A thousand years ago, Izumi Shikibu poured her soul into poetry, seeking not just love, but something eternal. This is not a story of romantic scandal—it is a story of loss, resilience, and the quiet strength of a woman who kept singing through sorrow. Her voice, echoing across centuries, may be exactly what our modern world needs to hear.
1 Who Was She Yearning For?
Izumi Shikibu was a woman of the Heian period, born around a thousand years ago. She is celebrated for her exquisite waka poetry and for authoring the Izumi Shikibu Diary, one of the finest examples of classical Japanese court diaries. Toward the end of her life, facing death, she composed a poignant poem that was later included in the famous anthology Hyakunin Isshu (One Hundred Poets, One Poem Each):
arazaramu / kono yo no hoka no / omoide ni / ima hitotabi no / au koto mogana
(Let me meet you once more / as a memory beyond / this fleeting world— / a final, cherished meeting / before I am no more.)
The poem expresses her longing:
“I shall not live much longer. Yet, as a final memory in this world, I wish to see you once more.”
In the Heian era, the word au (逢ふ) implied not only a physical meeting, but a romantic or intimate encounter. Thus, her desire to “meet again” carries the deeper meaning: “I long to see you… and to be held by you once more.” It is a strikingly direct expression of love and longing.
At first glance, one might simply think, “Ah, a woman of passion—how touching,” and leave it at that. In recent times, some self-professed scholars, often with anti-traditional leanings, have crudely reduced Izumi’s verse to little more than a sign of promiscuity. While perhaps intended to make classical poetry more “accessible,” such views miss the depth and dignity of her work. Properly understood, this poem is profoundly moving.
What makes this verse even more remarkable is that Izumi Shikibu had already taken Buddhist vows and become a nun by the time she composed it. A nun, by definition, renounces all worldly desires—including romantic or sensual attachment—and devotes herself wholly to the Buddha. A poem expressing such longing, then, would seem incompatible with her religious life.
Moreover, she wrote this poem while gravely ill, with death drawing near. Hence her reference to “a memory beyond this world.” One cannot help but wonder—what had happened to stir such yearning at the very end of her life?
The poem is preserved in the Goshūi Wakashū (Later Collection of Gleanings), where it appears with a kotobagaki (prefatory note) that reads:
Kokochi / rei narazu haberikeru koro, / hito no moto ni tsukawashikeru.
(When her health had declined, she sent this to someone.)
Knowing she had only days left to live, Izumi Shikibu entrusted her feelings to this verse and sent it to a close female friend. The identity of that friend has long been lost to history. Yet we can imagine she was one of the few with whom Izumi could speak from the heart, honestly and without reserve.
What, then, was truly in Izumi’s heart as she penned these final lines?
2 From Dreamy Girlhood to Forbidden Love
Izumi Shikibu, as a young girl, was said to be extraordinarily gifted. She excelled not only in composing waka and Chinese poetry but also in calligraphy. Known for her intelligence, charm, beauty, and wit, she was the kind of girl everyone admired. Looking back, you may recall someone like her from your own school days—a classmate who seemed destined for a radiant future.
Like many girls, she dreamed that one day a handsome prince would appear and sweep her into a life of happiness. But real life rarely unfolds as dreams would have it.
At the age of sixteen, Izumi married Tachibana no Michisada, a rather unremarkable man. Together they had a daughter. Though this marriage might have seemed like a blessing, it fell short of the ideal she had once envisioned. Her husband, though accomplished enough to serve as a provincial governor, was consumed by his work. When Izumi spoke of poetry or classical literature, he remained distant and unengaged. Her intellectual passions, so alive within her, found no response at home.
When her husband’s term as governor in Izumi Province ended, they returned to the capital. But instead of resuming married life, Izumi chose to live apart with her child. Legally still married, they led separate lives.
Then, fate took a dramatic turn.
She met a true prince—not metaphorically, but literally: Prince Tametaka, the third son of Emperor Reizei. Perhaps he was her soul mate. The moment they met, their hearts were captured. They fell deeply in love at first sight.
But Izumi was still married. She had a child. Her father, Ōe no Masamune, then Governor of Echizen, was furious. His daughter, a married woman with a child, was now entangled with an imperial prince. “What disgrace you’ve brought upon us!” he reportedly cried. He ordered her to end the relationship immediately.
Yet love has its own strange logic. The more society condemns it, the more fiercely it burns. That is what happened with Izumi. Rather than part ways with Tametaka, she clung to him all the more. In desperation, her father disowned her—a grave punishment in those days, tantamount to being declared dead by one’s own parent.
But Izumi loved Prince Tametaka with all her being. And he loved her in return. He was a man of intelligence and refinement. She, too, was a woman of beauty and brilliance. Simply speaking with one another brought them joy. Their bond was vibrant, intimate, and deeply fulfilling.
Yes, it was a forbidden affair—a scandal, a trespass against propriety. And perhaps because it was forbidden, it consumed them all the more.
The more they were told not to meet, the more they longed to see each other. The more others tried to pull them apart, the more they drew close.
Isn’t that how passion often works in this world?
3 From Grief to Consolation: The Prince Who Came After
Eventually, Izumi Shikibu divorced her husband.
She began living with Prince Tametaka, the man she had defied convention and family for.
The two believed their love would last forever.
But fate struck cruelly.
Prince Tametaka—son of the emperor and a member of the imperial family—suddenly fell ill and, at the young age of twenty-six, passed away.
Izumi had devoted everything to him: her marriage, her reputation, her very soul.
And now, the man she had loved with all her heart was gone.
What could she possibly do?
In the depths of her grief, a new figure entered her life: Prince Atsumichi, Tametaka’s younger brother, also known by his court title Sochi-no-Miya (帥宮, meaning “Commander Prince”).
Gentle by nature, Prince Atsumichi saw how shattered Izumi was during his brother’s funeral.
He could not stand to watch her waste away in sorrow.
Tenderly, he sought to console her—to help her reclaim the will to live.
After all, Izumi was the beloved of his late brother, whom he himself admired deeply.
Seeing her so pale, so emaciated by grief, was too much for his kind heart to bear.
Even during the mourning period (mogari, 殯), a time in which the body of the deceased was ritually laid in state before burial, Atsumichi continued to visit her, offering comfort and companionship.
He sent her poems—many of them—hoping that through words, he might gently lift her spirit.
Izumi, of course, was grateful.
But she hesitated.
He was, after all, a man.
And more than that, he was the brother of the man she had loved beyond all else.
To invite him into her home felt too intimate, too soon.
Despite his nobility and his kindness, she refused his visits again and again.
Still, Prince Atsumichi was no ordinary suitor.
He was royalty—his status too high to reject indefinitely without great offense.
Even Izumi’s father, now reconciled to her situation, advised her to meet him at least once.
And so, one day, she finally agreed to receive him.
At the appointed hour, Prince Atsumichi came to her home.
With warmth and tact, he spoke of his brother—childhood memories, humorous tales, little anecdotes from a time before Izumi had known him.
To Izumi, every story about Tametaka was precious, even sacred.
These were moments she herself had never seen, and now, they were being offered to her like gifts.
Naturally, the conversation flowed.
Two people bound by shared grief and a shared love for the same man.
Time passed unnoticed.
Before they knew it, night had fallen.
And that night, they became lovers.
4 A Diary of Inner Conflict, and the Palace of Cold Stares
The gentle presence of Prince Atsumichi brought Izumi Shikibu back from the depths of despair.
He gave her the will to live again.
And yet, her heart was troubled.
The man she had truly loved was his older brother, Prince Tametaka.
And now the one who loved her—who embraced her with kindness—was his younger brother, Prince Atsumichi.
Torn between these two truths, she struggled.
That inner conflict—intense, tender, and painfully human—is what she recorded in what is now known as the Izumi Shikibu Diary (和泉式部日記).
It chronicles the six months she spent with Prince Atsumichi, wrapped in his affection yet never free from the shadow of the brother she had lost.
She did her best to love him.
Despite her emotional turmoil, her days with Atsumichi were gentle, full of quiet joy and affection.
But fate, once again, was merciless.
Prince Atsumichi died suddenly of illness—at the age of just twenty-seven.
What was left for Izumi Shikibu?
Everything she had clung to, everything she had loved, had been taken away.
God—or the gods—seemed intent on stripping her of all that gave her life meaning.
It is not hard to imagine the depths of her sorrow.
She withdrew from the world, in what we might today call a state of seclusion or depression.
It was then that a woman of great status took notice: Empress Consort Shōshi (彰子), the principal wife of Emperor Ichijō.
Izumi Shikibu, after all, had been loved by two imperial princes.
She was highly educated in both Chinese and Japanese classical literature.
To let her vanish from public life would be a terrible loss.
Moved by compassion—and recognizing her rare talents—Empress Shōshi brought Izumi into her own court service, allowing her to work under her patronage.
It was an act of true generosity, and Izumi accepted it with gratitude.
She served the Empress faithfully and diligently.
She was earnest in her duties, respectful, and sincere.
But the imperial court was a world of women—and a world of jealousy.
The women who surrounded her did not look kindly upon her.
Among her critics was none other than Murasaki Shikibu, the famed author of The Tale of Genji.
In her diary, Murasaki once wrote:
“Izumi Shikibu is clever and witty in her correspondence…
Yet there is something rather improper about her.”
While she acknowledged Izumi’s talent in poetry and letters, she implied a lack of decorum and virtue.
Thus, though Empress Shōshi had taken her in with kindness, the court’s atmosphere remained cold.
The glances Izumi received were sharp and biting.
Still, Izumi never allowed herself to betray the Empress’s kindness.
She worked with all her heart, quietly enduring the frost around her.
And before she knew it, ten years had passed.
5 A Husband Who Understood Everything
One day, a man appeared at Empress Shōshi’s court with a sincere request:
He wished to marry Izumi Shikibu.
That man was Fujiwara no Yasumasa, a renowned general known for his bravery on the battlefield.
At the time, he was already over fifty years old.
Izumi, for her part, was in her mid-thirties—a stage of life which, by the standards of the Heian era, was considered well past the typical age for marriage.
But Yasumasa said simply:
“That doesn’t matter.”
He knew everything about her past.
And still, he wished to take her as his wife.
Yasumasa was a man admired by other men, but less popular with women—a rough and taciturn figure, not known for charm.
But he possessed a quiet, masculine kindness.
By the time he passed the age of fifty, he had gained depth of character, patience, and the capacity to embrace others.
He had high status, impeccable conduct, and a long record of loyal service.
And despite his years of military life, he had never married.
For Izumi, this was a rare and precious proposal.
Encouraged by Empress Shōshi, who had always supported her, she accepted.
She married Yasumasa.
He was, by all accounts, a good man—respected by his peers, mature in heart and mind.
Most of all, he loved Izumi deeply and earnestly.
Before long, they had a son together.
Yasumasa treated this boy, as well as Izumi’s daughter from her earlier marriage, with equal affection.
He made no distinction between them.
And yet—within Izumi’s heart, the memories of Prince Tametaka and Prince Atsumichi remained.
Some grief, once sealed away, never truly melts with time.
Trauma, once frozen in the soul, can stay cold for a lifetime.
Years had passed since the deaths of the two imperial princes.
And still, at unexpected moments, memories of them would rise within her.
When they did, tears would well up, unstoppable.
kurokami no / midare mo shirazu / uchifuseba / mazu kaki yarishi / hito zo koishiki
As I lie down, unaware of my hair falling out of place,
I think of the one who first brushed it aside—
and my longing overtakes me.
A simple tilt of the head.
Her black hair falls forward, brushing her cheeks.
And with that motion, she remembers—
The one who once swept it aside,
And held her close.
On such evenings, when she would suddenly be overcome by sorrow,
her husband Yasumasa said nothing.
He simply reached out and gently embraced her shoulders.
He understood everything.
And because he loved her so completely, even her tears.
That is the kind of husband he was.
Moved by his quiet tenderness, Izumi resolved:
“I must love him back with all my heart.”
She told herself it was now her duty—her calling—to return his devotion.
To meet his love with her own.
But the harder she tried, the more the faces of the two princes would surface.
The memories would rise—unbidden, vivid.
And the tears would come.
When they did, she cried alone, where no one would see.
6 The Fireflies at Kibune
Her husband, Yasumasa, noticed everything.
He was fully aware of the pain that still lingered in Izumi’s heart.
And because he understood, he chose to embrace her with quiet gentleness.
But precisely because of that kindness—
Izumi Shikibu found herself unable to forgive her own heart.
His tenderness, meant to console her, sometimes felt almost cruel.
It reminded her of the love she could no longer return completely.
So what was Yasumasa to do?
One day, he quietly decided to leave home for a time.
He thought:
“Perhaps it’s best if I give her space.”
He returned to his family estate, leaving her alone.
It was his way of showing compassion as a man—a silent kindness.
But to Izumi,
this gesture felt like abandonment.
“He has finally given up on me,”
she thought.
“I’ve lost even him now.”
Crushed by guilt,
she went to Kibune Shrine, a sacred place believed to bring romantic bonds.
There, she prayed.
And on her way back, walking along the path beside the Mitarashi River,
she saw fireflies dancing in the dusk.
Moved by the sight, she composed a poem:
mono omoeba / sawa no hotaru mo / waga mi yori / akugare izuru / tama ka to zo miru
As I dwell in sorrow,
I see even the fireflies along the marsh
as souls escaping their bodies—
perhaps, like my own.
This verse comes with a note she wrote:
“At a time when I felt abandoned by my husband,
I visited Kibune Shrine.
On my way home, I saw fireflies flying above the Mitarashi River,
and I wrote this poem.”
To Izumi,
her husband’s well-meaning absence felt like rejection.
That pain drove her to pray at Kibune.
And on her way home, seeing the luminous flight of the fireflies,
she wished her own soul could also leave her body—
and float away, free of thoughts, like theirs.
And then—
at that very moment—
a voice echoed in her heart.
The voice of Kibune’s god.
She wrote it down, as a poem:
okuyama ni / tagirite ochiru / takitsuse no / tama chiru bakari / mono na omoiso
Like the torrents crashing down the mountain falls,
your soul scatters in sorrow.
But you must not let yourself be lost in such thoughts.
A voice, clear as crystal,
resounding in the depths of her heart.
It was a divine reply:
“Do not let your soul fall apart in grief.”
7 The Voice of the Waterfall
The sacred body of Kibune Shrine is not a statue or a relic.
It is the waterfall hidden deep in the mountains behind the shrine.
It is said that this waterfall—
always “boiling and crashing” down from the mountain—
represents the souls of those who pass away each day.
The divine voice that Izumi Shikibu heard,
echoed like this:
*You keep thinking of your soul scattering like the torrent
falling from the waterfall deep in the mountains of Kibune…
But listen—
don’t you know that people die every day?
Just like the waterfall,
lives are lost—countless and varied—day after day.
All who live must someday die.
But you—
you are still alive.
It is because you are alive
that you can feel sorrow, that you can feel love.
So why,
why do you fix your heart only on the scattering of your soul?*
The voice was not one of judgment—
but of profound compassion, and a call to choose life over despair.
This moment became a turning point.
Izumi Shikibu, after waiting for her son by Yasumasa to come of age,
quietly made a decision.
Without telling her husband, she left their home
and entered a Buddhist convent.
At that time, she was around 47 or 48 years old—though her exact age remains unclear.
She did not choose this path out of rejection,
but as a form of spiritual release and renewal.
When she shaved her head and took vows,
she was welcomed by the revered monk Saint Shōkū (性空上人).
He removed the ink-colored robe he was wearing
and gently handed it to her.
“As this robe is dyed in ink,” he said,
“so too must you let the past be dyed away.
Cast all your sorrows into the ink of the Buddha’s heart.”
Wearing this robe,
Izumi resolved to release herself from earthly attachments—
to let go of longing, and live the rest of her life as a humble nun.
She was no longer fleeing from love or memory,
but walking toward peace.
8 The Final Verse — A Life Woven in Thirty-One Syllables
Izumi Shikibu entered a temple in Kyoto called Seishin-ji,
where she served as the first abbess.
However, not long after taking on this role,
she fell gravely ill.
The physicians said she had only two or three days left to live.
Upon hearing this,
she composed one final waka poem from her sickbed—
a farewell not only to the world,
but to a love that still lingered in her heart.
It is the same poem we read at the beginning:
“Though I will soon depart this world,
let me have, as a memory for the next,
one more chance to see you again.”
She entrusted this poem to a close friend.
But to whom the poem was addressed,
whose arms she longed to embrace one final time…
no one knows.
She passed away shortly after.
Throughout her life,
Izumi Shikibu left behind a great number of poems.
Among them, her most celebrated works are her elegies—
particularly those written after the death of Prince Atsumichi,
the man she had loved so deeply.
Yet, when Fujiwara no Teika (the compiler of Hyakunin Isshu)
was choosing a single poem to represent her life and legacy,
he selected this final verse from her later years.
It is only thirty-one syllables.
At first glance, it may seem simple—just a wish to meet again.
But within those thirty-one syllables
lies a profound drama—
an entire era,
an entire life of a woman who loved, suffered, and sought truth.
It is more than a poem.
It is a soul’s cry that echoes across time,
a testament that she once lived in this world.
Before and during World War II,
when students studied classical poetry in school,
teachers would tell these kinds of stories.
They didn’t just teach words.
They shared lives.
And so, children became enchanted by waka.
They grew to cherish tenderness, empathy, and beauty.
They didn’t attend school just to memorize facts—
they walked kilometers each way
because their hearts were moved.
If their parents told them to stay home during the rice planting,
they would weep in frustration.
They would beg their friends to share notes,
to recreate the teacher’s stories word for word.
That was what education meant.
And now I wonder—
Isn’t it time we brought that kind of learning back again?
What do you think?
9 A Secret Whisper: To Whom Did Izumi Shikibu Long to Return?
Now, if I may,
let me share a quiet reflection—
a little “secret insight”
into the hidden heart of this poem.
It’s a glimpse into a mystery.
Perhaps even its solution.
The waka in question is:
あらざらむ この世のほかの 思ひ出に
いまひとたびの 逢ふこともがな
The meaning is as follows:
“I shall not remain long in this world.
But as a memory for the next,
I wish I could meet you just once more.”
The word “逢ふ” (afu) in classical Japanese
holds more than a simple “meeting.”
It carries a deep yearning—
the desire to be embraced, to be held.
So now the question arises:
Who was the person she wished to meet one last time?
Was it her first husband, Tachibana no Michisada?
Or Prince Atsumichi, her great love?
Perhaps his younger brother, Prince Atsunari?
Or maybe her final husband, Fujiwara no Yasumasa?
To seek the answer,
we must return once again to the poem itself.
あらざらむ — I will soon no longer be in this world
この世のほかの — in the world beyond
思ひ出に — to that one I remember
いまひとたびの — just once more
逢ふこともがな — I wish I could meet them again
The ending particle “もがな” expresses a soft, wistful desire.
Not a demand, nor a command—
just a gentle wish:
“If only it could be…”
Given that she speaks of a meeting in the world beyond,
we can infer that the person she longs to meet
was someone who had already passed away.
That narrows the possibilities to
Prince Atsumichi or his younger brother,
Prince Atsunari.
Of course, some may interpret the phrase
as expressing a desire to meet someone
before crossing into the next world.
If so, then perhaps she meant
her first husband, Michisada,
her last husband, Yasumasa,
or even someone else entirely—
such as Saint Shōkū, the monk who guided her path to renunciation.
And yet…
I humbly believe that is not the case.
Because in the world of Heian Japan,
it was widely accepted—
that the soul lives within the body.
When one dies,
they do not simply vanish.
They return to the original state of the soul.
And so, it was natural for people to believe
that when they passed away,
they would be greeted—
perhaps by Buddha,
perhaps by Amida Nyorai,
perhaps by Daichi Nyorai,
or by loved ones who had passed on before them:
a parent, a grandparent, a fallen friend.
This was not a doctrine.
It was a shared cultural truth,
deeply felt, unspoken, and understood.
And so,
in that final verse,
Izumi Shikibu was not longing
for a meeting in the flesh—
but for a reunion of souls.
10 The Eternal Reunion of Souls
Izumi Shikibu, who believed in the eternity of the soul, composed her final poem with the hope:
“I wish to meet once more, beyond this life, the one I loved and never forgot.”
But at the same time, perhaps, there was also a woman’s inner conflict:
“What if I do meet him? He will still look as young as he was… but I have grown so old.”
However, in the moment her soul left the body, Izumi Shikibu would have returned to her youthful, radiant form—just as she had been in the prime of her life.
And I believe, in that moment, standing before her in the world beyond,
were the two imperial princes—Prince Atsumichi and his younger brother, Prince Dōtō—both smiling gently as they came to greet her.
“You’ve lived so well, haven’t you?”
smiled Prince Atsumichi.
“Brother, Shikibu, it’s so good we’re together again,”
said Prince Dōtō with a gentle laugh.
And at that moment, her eyes must have filled with tears—so much so that their faces may have shimmered into a blur, glowing with the light of reunion.
Then, another voice called out softly:
“Mother…”
Izumi Shikibu had lost her beloved daughter, Koshikibu no Naishi, long before her own death.
Brilliant and talented, her daughter had suffered from the harshness of society and departed this world too soon.
Shikibu had written many sorrowful poems upon her daughter’s death—poems filled with grief too deep for words.
Surely, in that radiant moment of reunion, her daughter’s soul was also there to welcome her.
To be reunited not only with the princes she loved, but with the daughter she had lost—what a precious embrace of souls it must have been.
“When you are born again, next time—
Please, hold tightly to happiness and never let it go.”
That’s what we feel when we hear her story.
Izumi Shikibu’s poetry captures the suspended moment—like a falling droplet frozen mid-air.
Each poem is filled with such exquisite beauty that one might say:
She is truly one of the greatest women poets in Japanese history.
Stunningly beautiful, gifted, and sensitive to an extraordinary degree, Izumi Shikibu experienced passionate love, yet also endured deep sorrow.
Twice, she lost the ones she loved, and she also outlived her own daughter.
But hardship sharpens the soul.
Through the sorrows of her life as a woman, Izumi Shikibu’s soul was refined to brilliance.
That is why her poetry shines with an iridescence that has not faded, even after a thousand years.
As a man, I can’t help but feel for her final husband, Fujiwara no Yasumasa.
How deeply he must have loved her, how much he must have longed to be the one she wished to see again.
But perhaps he knew…
Even if he couldn’t fulfill all of her hopes,
he had shared a son with her—and maybe, that was enough.
11 Epilogue: What Truly Cultivates the Soul
After completing this piece, a teacher I greatly respect shared a thoughtful observation with me:
“Izumi Shikibu did not bear the child of her most beloved.
Instead, she gave birth to the child of her first and final husband.
This too must have been part of the divine plan.
The gods and Buddhas surely offered salvation to those men as well.”
Earlier, I wrote that hardship raises a person.
But perhaps that isn’t quite right.
More precisely, hardship raises the soul.
If someone were to ask me,
“Among the hundred poets in the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, who is your favorite?”
I would immediately reply: Izumi Shikibu, without hesitation.
And I believe many others would answer the same.
Indeed, if we were to name the greatest poet in all of Japanese history—past or present—it would be none other than her.
Why, then, was Izumi Shikibu able to compose such profoundly moving poetry?
Of course, she was born with remarkable talent.
But more than that, she truly suffered.
And it was through those sufferings that her soul was sharpened.
Yes—parents, teachers, and environment can nurture a person.
But what truly cultivates the heart is one’s own hardship.
And here lies something deeply rooted in Japanese culture:
We do not treat hardship as mere stress,
but rather as a trial,
a crucible that tempers the soul and nourishes personal growth.
This is the very foundation of Japan’s long and ancient culture—
a culture that treasures the dignity of every individual.
About a hundred years after Izumi Shikibu’s time,
the age of the samurai began in Japan.
And the samurai, too, embraced trial as nourishment—
devoting their entire lives to the path of self-discipline and refinement.
