Matsuo Basho: The Early Years

Matsuo Bashō (松尾芭蕉) is one of the most famous Japanese poets in history. Even if a lot of non-Japanese people do not know his name, they will most likely have heard of the revolutionary style of poetry that he mastered beyond any of his contemporaries: haiku.

Bashō was born in Iga Prefecture in 1644 A.D., which is also the birthplace of the ninja, but that is a whole other story. His father was a low ranking samurai, and it seems that Bashō also worked there as a young man, but he was relegated to a very low position. According to some sources, he worked in kitchens and didn’t garner much respect from his peers. At some point in his childhood he became enamored with renga, which became his gateway to the world of haiku.

For this post, I want to delve into Bashō’s early life and his early haiku, before he attained real fame. Firstly, Bashō did not “invent” the haiku. A haiku is just a poem with 5-7-5 mora structure. Before the rise of the samurai, poetry was an aristocratic pursuit and the most common form was tanka. Tanka followed a 5-7-5-7-7 mora system, but in medieval Japan things started to change. Samurai took in an interest in “cultured pursuits”, such as poetry, but they were not so inclined to craft the emotionally raw and culturally indulgent poetry of the Heian aristocrats. Instead, popular poetry began to emerge as a creative activity and competition. Renga is one of the poetry games that arose from this cultural shift. Renga is a competitive form of poetry composition that I have already described in detail in another post.

Bashō also practiced renga, but it appears that he became unsatisfied. During Bashō’s time, Japan was also in a political and cultural transition. Japan was entering its so-called “Early-Modern” period. It was during this time that the Tokugawa Shogunate officially closed Japan’s borders and heavily restricted contact with outsiders.

Bashō himself seems like a man that was torn by opposing forces. He was born into the samurai class, but he decided to devote his life to poetry, and he seriously studied the Japanese and Chinese classics, along with other philosophical schools of thought. However, he wrote poems that were accessible to a large audience, not just the learned aristocrats. He would reference classical kigo (seasonal imagery) alongside popular themes. Bashō’s haiku encapsulate this apparent contradiction in such a profound way that he radically transformed this form of poetry. He not only wrote it, but he lived it. His life resembled Saigyō’s; he was a life-time wanderer and traveler, and it seems that his latent homosexuality caused him to be perpetually lonely. What I like most about Bashō is his fundamental humanity and his unique perspective to the human condition. For this post I am only translating some of his early haiku. In later posts, I will translate work from throughout his life, and we can see how his changing course affected his artistic expression.

松尾芭蕉-初期

春や来し年や行きけん小晦日

Spring has arrived,
And the year is leaving us
Such a small, dark day…

As we all know, lunar calendars can cause some irregularity. The crux of this poem is that the year that Bashō wrote it spring “arrived” before the New Year. This is very rare but was possible.. Basically, Bashō is lamenting this strange occurrence with a play on words that is pretty much impossible to translate into English. The last line “小晦日” is a play on “New Year’s Eve” which is written “大晦日”. The two words are identical except for the first character. The actual word for New Year‘s Eve “大晦日” begins with “大” which means “big”, and Bashō’s word starts with “小”, which means “small”. I interpreted that to mean that New Year’s Eve has lost its significance and thus it is a “small, dark day”.

京は九万九千くんじゅの花見かな

In the Capital,
Masses of people, both high and low,
Can see the blossoms.

This poem has a couple of tricks in it. Firstly, in Japanese it is highly alliterative, and he uses a play on words that is again tough to translate well. “九千くんじゅ”, which roughly translates to “nine thousand communities”, is very close in pronunciation to “kisen kunjuu”, which means “communities mixed with both high and low ranks”.

萎れ伏すや世はさかさまの雪の竹

Withered, prostrate,
The world has turned upside down.
Snow on the bamboo.

This poem is a good example of Bashō using imagery to convey deep emotion. This is widely considered to be about the funeral of a child. The first line incorporates two verbs that seem similar but have very different contexts. Both verbs denote “drooping”, but “伏す” (fusu) has a connotation that indicates “bowing” like a child would to their elder. So the “child in question” is prostrate, but not because he is being obedient. He has passed away. The second line is an emotional outburst, and finally, Bashō finishes with elegant imagery. Bamboo is known to blow in the wind and although it is very firm, it can blow in an unruly way, almost petulant. So the bamboo being weighed down by snow signifies the loss of a child by the cruel and over-bearing world.

雲とへだつ友かや雁の生き別れ

Clouds in the distance,
An old friend? Or just wild geese?
We’re lifetimes apart.

This one Bashō’s travel poems, and it is meant to express his profound loneliness. It is unclear if he is referring to a specific person or if he is speaking metaphorically. In any case, the reference to wild geese is a clear indicator of loneliness on the road.

夏の月御油より出でて赤坂や

The moon of summer,
Over Goyu it’s setting.
Those bright crimson hills.

This is one of those haiku that perhaps does have an intricate, implied meaning. I am not 100% sure where “Goyu” is, but I believe it is in Aichi Prefecture. However, I don’ think that’s important. I interpret this poem to have a multiple layers of sadness and intrigue. It is definitely peculiar for the moon to set while the sun is setting (hence the “crimson hills”). It makes for a surreal image, but it is also sad, because for so many travelers like Bashō the moon was a vital source of light during the night. This is the kind of “haiku image” that I really enjoy.

木を切りて本口見るや今日の月

Freshly cut, the tree…
Inside it is visible…
Today’s rich, full moon.

I took some liberty with this one, but it seems to me that the crux of this poem is that the harvest moon is visible in the opening of the tree. What exactly that means is up to your interpretation.

Kobayashi Issa: The Dragonfly in the Weeds

Issa

            For this post I looked at one of my favorite haiku composers: Kobayashi Issa. Issa was alive in the late 18^th century and he passed away in 1828. He came from a small farming town called Shinano in what is today Nagano prefecture. He traveled a lot in his life in order to ascertain poetic inspiration. For those who believe that only those who suffer greatly can produce great art, Issa fits the description.

            According to all the biographical accounts that I perused, he had three wives, of which two passed away. Also, according to different accounts, he had between four and eight children that died in infancy. His mother also died when he was a small child, and he absolutely hated his stepmother.

            He may have had one daughter with his third wife who survived to live a full life, but I am not sure. Edo (Tokyo of today) was where he spent most of his life. He did gather a significant reputation, but his iconoclastic style ruffled the feathers of a lot of his contemporaries.

            He wrote over 20,000 haiku, and he refrained from consistency. He wrote about numerous topics, but he is usually associated with writing about children or things mundane. His distaste for pomp and circumstance is obvious. Aesthetics is something that I believe he took seriously, but he expressed his appreciation of it in an unconventional way. The following haiku are a variety from his extensive collection. There is no consistent theme, and some of these may seem very simple. I would suggest the reader really dig deep in trying to relate to what he was trying to say. Ironically, the deeper you dig, the farther you may be from his intention.

To-ji in Kyoto

塔ばかり見えて東寺は夏木立ち

小林一茶

Only the tower

Of To-ji is visible,

In the summer grove.

Kobayashi Issa

To-ji is a temple in Kyoto, and I believe it is the tallest in the city. Apparently, in Issa’s days, To-ji was usually the first thing travelers coming from the east would see as they approached Kyoto.

雪とけて村一ぱいの子供かな

小林一茶

The ice and snow melts,

And the village overflows

With happy children.

Kobayashi Issa

春雨や食われ残り鴨が鳴く

小林一茶

The spring rains fall down,

And there are those left unfed,

The ducks are quacking.

Kobayashi Issa

I am not sure if it is the ducks who are “left unfed”, himself, or perhaps those unfortunate. One way or the other, it is a compelling scene.

薮の蜂来ん世も我にあやかるな

小林一茶

Bees in the thicket,

I cannot help but feel envy,

For your bright future!

Kobayashi Issa

蝶とんで我が身も塵のたぐいかな

小林一茶

Butterflies flying,

And I am just a piece of

Useless, old garbage.

Kobayashi Issa

大空の美事に暮るる暑さかな

小林一茶

The heavens above,

Dim to a beautiful tone,

In sweltering heat.

Kobayashi Issa

蚤のあとそれも若きは美しき

小林一茶

Can be found here

Flea-bitten and yet,

The youth, still are a form of

Absolute beauty.

Kobayashi Issa

遠山が目玉に映る蜻蛉かな

小林一茶

The distant mountains

Are reflected in the eye

Of a dragonfly.

Kobayashi Issa

This one is my favorite.

Three Poets at Minase, Minase Sangin Hyakuin

Sōgi and Friends

For this post, I have translated the first twelve poems from the renga sequence, “Three Poets at Minase” or Minase sangin hyakuin. The three poets are Monk Sōgi and two of his disciples, Shōhaku (1443-1527) and Sōchō (1448-1532). The sequence contains one hundred poems, and it is one of the most famous. These kinds of renga compositions were usually composed at one gathering, and the poets had to create poems under strict thematic rules. They could not compose a poem that was too similar to the one before nor include allusive language and figurative expressions that were already used. There also had to be a link connecting the poem to the one preceding it.

            It was within these guidelines that renga poets had to work. As you read through these poems, keep in mind that each poem was written to stand alone, as well as be read as a contiguous collection. This double nature of renga compositions is what makes them so paradoxical. Are renga compositions greater than the sum of its parts? I would argue they aren't, because from my understanding, renga compositions are not used to create narratives or poetic/philosophical discussions. Instead, I believe that renga sequences are chiefly an act of poetic prowess by the group and the individual. That being said, there is clear progression in the collection, and you could perhaps argue that there are some elements of a narrative present. I think that as you read renga sequences you should enjoy the aesthetic language, appreciate the subtle linkages, and give credit to the coordination of the group.

Renga poets have to walk the line of being spontaneously creative, while also being able to create meaningful allusions to the long Japanese poetic tradition. Perhaps, this could be considered an exercise influenced by Japanese Buddhist philosophy in the sense that renga conveys to the idea that everything is connected, and although these connections are meaningful, they are also arbitrary at some level. We can also judge renga sequences as an essentially ephemeral act of artistic composition similar to Tibetan mandalas.

雪ながら山もとかすむ夕かな

宗祇

As the snow abides,

Haze rests at the mountain,

Here in evening-tide.

Sōgi

Plum Blossoms

行く水とほく梅にほふ里

肖柏

Far away, water flows down,

From that plum-scented town.

Shōhaku

川風にひとむら柳春みえて

宗長

A breeze from the stream

A copse of willows,

And I see Spring’s gleam.

Sōchō

舟さすおとはしるき明がた

宗祇

Boatmen are punting away,

We hear them, on this new day.

Sōgi

Japanese Painting

月は猶霧わたる夜にのこるらん

肖柏

Still, the moon’s roaming,

Passing through the misty night,

The darkness combing.

Shōhaku

霜おく野はら秋はくれけり　

宗長

So soon... a frost-coated field,

Fading, autumn will soon yield.

Sōchō

鳴く蟲の心ともなく草枯れて

宗祇

Bugs cry like zithers

Without a care in the world,

As the grass withers...

Sōgi

Japanese Garden

垣根をとえばあらわなる道

肖柏

If, at the fence, you stop by

You’ll see the path is clear ‘n dry.

Shōhaku

山深き里や嵐に送るらん

宗長

Lost deep in the hills,

Perhaps the hamlet suffers

From storms, windy chills.    

Sōchō

なれぬ住いぞ寂しさもうき

宗祇

For those who’re not used to life,

Loneliness cuts like a knife.

Sōgi

今さらに一人ある身を思うなよ

肖柏

At this late hour,

You mustn’t dwell on being alone,

On thoughts so sour.

Shōhaku

移ろわんとは予て知らずや

宗長

You don’t know this already?

Everything changes, nothing’s steady.

Sōchō

Monk Kusai: The (Almost) Forgotten Renga Master

Emperor Go-Daigo

After a long hiatus, I decided to rekindle this blog with a post about a little known renga (linked-verse) poet: Monk Kusai. He probably lived from about 1282-1376 A.D. during the tumultuous Southern and Northern Courts period (Nanbokuchōjidai). The Kamakura Shogunate collapsed in 1333 A.D. and during this power vacuum the Emperor Go-Daigo tried to restore the power of the Imperial court at the expense of the samurai. This ill-fated venture is known as the Kenmu Restoration and it was an utter failure. It seems like it would have been a tough time to live, but perhaps it helped inspire some of his poetry...

I could not find a lot of biographical details about Monk Kusai, but as you can tell by his name, he was a Buddhist monk. Buddhist spirituality is reflected in some of his poems. He was also apparently a teacher of Nijō Yoshimoto, and helped compile the Tsukubashū and a rule book for renga. He was an early renga master and very important for the development of renga.

The poems below are all from the Tsukubashū, and I was able to find them thanks to Steven Carter’s Traditional Japanese Poetry: An Anthology. However, the translations are my own. In order to really appreciate renga poetry, you should look at the two verses as separate, and try to form the mental bridge that connects them. Kusai was big on subtlety. He was not fond of linked verses where the link was too obvious. So keep that in mind when you read these.

思わぬ方に宿をこそ訪え

花に行く心や我を忘るらん

救済

Can be found here

On an unfamiliar path,

I seek a nearby lodging.

Blossoms beckon me,

Maybe I have forgotten

Myself for my heart?

Monk Kusai

Can be found here

月寒し訪いきます友もがな

野寺の鐘の遠き秋の夜

救済

The coldness of the Moon...

If only a dear friend of mine

Would come and visit.

A distant temple’s bell rings

Deep in this autumn evening.

Monk Kusai

Can be found here

池に石ある滝つ白波

泣く涙硯の上に落ちそいて

救済

Beneath the waterfall’s splash

There is a stone in that pond.

Tears roll down my face,

Falling so inelegantly

Atop my ink stone.

Monk Kusai

誘いても花を思わぬ嵐かな

救済

Invite all it may,

This cruel, unforgiving gale

Doesn’t care for blossoms.

Monk Kusai

Monk Sogi: Wise Traveler

Can be found here

For this post I want to talk about probably the most famous renga (linked-verse) poet, Monk Sōgi. He lived from 1421-1502 A.D. He was a Zen priest and a contemporary of Bishop Shinkei, but it does not seem that Sōgi worked directly under any of the poetic giants of his day. He came from a humble background from a village near Kyōto, but took Buddhist vows early on in his life. Similar to Saigyō, he spent a lot of his time travelling from place to place.

Sōgi was an innovator in Japanese poetry and his work set the stage for later haiku poets. His two most famous works are Minase sangin hyakuin and Yuyama sangin hyakuin (“Three Poets at Minase” and “Three Poets at Yuyama”) which are both 100 poem renga sequences in which three poets compose together within fairly strict guidelines. I am going to translate some of Minase sequence later.

He seemed to have learned the art of linking verse from Shinkei and Sōzei, but, like all famous Japanese poets, he is also able to pull allusions from the greats: Kokinshū and Shinkokinshū. I chose a few of his poems to translate, but keep in mind, some of these poems were probably meant to be read as a longer renga sequence so he may not have intended them to stand alone.

Can be found here

人を夢とや思いしるらん

すみすてしそのわ胡蝶の宿りにて

宗祇

Perhaps a realization

That mankind is just a dream.

Forgotten about,

The garden is now a home

For butterflies.

Sōgi

This poem is an allusion to a famous passage written by the Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi. The passage goes:

Once I Zhuang Zhou dreamt that I was a butterfly fluttering about happily.

I did not know that I was Zhou. Suddenly, I awoke, and there I was, Zhou again.

I did not know whether I was Zhou dreaming that he was a butterfly or a

butterfly dreaming that it was Zhou. Between Zhou and a butterfly there

must be a distinction. This is called the transformation of things.

(Tran. Hyun Hochsmann and Yang Guorong)

This kind of paradox is common in Zhuangzi’s work. I think he is trying to indicate to us that our individual sense of reality could be arbitrary, and that all things are interconnected in a metaphysical, yet meaningful, way, or some mumbo jumbo like that.

Here is a selection of autumn poems.

涼しさは水よりふかし秋の空

宗祇

A profound coolness,

Makes the ocean seem shallow,

This sky in autumn.

Sōgi

Can be found here

この夕へまだ秋風の宿屋なき旅寝してゆく伊勢のはまをき

宗祇

In this lonely night,

Still the cool autumn wind blows.

With no place to sleep

I must make a humble camp

By the seashore at Ise.

Sōgi

秋の野の露分け衣ゆき帰り花に萎れぬ夕暮れそなき

宗祇

Can be found here

I cross autumn fields

In my dew-laden robes

On my return home.

Flowers woefully withered,

Evening has yet to arrive.

Sōgi

寂しさも身になれはてて山里は秋吹く風の夕暮れもなし

宗祇

Ahh, this loneliness,

I've come to my wit’s end,

In this mountain town,

The icy autumn wind blows

And evening has yet to fall.

Sōgi

Bishop Shinkei: Lotus Caught in a Wildfire

Shinkei

Shinkei, or Bishop Shinkei as he was also known as, lived from 1406 to 1475 A.D. He was a student of Shōtetsu and a fervent believer in the superiority of waka compared to the new trend in poetry at his time, renga. The end of his life was very tumultuous due to the Ōnin War (1467-1477).

That war was completely crazy and destructive. The war began over a dispute over who would be the next shogun after Ashikaga Yoshimasa. The details of the dispute are boring and uninteresting, but the effects of that war on Japan were dramatic. Kyoto was reduced to ashes and Japan remained in a state of civil war for about 100 years following the war. This period is known as the Sengoku Jidai, which translates to the Warring States Period. The war was so was debilitating to both sides that the entire shogunate disintegrated into several smaller states, and it wasn’t until Oda Nobunaga that Japan was again, at least partially, unified.

Shinkei, like his teacher Shōtetsu, was enamored with classical Japanese poetry and culture. He felt that the poets of the Heian period were the best, and the dilettante samurai poets of his day lacked real talent.

His poetry is idiosyncratic and cynical at times. He devoted some poetry to describe the grievances of his time, but most of his poetry followed the tried and true themes set down by his predecessor. He was also high-ranking in the Buddhist clergy, he was a “bishop” after all, so some of his poetry has a Buddhist ring to it.

Some of the poetry I translated is in waka form, but other poems are split as they would be for a renga sequence, meaning that they start with the 7-7 couplet. I did include a couple of his 5-7-5 hokku, which essentially are haiku, but unlike later haiku poetry, these weren’t meant to stand alone and were usually incorporated into a longer renga sequence.   

ふかき夜の梅のにほひに夢さめてこす巻きあへぬ軒の春風

心敬

Red Plum and Moon

In the depths of night

The sweet aroma of plum

Stirs me from my dreams.

I hadn’t even rolled the screen,

Spring’s powerful breeze through the eaves.

Shinkei

By “rolled the screen” he’s referring to a bamboo screen which would usually be unrolled in front of the window, similar to a curtain.

夢うつつともわかぬ曙

月に散る花はこの世のものならで

心敬

In the dawn light, I can’t parse

My dreams from reality.

In the moon’s dull glow,

Those scattering blossoms

Don’t belong to this world.

Shinkei

I like this poem because of its dreamy feel.

面影は春やむかしの空ながらわが身ひとつに霞む月かな

心敬

There’s hardly a trace,

Even if this sky of this spring

Seems to be the same

As those past, I’m just one man,

The moon has become hazy.

Shinkei

I had a hard time with this one and I found it kind of bizarre.  I feel like he is lamenting the time passing and the general degradation of the world around him.

Can be found here

風も目に見ぬ山のあまびこ

物事にただありなしを形にて

心敬

One can’t see the wind blowing,

Or the mountain’s echo.

For all things that be,

Whether they are or are not,

They look similar.

Shinkei

This is a very Buddhist poem. Basically, he is being pedagogical and saying that although we cannot see the wind or an echo, they still exist but also do not exist.

雲はなお定めある世の時雨かな

心敬

Dark clouds still above

Our already doomed world,

Will there be showers?

Shinkei

The prelude to this poem is about the Ōnin war.

Can be found here

紅葉朽ち朝霜白き汀かな

心敬

Leaves painted by fall

Rotting at the water’s edge.

Bright white morning frost.

Shinkei

無常

This one has some nice imagery.

わが心ただ花のみを幻とおもひわくれば乱れてぞちる

心敬

When I dwell on things,

Such as flowers and phantoms,

And how they differ,

My heart, all of a sudden,

Shatters into a million pieces.

Shinkei

I like this one a lot because I don’t really understand what it means.