Ono No Komachi Quotes

Even when a river of tears courses through this body, the flame of love cannot be quenched.

Even if I now saw you only once, I would long for you through worlds, worlds.

Watching the moon at dawn, solitary, mid-sky, I knew myself completely, no part left out.

The one close to me now, even my own body- these too will soon become clouds, floating in different directions.

Is this love reality Or a dream? I cannot know, When both reality and dreams Exist without truly existing.

Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house.

What is it about this twilight hour? Even the sound of a barely perceptible breeze pierces the heart.

Nothing in the world is usual today. This is the first morning.

The color of the flower has faded, while I lost myself in idle thought in this long rain / 花の色は うつりにけりな いたづらに わが身世にふる ながめせし間に

However wildly this year's cherry blossoms bloom, I'll see them with the plum's scent filling my heart.

For a moment he became smoke. How intimate, now, the cloudy sky.

If the one I waited for came now, what should I do? This morning's garden filled with snow is far too lovely for footsteps to mar.

Things I Want Decided Which shouldn't exist in this world, the one who forgets or the one who is forgotten? Which is better, to love one who has died or not to see each other when you're alive? Which is better, the distant lover you long for or the one you see daily without desire? Which is the least unreliable among fickle things — the swift rapids, a flowing river, or this human world?

Rather than recall in these flowers the fragrance of the past, I would like to hear this nightingale's voice, to know if his song is as sweet.

Although the cricket's song has no words, still, it sounds like sorrow.

When the netted fence of spiderwebs that darkens my ruined house can hold the wind in its strands- that's when these troubled thoughts will blow away. . . .

Though we knew each other without overlapping our clothes, still, with this autumn wind’s sound, I find myself waiting for you.

The way I must enter leads through darkness to darkness- O moon above the mountain's rim, please shine a little further on my path,

When my desire grows too fierce I wear my bed clothes inside out, dark as the night’s rough husk.

This pine tree by the rock Must have its memories too: After a thousand years, See how its branches Lean towards the ground.

Undisturbed, my garden fills with summer growth— how I wish for one who would push the deep grass aside.

This heart, Longing for you, Breaks To a thousand pieces- I wouldn’t lose one.

Perhaps, if I make a friend of the mountain cuckoo in this world, he will talk to me when we cross the mountain of death

Why haven’t I Thought of this before? This body, Remembering yours, Is the keepsake you left.

It is poetry which effortlessly moves the heavens and the earth, awakens the world of invisible spirits to deep feeling, softens the relationship between men and women, and consoles the hearts of fierce warriors.

Tears that but form gems on sleeves must come, I think, from an insincere heart, for mine, though I seek to repress them, gush forth in torrents.

Seeing the moonlight Spilling down Through these trees, My heart fills to the brim With autumn.

I’ve traveled That dark path to the world Which comes down from this mountain Just to see you One last time.

My longing for you— Too strong to keep within bounds. At least no one can blame me When I go to you at night Along the road of dreams.

When the autumn wind Blows down from Tokiwa Mountain, My body fills, as if blushing, With the color and scent Of pine.

Otkako sam u snu vidjela čovjeka kojega ljubim, otada sam počela voljeti svoje snove.

O Spider Lily That grows on the mountain Called Waiting, Is there someone you also Promised to meet this autumn?

Why did you vanish Into empty sky? Even the fragile show, When it falls, Falls in this world.

The flowers and my love, Passed away under the rain, While I idly looked upon them: Where is my yester-love?

The cherry blossoms have faded now in hue - gazing emptily upon the long spring rains, I too know what it is to age.

Did you come to me because I dropped off to sleep, tormented by love? If I had known I dreamed, I would not have awakened.

I long for him most during these hot moonless nights. I lie awake, hot, the growing fires of passion bursting, blazing in my heart.

The first intimation of a new romance for a woman of the court was the arrival at her door of a messenger bearing a five-line poem in an unfamiliar hand. If the woman found the poem sufficiently intriguing, the paper it was written on suitable for its contents and mood, and the calligraphy acceptably graceful, her encouraging reply—itself in the form of a poem—would set in motion a clandestine, late-night visit from her suitor. The first night together was, according to established etiquette, sleepless; lovemaking and talk were expected to continue without pause until the man, protesting the night’s brevity, departed in the first light of the predawn. Even then he was not free to turn his thoughts to the day’s official duties: a morning-after poem had to be written and sent off by means of an ever-present messenger page, who would return with the woman’s reply. Only after this exchange had been completed could the night’s success be fully judged by whether the poems were equally ardent and accomplished, referring in image and nuance to the themes of the night just passed. Subsequent visits were made on the same clandestine basis and under the same circumstances, until the relationship was either made official by a private ceremony of marriage or ended. Once she had given her heart, a woman was left to await her lover’s letters and appearances at her door at nightfall. Should he fail to arrive, there might be many explanations—the darkness of the night, inclement weather, inauspicious omens preventing travel, or other interests. Many sleepless nights were spent in hope and speculation, and, as evidenced by the poems in this book, in poetic activity. Throughout the course of a relationship, the exchange of poems served to reassure, remind, rekindle or cool interest, and, in general, to keep the other person aware of a lover’s state of mind. At the same time, poetry was a means of expressing solely for oneself the uncertainties, hopes, and doubts which inevitably accompanied such a system of courtship, as well as a way of exploring other personal concerns.

Although there is not one moment without longing, still, how strange this autumn twilight is. — Ono no Komachi, The Ink Dark Moon tr. by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani (Vintage Classics, 1990)

Through the years I’ve become used to sorrow: There was not one spring I didn’t leave behind The flowers.

Should I leave this burning house Of ceaseless thought And taste the pure rain’s Single truth Falling upon my skin?