It is late November and the Maple leaves have turned red and gold, while the Chestnut leaves, once mostly green, begin to turn yellow and brown. The cold wind knocks the leaves and chestnuts to the ground.
This haiku has little meaning unless you imagine fuke as a nod to a fortuitous event, the wind; and domo, a shorter way of saying ‘arigato,’ a polite way of saying, ‘thank you’ to the wind for the chestnuts blown down from the tree.
The autumn wind shakes down bright green chestnuts
秋風の吹けども青し栗の毬 aki kaze no fuke domo aoshi kuri no iga
Matsuo Basho, Autumn 1691
aki kaze (autumn wind, breeze) no (particle showing connection) fuke domo (blowing, falling down) aoshi (deep green color) kuri no iga (Chestnuts)
Like in England, in Japan, chestnuts are a favored fall food. Strangely, here in the US, not so much, despite that great song by Mel Torme, The Christmas Song, about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. While in Europe and Japan, the winter season finds street vendors roasting chestnuts in hand-cranked drums, then shoveling them into paper holders for kids from one to ninety-two.
Staying Grounded
It feels good to walk in your backyard in one’s bare feet. It is one way of staying grounded. I have a Chestnut tree in my backyard and the sharp spiny chestnuts remind me this life, this day, this moment, I am not dreaming.
aki kaze no fuke domo aoshi kuri no iga, 秋風の吹けども青し栗の毬
Reflecting, Being and becoming Matsuo Basho, Haiku
Bashō no yōna, November, 2023
Reflections on Matsuo Basho
Bashō no yōna, the author of this blog on the life and haiku of Matsuo Basho, finds himself reflecting. Reflecting on how a young Japanese boy, the son of a samurai, turned farmer, then became servant to his samurai lord, then student of poetry, disciple, then teacher, and finally master. It is, indeed, a process, becoming Matsuo Basho.
Haiku is a peculiarly Japanese art form that consists of three lines, with five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third. Seventeen syllables in all, usually containing a seasonal word (kigo) that serve as a memory allusion. Similar and different from Proust’s Madeline and tea. The seasonal idea is both physical and temporal. We are in the spring, summer, fall or winter of our lives. We are also cold or warm. It may be a bright summer day, or a cold windy day in November, like it is here.
Most importantly, in a well formed haiku, one finds a cutting word, kiru, the juxtaposition of two ideas, that when combined, create a unique sensory experience.
This is demonstrated in Basho’s best known haiku, which combines a leaping frog and and old pond, creating the sound of water.
古池や 蛙飛び込む 水の音
Furu ike ya kawazu tobikomu mizu no oto
A leaping frog, In an old pond, Says, Kerplunk!
Bashō no yōna
[Note. Here, Basho follows the rules of haiku with the five, seven, five pattern. The seasonal word is the summer frog, and the cutting word ‘ya’ gives us an exclamation which I, in my translation, moved to the end. There is also an anthropomorphic process at work, an act of creation, in that Basho makes the water speak, mizu no oto, the sound of water.]
Why Haiku?
Mostly because it is fun. A child can enjoy it, and an adult can once again become a child.
The fun in reading Basho’s haiku is that it causes us to look at our surroundings in a different way. The fun in translating his haiku is that one observes that no two translators look at Basho’s creations in the same exact manner. This shouldn’t surprise us. Basho’s haiku is undoubtedly his work, but it is our unique experience.
Reading and writing, Transforming, creating, ah! — the fun of haiku
Bashō no yōna, on the Great Plains of America, Fall, 2023
Four inches of rain fell yesterday, Now it is cloudy and cold here in the Arkansas Valley in the Great Plains of America, a hard freeze is expected tonight. The lettuce will wilt, but how about the spinach and radish?
It’s cold and cloudy, with nothing to do, — haiku
Bashō no yōna, Arkansas Valley, October
Haiku
OK, this is not traditional haiku in the sense that it’s not three lines of 5 syllables, 7, and 5, nor is this any combination thereof. It does, however, follow Matsuo Basho‘s formula of combining two ideas to create something different.
Arthur Koestler wrote The Act of Creation, a 1964 book that tackles ‘bisociative’ thinking and man’s constant battle between habit and originality. His idea that one plus one can make something unique is like Basho’s haiku. It’s the same concept behind every joke.
What about compound words? A fire house is not a house on fire, it’s a place where fire engines leave to take care of fires.
Germans love compound words. Take, for example, ‘Zeitgeist.‘ (German grammar capitalizes a noun, is it necessary?) that mean spirit (geist) of the times (zeit). In 17th century Japan, war was over, times to have a little fun parsing words, scrambling phrases, composing thoughts.
Taking the Dogs on a Walk
Oh, here comes the sun, Little darling, It’s all right!
A riff on the Beatles song Two of Us, 1969
Time to take the dogs on a walk at the park, the park being Pawnee Prairie Park. Here there are open fields and dark woods through which flows a creek. The creek being Chisholm Creek. Cattle heading up the Chisholm Trail once watered here. Today, horses and riders take advantage of the trails. There is a sidewalk for city-folk, but I prefer the woods and fields, where the deer run. The dogs agree.
The sun is setting, it is getting dark, the walk is almost over. The dogs are off the leash and panting. Did not Basho teach us to break rules, make fun. Don’t be a melon split in two.
Rules Are made and broken, Making new rules to break.
Rainy Days in Sakai-cho, October, 1678 Enpo, 6th year, Basho is 35
Unfamiliar faces, the falling rain, autumn’s falling leaves, it’s a gray day in Sakai-cho, Edo’s theater district. Six autumns have come and gone since our poet first arrived in Edo. Uncertain about his future, even his name, for he was still called Tosei, the unripe peach.
Walking among the ghostly figures in the cold, cold Autumn rain, facing an uncertain future, what could Tosei be wondering?
Rainy days this Autumn World — in Sakai-cho 雨の日や世間の秋を境町 ame no hi ya seken no aki o sakai-chō
Matsuo Basho, Edo, Sakai-cho, Autumn 1678
Sakai-chô — Edo’s Kabuki Theater District (Nihonbashi) where dream-like Noh plays were the norm.
The Mortal World
Seken (世間) — this mortal world, ever becoming, ever fleeting, ghostly in its being on rainy days.
Bashō no yōna, the author of this blog, looks out his window at the falling rain, the leaves now scattered on the ground, dreaming, wondering.
Imagine. Like John Lennon said, “nothing to kill or die for, … imagine living in peace.” Sad to say, the world is at war.
It’s late October in middle America. Unlike the Carpenters’ Rainy Days and Mondays, it doesn’t have to be Monday for rainy days to always get me down. Not a light drizzle, but a steady drum-beating downpour, the kind that has the dog hiding under the bed covers.
The poet thinks of becoming and being. Being being made up of things which never change in any way, while becoming consisting of things which constantly change and existing in many ways. Being and becoming is a better way to say it.
Luck, combining opportunity with preparation, — good fortune
The year of 1666 was a turning point in the life of Matsuo Minefusa (as Basho was then known).
In April, Todo Yoshitada (藤堂 良忠) died. Two or three years Matsuo’s senior, he was the third son of a samurai general, lord of the castle in Ueno, Iga Province, near where Basho was born. Matsuo was his servant or vassal. And it was Yoshitada, who adopted the pen name of Sengin (蝉吟, literally ‘chanting cicada’), who introduced Basho to poetry and haiku.
In the sharp sound of the autumn wind coming through an open door, I suspect young Matsuo heard the voice of his master and mentor.
The autumn wind, coming through the sliding door, a sharp voice.
秋風の鑓戸の口やとがり声 aki kaze no yarido no kuchi ya togari-goe
Matsuo Basho, Autumn 1666
Notes on Translation
What Basho meant by togari-goe is unclear. Was it the sharp voice of his master, summoning him? Was it the piercing cry of one who died too soon. Is it Basho himself mourning the loss of his mentor?
aki kaze (秋風) — autumn wind. Basho would begin at least four haiku with aki kaze, one with aki no kaze. Aki, autumn was a seasonal word signifying change and the nearness of winter, or death.
yarido (鑓戸) — A door made of latticed wood. Others, including Frank Watson, suggest that there is a play on words involved here – yari (鑓) also meaning spear. To me, this is suggestive of the wooden strips on the door looking like spears, or the sound of the wind being similar to the sound made by throwing a spear. Assuming, as I do, that his haiku was written after Yoshitada’s death, I think Basho intended to write it as a salute to Yoshitada on the occasion of his death.
kuchi (口), opening, meaning either an open door, or simply that the wind is blowing through the slats.
togari-goe — a screaming voice, togari (とがり) sharpness, piercing; goe (声). Compare Basho’s well known haiku about a frog, an old pond, and the sound of water. Basho uses mizu no oto (水の音), the sound of water.
Note. when koe becomes goe. An example of rendaku (連濁) – repeating a consonant in compound word, gari-goe. Compare the ‘voice of a cicada’, semi no koe.
1689
Mt. Yamadera A Journey into the Northern Interior
Twenty-three years later, Basho has achieved fame. Along the way, he has taken his own pen name, Matsuo Basho, Basho, meaning ‘banana’ for the banana tree that grew outside his cottage in Edo. Yet, he still hears the distant voice of Sengin (Todo Yoshitada) as he climbs the stone steps on Mt. Yamadera on his way to the Temple of Risshakuji.
A 1,000-step climb on stone steps brings one to the top of Mt. Yamadera and the Zen Buddhist temple of Risshakuji. Along the way, Basho hears a cicada’s voice deep within the stones. Perhaps, it is Sengin, still chanting after all these years. One supposes that Basho had a Noh play on his mind in which a spirit comes back to bring a message.
Ah, in stillness, deep within the stones — the cicada’s voice
閑けさや 岩にしみいる 蝉の声 Shizukesa ya iwa ni shimiiru semi no koe
Matsuo Basho, Oku no Hosomichi, Summer 1689
Notes on Translation
shizukesa, quietness, stillness, serenity, tranquility; ya, emphasis
iwa, rock, stone; ni, indicating within; shimiiru, soaking in, seeping
semi no koe, cicada’s voice
The sutra repository of Risshakuji Temple on Mt. Yamadera (original image from Wikipedia)
Ogaki, Japan Mid-October, 1689 Parting from friends
One always has to fill in the details.
At Ogaki, there is a 16th century castle. The area surrounding the castle played a pivotal role in Battle of Sekigahara that brought the Tokugawa clan to power. Basho does not mention the castle or the battle. One imagines that he is still recovering from his Journey to the Northern Interior (Oku no Hosomichi), meeting old acquaintances in Osaka, Kyoto, and Nagoya.
By October, he is ready to leave again. This time to the Grand Shrine at Ise. So, I imagine that he is at a lovely restaurant on the Makida River, joined by some friends for one final farewell, sharing sake, some clams, no doubt taken from Futami, a coastal village on the way.
As Autumn ends We are parting Like clam shells (of Futami)
蛤のふたみにわかれ行秋ぞ
Matsuo Basho, Autumn 1689
Notes on Translation
Futami, means ‘parting.’ It is also the beach where the Isuzu River enters the Ise Bay. Nearby, are the Wedded Rocks (Meoto Iwa, 夫婦岩), two sacred rocks in the ocean. The artist Utagawa Toyokuni I recreated a scene of Along the Seashore at Futami. In the background, men can be seen gathering clams.
Hamaguri clams are considered a symbol of friendship and harmony because the shells symbolize a joined pair. Perhaps, the unexpressed thought is the difficulty of separating the shells, and the pain in parting.
hamaguri (clams) no (of) futami (breaking up, forked place in a river, also a place name — Futami, Mie Prefecture, a town Basho would travel to on his way to the Grand Shrine of Mie) ni wakare (farewell) yuku (leave, go, but don’t come back) aki zo (wow, it’s autumn, or autumn’s over)
Autumn Ends
October is a good time to revisit Basho’s haiku on Autumn ending. The leaves are falling. The heat has finally broken. A cold wind is blowing.
A moonlit night, the countryside outside Edo, Age 41, Fall, 1685.
Matsuo Basho, the wine, and Li Bai, three friends to share the moon tonight.
With this saki cup, to three friends I drink tonight!
盃に 三つの名を飲む 今宵かな sakazuki ni mitsu no na o nomu koyoi kana
Matsuo Basho, Fall, 1685
Matsuo Basho’s haiku refers to the well-known Chinese poet Li Bai, who lived in the 8th century. Li Bai wrote the popular Under the Moon.
Under the Moon Among the flowers I am alone with my pot of wine drinking by myself; then lifting my cup to ask the moon to drink along with me, its reflection and mine, together in the cup of wine, just the three of us; when I sigh, for the moon cannot drink, …
Li Bai, Under the Moon, Tang dynasty
Three
Is three the magical number, representing Buddha’s three marks of existence; impermanence, suffering, and not self; harmony, wisdom, and understanding; birth, life and death; past, present, and future; three lines in a haiku — beginning, middle and end?
Perfect, but the moon cannot drink, and Li Bai is not there!
It’s late September, in my garden, as the flowers are fading, radishes are all that are left. Here are two haiku by Matsuo Basho on the subject of daikon, 大根 a Japanese white radish.
Samurai — bitter as radishes, when they speak!
もののふの大根苦しき話哉 mononofu no daikon nigaki hanashi kana
Matsuo Basho, Edo, Fall 1693
mononofu (samurai) no (used here for emphasis, samurai and radishes, what do you make of that?) daikon (white radish) nigaki (bitter) hanashi (to talk or speak, story) kana (I wonder)
Daikon radishes that Basho speaks of are milder than red radishes. The young leaves add zest to a salad. Cooking softens the bitterness.
The Last Flower
In Kansas, Sunflowers bloom late, Chrysanthemums later.
The date of the following haiku is uncertain. We can guess that it was written after the Kiku no Sekku Festival that takes place on the 9th day of the 9th lunar month (now on September 9th). This would be late in the year when frost had killed all the plants excepting the radishes.
Artists and poets admired chrysanthemums and were saddened by their disappearance, thinking the last flower has blossomed. In one sense, Basho is asking, isn’t there the radish?
When the chrysanthemums are gone, radishes are all that are left
菊の後 大根の外更 になし kiku no ato daikon no hoka sara ni nashi
Matsuo Basho, Fall 1691?
kiku no ato (kiku, chrysanthemums, no ato, after) daikon (radishes) no hoka (outside of) sara (to experience) ni nashi (to nothing)
Indeed, here is a poem by a Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty, Yuan Zhen:
Chrysanthemums Around my cottage, like Tao Qian, autumn flowers grow, The fence around falling down day by day. Among my flowers I love the chrysanthemum best, Once you bloom, nothing follows.
Meigitsu 名月 — bright moon, full moon, in Autumn we call Harvest Moon. September, the acorns are falling, there is dew in the grass once again, it is cooler, and the world is experiencing its last Super Moon until 2037. Is the moon locking up the summer heat? We hope.
Zansho残暑 — the heat lingers on Summer is over its heat sent to the Harvest Moon, let’s enjoy the coolness
夏かけて名月暑き涼み哉 natsu kaketemeigetsu atsukisuzumi kana
Matsuo Basho, Autumn 1693
natsu kakete (natsu, summer; kakete, over; meaning thank God, ‘summer is over’) meigetsu (harvest moon, full moon) atsuki (heat, hot) suzumi (beat the heat, cooling off) kana (expressing hope)
Summer is Over
Zansho, 残暑. And still, the heat lingers on.
Gabi Greve, in her excellent website on all things Basho, notes that this haiku was written “on the 15th day of the 8th lunar month of 1693”. It was Matsuo Basho’s last harvest moon. Tired and not feeling well, Basho was ready for a break from teaching, visitors, and family (he had been caring for his nephew who was ill).
Note. Full moons in the Japanese lunar calendar had occurred on the 13th day. In 1684, the Japanese lunar calendar was shifted so that the new moon fell on the first day of each month, moving the full moon to the 15th day of the month. On a western calendar, this is bumped to September, Friday, September 29th, to be precise.
Extra:
Just for fun, check out Ruth Etting singing Shine on Harvest Moon
As September turns into October, one’s thoughts turn to the past.
Going home, but where is home?
Five years before Matsuo Basho set off on the journey into Japan’s Northern Interior (Oku no Hosomichi), he took a trip back to his family home (near Ueno, in Iga Province). It was time. His mother had died the year before, and he needed to pay his respect. The travelogue (Basho’s insights plus haiku) he created was given the name — Nozarashi Kiko. It was the first of four.
And what lies ahead is his past.
The first two haiku set the tone. Thoughts of his dead mother, in his mind and heart. Ten years now in Edo (Tokyo), truly what is home?
bleached bones on my mind, a piercing wind to my soul 野ざらしを心に風のしむ身哉 nozarashi o kokoro ni kaze no shimu mi kana note. nozarashi (sometimes translates to ‘bleached bones in a field,’ sometimes, to a ‘weather beaten’) o (particle meaning ‘of’) kokoro (heart, soul, core) ni (in, at) kaze (wind) no (of) shimu (blowing) mi (body) kana (!). Matsuo is thinking about his mother, now dead for one year. This thought touches both his mind and soul.
autumn, ten years gone, now I point to Edo as my hometown 秋十年却って江戸を指す故郷 aki totose kaette Edo o sasu kokyo aki (autumn) totose (ten years gone) kaette (now, instead, rather) Edo (江戸, the Japanese capital where Basho has lived for the last ten years) o (particle ‘from’, now if asked, Basho says he is from Edo) sasukokyo (point to home)
Matsuo Basho, Autumn 1684
I love to travel in Autumn. The leaves turning red and gold. The kids back in school. The summer heat is done. The cool weather makes it nice to hike. It is easier to find a room at half the price.
September, October, Pack your bags and go, Until it snows in November
Bashō no yōna, September 2023
Going Home
Matsuo Basho’s trip to Ueno to see his siblings (It is said that he had six brothers and sisters.) was only a portion of the trip. Other stops included the Grand Shrine at Ise, and Yamato Province, in the vast Ryōhaku Mountains, to walk in the footsteps of Saigyo and see the remains of his hut.
Sadly, when he began the trip he came across an abandoned child along the Fuji River. Does one who loses a mother think of oneself as such?
A Japanese cottage by a lake. A little too large to be Matsuo Basho’s.
matsuo-basho-haiku 