 | Sekidera Komachi |  |
KOMACHI AT SEKIDERA
(SEKIDERA KOMACHI)
The stage assistants bring forward a simple construction representing a
hut with a thatched roof. It is covered with a cloth. The Old Woman is
inside.
As the music begins the Child, the Abbot, and two Priests enter and face each other onstage. The Abbot and the Priests carry rosaries.
Three Priests
So long awaited, the lovers' autumn meeting!
Now let us begin the Festival of Stars. [1]
The Abbot faces front.
Abbot
I am the chief priest of Sekidera in Ōmi. Today, the seventh day of the Seventh month, we come to celebrate the Festival of Stars here in the temple garden. People say that the old woman who has built her hut at the foot of the mountain knows all the secrets of the art of poetry. So, on this festive day dedicated to poetry, I am going to take the young people to hear her stories.
He turns to the Child.
Three Priests
We feel it in the wind and in our thinning locks. [2]
Soon, soon the Seventh Night will be on us.
The Abbot faces front.
Abbot
The music of flutes and strings,
Two Priests
Abbot
He turns to the Child.
Three Priests
With brightly colored streamers:
Fluttering ribbons, each a token of prayer,
Like silk threads woven into rich brocades
On looms of autumn flowers
And pampas grass pearly with dew.
To make music for the offerings tonight, [4]
Our offerings for this festive night.
The Abbot and his companions are now at their destination.
Abbot
Here is the hut now. Let us call on the old woman.
To the Child.But first, please sit down.
All kneel. A stage assistant removes the cloth around the hut, revealing the Old Woman seated inside. Paper strips inscribed with poems hang from the crossbars of the hut frame. The Old Woman wears the uba mask.
Old Woman
Whom can I ask for one?
At night my tattered rags fail to cover me,
But there is no way to patch the rents.
Each passing rain
Ages the crimson of the flowers;
The willows are tricked by the wind,
And their green gradually droops. [5]
Man has no second chance at youth;
He grows old. The aged song thrush
Warbles again when spring has come,
But time does not revert to the past.
Oh, how I yearn for the days that are gone!
What would I do to recapture the past!
She weeps. The Abbot and the Child rise, and go to kneel before her.
Abbot
Old woman, we have come to speak with you.
Old Woman
Who are you?
Abbot
I am a priest from Sekidera. These young people are students of poetry. They have heard of your talent, and I have brought them here to question you about poetry and to learn something of your life.
Old Woman
This is an unexpected visit! The log buried in the earth has been so long forgotten you must not expect it will put forth new sprouts. [6] Just remember this: If you will make
Abbot
May I ask you about a poem everyone knows, "The Harbor of Naniwa?" [8] Do you agree that it should be used as a first guide?
Old Woman
Indeed I do. Poetry goes back to the Age of the Gods, but the meters were then irregular and the meanings difficult to understand. "The Harbor of Naniwa," however, belongs to the Age of Man. It was composed for the joyous occasion of an emperor's enthronement, and has long been beloved for that reason. [9]
Abbot
The poem about Mount Asaka, which once soothed the heart of a prince, is also beautifully written. [10]
Old Woman
For those two poems are the parents of all poetry.
Abbot
Old Woman
Abbot
Old Woman
Abbot
Old Woman
Chorus
Of the lake in Omi should run out,
Though the sands of the shore should melt away,
They are enduring as evergreen boughs of pine,
Continuous as trailing branches of willow;
For poetry, whose source and seed is found
In the human heart, is everlasting.
Though ages pass and all things vanish,
As long as words of poetry remain,
Poems will leave their marks behind,
And the traces of poetry will never disappear.
Abbot
Thank you for your words of explanation. It is true that countless poems survive from the past, but they are rarely by
Was that not by a woman?
Old Woman
Yes, that poem was written long ago by Princess Sotori, the consort of Emperor Ingyo. I tried, if only in form. to master her style.
Abbot
Ah! You have studied the style of Princess Sotori? I have heard that Ono no Komachi, who's so much talked of these days, wrote in that style. [13]
A floating water weed,
Broken from its roots—
If a stream should beckon,
I would follow it, I think."
That poem is by Komachi.
Old Woman
Yes, once my husband, Oe no Koreaki, took up with another woman, and I grieved at the fickleness of the world. Then, Funya no Yasuhide [14] invited me to accompany him to Mikawa, where he was to be the governor. I wrote that poem in response to his urging and to his promises that life in the country would bring solace.
So long forgotten, they rise up again
Before me as I talk to you.
Tears well up from my suffering heart.
She weeps.
Abbot
Strange! This old woman says she wrote the poem "Wretched that I am." And
she says she wrote in the Sotori style, just as Komachi did. She must be
nearly a hundred years old, and if Komachi were still alive today. . . .
And is there any reason why she couldn't be? It must be so!
to the Old Woman.
You are what is left of Ono no Komachi. Do not deny it.
Ah, I burn with shame to be called Komachi, I who wrote
Chorus
How ashamed I am to be seen!
A floating water weed,
Broken from its roots—
If a stream should beckon,
I would follow it, I think."
How ashamed I am!
She weeps.The tears keep flowing,
Too many for my sleeves to hold—
A rain of tears dissolving
Everything except the past." [16]
Now that my life has reached its end,
Like a withered flower,
Why should there still be tears?
Old Woman
Chorus
Is gone forever, but still my life goes on,
Attending the months and years as they come and go.
The dews of spring depart, and autumn frosts appear,
The leaves and grasses turn, and insect voices fade.
Old Woman
Chorus
Only a single day of glory. [18]
"The living go on dying,
The dead increase in number;
Left in this world, ah—
How long must I go on
Lamenting for the dead?" [19]
And how long must I, who wrote that poem,
Live on, like flowers fallen, like leaves scattered,
Oh, how I long for the past!
My middle years were spent in yearning
For the distant glory of my youth.
Now even those days of wistful recollection
Have become such ancient history
I find myself wishing, if not for youth,
At least for middle age.
Long ago, wherever I spent a single night
My room would be bright with tortoise shell,
Golden flowers hung from the walls,
And in the door were strings of crystal beads. [20]
Brilliant as the Emperor's chair in grand procession
The jewellike gowns I wore, a hundred colors.
I lay on bright brocaded quilts
Within a pillowed bridal chamber.
Look at it now, my mud-daubed hut!
Can this be my resplendent room?
Old Woman
Chorus
To ancient ears a needless lesson.
A mountain wind blows down Osaka's slope
To moan the certainty of death;
Its message still eludes me.
Yet, when blossoms scatter and leaves fall,
Still in this hut I find my pleasure:
Grinding ink, I dip my brush and write.
My words are all dry, like seaweed on the shore.
Touching, they once said, but lacking strength [21]—
My poems lacked strength because they were a woman's.
Now when I have grown decrepit
My poems are weaker still. Their life is spent.
How wretched it is to be old!
She weeps. The Child turns to the Abbot.
Child
I'm afraid we'll be late for the Festival of Stars. Let's ask the old lady to come with us.
The Abbot kneels before the Old Woman.
Abbot
Please join us on this Seventh Night, the Festival of Stars.
Alas! An old woman should not intrude on such an occasion. I cannot go.
She takes down the paper poem cards.
Abbot
What harm could come of it? Please come with us.
He goes to the hut and helps the Old Woman to stand.
Chorus
How many years since first I offered the gods
Bamboo tied with colored streamers?
How long has shriveled old Komachi lived?
Or even more?
I who used to watch the Festival of Stars,
Familiar of the noblest lords and ladies,
A sight too painful for eyes to bear!
With multitudes of offerings for the stars.
Prayer streamers hang from bamboo,
The young dancer-look how gracefully
He twirls his sleeves, like snow
Swirling in the moonlight.
Streamers flutter from the bamboos . . .
Old Woman
As the joints of the bamboo!
Chorus
The Child completes his dance, then sits as before.
Old Woman
How gracefully that boy has danced! I remember how, long ago in the Palace, the Gosechi dancing girls swirled their sleeves five times at the Harvest Festival. They say that if a madman runs, even the sane will run after him. But tonight the proverb is reversed! Enticed by the boy's floating sleeves, see how a madwoman prances!
She stands with the aid of her staff and begins her dance.The dance of the butterfly
Who dreamt he had spent
A hundred years enfolded
Within a flower petal. [23]
Chorus
A flowering branch on a withered tree!
Old Woman
Chorus
Old Woman
Chorus
But sleeves cannot wave back the past.
She goes before the hut.
Old Woman
She kneels and weeps.
Chorus
The short night, gives way to dawn.
The temple bell of Sekidera tolls.
Old Woman
Chorus
The dawn's fresh light that reveals my shame!
Where is the forest of Hazukashi? [24]
She stands, propping herself on her staff.
Chorus
Farewell, I take my leave.
Now, leaning heavily on her stick,
She slowly returns to her straw hut.
Is all that remains of famed Komachi,
Is all that is left of Ono no Komachi.
| Sekidera Komachi | |