The Hyakunin Isshu
of the Defeated

The Hyakunin Isshu is arranged roughly in order of time. As we follow its hundred poets, shadows of the "defeated" come into view: people who lost political struggles, and descendants of great families tossed about by their times. In this column, we trace the historical background they lived in and consider what the compiler, Fujiwara no Sadaie, may have felt.

Prologue: A Social Order Set in Stone

The Birth of the "Eight Kabane"

From the reign of Emperor Tenji, whose poem opens the Hyakunin Isshu, Japan began to change greatly. After the Taika Reforms, the building of a ritsuryō state with the emperor at its head got fully under way. Then Emperor Tenmu, who had won the Jinshin War, established the yakusa no kabane, the "eight kabane."

The eight kabane were a system that unified the status titles given to clans and ranked them according to their closeness to the emperor. This ranking, which ran from mahito at the top through ason and sukune, was not merely a set of titles: it was an institutional framework that permanently fixed each clan's distance from the emperor.

The table below sums up the eight kabane.

Poets Tossed About by the "Eight Kabane"

There were great families who took that promise to heart and lived with pride. But history does not keep its "promises." As real political power steadily passed from the emperor to the Fujiwara, the people who had once been designed to be the leading players of the state were pushed, one after another, to the edges of central politics. The order drawn up by the eight kabane became, ironically, the starting point of a long story of decline. The very court in which people composed waka and polished their words had already been built inside this order of status.

One of the first great families to stand on that stage was the Ōtomo clan, which embodied the pride of a warrior house.

A night at the palace. In the stillness edged with frost, Yakamochi composed this poem. The bridge that magpies build across the Milky Way, and the whiteness of the frost settling on it. This beautiful, orderly scene is a metaphor for the very order he believed in. He may have thought that order, pure as frost, would last forever. But history would go on to trample that frost without mercy.

There is another father and son who, though descended from holders of the highest kabane, mahito, were swept away by the tide of the times: Fun'ya no Yasuhide (Poem 22) and his son, Fun'ya no Asayasu (Poem 37). The Fun'ya clan was descended from the imperial line, with Prince Naga, a son of Emperor Tenmu, as its ancestor. As descendants of an emperor, they were given the family name Fun'ya together with the highest kabane, mahito, in 752. But that glory did not last long. As the Fujiwara, who held the kabane ason, rose, the clans with the kabane mahito quietly drifted away from the main stage of politics.

Though talented enough in poetry to be counted among the Six Poetic Sages (Rokkasen), Yasuhide stayed all his life in a low rank and post: Senior Sixth Rank, Upper Grade, and Assistant Director of the Bureau of Sewing (nuidono no suke).

"The moment the wind blows from the mountain, the autumn grasses and trees wither, so that must be why 'mountain' and 'wind' are written together and read as arashi, storm." His eye for the overwhelming power of the mountain wind as it withers plants is sharp, and his skill with words stands out.

In the Kana Jo, the preface to the Kokin Wakashū, however, Ki no Tsurayuki judged his poetry this way: "He uses words skillfully, but his manner does not suit him. It is like a merchant dressed in fine clothes" (his skill with words is first-rate, but his talent does not fit his station). Ironically, this criticism reflects the Fun'ya clan itself: the gap that could not be closed between the proud blood of imperial descent and the reality of being middle-ranking officials.

His son Asayasu followed the same fate. Though his skill was recognized well enough for him to be invited to several poetry contests, his rank ended up even lower than his father's: Junior Sixth Rank, Lower Grade, and Junior Secretary of the Office of the Palace Table (daizen no shōshin). His best-known work is Poem 37 of the Hyakunin Isshu.

"In the autumn fields where the wind keeps blowing on the white dew, it looks as if beads (pearls) not held together on a string are scattering." In this poem drifts the clear resignation of one who has quietly accepted the fate of being scattered.

Sadaie chose both father and son for the Hyakunin Isshu. It is as if he wished to preserve forever, through the beauty of their words alone, the figure of a family that carried Emperor Tenmu's blood yet fell from the main stage of history. In the father's poem, the mountain wind withers the plants; in the son's, the wind scatters the white dew. A "wind" blows through the poems of father and son, as if they were echoing each other.

Act One: The Kusuko Incident

In 810, a political upheaval split the court in two: the Kusuko Incident. The Retired Emperor Heizei and Emperor Saga clashed, and the retired emperor's side lost. But the deepest scar this upheaval left on history was not the outcome itself. After the Kusuko Incident, the political standing of the members of the imperial family descended from Heizei became delicate, and within the trend of reducing the imperial family that was already under way, the removal of royals from the imperial family into the ranks of subjects (shinseki kōka) became even more irreversible after this upheaval.

If the imperial family grew too large, the state's finances could not hold. Using that logic as its shield, the court demoted princes and grandsons of emperors wholesale to "mere aristocrats." Given new family names such as "Ariwara" and "Minamoto," they lost forever the title of "member of the imperial family" that they had borne until the day before. It was a moment when an institution rewrote people's fates overnight.

Those who took this wave head-on were Ariwara no Yukihira, a grandson of the Retired Emperor Heizei, and his younger brother Narihira. They were of noble blood that by rights belonged to the imperial line, but they were gradually kept at a distance from the political center. Given the family name "Ariwara no Ason," they were forced to make a new start as middle-ranking aristocrats. For them, this was not merely a change of status; it meant losing the very basis that proved who they were.

The elder brother, Yukihira, carrying that loss in his heart, kept searching for a place in a court ruled by the Fujiwara. But his career did not advance as he hoped, and in time he was ordered to take up a post in the province of Inaba.

The poem means: "Though we part, if I hear that you are waiting for me, like the pines that grow on Mount Inaba, I will come back right away." It is a farewell to the people who came to see him off. But behind its lightness seeps an attachment to the capital. The words "please wait for me" can also be taken as a sign of lingering attachment to central politics: "I still have the right to come back here."

His younger brother, Ariwara no Narihira, lived that question even more sharply and deeply. Caught between his lost imperial blood and the reality before his eyes, Narihira kept asking himself, "Who am I?" As if to fill that loss, he threw himself deep into the glittering love affairs of the court. And the one he met was Fujiwara no Takaiko, who was destined one day to enter the emperor's inner palace.

According to the legends told in tales, the end of their love was clear from the start. Takaiko eventually entered the emperor's court and vanished to a place beyond Narihira's reach. But Narihira put his burning feelings into waka.

This poem was composed after Takaiko entered the court, on the subject of "autumn leaves on the Tatsuta River" painted on a folding screen that belonged to her. On the surface it praises a landscape, but the autumn leaves that dye the river's surface deep red are a projection of Narihira's love, which never burns out. "Since the age of the gods, no one has seen such red." It was a confession of love for Takaiko, and at the same time there may have been in it something like defiance against the Fujiwara order that had taken away his lineage and kept his beloved far from him. The quiet pain of Narihira, who could find no place for himself in the order of his time, seeps through it.

Act Two: The Ōtenmon Incident

In 866, the Ōtenmon, the main gate of the government compound of Heian-kyō, went up in flames. The truth of this incident is still unclear, and the evidence was vague. But for the court, where Fujiwara no Yoshifusa held real power, the incident did not end as a mere fire. In the confusion, the blame came to rest on the Ōtomo clan.

Tomo no Yoshio, a descendant of the Ōtomo, an ancient and famous warrior clan that had even taken part in building the Ōtenmon gate, was accused of being the mastermind and driven from power. With this, the trust in an order pure as frost that Yakamochi had once sung of was broken. The famous warrior clan that had supported the state was cut away, amid the changes of the times, by that very order. The center of gravity of government tilted decisively away from martial prestige toward the politics of the regent family, which controlled documents and ceremony.

After the Ōtenmon Incident, the political dominance of the Fujiwara became decisive, and the clans that had come to stand at a distance from the center of politics came, as a result, to show a strong presence in the cultural field of waka.

"On a calm spring day, why do the cherry blossoms scatter so restlessly?" At first reading, it is a lyrical poem of a peaceful spring scene. But if we overlay Tomonori's circumstances, we hear another voice. While those around them flourished in golden light, only the Ki clan was being left behind by the times, like petals scattered by the wind. That impatience and sorrow lie quietly hidden behind the gentle words. Tomonori was chosen as one of the compilers of the Kokin Wakashū, but he died before seeing it completed.

"People's hearts change. Where power lies changes too. But these plum blossoms alone welcome me with the same fragrance as long ago." Composed as a somewhat ironic greeting to the master of an inn he had not visited for a long time, this poem holds a cool insight into court society, where political upheavals and reshuffles of posts came again and again. Tsurayuki carried on Tomonori's wishes and completed the Kokin Wakashū, and he brought about an innovation: a man writing a diary in kana (the Tosa Nikki). The Ki clan kept losing in politics, but his waka have been read ever since.

Act Three: The Shōtai Incident

As the Fujiwara monopoly of power neared completion, one man was climbing the ladder of court rank at an unusual speed: Sugawara no Michizane.

Michizane was born into a family of scholars, far removed from the center of politics. He first passed the difficult state examination to become a student of literature (monjōshō), then rose to the scholars' highest post, Doctor of Literature (monjō hakase). He did not stop there: he went to the provinces as Governor of Sanuki and saw with his own eyes the reality of people suffering under heavy taxes. Combining scholarly knowledge with experience on the ground, he was the most capable administrator of his day. His reputation reached Emperor Uda, and Michizane was chosen, as an exception, for key posts in government that would normally have been monopolized by the Fujiwara.

But the higher one climbs, the harder the fall.

Michizane's rival was Tokihira, the young leader of the Northern House of the Fujiwara. The two had once been comrades supporting the young Emperor Daigo, together drawing up a new shape for the state. But to Tokihira, Michizane's thorough "rule by merit" began to look like a challenge to the very order of the Fujiwara, which rested on the unity of the clan. Before he knew it, his friend had become his most dangerous rival.

In 901, Tokihira and others presented charges against Michizane to the court: that Michizane was plotting to put his son-in-law, Prince Tokiyo, on the throne. A family bond was rewritten overnight into "proof of a plot to overthrow the state." The height he had reached the day before collapsed with this accusation. In the "Shōtai Incident," Michizane, though innocent, was demoted and sent to Dazaifu, stripped of real authority even there, and ended his life in despair without ever setting foot in the capital again.

When he composed this poem, Michizane was still enjoying the honor of accompanying the emperor on a journey. "This journey was so sudden that I could not bring offerings. O god of Mount Tamuke, I offer you these beautiful autumn leaves; please accept them as you wish." It is a sincere, unadorned poem. When Fujiwara no Sadaie chose this poem, he must have known of the cruel "turn to darkness" that came right after. The brilliance of the autumn leaves, set against the darkness of his fall, wrings the reader's heart all the more. A poem composed at the peak of a glittering career was recorded, just as it was, as the scene right before the fall. Sadaie's placement has that kind of cruel poetic precision.

Act Four: The Hōgen and Heiji Disturbances

In 1156, the Hōgen Disturbance; in 1159, the Heiji Disturbance. These two upheavals were a decisive turning point: warriors stepped into the quarrels of the aristocrats and in time leapt to the center stage of history. Faced with the reality of kin killing kin, the Heian sense of beauty crumbled. Many learned people abandoned the world and became monks, seeking salvation in the Buddhist path.

Retired Emperor Sutoku: The Obsession with "Return" That Ended in Sanuki

The one who lost the Hōgen Disturbance and became the first member of the imperial family in centuries to be sent into exile was Retired Emperor Sutoku. Later generations told that, after being sent to Sanuki, he copied sutras in his own blood.

"Like a river whose fast current is split by rocks, though we part from each other, I want to meet you again someday." Read as a love poem, that is all it is. But read as words from the mouth of a defeated emperor, it takes on another dimension: "Even if my fate is torn apart now, I will surely return to the capital and regain my place as the rightful sovereign." That obsession, and the despair that it would never come true, melt into the image of the rushing water. Retired Emperor Sutoku never returned to the capital and ended his life in Sanuki.

Priest Saigyō: The Poet Who Gave Up Being a Warrior

Satō Norikiyo, a close attendant of Retired Emperor Sutoku who was expected to have a bright future as a warrior of the Northern Guard (hokumen no bushi), suddenly became a monk at the age of 23. This was Priest Saigyō. What he saw in the bloody reality of the struggle for power, he never said. Instead, with cherry blossoms and the moon as his companions, he traveled around the country and went on carving the impermanence of the changing world into his poems.

"Does the moon tell me to grieve and make me brood? No. These are my tears, flowing as if the moon had lured them out." Saigyō neither blames his sadness on the moon nor makes excuses. He simply gazes quietly at the fact of his tears. Here is the clear, transparent solitude that only a person who has given up everything can have.

Witness to a Dying Age: Master of the Empress Dowager's Household Toshinari

While one after another became monks, Fujiwara no Toshinari stayed in the world. He saw with his own eyes the misery of the Hōgen Disturbance and watched over aristocratic society as it died, yet he staked his life on "handing the tradition of words on to the next generation."

"There seems to be no way to escape this hard world. Even deep in the mountains I entered in despair, I hear the sorrowful cry of the deer." This looks like a poem of despair, but what is truly striking about it is what comes after. Even so, Toshinari did not lay down his brush. Knowing there was no escape, he kept putting the tradition of waka in order for the generations to come. It feels like a requiem for a dying age, and at the same time a quiet resolve toward a future no one could foresee.

The Tragedy of Minamoto no Sanetomo, Who Stood at the Top of the Warrior Houses

While the aristocrats were trying to defend their last fortress, "words," there was, ironically, a young man who stood at the top of the warriors they feared, yet believed in the "power of words" more than anyone: Minamoto no Sanetomo, the third shōgun of the Kamakura shogunate.

Sanetomo looked up to Toshinari's son, Sadaie, as his teacher, and sought salvation for his soul in the culture of Kyoto. Amid the daily life of a shogunate in which relatives killed one another, the title of shōgun gave him power but did not free him from loneliness.

"I wish the world could stay like this forever, unchanging. How dear it feels to watch the fishermen pulling their small boats along the shore by rope." This is not the poem of a fierce warrior. It is an earnest longing for a stillness that never changes. But the times did not let him stay in that peace. In 1219, at Tsurugaoka Hachimangū in falling snow, Sanetomo was assassinated by his nephew. The death of the young shōgun, born a warrior with the heart of an aristocrat, was also the moment a dream was crushed.

Act Five: The Feelings Behind the Order of the Hundred Poems

An Order That Closes with Defeated Sovereigns

Fujiwara no Sadaie, who compiled this anthology, had himself a past in which his talent was discovered by Retired Emperor Go-Toba, yet he clashed fiercely with Go-Toba's harsh character and parted from him. After the Jōkyū War, openly naming Retired Emperor Go-Toba was close to a political taboo. Even so, Sadaie placed his own poem at number 97 and set Retired Emperor Go-Toba and Retired Emperor Juntoku at numbers 99 and 100, as the ending of the story.

That must have been an act of political courage, and at the same time a statement of Sadaie's own belief: "However much a person is stripped of position in political upheavals and sent into exile on an island, not even the powerful of the day can take away the beauty of the words that person left behind, carved from the soul." Beginning with Emperor Tenji and ending with exiled emperors, these hundred poems set side by side winners and losers, the powerful and the banished, all of them "equal before words." It was a bold choice that required political care, and at the same time it can be seen as Sadaie's own quiet but unshakable resistance.

The Gaze of Fujiwara no Sadaie

Fujiwara no Sadaie compiled the Hyakunin Isshu alone, in silence, at his mountain villa on Mount Ogura. He himself carried on the pride of a descendant of the distinguished Northern House of the Fujiwara, yet he lived through a break in history, as the age of the aristocrats physically collapsed and was painted over by the age of the warriors.

Many "defeated" people appear in the Hyakunin Isshu: people who left the main stage with their aims unfulfilled, amid the great upheavals of society. Sadaie linked their tragic lives together as equals, beyond rank or victory and defeat, through nothing but the "beauty" of a single poem.

As the age of the warriors began, an age that took everything by physical force, he entrusted to words the individual soul that can never be taken away, and fixed it forever. This "lineage of the defeated" that Sadaie compiled seems to ask us quietly, living as we do in turbulent times ourselves, where lasting value can be found.