Three Women Poets of Modern Japan/Takeko Kujo
Takeko Kujo
Baroness Takeko Kujo is one of the principal women poets of modern Japan. The daughter of a high church official, she was married at an early age to Baron Kujo, who, shortly after the marriage, traveled to England, where he remained ten years. During this long period of her husband’s absence, the Baroness poured forth in a series of poems the fears, doubts, and longings of her heart.
True to the ideals of her aristocratic ancestry, she did not waver from the course of strict fidelity, and her poems reflect her strong sense of loyalty. As one reads the laments of this forsaken wife, one may take consolation in the fact that Baron Kujo did finally return to Japan to live with his poet-wife.
The poems chosen to represent Baroness Kujo in this collection were taken from her book, “The Golden Bell,” published in Tokyo in 1920.
Baroness Kujo died in February, 1928.
Takeko Kujo
But a little while,
I nodded gently.
I was so young, so innocent.
Would be easy;
To die
Would be easy;
But I have taken a vow
Which is sacred.
Yet is not my world
Different from the world
Of anyone else?
He has neglected me,
I long for him
When the autumn wind blows.
We two are looking at the selfsame moon!
How helpless mortals are!
The other women play with their children.
I pick wildflowers alone.
But I looked away,
For it was not true.
Silence.
The rustle of my dress
Falling to the floor.
Silence.
I put away reason,
And long for the man I love.
Silence is happiness,
Compared with the sadness of many words.
Its keys are frozen
And will not sound.
I feel dawn breaking in my chamber
Because a pink rose blooms.
Only the cold sword of reason
Flashes within me.
The spring haze descends
And like the silk robe of an angel
Envelopes me.
Comes through the night rain
And pierces my heart
Like a cold sword.
In heaven or on earth—
No sound at all,
Save the coursing of my blood.
How they bloom to their utmost,
Knowing that tomorrow
They must fall!
A bird nested in my bosom,
But with a sorrowful cry
It flew away,
And has not returned.
I begin to write a letter,
But one of my long black hairs
Winds itself around the pen.
A thousand tiny birds in heaven
Sing the song of spring.
I must bind him
With a thread
The color of spring-dawn.
For three women to travel together!
One of them is always lonesome.
The owls led my soul
Deeper and deeper into the forest.
The color of flame,
But my body—my bosom—
Is cold.
The sky lifts and lifts;
I stand rooted to the earth.
From the depths
Beneath these blue waves,
I gaze upon the spring sea.
The precious thing is my body—
A gift from my parents.