History of Literature



with poems by Easley Stephen Jones





with poems by

Easley Stephen Jones



Ar sixty-three, the artist Hokusai paused. What a career to look back upon! Mad about drawing since the age of six, he had found the training he needed to develop his talent. In early boyhood he had been apprenticed to a wood engraver m his home city, Edo (the present-day Tokyo). From 1778, when he was eighteen, he had studied figure drawing, color, and design with the master Shunsho and other artists of the ukiyo-e school, those printmakers who depicted the passing scene so deftly for their eager customers: the merchants, the craftsmen, the minor officials, the common people of feudal Japan. Ever curious, ever seeking, Hokusai had even studied such diverse forms of art as Chinese painting and Western perspective drawing. As his skill grew, he had turned out a prodigious number of woodblock prints, from sketches to greeting cards to book illustrations; from bird and flower impressions to studies of sumo wrestlers, famous actors, and beautiful women. Surely by that climactic year of 1823 he had accomplished all that any ambitious ukiyo-e artist could hope to achieve.

All? At an age when a man rests on his laurels, Hokusai conceived his first great original project: the set of colored prints called Thirty-six Views oj Mt. Fuji.

What an idea to stir the imagination—a series of landscapes diverse yet unified by relating every scene to the sacred mountain! And how well suited to the genius of this artist! Hokusai had by this time lived m many places, looked at his world from many points of view. He had produced a multitude of sketches—of natural objects from lizards to lotus blossoms; of human beings m every kind of situation; of scenes bv land and sea. Now he was ready to meet a new challenge: could he relate such details to a theme, select and organize them, without losing the vigor of a first impression? He proved that indeed he could. The Views, issued between 1823 and 1830, became at once widely and deservedly popular. Ten more prints were added, for a total of forty-six. (We print here a selected group of twenty-four.)

Hokusai's Views of Mt. Fuji are superb landscapes. They are also landscapes with a difference. The people 111 them arc not mere elements of the design but are individuals related to their surroundings and revealed in all the awkwardness, intensity, and vitality of active life. Yet 111 each print they take on a dimension a little larger than life, become part of a single overmastering impression, tantalizing and beautiful.

Almost one hundred years after the Views first appeared, a young officer of the American Red Cross, stationed in Tokyo as part of a tour of duty m the Far East, bought a souvenir booklet of reproductions of the prints. To Easley Stephen Jones, born in the Middle West, a student of English and American literature, Japan had opened unimagined vistas. He had felt increasing delight in the natural beauty of the country and in glimpses of the people and their patterns of living, so different from any he had known. (In these later years, how many Americans have experienced a similar delight?) As he traveled about, he recorded his impressions. Of Mt. Fuji, he wrote:

"Straight before me lies the deep valley of the Kanagawa. At the back of the valley, on my right, higher than the white clouds and floating blue-vapors, is Fujiyama. From base to summit his full figure is visible, in outline beautiful like the curve of wings. Not even near his summit can the clouds attain, but hover m the blue valleys at his feet."

When he returned to the United States in ro.22 to resume college teaching and to write textbooks in English composition, Easley Jones did not forget about Japan. Musing over Ins souvenir prints, he found that the Views touched chords in his memory, teased Ins poetic imagination. He took up His pen.

"That's the mountain, sacred, shimmering, blue . . ." he wrote of Fuji seen through the eyes of a group of Hokusai pilgrims.
Other scenes touched other chords:

Some folk imagine a bridge is made to cross,
But no, a loftier theme.
It is for those who loiter, brood, and dream.

The comic in Hokusai appealed to him, brought recollections of a seaside shrine:

Do people go to the temple any more?
Oh yes, to dig clams. . . .

Then, in more lyrical vein:

Over the waves the ferryman
Cradles his motley caravan. . . .

At this point Easley Jones too felt a challenge: could he write a poem to go with every one of the prints? To the delight of his family and friends, he did. The poems were not published, however, but were put aside while the author continued to cultivate enjoyment or Japanese life and art through collecting old prints and illustrated books.
Today for the first time a selection of his poems, together with copies of the prints they celebrate, is offered to a public freshly aware of the beauty he long cherished.

Agnes L. Jacobs


Mt. Fuji from Owari




For what the gods have made
In forest, mountain, field,
The old cask man has not a glance to spare.
He is Creator, too, within the bare
Round arc, His planet-world,
His newest, very dear
Sweet-smelling continent
For wine, or common beer.
Container that our children's sons may use-
Place in it what you choose.



Mt. Fuji from a Teahouse at Yoshida




That's the mountain, sacred, shimmering, blue,
A woman's foot it never knew,
Nor clog's, nor any
Step profane.
Too holy ground.
They who will set forth in the earliest dawn
Look not to Fuji-san, but yawn,
Bind sandals, smoke,
Or bow the head
In sleep profound.

Two only from the restraining window bar
Gaze afar
With high and bright surmise.
How fathom that flushed dreamful brow, or sound
The dazzle of their eyes?


Mt. Fuji from Hodogaya




Tokaido, road of fame,
Marked by the fringe of twisted pines
And many a hero's name
(The most are buried).
Here once bold armies sped
(In our soft day
The pale aristocrats are carried)
And bolder robbers fled
(Now merchants grown
With fears and parasites of their own).
When shall you be
Again the living, bright, pure culture stream ?
Not revery or dream,
Faint, wavering line 'twixt Fuji and the sea.


Mt. Fuji from the Tamagawa




From the green shore
To the haunt of mist and air,
Boatman of the Tamagawa,
Why your ghostly passage there ?

Only faggots, fuel only,
For the hut, the cottage lonely,
Faggots for the world's desire,
Faggots for the peasant's fire.

Why seek to make me
Something more than earthly strange?
In the silver, silent dawn
By the river's ebb and change.

Only faggots, only fire,
Common housewife's desire,
Only faggots, only brands,
For the dim volcanic lands.

Only faggots, only brands
For the toiling use of hands,
Faggots for the peasant hearth,
Faggots by the pennyworth.

Fire, brand, and faggot only;
I no ghostly tribute bear
From the element of earth
To the clement of air.


Mt. Fuji from Fukagawa in Edo




If a rainbow could rest on wooden piers
And be dotted over with idle men
Who gaze on drifting argosies of cloud,
It would be like the little Tokyo bridge.
Stand in the pale sky, frail bow.
Span the blue gulf,
Conscious, proud, and high.
Some folk imagine a bridge is made to cross.
But no. A loftier theme.
It is for those who loiter, brood, and dream.


Mt. Fuji from Kajikazawa




Out of a score of waves, only this wave,
Of all mountains, barely this one.
Beauty in little, sprung from isolation.
Yet—toiling alone is hardly fun,
And, as for eating, none of us want
A single fish when day is done.


Mt. Fuji from the Foot




What fires sleep in your breast?
What torments shake your head ?
Why is your beauty's tenure
Beset with utter dread?

A more than mortal worship,
A more than constant vow
You claim, fire at your vitals,
And winter round your brow.


Mt. Fuji from Tagonoura




Two by two,
And five to each,
We shove off from the listless beach.

Two and two,
The fishers ride
With nets to sift the swiftest tide.

Two by two,
And five each one,
Seining till the catch is done.

Two by two,
And each with five
If we get back all alive.



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