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Friday, October 18, 2024

The Essential Haiku by Basho

Source of book: I own this

 

A library sale find from a number of years ago was this collection of classic Haiku - Basho, Buson, and Issa. I decided to start at the beginning with the works of Basho.

 

A number of years ago, there was a Haiku fad, with everyone writing them. While I applaud any trend that encourages people to read and write poetry, this particular trend like all pop trends was an oversimplification.

 

Specifically, it took one particular Haiku form, elevated it to a rule, and left out the other elements of a proper Haiku. 

 

Traditionally, a Haiku was descended from the Hokku, which was the opening stanza of a longer poetic form. Basho was one of those in the 17th Century who separated it from its context, and wrote them as stand-alone works. 

 

The form we see in English is related to, but not the same as, the original form. There is no direct analogue between the languages, as English uses syllables rather than “weights” - which are not quite the same thing. While Haiku would indeed use 17 “weights,” they would be written vertically rather than in the 5 - 7 - 5 format we see in English. Finally, even the 17 was not a fixed number - it was used in most but not all Haiku or Hokku.

 

What was left out of the rule book during the fad was that a Haiku served a particular purpose and thus had other specific elements. As the prologue to a larger poem, it was expected to establish the season and the mood of what was to come. 

 

Thus, the Haiku should use a picture from nature to establish the season, and describe an emotion, but obliquely. 

 

As the introduction points out, the view of nature isn’t the same as we often see in our Western tradition. 

 

If the first level of a haiku is its location in nature, its second is almost always some implicit Buddhist reflection on nature. One of the striking differences between Christian and Buddhist thought is that in the Christian sense of things, nature is fallen, and in the Buddhist sense, it isn’t. Another is that, because there is no creator-being in Buddhist cosmology, there is no higher plane of meaning to which nature refers. At the core of Buddhist metaphysics are three ideas about natural things: that they are transient, that they are contingent, and that they suffer. 

 

[Side note: in light of our more accurate understanding of natural history, particularly evolution, it appears that the Buddhist view of nature fits reality better than the traditional Christian one. So much for white European theologians having a monopoly on truth…]

 

As with all poetry, rules are meant to be broken, and Basho departed from the standard form on occasion. 

 

Most of the translations in this book were done by the editor, Robert Hass. He also used other translations and indicated where he did. The supplemental writings of Basho in prose were translated by other authors. 

 Portrait of Basho by Hokusai, about 100 years after his life.

Basho was pretty much the godfather of the Haiku form we know today. He was born to a minor samurai family, but chose to go into literature rather than feudal farm management like his siblings. He spent time on a deep dive into Zen Buddhism, after which his house burned down in an accident, providing the impetus to become a roving poet. He left an account of his trip (a portion of which is in this book) which included quotations from earlier poets - one of the best preserved collections of those older works. 

 

Basho never married, and some of his writings imply that he was gay, having “learned the ways of homosexual love” as a young man. 

 

When most of us think of classic Haiku, Basho’s unforgettable images typically come to mind. He had a way of combining striking images with emotional landscapes that could be felt but not entirely described. 

 

While I am sure that I would find different poems that resonated most with each reading, here are the ones that stood out to me this time. 

 

Even in Kyoto -

hearing the cuckoo’s cry -

I long for Kyoto.

 

Sit with that one for a bit. Note that it evokes a season (spring), and ties it to an indescribable feeling. 

 

First day of spring - 

I keep thinking about

the end of autumn.

 

Another one that observes the rules, but makes a bit of a twist. Is he thinking about how the end of autumn and the beginning of spring are both more like winter than not? Or is he still in the past, not yet able to imagine the future? There are multiple meanings here that may depend on how you feel on a particular day. That’s the beauty of good poetry. 

 

The sea darkening - 

the wild duck’s call 

is faintly white. 

 

I love the unexpected use of color. Or is it not so much color as grayscale? As one with synesthesia (most musicians have it in some way), the idea of a sound having color is true to my experience. One feels the season for this is winter. 

 

How admirable!

to see lightning and not think

life is fleeting.

 

Such a classic use of irony in the real (not the Alanis) sense. What the poem says is the opposite of what it means. 

 

A cicada shell;

it sang itself 

utterly away.

 

Possibly my favorite of the entire collection. No explanation needed. 

 

Winter solitude -

in a world of one color

the sound of wind.

 

Season, sound, color, philosophy. What’s not to love? A true gem of an expression. 

 

When the winter chrysanthemums go,

there’s nothing to write about

but radishes.

 

The humor in that one always makes me smile. So does this next one. No haiku post would be complete without cherry blossoms, right?

 

From all these trees,

in the salads, the soup, everywhere,

cherry blossoms fall.

 

The use of the delayed subject is excellent here. Henry James would approve. 

 

Pine mushroom -

some kind of leaf

sticking to it. 

 

An instant picture of late summer in the forest for me. 

 

I’ll end with this one. 

 

Fifth-month rain -

poems pasted to the wall, peeled off,

leave traces. 

 

Basho’s skill is obvious throughout this collection, which also illustrates that writing small forms can be even more difficult than larger ones. When every word - every syllable or weight - matters, the slightest change can make or break a poem. One imagines Basho took his time carefully crafting each of his gems, discarding the dross as he went. 

 

If you can find this book, it has good feel in the hand, and contains a lot of helpful background information as well. 

 

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