Has Spring come? 春や来

Has Spring come?
Has the old Year gone?
On the Second-to-last day of the month

haru ya koshi toshi ya yukiken kotsugomori

春や来     し年や行きけん     小晦日

noodles

The meaning of Basho’s haiku

On the penultimate day of the year, Basho asks, “Has Spring come?”

Possibly, Basho and a few friends are having a conversation about the coming of the new year while eating a bowl of Toshikoshi soba, the year-crossing noodle traditionally eaten on New Year’s Eve.

Because Spring started on the 29th of the new year, and not the 30th or the 1st day, Basho wrote this amusing conundrum. Penultimate, because it is the next to the last, and not the first or the last. Amusing because buried within the haiku are the rhyming words “koshi toshi“. This play on words, refers to Toshikoshi soba (年越し蕎麦), the year-crossing noodle dish, the traditionally eaten on New Year’s Eve. Why noodles? Because last year’s hardships are easily broken up because soba noodles are easily cut.

Basho’s inspiration and sources

This haiku is thought to be Matsuo Basho’s earliest dated haiku. It dates to 1662-1663, the 29th of the lunar month of the New Lunar Year. At this time Basho served the family of Todo Shinshichiro, a samurai general in charge of the Iga region.

Basho’s haiku is loosely based on an earlier poem by Ariwara no Narihira (在原 業平, 825–880).

Did you come to me,
Or I go to you?
I have no idea
A dream or reality?
Was I asleep or awake?

kimi ya koshi
ware ya yukiken
omōezu
yume ka utsutsu ka
nete ka samete ka

君やこし
我やゆきけむ
思ほえず
夢かうつつか
ねてかさめてか

More so, the slightly later poem by Ariwara Motokawa (888–953).

During the old year
spring has come.
The day that is left:
should we call it
last year
or this year?

年のうちに
春は来にけり
一年を
去年とやいはむ
今年とやいはむ

toshi no uchi ni
haru wa ki ni keri
hitotose o
kozo to ya iwan
kotoshi to ya iwan

Withering Winter

The withering Winter and
The World is white –
The Sound of Wind

In the bleak Winter
When the World is one color
Is the Sound of Wind

Winter’s Solitude
And the World is one color –
The Sound of Wind

fuyugare ya    yo wa isshoku ni    kaze no oto

冬枯れ や 世は一色に    風の音

JP2492
Night Snow, Utagawa Hiroshige, circa 1833, The Met

Bashō‘s meaning

It is bitter cold, one can see nothing but white, and hear nothing but the sound of wind.

One could imagine Antarctica in the winter, or a Siberian scene in Dr. Zhivago. For me it was a “white-out” in eastern Colorado, early January of 2020.

I was driving my son’s ancient Camry from Ft. Collins, Colorado to Wichita. Being an intrepid soul, I avoided the quicker Interstate 25, and instead headed east early in the morning, driving through Windsor, Colorado, on to Highway 34, then picking up Interstate 76 to Fort Morgan, before switching back to US Highway 34, then south on lonely Colorado Highway 59, and finally, at Seibert, on to Interstate 70 for the majority of the trip.

Interstate 76 and 70 in the winter are both windy, but one has the company of other trucks and cars being buffeted about. If the snow and wind are too great, then the interstate is shut down and one stays in a hotel room if one can be found.

Out on the two lane Highway 34 and the side roads like Colorado 59, the experience is quite different. There are few trees, few towns, and few houses. In places where the land has been plowed for hay, or corn, or wheat, the winter brings on vast fields of snow that when the wind blows, makes the world one solid color of white. It is frightening to drive in such conditions.

Slowing down or stopping, one hears the sound of wind, a high pitched whistle, that along with the bitter cold cuts to the bone.

Notes on translation

fuyugare, 冬枯れ, is literally the withering winter. One can infer from this that Bashō was referring to the bleakness of winter or winter’s desolation or isolation. One could also use the cliche “dead of winter,” but cliche’s should be avoided. Some translators speak of winter’s solitude, and that works too. Solitude, however, may suggest serenity, and that is not what I choose to take away from my experience in eastern Colorado.

Ah, is not the beauty of poetry that it expresses something unique to each of us? Or does it depend on the moment? Dr. Zhivago is shivering away trudging through the snow, but quite happy in his frozen palace.

ya, や, is similar to “and” in English

wa isshoku ni, 世は一色に, is literally a world of one color, which, in this case, is white.

kaze no oto, 風の音, the sound of wind, or the voice of wind, if one wishes to hear the wind speak.

winter-snow-2
Evening snow on Hira mountains, Utagawa Hiroshige, Fitzwilliam Museum

 

The Guest’s Shadow is like Kageboushi

The banked fire
The guest’s shadow on the wall –
A silhouette.

Uzumi-bi ya/ Kabe niha kyaku no/ Kageboushi

埋火や 壁には客の 影法師

mountain-hiker

Meaning of Matuso Basho’s haiku

A banked fire is like the guest’s shadow, is like a silhouette. A silhouette, the essence of a human being reduced to its most basic form. A shadow without substance.

A banked fire, 埋火, literally, a buried ember. The banked fire is built around rocks or stones and protected from the wind. Thus, we find Matsuo Basho and his disciples on a cold winter’s night sitting around a fire with their backs facing the wall of the inn or the home, their face and hands warmed by the fire’s heat, until the flames die down and it is time to go to bed.

If the coals from the fire are protected, there will usually be enough heat in the embers to start a fresh fire the next day. The first character 埋 also implies the quality of being buried or hidden, a fire that lies within the embers.

Kageboushi, 影法師, literally “shadowman,” refers to a silhouette, and to Shadow Theater, and indirectly to Puppet theater which became popular during the Edo Period.