Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Life in Nature, Nature in Life: On Murasaki Shikibu's "The Tale of Genji"

Though unaccustomed to a peculiar literary style — marked by omission of character names, usage of highly patrician language, and depiction of archaic Japanese cultural traditions — the enduring quality which, I believe, fostered my deep appreciation of Murasaki Shikibu’s The Tale of Genji lies in the unveiling of poetry as an embodiment of aesthetic sensibilities achieved in particular by the Japanese aristocracy. 

In the novel, poems – either created presumably by the author or quoted from older collections of poetry – are deeply embedded in the narrative; presenting an unparalleled literary style, highly developed for its age. Poetry, enjoyed particularly by the Japanese aristocratic class, is revealed to be the highest form of art in 11th century Japan. Because of this, an examination of the role of poetry – present in the lived realities of Genji and other characters belonging to the nobility – shows trace of the aesthetic consciousness of the Japanese and serves to demystify the fascinating aspects of Japanese culture. 

 Japanese poetry, known as waka, occupies a central position in the imperial court as a revered art form and highly favored activity of the nobility. In Genji’s cultural age, both the emperor and crown prince are known to be “connoisseurs of poetry”. The fifth chapter in particular, titled The Festival of the Cherry Blossoms, demonstrates how princes and high courtiers are adept at composing Chinese poems, thus highlighting the active cultural borrowings and influences of the mainland in Japanese language and literature. 

During this period, producing a Chinese poem is considered a difficult task but, for the author, it is described as “positive torture”, endured and enjoyed by a particularly narrow segment of Japanese society. Because of this, the classification of poetry as an aesthetic form in the Heian period, informs of art’s capacity to isolate the noble class from the rest of the society. With this, we are reminded to view Genji’s world as a narrow picture of the highly cultured life lived by Japan’s nobility, privileged for their literacy and exposure to traditional aesthetics. 

Nevertheless, the incorporation of poetry in the novel reveals more than a division of class; for indeed, in examining the substance of these poems, the interrelation of human emotion and nature is harmoniously depicted in the literary form. In other words, the poems contained in the novel convey the relationship between our feelings and the natural world. For instance: the waves moaning our longings, the winds becoming messengers of our sorrow, the river of tears revealing our grief, the dews miming our tears. 

These references to nature – present in one of their aesthetic concepts such as mono no aware or “sensitivity to things” – reflect the sensibilities of the Japanese in perceiving the natural world as part of the inner self. Nature, for the Japanese, exists in harmony with our thoughts and feeling. Poetry then, becomes an avenue where the natural world and the human life, express its unity and interrelatedness. Genji and other characters in the novel internalize, through poetry, the realities of the natural world and their inner world, consciously mindful of the transitory and evanescent qualities of life in general.  

Another function of poetry, which perhaps contributes to its appeal among the aristocracy, is its capacity to conceal human emotions through highly eloquent and suggestive language. Japanese poetry is carefully tailored to not only express emotions about beauty and life, but also to allow intimate communication between a man and a woman. 

It is through poetry, for instance, that Genji is able to convey his emotions towards his numerous lovers. Poetry is his weapon to initiate amorous affairs. Because of its highly suggestive nature, poems also become an allusion to the worldly desires experienced by Genji, and by his lovers. To demonstrate this, allow me to present a poetic exchange, particularly between Genji and Naishi – an aged but lewd aristocratic woman. 

Their conversation starts with the old Naishi’s aggressive speech, which goes: 
“Sere and withered though these grasses be,
they are ready for your pony, should you come”; 
— to which Genji, known for his carnal nature, liberally replies:
 “Were mine to part the low bamboo of your grove,
 It would fear to be driven away by other ponies”. 
Indeed, the exchange above, classic in its veiling the natural world and our worldly desires, is a testament to the poet’s might in depicting the impermanence of life and the immortality of art. 


Monday, July 8, 2013

Back to Poetry (#5 - UP Diliman Series)


(Poem for Arne's birthday)













Øjne
With light, the darkest blue
not of sea or sky, but of earth
viewed from space, conscious
of its life.

In darkness, the deepest green
not of leaves or moss, but of jade
bought from trade, precious
on the palm.

Light or dark, the pale world
of your face is hued for life:

of earth and jade, they say
light plays with color, but only I
of course, can speak of hues
altering brightness; of colors
changing nights to life 

for life, all
for life.



til Arne 07/08/13


Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Back to Poetry (#3 - UP Diliman Series)



Musings of a Lone Dew on a Sunny Day

I am a tear to this grass
which cups me kindly,

to fit the curve of its leaf
and delay my joining
the sun.

I am shriveling warm, but I glisten
ever more intensely:

swaying dragonflies
as I join the wind,

hovering its glimmer
above my green,

viewing flickers of grain
from its sandy loam home

gripping what is left of me --

so all that we become
are city lights of day.
4/11/2012, Fodboldbane


Monday, October 8, 2012

Back to Poetry (#2 UP Diliman Series)



Shelving the Self

The usual space
that owns my weight
is weightless.
I left the seat
   
Empty —

for today’s play
is to have you

Miss me.


 5/10/2012, Bibliotek

Monday, September 10, 2012

Back to Poetry (#1 - UP Diliman Series)


Strange, Stranger Gazes

In the library 
where books become walls
to people
whose looks resemble
their thoughts:
of finishing homework
and killing time,
of learning ahead
and spacing out.

In this place,
where silence and noise
become idle sounds,
my eyes are lost
among pages and spaces
you move around:
between the shelves,
behind the counter,
beside me.

But these walls keep
its rule of silence
my eyes have to defy.
I learn to speak
your language of gazes:
those tug of wars,
those hits and misses,
those stolen glances
that mock the silence
of this place.

In the library
where walls avenge
the foes of silence,
our gazes are muted
like words of pages 
housed in this place.
We do not belong here –
and words are blind
to the language of our eyes.

 09/10/2012, Sovesal

Thursday, April 14, 2011

30 minute poem written inside XU library

Palm Trees

To be swayed by the wind
and yet remain standing --
your grace is mending

my thoughts: how I have legs
of those size but are plagued
to take a step, to go
with the flow of gushing air

That invisible push
you resist from the roots 
and you grip the earth
without mashing its crust.

My world is made of dust
and the wind sings the sound
about us on the ground

blown to wander, lost
and without roots.

Friday, December 24, 2010

First Stanza of an Unfinished Poem


Wrote this "poem" after I first got 70% of my teaching salary. I felt it's not yet done... or is it? I don't know.

In my Wallet

A pen that marks blood and love
to lined yellow surfaces
is crushing my paper bills
like stacked leaves lying below
the school pavement, creeping
for the color of the soil.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Today @ Breakfast.

Poetry for breakfast and I'm full already -- in mind, in heart, and in consciousness. I'm just gonna post some of my favorite  poems. I read them again this morning -- like food, I devoured words. 
I thought that, before I leave Tagum, I should ponder upon my quest in life. I have to feed my soul with thoughts and constantly be reminded what my journey is for.


The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy & wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

A Thing Of Beauty
by: John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Love One Another
by: Khalil Gibran 

Love one another, but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup, but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread, but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone.
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together.
For the pillars of the temple stand apart.
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow

If 
by: e e Cummings

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie,
    Life would be delight,-
    But things couldn't go right    
    For in such a sad plight
I wouldn't be I.

If earth was heaven, and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
    There might be some sense    
    But I'd be in suspense
    For on such a pretense
You wouldn't be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
    Things would seem fair,-
    Yet they'd all despair,
    For if here was there
We wouldn't be we.
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