem in English.

This influence can be seen not only in formal English-language tanka, typically written in 31 syllables, in a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern, and free English-language tanka, typically written in 4 to 5 short lines, but also in the expanded field of very short English-language free-verse. I would argue its influence became so pervasive at this time, that almost all English-language very short verse owes both tanka and haiku a long overdue debt of gratitude. More on this another time . . .

I have been writing tanka for about 20 years now, and have explored numerous different approaches and styles, and no doubt, will shift again in the future. Mostly my tanka are in 5-phrases, but not always; 4-7 lines seems to be the sweet spot, depending on how long your lines are. Sometimes I will use a formal S-L-S-L-L structure, to echo the 5-7-5-7-7 of the Japanese (as in the first one below), but a lot of the time I just feel my way around (as in the second). It is the handling of kugire (the ‘pauses’) which define the form for me, regardless of lineation or syllables. Here’s a couple of my recent-ish unpublished tanka;

 
             break
        the bone of night—
        take a bite
        and turn your teeth
        moon yellow
 

 
             dawn
        all bloody and golden—

        the branch
        one leaf
        lighter
 

And a very recent one, written as part of the Song Title Poetry Challenge, composed as an epitaph to Nina Simone, written entirely using song-titles from her back-catalogue;

 
        come ye
        keeper of the flame
        take me to the water,

        i'm going back home—
        i hold no grudge
 

Of course, tanka is just as suited to the comic as it is to the serious, and I write a lot of lighter verse as well, though I publish it much less often (if at all). This, for instance, I consider a tanka, though it obviously takes heavy influence from the English limerick. Perhaps it is better called a kyōka (lit. ‘crazy poem’), but that is a conversation for another time . . .

 
             Am I a terrible poet?
        How would I even know it?
        The world's not in time
        And the birds never rhyme,
        Can any good really come from it?


                                          xoxo
                                            dw

 

1. Lover of Ingyō Tennō (376-453); “When a spider clung to one's garments, it was a sign that an intimate friend would arrive. 'Little crab' is another name for a spider.” (Aston, 1896) Aston's translation; This is the night / My husband will come. / The little crab— / The spider's action / Tonight is manifest.

2. “It is supposed that the hototogisu (cuckoo) comes from the spirit-land and makes its appearance about the end of the 5th month, telling the farmer it is time to sow rice.” In the Hojoki of Chomei, the popular notion of the bird is thus expressed: “In summer the hototogisu is heard, who by his reiterated cry invites a tryst with him on that rugged path which leads to Hades.” (MacCauley, 1899)

3. The mother of Michitsuna (c. 935-995); “Once, so it is said, she was reproached by her husband for her slowness in opening a door for him upon his return late at night. Her answer was the present tanka.” (MacCauley, 1899)

4. Within the field of waka, kugire is comparable to the English term 'caesura' (i.e. a 'poetic pause'); “Although analysis of kugire is as controversial as English scansion, it is agreed that the tanka and poems in other forms before the Manyōshū (i.e. 8thC) tend to have a 'pause' after each set of 5-7 [i.e. after the 2nd and/or 4th phrases], and those later than the Manyōshū [and even more so after the Kokinshū and Shinkokinshū], after each set of 7-5 [i.e. at the end of the 1st and/or 3rd phrase].” (Sato, 'Translating Tanka in One Line Form', Montemora, 1978) “The tanka form has 31 syllables, 5 units in all. The first 3 units are called the beginning [i.e. hokku] and the remaining 2 the end [i.e. ageku].” (Fujiwara no Kintō, 996-1041; Shinsen Zuinō) The following terms are thus derived: sho'kugire ('pause' after the 1st phrase), ni— (2nd), san— (3rd), yon— (4th), and mu'kugire (no pause). Also: Ku'ware (split-phrase) and ku'matagari (spilling-phrase).

Kugire literally means to ‘pause’ or ‘punctuate’ in writing or when reading aloud, as well as to ‘divide’ or ‘separate’ (into parts, or fragments). As with the kireji in haiku, effective use of kugire divides the poem into two (or more) fragments. As Aston observed, this also often coincides with a break in sense. Something has been left out. Not just a pause: but a gap, or fissure. A spring, gushing with fresh waters. However, this “gap” does not lead to non-sense, any more than it does to sense (though it may sometimes lead to a kind of “nonsense” which reorders the senses, rather than abandoning them). Instead, the fragments should resonate with one another in some manner, be it abstractly, philosophically, dramatically, declaratively, descriptively, comically (etc.), or a mixture of all or none.

Rather than being bound by the ‘transcendental statement’ (as with the majority of English-language poetry, pre-1900s; i.e. a statement which is ‘grammatically true’, and therefore ‘makes sense’ and is ‘sensible’, with the least amount of ambiguity), tanka and haiku are grounded in ‘immanent suggestion’ (fragments which function not on a ‘true/false’ dichotomy, but in terms of an experiential and experimental truth, produced by varying measures of ambiguity).

5. While the terms kami no ku and shimo no ku might be applied to both 5-7—5-7-7 and 5-7-5—7-7 tanka, the terms hokku and ageku typically suggest 5-7-5—7-7 pattern which Fujiwara no Kintō spoke of (later strengthened through its connection to both renga and haikai, and the 5-7-5 standalone hokku).

6. “Tokasago ['distant mount'] is not here the name of a place. It means 'accumulated sand' or 'high-sanded', and is associated as a 'pillow word' with mountain summits. It has the force of indicating a peak 'far away' or 'distant'.” (MacCauley, 1899)

7. “Hisakata is a 'pillow word' here connected with kumoi, 'the place where the clouds are' (i.e. 'the sky'). Taguchi says that hisakata = hi no sasu kata, 'the side whence the sun comes',” which MacCauley translates as “the ever-shining sky.” (MacCauley, 1899)

8. “Kurokami is, in part, a 'pillow word' for midarete ('distracted', 'confused', 'tangled'). It has here an especially appropriate application. Midarete well depicts both 'hair' and 'thoughts'.” (MacCauley, 1899) “Lady Horikawa, designated as being in attendance to Empress Taiken [1101-1145].”

9. “Matsuo is a small village on the north coast of the island of Awaji... the word contains also, matsu, 'to wait'. Hence there is the double meaning—'the coast of Matsuo' and 'the shore where one waits'.” (MacCauley, 1899)

Haiku Thursdays

Notes for an unfinished miscellany on haiku in English, including poems, translations, histories, theories, et al. Explore the archive . . .