Bed head can be sexy
If there is one tanka poem that persuaded me to write a book about Akiko, this might be it.
Stars look down on the flutter of bed drapes below and imagine
Tendrils of nether women’s hair
夜の帳にささめき尽くきし星の今を下界の人の鬢のほつれよ
Any translation of literature into another language is problematic. In the case of Akiko it is particularly difficult. As an enthusiast of Japanese and Chinese classical literature, she stitched subtle literary references into her writing.
Problem Number One: I am not well-versed in the Japanese classics.
Problem Number Two: You probably aren’t either.
It simply isn’t possible for me to translate references of which I am unaware. Even if I were aware, it would not be possible to convey these shades of meaning in a few English words; it would have to be addressed in notes or expository paragraphs that you may not want to read. You may simply love poetry that connects with your personal experience or emotions. You recognize something in it, nothing more or less.
Dog-ear that point for a moment, I’ll come back to it.
Look again at the tanka itself. It evokes for me a night sky filled with stars, a traditional Japanese wooden house with a heavy tile roof and shoji screens drawn back to let the cool air inside. Two lovers recline, half-awake. The woman sits up to look out the window, gathering her tousled hair off her neck and twisting it into a bun. The mosquito net suspended from the wooden ceiling flutters in the breeze, and stars wink as the fluttering becomes tendrils of fairy hair. (Take a deep breath here).
Last night, my new friend Kate Mashiko, who has a degree in Japanese literature (and actually is well-versed in the classics), explained some of the deeper meaning to me over a video call. As she spoke, she looked through a pile of books on her desk and held up bookmarked pages for me to see. She recalled a passage in The Pillow book (枕草子), the 11th century work by Japanese courtesan Sei Shonagon, in which a woman opens the blinds so that her lover can look out at the snow.
She also pointed to The Song of Everlasting Regret (長恨歌), a Chinese classical poem dating to the 9th century. In it, an aggrieved emperor whose lover has died convinces a Taoist priest to visit the underworld in search of her spirit. The priest finds a beautiful woman whose, “hairdo was lopsided, because she had just been sleeping. /Her hairpiece was not straight as she descended into the main room. / A gust of wind caused her celestial sleeves to flutter.” [1] I think Kate is right, Akiko must have had this famous poem in mind.
Does knowing the literary context help us to appreciate poetry? Perhaps. From an intellectual perspective, it is fascinating background. It does help me choose appropriate words in English. It is also mysterious and beautiful to imagine courtesans in the 9th century, and Akiko at the beginning of the 20th century, experiencing feelings that we recognize today.
That brings me back to our dog-eared idea above. Do you have a memory that taps into this tanka? Of stars, and a soft breeze, fluttering drapes, and being in love? Did you pin back your messy hair, and feel locks of it flopping faintly onto the nape of your neck? How beautiful you were in that moment. What fragile, sweet memories we have.
[1] https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Song_of_Everlasting_Regret
