Fukagawa, south of the Sumida River
Spring, 1681
My name is Matsuo Basho. I am thirty-six years old, and I live in a cottage by the river, south of the Edo, with a clear view of Mt. Fuji. I wasn’t always called Basho. Indeed, most of my life, I have been called Tosei, a peach, its flower having fallen, is now, waiting to ripen. Last winter, a friend came by. Humbly presenting me a housewarming gift, a banana plant. Like me, it survived the winter.
In growing a banana
the first thing to hate
the two leaves of the plant
ばしょう植ゑてまづ憎む荻の二葉哉
Bashō uete mazu nikumu ogi no futaba kana
— Matsuo Basho, Spring 1681
Basho’s haiku indicates that it took a while for our thirty-six year old poet to get used to the idea of becoming a banana plant. This was, as he later explains, it is useless, producing no fruit. Later, he appreciated it for the shade it provided from the sun, and its resilience in a storm.
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