Hatsu mochi

明けましておめでとうございます。本年もよろしくお願いいたします。

My first meal of 2013 - done in the auspicious red and white. Though I don't think the ancients had this combination in mind.

Merii Kurimasu

The graveyard look

Konkai Komyo-ji isn't a temple so much as a sprawling temple complex. I found this in one corner of the grounds.

When the light hits at just the right angle, the leaves turn into lanterns.

Many of the famous momiji spots in Kyoto are in temples, so going to view the autumn leaves will probably take you to a cemetery at some point.

Here are a few interesting faces from the Konkai Komyo-ji graveyards.

Giant turtle.

Shy statue.

Withered tree stump. Signs of life inside?

Gold as good as red

For much of the year, Renge-ji, a small temple in the north of Kyoto, is quiet - a good place to think while enjoying views of an Edo-period garden.

In autumn though, the place is flooded with visitors. Here's why.

To get there, take the Yase Hieizanguchi-bound train on the Eizan line and get off at Miyake Hachiman station. Cross the river and turn right. The walk to Renge-ji takes about 10 minutes.

On the way there, I thought about asking a girl pushing a bike beside me for directions. Before I could, I heard her asking someone else for directions.

A narrow gravel path leading off the main road will take you to the temple. The leaves were bursting out over the walls.

Renge-ji is probably best known for its garden views, which fill two walls of the main hall.

But there was much to see elsewhere.

Not all the maple leaves had turned red. Some were still gold.

Others had darkened to orange.

One last look up before leaving.

Red leaf season

Spent today showing visitors around Ohara village. Hosen-in was our first stop.

Our second was Sanzen-in nearby. This is the view that greets you when you leave one of the toilets.

But some of the nicest things we saw were found along the way.

Umbrella and chrysanthemums outside a souvenir shop.

On the road back to the bus-stop and the city.

100 poems for the ages

Autumn comes from the north. The leaves in Kyoto won’t turn for a few more weeks but in the colder reaches of the country, they are already red.

Should you find yourself in a place where the maples are bright, and a river flows beneath, look in the water.

The gods have had
their wonders but
not even they knew
the crimson coursing
through the Tatsutagawa
when autumn
tumbles
in.

This image of a river red with maple leaves has passed through the ages in a poetry collection that took shape around 1235. Known as the Hyakunin Isshu – 100 poets, one poem – the anthology is precisely that: 100 poets each contributing a poem.

Covering more than 500 years of Japanese poetry, the work influenced composition even into the 19th century and is still the most famous verse collection in the country. Yet no one can say for sure why the compiler picked the poems he did.

Born 850 years ago into an aristocratic family, Fujiwara no Teika distinguished himself not only as a poet but also as an editor and literary critic. He could be stubborn when it came to poetry; he was known to go head to head with his patron Go-Toba, the retired emperor who controlled the court through boy rulers.

Teika put together a number of anthologies, most of which were meant to be used as poetry textbooks. The Hyakunin Isshu, though, is a private collection. At a relative’s request, he chose poems to be written on decorative paper that was fixed to doors in a mountain villa.

Teika was 74 when he began compiling the Hyakunin Isshu. He would live until the age of 80: a rare achievement at a time when it was common to die before turning 40.

But the poems dealing with old age suggest that longevity was not an unmixed blessing. They speak of gazing out into the long rains, wondering if the years have been spent in vain, and of a life where no one comes, visitors dried up like grass in winter.

Who is left who
still knows me?
The Takasago pines too
are old but I cannot
call them friend.

Teika’s life also coincided with the waning years of the imperial court. About 15 years before he started work on the Hyakunin Isshu, the ruler he served tried to wrest power back from the samurai government on the other side of the country. In the civil war that followed, the imperial forces were routed. Teika’s lord, Go-Toba, was exiled and the court sank even deeper under shogunate control.

Go-Toba, the 99th poet represented in the Hyakunin Isshu, lived in turbulent times but the five centuries of poets before him also knew upheaval. In the background of the collection lie shipwreck, exile, forced abdications and assassination.

Yet all this is merely hinted at in the anthology, which prefers to make art from everyday experiences – snow falling on sleeves, perhaps, or a lover who breaks his word.

The universality of the poems also masks the fact that they represent only a tiny section at the top of Japanese society. There are eight works by emperors and 10 by direct descendants of emperors. Thirty-four of the 100 poets are close relatives, while 28 come from the Fujiwara house – Teika’s clan, which dominated the court.

This aristocratic collection has somehow managed to attain and maintain mass appeal. The poems inspired the creation of a card game in the 17th century, prints by generations of woodblock artists and, more recently, a manga series. An anime based on this ended its run on Japanese television just last month.

The subject matter of the poems may help to explain their popularity: almost half have to do with love.

Now that what was kindled
inside blazes,
may I not tell you?
I am no Ibuki herb
to be set alight,
and yet I burn.

Long-dead aristocrats are not so distant if they have also been tossed through the cycle of longing: attraction, trepidation, the moment when you declare yourself, fear that vows of constancy won’t last, and bitterness when they don’t.

So it matters little that few today know that Ibuki herbs refer to mugwort, burned in moxibustion therapy. Even fewer have heard of the nobleman behind the collection’s 16th poem, something he composed, a promise he made, before leaving the capital to take up a post in the provinces.

Almost everyone knows something of promises so this one has been kept for over a thousand years, a verse of common inheritance.

We must part for
I leave for
Inaba. But there, if
the mountain pines
sigh and it is
your voice I hear,
I shall return
at once.

Illustrated poem cards from the Hyakunin Isshu at the Shigure-den museum in the Arashiyama area of Kyoto. This year marks the 850th anniversary of the birth of the anthology's compiler, poet Fujiwara no Teika.

Summer fires

Fireworks have been part of the Japanese summer for centuries. In the Kyoto area, the Uji Hanabi Taikai, held every year on August 10, is one of the bigger fireworks festivals.

If you want a good view, go early. Three hours before the show starts should do it.

There are stalls selling food and drink if you forgot to bring any. Shaved ice is a must at every summer festival but this was the first time I'd seen such a complicated machine dispensing syrups for the ice.

'Should I have gotten that flavour instead?'

But on with the show!

Some of the fireworks looked like flowers.

Some like things drifting in the wind.

And others like creatures from a strange, dark sea.

Some were in a hurry to go somewhere.

Others just had to, you know, go.

From the finale. This maple tree will be bright when its leaves turn in autumn but on that summer night, it had a little help.

On the move

Just a notice for those who follow the Letter from Kyoto in The Straits Times. The column will be moving from the Opinion pages to the Saturday section with effect from this Saturday (July 21). It will no longer carry the Letter from Kyoto tag but I'll still be there.

If you're in the area, come say hello.

Raining names

Find me a clothes line, hang me up to dry – or I shall throw myself into a tumble dryer.

The rainy season is here. The Japanese call it tsuyu but I call it The Great Damp. Even when the weather’s fine, the air is thick with moisture that seeps into you, into clothes, into bedding, and into the top of my fridge, which has taken up mould farming.

On the days that it storms hard enough to wash angels out of the sky, I stay indoors and read. More often than not, a book about rain and its many names ends up in front of me. Shigure, yudachi, tsuyu, mizore, akisame – I learned a few of them in school; these past few weeks, I’ve been looking for the rest.

There are the names that tell you when, how long and how much. Hijigasa ame – elbow umbrella rain – the one that comes so suddenly you have to shelter yourself with your sleeve while you run for shelter.

Hito shibori – one wring – not long but heavy, as if someone had wrung a rain cloud dry. A close cousin, ippatsu ame – one blast rain – stops almost as soon as it starts.

Then there are the rains named for their shape, named because they look like thread, zeros, cat fur or the shafts in a bamboo forest.

Every now and again, there is kai u – strange rain. Fish, frogs, tadpoles and insects have all apparently splattered down from the heavens, the victims, according to one theory, of whirlwinds or tornadoes that sucked them up into the air.

Not everything can be explained. Not, for instance, soboro ame – random rain – which appears unexpectedly, for no apparent reason. It just sort of – falls.

Another everyday oddity: the rain that comes even when the sun shines. Fox rain is one name for this, probably from folktales of foxes taking on human form to deceive. Another name: rainbow pee.

There are the names that remind you that it’s never just water spilling from the sky; there is always someone at the other end who will be dampened, drenched or delighted. And that someone need not be human.

In spring, there is yuei u – flower pleaser – just as there is mugi kurai: barley devourer. In summer, there is baba odoshi – granny scare – a sudden downpour in the afternoon that sends someone who has left beans or other things out to dry into a panic.

Regardless of season, there is yarazu no ame. It falls hard when a guest or lover is about to leave, and holds them back a little longer.

The rain here comes so close, it pours inside the body. Ji u – ear rain – a ringing in the ears. Kokoro no ame – heart rain – something that covers a heart, and will not let light in.

But the most common rain names are those that show the season. At times, they lead it in. Kan ake no ame – frost end rain – falls around the first day of spring though the rains of this period are still cold, sometimes mixed with snow or ice.

Much warmer is banbutsu jou – all creation – which revives all those that winter left for dead. And when life returns, so does colour: kurenai no ame – crimson rain – is the rain spanning the weeks when flowers of every shade of red – azaleas, rhododendrons, peach – bloom.

The summer entrant aoba ame – green leaf rain – follows, coating leaves so they appear even shinier.

Splitting summer in two is the rainy season – tsuyu. Mukaezuyu – welcoming tsuyu – may go to meet it. It appears before the season begins in earnest, raining on and off for a few days.

There are times when the rains don’t come as expected. Farmers dread the empty tsuyu; its other name: withered tsuyu.

Also feared is abarezuyu: rampaging tsuyu. A deluge that roars down from day to night, it swells rivers until they burst.

A stretch of fine days around the middle of July may lead you to think that the rainy season is over. But sometimes kaerizuyu – returning tsuyu – nips back and keeps the weather wet for another two or three days.

With autumn, the rains grow cold and hawks go south. The rain that comes when they leave: taka watari – hawks crossing.

After they go, the days grow only colder, bringing at times amayuki – rain mixed with snow. Another winter visitor: kazahana, wind flowers. Early in the season, under a clear sky, the wind sometimes snatches up snow and drizzle, tossing them about before letting them fall.

But the days of wind flowers are still far off. It is tsuyu now, The Great Damp, and tomorrow’s forecast is for showers – more time, perhaps, to stay in and read about rains so that when they come, I may greet them by their proper name.

Bite-size poetry

Summer returns with/ mosquitoes. Come back, winter/ all is forgiven.

Daigo of the flowers

The cherry trees of Daigo-ji, a temple in the south-east of Kyoto, have been famous for centuries.

There are about a thousand sakura trees on the grounds of the temple but the weeping cherries are probably the most well known.

The other varieties are worth a look too.

In April 1598, warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi held a flower-viewing party at the temple. Hideyoshi, remembered best for unifying Japan in the 16th century, liked bright colours, gold leaf and things done on a grand scale. His hanami involved 1,300 guests, 700 sakura trees brought in from surrounding areas, tea pavilions built for the occasion and musicians to provide entertainment. On the second Sunday of April, what would be Hideyoshi's last hanami is recreated at Daigo-ji. The man playing Hideyoshi gets to ride in a palanquin (above) borne by attendants in white.

A dance performed for the latter-day Hideyoshi and his entourage.

There was a mock fight too by actors from the Eigamura film park.

And a monk busy taking photos.

The final performance was a dance by girls from a nearby primary school. They had sakura in the patterns of their kimono and in their hands.

One of the dancers.

Her smile looked like this.

One last look before going.

Sanzen-in sakura 24th April 2012 Spent today rushing around Ohara village north of Kyoto city. Visited three temples, one of them twice, and climbed a long slope once more than I would have liked.

A quick lunch. Swiss roll with yuba - beancurd sheet - in the centre.

The entrance of Sanzen-in looks softer in spring.

To enter the main building, you have to take your shoes off...

... and carry them past this garden.

When you put your shoes back on, you step on this wooden platform, drop your shoes on the concrete and slip your feet into them. I gather from this sign that Chinese visitors did not realise this.

But koi in a pond scattered with sakura are much easier to understand.

A ghost in spring.

What we've been waiting for.

Because I can take non-sakura pictures too.

And I bet so can he.

Oh who am I kidding. One last sakura shot in the late afternoon light.

The yellow road back to the bus stop.

Seen today in Ohara. Best job in the world?