Poetry in everyday life

This post brought to you by John Julius Norwich.

Many years ago - in 1965 to be precise - Harold Macmillan presented the Duff Cooper Prize to Professor Ivan Morris, for his book The World of the Shining Prince: a description of court life in tenth-century Japan.  I think this extract gives the flavour:

There wre many occasions in daily life - a visit to the country, for example, or the sight of the first snowfall of the year - when failure to compose appropriate poems was a grave social solecism.  Also, when one received a poem (on these or any other occasions) it was mandatory to send a prompt reply, preferably using the same imagery.  As a rule, the ladies and gentlemen of the Heian rose to the challenge.  But there were times, we note almost with relief, when even these indefatigable versifiers faltered.  The following passage from The Pillow Book (whose author, of course, was among the glibbest poets of her day) describes the return of the Empress Sakado's ladies from a cuckoo-viewing expedition, and provides one of those rare deviations from poeteic etiquette.

"Well now," said Her Majesty, "where are they - where are your poems?"

We explained that we had not written any.

"Really?" she said.  "This is most unfortunate.  The gentlemen at court will certainly have heard of your expedition.  How are you going to explain that you do not have a single interesting poem to show for it?  You should have jotted something down on the spur of the moment while you were listening to the cuckoos.  But you wanted to make too much of the occasion and as a result you let your inspiration vanish.  But you can still make up for it.  Write something now!"

Everything her Majesty said was true, and we were really distressed at our failure.  I was discussing possible poems with the other ladies when a message arrived from the Fujiwara gentleman-in-waiting.  His poem was attached to some white blossom and the paper itself was as white as the flower:

If only I had known
That you were off to hear the cuckoo's song
I should have sent my heart to join you on your way.

Since the messenger was no doubt awaiting our reply, I asked someone to fetch an inkstone from our apartments, but the Empress ordered me to use hers.  "Write something at once," she said.  A piece of paper had been placed in the lid.  "Why don't you write teh reply?" I said to Lady Saisho.  "No, I'd rather you did it," she answered.

"I still see no reason," said Her Majesty, who was becoming angry, "why those of you who went to hear the cuckoos can't write a proper poem about it.  You seem to have set your minds against it."

"But Your Majesty", I said, "by now the whole thing has become a bit dreary."

There was no more talk about writing a poem for this particular occasion.

Comments

[text]

To compose a verse
about visiting cuckoos:
that would be dreary.

[natasha]

cool :)