Shodo and Waka — The Heian Beauty of Chirashi-gaki

When writing waka poetry with a brush, there is no need to line the characters up in a single neat column.

In fact, you shouldn't.

Instead, you scatter the words across the page — varying the height of each line, letting the ink shift from dark to pale, weaving large characters among small ones — until thirty-one syllables breathe to life on a single sheet of paper. This is chirashi-gaki: the art of scattered writing.

Waka and Calligraphy Were Always One

In the Heian period, waka was far more than poetry.

It was a declaration of love, a seasonal greeting, a tool of political diplomacy. Waka was always something written — and the beauty of the characters mattered every bit as much as the beauty of the words.

When a poem arrived on paper, the recipient looked first at the line — not the shape of the characters, but the mood of the sheet itself. Rough, jagged brushwork suggested a turbulent mind. Lines that flowed with quiet elasticity spoke of inner calm.

Words and lines were a single, inseparable expression.

Why Chirashi-gaki Was Born

Kana are phonetic characters derived from Chinese characters.

Unlike kanji, each kana carries no independent meaning of its own. For this reason, kana writing prioritizes flow. The connection between one character and the next, the anticipation of what follows — renmei, the linking strokes that join character to character, are the lifeblood of kana calligraphy.

When writing a thirty-one-syllable waka in kana, arranging everything in a single column inevitably becomes monotonous.

Chirashi-gaki was the answer.

The starting height of each column shifts. One line begins high and descends; the next begins low and rises. Character size is never fixed — it swells with emotional peaks and contracts with quieter moments. The ink breathes, moving from dark to light and back again.

In this way, thirty-one syllables become a landscape on the page.

The Three Masters and the Art of Decorated Paper

During the Heian period, three calligraphers elevated chirashi-gaki to its peak. Known as the Sanseki — the "Three Brush Traces" — they were Ono no Michikaze, Fujiwara no Sari, and Fujiwara no Yukinari.

They sought beauty not only in the characters themselves, but in the paper on which they were written. Ryoshi — elaborately decorated paper — was adorned with scattered flakes of gold and silver, patterns printed in mica, and pressed flower petals. Calligraphy was written in dialogue with the paper itself.

Among the most celebrated examples is the Sansikishi — "Three Colored Papers" — a collection of masterwork poems from the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, written on three varieties of exquisitely prepared ryoshi in chirashi-gaki.

The characters did not merely "sit on" the paper — they resonated with it.

Reading Chirashi-gaki

A waka written in chirashi-gaki cannot be read the way you would read ordinary text — smoothly, from top to bottom, right to left.

Where to begin reading is not immediately clear.

This is not a flaw.

The reader stops before the page. The eyes wander, searching for characters, tracing the current. Within that meandering time, the encounter with the written words unfolds.

Reading becomes an act of contemplation.

Because there is no single "correct" path, the sensibility of the reader and the sensibility of the writer enter into quiet conversation.

Chirashi-gaki in Contemporary Calligraphy

Chirashi-gaki remains at the heart of kana calligraphy today.

At calligraphy exhibitions, large sheets — hansetsu or zenshi — carry single poems from the Hyakunin Isshu in scattered arrangement. What is judged is not the accuracy of each character alone, but the composition as a whole: where negative space is created, where characters gather, how the viewer's eye is guided. The design is what is being evaluated.

This is where calligraphy and design converge.

When I work with chirashi-gaki, what I feel is the weight of freedom.

Without fixed rules, every choice returns to me. Where I place each character is an imprint of my sensibility.

What Waka Teaches

Chihayaburu / kamiyo mo kikazu / Tatsutagawa / karakurenai ni / mizu kukuru to wa

Whenever I write this poem by Ariwara no Narihira, my brush changes at the phrase karakurenai — "deep crimson."

Darker, more lustrous. I want to carry the vividness of autumn leaves blanketing the river's surface directly into the line.

That is the pleasure of chirashi-gaki. A single word within those thirty-one syllables ignites something in the writer. That feeling transforms the quality of the line.

To write waka is an act in which the emotions of someone a thousand years ago and your own emotions of today cross paths.

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Choose a waka poem you love, and write it with a brush.

You don't need to write it beautifully. First, read the words aloud. Is there a moment somewhere in those syllables where something in you moved?

That moment is where the line begins.