Another year is gone

Irony — the expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite. So, the same and not the same. Something else.

年暮れぬ/ 笠きて草鞋/ はきながら

Toshi kurenu/ Kasa kite waraji/ Haki-nagara

Year after year, wearing the same bamboo hat and grass shoes.
Matsuo Basho, 1st year of Jōkyō, 貞享, 1684, Journal of Bleached Bones in a Field

Lost in Translation

Hakinagara — Haki, はき – Having the heart to become a champion. Possessing a willingness to confront things. Aspiration. Nagara, ながら, “while,” doing two things simultaneously.

So, Basho is striving to do better while wearing the same old clothes.

Another year has passed my friends, and still we do the same.

Beating on, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” So concludes Nick Carroway, the narrator in The Great Gatsby. Basho delivers an equally epic line. “Year after year, in the same simple bamboo hat and grass shoes, a little less for the wear, yet, still we willingly confront things, striving to do better.”

Surely a task meant for Sisyphus and each of us. Surely Confucian. Forget Zen mindfulness for a moment. Let’s do better this year.

This haiku was written in Nozarashi Kiko (野ざらし紀行), Journal of Bleached Bones in a Field. This was Basho’s journey home to his birthplace at Iga Ueno, the year after his mother’s death. By now Matsuo Basho had been living in Edo for a dozen years, and in his banana hut (Basho-an) for several years.

An idea was forming in his head. That of a long trip to Japan’s northern interior. It was an idea that he would begin the following spring. He only needed a little resolve, a willingness to confront things undone.

Twice Awake

Hiroshige, Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill, 1857

Two haiku, both probably written in the winter of 1686. Matsuo Basho was back in Edo for the spring and summer of 1686, staying in his retreat called Basho’an (banana hut). As the two haiku imply, he is into Zen Buddhism. Earlier in the year he wrote his most famous haiku about the frog, the pond, and the sound of water — “splash”.

瓶割るる/ 夜の氷の寝覚め哉
kame waruru/ yoru no koori no/ nezame kana

The bottle cracks
awakened at night
by the ice
Matsuo Basho, Basho-an, Edo, 貞亨３年冬, December, 1686

Note. As usual, Matsuo Basho kept a glass bottle of water by his bedside at night. Basho explains, “The night was cold and I woke to the cracking sound of a bottle. Koori means ice in both haiku. The ice probably broke the bottle.” Nezame means awakening. Yoru no Nezame (夜の寝覚) refers to a 11th century Japanese romance, and it is generally translated as “Wakefulness at Night”. If we take Basho at his word, “wakeful”, then he is not only feeling the cold, but hearing it as well.

油こほりともし火細き寝覚哉
abura koori/ tomoshibi hosoki/ nezame kana

oil is freezing
the light is dimming
awakening at night
Matsuo Basho, Basho-an, Winter, ca. 1686

Note. The two haiku could possibly be the same cold winter. Tomoshibi is an oil lamp. Rapeseed oil was the likely fuel source.

On New Year’s Day

Basho visited Sarashina (Nagano prefecture) and its terraced rice paddies (tagato) the autumn before he made this haiku.

元日に田毎の日こそ恋しけれ
ganjitsu wa/ tagoto no hi koso/ koishikere

On New Year’s Day
I long to see
The sun over the rice paddies!
Matsuo Basho, New Year’s Day, Ueno, January 1, 1689, age 46.

Moon over the Rice Paddies at Sarashina, Utagawa Hiroshige, c. 1837, **The Met**

1689

It is said that this haiku was written on New Year’s Day of 1689 when Basho was at his birthplace in Ueno in Mie Province. He was 46 years old. He had completed the long difficult trip to the Northern Interior of Japan that he and Sora had begun in May of that year.

Before returning to Edo, he made a trip to the place of his birth. Whether he was visiting his brother who ran the family farm is not said. Basho rarely spoke of his family, and by this time, both his father and mother were dead.

It is explained that in the autumn of 1688, Basho had made a journey to Mt. Obasute (Nagano Prefecture) where there are thousands of small rice paddies, tagoto in Japanese. The autumn moon reflecting off those paddies is a famous sight. On a bitterly cold winter’s day, the sight of the sun reflecting off the rice paddies would have been a much better to see than the cold moon.

For Basho, the reference to the moon over Sarashina also recalled memories of his mother. He had written, “I see her now / an old woman crying alone / the moon is her friend.”

Source.

1683

In 1683, Matsuo Basho’s mother died and his hut burned down. Not surprising, that on New Year’s Day, he recalled the warmth of the autumn days.

元日や/ 思へば淋し/ 秋の暮
ganjitsu ya / omoeba sabishi / aki no kure

On New Year’s Day
thinking I’m lonely
on an autumn day
Matsuo Basho, 1683 天和3年, age 40.

toshidoshi – year after year,

monkey on motorcycle in front of nuclear plant

The master said, “Year after year, people stop at the same place and do the same thing, making resolutions and throwing them away.” The year 1693 is ending. Matsuo Basho, age 49, is back in Edo in his familiar Basho–an (his third Banana Hut). He was living there quietly with few guests. To others he was saying, “saru” go away. Now he is wondering — “Am I making any progress?”

年々や/ 猿に着せたる/ 猿の面
toshidoshi ya/ saru ni kisetaru/ saru no men

year after year,
dressed like a monkey
in a monkey’s mask
Matsuo Basho, 6th year of Genroku (元禄6年元旦), 1693

Year after year

It was the 6th year of the reign of Emperor Higashiyama Genroku of Japan. Ninety years since Tokugawa Ieyasu was designated Shogun, the start of the Edo Period. Almost 60 years had passed since the policy barring Japanese from leaving the island and foreigners from entering on pain of death.

At the Hatsukoshin Festival, during the New Year, one buys a monkey mask to ward off evil spirits, as the Japanese word for “monkey” (saru) is a homophone of “go away.”

Matsuo Basho would die in November of 1694.

[previously translated last New Year’s Eve]

Toshi, meaning year. Doshi meaning constantly, without interuption. Toshi-doshi, 年々, year after year.

So what if the past was hard,
today, you can
begin again.
Buddha

Shiro, Shiroki

December 30th is not too late to learn, if indeed one learns.

月白き師走は子路が寝覚め哉
tsuki shiroki / shiwasu wa / Shiro ga nezame kana

Under the white moon
Of December
Shiro wakes up
Matuso Basho, 貞亨３年, December, 1686

Note. Tsuki shiroki, means White Moon. Shiwasu, December. Shiro, a disciple of Confucius. Shiroki, a homophone, (also Shirozake), a white colored saki.

December 1686

Back in Edo, living in his cottage, Basho’an, Matsuo Basho was still learning. Earlier in 1686, Spring Days (Haru no Hi) was compiled in Nagoya by Basho’s disciples, edited by him, and published in Kyoto. In 1686 he also composed his best known haiku about a frog, an old pond, and the sound of water. That December, back at Basho-an, under the moonlight he was thinking of Shiro, a disciple of Confucius.

Most likely, Basho was moon viewing and sharing a cup of saki with his friends. 白酒, Shiroki, Shirozake, is a white colored saki.

Shiro

Shiro, (子路, 543 – 481), Chinese, Zhong You (仲由), courtesy name Zi-lu, one of the ten most important disciples of Confucius.

Of him, Confucius said, “If to your present ability you added the wisdom of learning, you would be a superior man.”

“What is learning be to me?” asked Zi-lu. “The bamboo on the southern hill is straight itself without being bent. If I cut it and use it, I can send it through the hide of a rhinoceros, what then is the use of learning to me?”

“Yes,” said Confucius, “but if you feather it and point it with steel, will it not penetrate more deeply?”

Zi-lu bowed twice, and said, “Reverently I await your teachings.”

Merry Christmas

The author of this blog who goes by the pen name Bashō no yōna wishes you a Merry Christmas and offers this humble selection of Christmas haiku.

Kids know
Santa is Real
They sense his presents

Elves who work
Listen to music
— Wrap

A Christmas tree,
A Colorado beaver,
Nice Gnawing You!

Mexican sheep
Say, Merry Christmas,
“Fleece Navidad!”

Santa’s sleigh
Cost nothing
It’s on the house!

A serene sentiment …

A Withering Winter
Of Snow
A Frozen Wonderland

Night Snow, Utagawa Hiroshige, circa 1833, The Met

Nothing But Radishes

In mid-December, when the last of the Chrysanthemums have turned brown in my garden, there is nothing but radishes. And some chard and parsley, practical and utilitarian, nothing pretty. By the winter of 1692, Matsuo Basho was home. Edo was now his home, or at least Fukagawa, the rural neighborhood just south of Edo across the Sumida River. His cottage, the Basho-an (Banana hut), which had burned down the previous winter was rebuilt. Basho was living with his nephew Toin and Jutei, possibly Toin’s wife but we cannot be sure.

Toin was ill, and would die in 1693. Toin’s illness may or may not have inspired this haiku.

菊の後大根の外更になし
kiku no ato/ daikon no hoka/ sara ni nashi

After chrysanthemums
All that’s outside are
White radishes
Matsuo Basho, Winter, 1692, 4th year of Genroku

If one prefers a Zen-like translation,

After Chrysanthemums
Beyond white radishes
— Nothing
Matsuo Basho, on radishes, 1692

Radishes, Daikon

Matsuo Basho had returned to Edo in the Winter of 1691, close to the end of his life, late 1694. Kiku, 菊, chrysanthemums loose their bloom in late November and are symbolic of long life.

Daikon, 大根, is a Japanese white radish. Avid winter gardeners know that when the last flower has faded, the hardy radish and some chard will linger on. Radishes “purify” the stomach, helping remove toxins in the body when eaten. Basho, who suffered stomach ailments through out his life would have relished or, at least tolerated, eating them.

Shi

Ni nashi, になし, nothing. I am not an expert on the Japanese language, but the sound “shi” can have multiple meanings including poem and death. Note to self. Don’t give your wife or girl friend four roses as the character for four, 四, sounds like “shi”.

When rats drink water

Enough of the milling crowds who run about like rats, enough of the constant noise.

氷苦く偃鼠が喉をうるほせり
kōri nigaku / enso ga nodo o / uruoseri

this ice tastes bitter –
enough for a rat
to wet his throat
Tosei, who would become one day Matsuo Basho, Fukagawa, Winter 1680

Winter 1680

By the winter of 1680, the poet who would become known as Matsuo Basho (松尾芭蕉) had had enough of Edo’s city life. Nine years is enough. Enough of Nihonbashi’s theater, its music and colorful sights, enough of rich food and fine drink, enough of comfort.

Who was this poet?

He was not yet known as Basho, meaning banana, named for the frail wind-blown banana tree that would grow up outside his cottage. After the death of his early patron Tōdō Yoshitada, known as Tōdō Sengin, Basho called himself JInshichiro and Jinshiro. By the time he reached Edo, he had taken the name of Tosei, meaning Green Peach, after the Chinese Tang poet Li Bai, whose name meant White Plum.

Moving On

So, he took his meager belongings and moved from Edo to Fukagawa, 深川 just across the Sumida River. His new cottage was simple — a brushwood gate, a room or two with wooden floors covered by straw mats, a small stove for warmth and cooking. Basho, the banana plant was given to him as a housewarming gift.

In Fukagawa, he escaped the crowds, but everything was in short supply, including water.

On a winter’s day he was thirsty and stopped at a reservoir to drink, but the ice was thick. Breaking off a piece of ice, he found it brackish and bitter.

Enough to inspire the haiku above.

If Basho had in mind the ancient sayings of Zhuangzi he did not say, or did he?

Zhuangzi

Zhuangzi , 莊子 (late 4th century BC), Daoist philosopher. Post Lao Tzu and Confucius, contemporary of Mencius, author of the work, Zhuangzi. Compare him to a modern day Walt Whitman or Henry David Thoreau, one who finds beauty and happiness in Nature. One who experiences life.

A rat drinks water at the river, but no more than it needs.
Zhuangzi (莊子, 4th century BC)

Everything in moderation including bitterness. For a little bit of bitterness may inspire a man to write a haiku.

Did not Zhuangzi also say this:

This is what [the world] finds bitter: a life without comfort,
a mouth without rich food, a body without fine clothes,
eyes without beautiful sights, and ears without sweet sounds.
People who can’t get these things fret a great deal and are afraid—
this is a stupid way to treat the body.
Zhuangzi, Chapter 18

Bitterness

Severe truth is expressed with some bitterness.
Henry David Thoreau

O BITTER sprig! Confession sprig!
In the bouquet I give you place also—I bind you in, …
Walt Whitman

Both the bitter and the sweet
come from outside,
the hard from within.
Albert Einstein

Walking in the woods one day, I come upon a bright green Juniper tree full of berries. Thirsty, I eat just one. Just enough to moisten the tongue.

the Juniper berry —
dry, bitter and very small,
it’s sweet to eat just one
Bashō no yōna, December 2021

And along the lake I see a mole swimming.

A mole who drinks water
is thirsty, taking in
the sweet and the bitter
Bashō no yōna, December 2021

**Juniper berries, bitter and sweet, best I eat just one**

Snowy Mt. Hira and Mikami

比良三山　雪さしわたせ　鷲の橋　

Hira Mikami yuki sashi watase sagi no hashi

Snowy Hira and Mikami
For the moment, encircled
A bridge of white herons
Matsuo Basho, Otsu on Lake Biwa, looking west to the Hira Mountains

Snowy Mount Hira, artist, Utagawa Hiroshige, 19th century, image source The Met

A bridge of birds

A bridge of birds is one of those images one comes across while walking along a lake or in a wooded field. It is a magical image, one that is fleeting. When the birds are geese, the flock noisy chatters overhead, making a familiar V-shaped formation that look like an arched bridge. Herons are stragglers, silently flapping their wings,to the accompaniment of a swooshing sound.

Soon gone and silent again.

Herons often fly alone but can on rare occasion be seen in flocks. It is a rare sight, one that Matsuo Basho enjoyed while making a day trip to Otsu on the southern shore of Lake Biwa. Basho chose Otsu as his burial place, giving this haiku added meaning.

Lost in Translation

Hira and Mikami, 比良三山, snow covered Hira mountains and Mt. Mikami. They lie on opposite sides of Lake Biwa.

Yuki, 雪, snow.

Sashi watase, さしわたせ, for the moment, plus, joined or encircled.

Sagi no hashi, 鷲の橋, literally a bridge of white herons. The No, の particle links two nouns together to show a connection, and form a single image, a bridge of birds. One does not have to assume the herons are white (Shirasagi, 白鷺), but it makes for a prettier image.

[All images in the public domain, source The Met.]

A Crow Flies Away

A crow flies away in the setting sun
It is Winter,
A tree is shaking, I wonder

烏飛んで夕日に動く冬木かな

Haiku lives!

Haiku lives on. A good example is this poem by Natsume Soseki (夏目漱石, 1867-1916), Japanese novelist and haiku poet.

He is best known for his novels Kokoro, Botchan, and Wagahai wa Neko dearu (I Am a Cat). But here he gives us a good follow up to Matsuo Basho’s autumn crow on a withered branch — a picture of man, a portent of doom. Basho and Crows. Soseki’s take is different.

It is winter, the crow has departed, the tree is shaking, Soseki wonders.

Do you get it, I wonder?

Dammit, Zen moments shouldn’t and can’t be explained.