Category: Miscellany

Morning has broken

sunrise over a field -abstract

Morning has broken, five syllables, the beginning of a song by Cat Stevens. Inspiration for a series of haiku. For you. As I sit here at my window, facing east, gazing in the distance, as the sky turns black to blue, then to bright yellow and back to blue.

It’s a new dawn…

1
Quietly I sit
at my window facing east …
the world awakens.

2
A Carolina wren
sings briefly in the dark..
silence takes its place.

3
Night has lost its grip,
black dissolves into pale blue,
soft yellow, bright light.

4
Every color
coming between night and day
the day is becoming.

5
Sun rising slowly,
blinding white for a brief moment
again turning blue.

6
No doubt: I am here,
loving this tender moment
yet it will not last.

7
My dog comes running,
the peace and quiet is undone —
wanting to go out.

8
Yes, I am leaving,
I am forever leaving
but will I come back?

— Bashō no yōna, May 2026

sunrise over a field -abstract

Winter is coming

a snowy scene in Japan

Matsuo Basho, Free verse on Basho themes
January 2026

I spend a winter day hunkered down. I draw a picture of Mt. Fuji on a piece of paper. I compose a poem. The cold wind sings a song of sorrow. A rat finds the ice is bitter. My tea is cold. I listen to a distant bell on the hour. Across the river lies Edo. The snow falls on the bridge that is newly built. People hurry home. An insect sings his final song in the winter garden. The moon fades as I watch. A muffled voice, a sweet song within the palanquin passing on the way to the mountain castle. Where are the warriors in shining armor. The cold of winter, this winter night. A life of peace. Goodnight.

mono no aware, 物の哀れ, the pathos of small things.

Here is a Basho haiku I have not previously come across.

京に飽きて
この木枯や
冬住ひ
Kyō ni akite / kono kogarashi ya / fuyuzumai

I tire of city life,
I long to hear the cold wind whisper —
I retreat to my winter cottage.
.
Tired of this city,
I hear the cold wind calling,
I seek my cottage

— Matsuo Basho, Kyoto, 1691

Composed in the autumn of 1691. Either the cold wind whispers or it calls Basho back to Edo and his humble cottage. It would be his last trip home to Edo. What was home to Basho. First, Ueno where he was born, then the castle where he served his master. Then to Kyoto to study. Then Edo. Then the road itself, as a wandering poet. like Saiygo…

Yamanashi explains: It has been two years since Basho and Sora completed the journey, Oku no Hosomichi (1689). Preparing the book to be, Matsuo Basho has grown tired of Kyoto. He wishes to return to Edo… I long for a rural life where I can hear the cold wind whisper. Or, more likely, when I hear the cold wind call, I long to return.

A greeting poem to the samurai, Suganuma Gon’emon (haiku name, Kōgetsu).

京に飽きて, Kyōni akite, literally, at (に) Kyoto (京), I am bored.

You can also read Gabi Greve’s slightly different translation and explanation.

Thoughts on James Baldwin

Thoughts on James Baldwin’s letter to his nephew James (1962).

I have begun this thought five times,
This is the sixth and last,
Or is it?

Or is it? — Isn’t rewriting what is becoming? Matsuo Basho wasn’t born until he left home, quit as a servant, became a student in Kyoto, moved to Edo, and struck out across the Sumida River, writing, rewriting, finally becoming Basho.

One suspects in reading James Baldwin there is a great mixture of emotion, of hate, and disappointment, frustration at life, but buried at the bottom of this Pandora’s Box, is the hope of a better future. James, I hope, we have proven you right. I hope we are still trying.

Remembering most of mankind
Is not all mankind,
Is hope
.
What has been beaten into me
is to be tough and philosophical
Not bitter
.
Take no one’s word as the Word,
Including mine
Experience teaches
.
I left and came back
Because this is our home
Yours and mine

As bad as America was for James Baldwin (1924-1987), he realized that it had, for good and bad, was his home. Twenty six years in France gave him a good seat in the balcony to observe humankind. But back in America, he had family and friends. And though much of mankind was cruel, he had work to be done to make it better.

If one reads his writing, one can break it down, as I have attempted to do, into haiku.

Eighth Day Books

On a cold windy day in February a bookstore is a good place to be. Far from the Madding Crowds.

Surrounded by books

I’ll never read

A terrible waste?

.

Words to live by

The power of words

Less said is well said

.

The Trojan War

Cherchez la femme

Helen

From the Power of Words by Simone Weil. The absurdity is that we blame anyone but ourselves. Making conflict our passion, making war, our goal.

When it comes to computers

Words are empty

Of feeling

.

No more, no less

Words have the meanings

We give them

.

A world

Without words

How Dao

.

But utterly boring for words get us going, for good or for bad, but my God, we’re moving. Or sitting and reading.

Then came the snow, falling gently at first, then blindingly fast, telling me it is time to go.

Simone Weil (1909-1943), one who died caring too much.

Eighth Day Books in Wichita, Kansas on Douglas Avenue, east of Downtown, west of Uptown.