Kanbun Era, year two, 1662 Matsuo Chūemon Munefusa, as he was then known, not Basho The a page to the samurai Tōdō Yoshitada, age 18, in Ueno, in the city of Iga, Mie prefecture
春や来し年や行きけん小晦日 haru ya koshi toshi ya yukiken kotsugomori . Spring, is it here? The next to last day, of a new year? — Matsuo Basho, December, 1662
In the lunar calendar, kotsugomori (ん小晦日) is December 29. The Day before New Year’s Eve (December 31st). The penultimate day of the year? How confusing. Winter’s not over, Spring is no where near. Moving ahead, New Year’s Eve, omisoka (大晦日).
Brrr, baby it’s cold outside.Thisis a good one. A good one for December, or for any month when the temperatures are freezing, the sky is gray, and the wind brisk.
The oil is freezing The lamplight thinning, is this my awakening, I wonder 油こほりともし火細き寝覚哉 Abura kōri / tomoshi-bi hosoki / nezame kana — Matsuo Basho, year unknown
In French?
L’huile gèle La lumière de la lampe s’éteint, C’est mon réveil ? — Matsuo Basho, Francaise, peut-etre
Basho’s Awakening
At what age do we become serious?
Thirty-six is not a bad answer. One has a job, settled down, a few years under the belt, one is figuring things out, wondering, what is the next big step.
Matsuo Basho began his study of Buddhism while in his twenties. In his thirties, he moved to Edo. He enjoyed the Nihonbashi’s night life. He had a gathering of students and disciples. But he began to think there might be more. So, late in December of 1680, at the age of thirty-six, he left the comfort of Edo for the then remote Fukagawa District, across the Sumida River. There he found a small cottage and weathered the winter and awakened as a poet.
He did in time find a new name. Tossing aside Tosei, the unripe peach, for Basho, meaning banana plant. The story is a banana tree was given to him as a gift. It flourished well in the new environment, providing a little shade from the hot sun, but otherwise mostly useless.
I am no expert on the subject but I guess Basho’s oil came from fish or a type of vegetable oil lik canola which comes from rapeseed. Both of these oils would produce a somewhat smoky lamplight. Basho’s awakening would therefore be a little cloudy.
Original Japanese and English Translation
the oil is freezing
油こほ
Abura kōri
the lamplight thinning
りともし火細き
tomoshi-bi hosoki
is this my awakening?
寝覚哉
nezame kana
Nezame寝覚, there is an 11th century Japanese tale called Yoru no nezame, Awakening at Night, but this appears unrelated. There is also the Nezame no toko Gorge (寝覚の床), meaning bed of awakening, on the Nakasendo which Basho must have passed many times.
There is a progression in thought as one proceeds through the seasons. Spring,a little hazy, and unclear. The summer sun, indeed it’s hot, one seeks the cool water of the ocean. Autumn, it’s still unclear, one is lost as if a bird in the cloud. Winter, the moonlight fades, but still the insects sing, until the moon (the month) itself is gone.
spring has come a nameless mountain a fine mist . the summer sun cooling in the western sea — Mogami River . this autumn as I grow older (lost) as a bird in a cloud . a winter garden the moon above a slender thread as insects sing . Matsuo Basho, haiku, the four seasons From 1685 to 1694, when Basho died
Notes on Translation
Spring has come (indeed), a nameless mountain, a fine mist 春なれや名もなき山の薄霞 haru nare ya / na mo naki yama no / usu-gasumi — Spring 1685,
note. on the way to Nara, a place associated with Saiygo
the hot sun, sinking (flowing) into the sea, the Mogamai River 暑き日を海にいれたり最上川 atsuki hi o / umi ni iretari / Mogamigawa — Summer, 1689, Oku no Hosomichi
note. Basho had gone by boat down the Mogami River to the western port of Sakata
this fall as I grow older, (I feel like) a bird (lost) in a cloud この秋は何で年寄る雲に鳥 kono aki ha/ nande toshiyoru/ kumo ni tori — September, 1694, as he lay dying
note. leaving Edo for the last time in the summer of 1694, Basho went home to Ueno, then to Kyoto, then to Osaka.
a winter garden, as the moon becomes a thread, insects sing 冬庭や月もいとなる虫の吟 fuyu niwa ya / tsuki mo ito naru / mushi no gin — Early winter, Genroku, the second year (1689). Late autumn in Iga Ueno (his home town) after finishing the Oku no Hosomichi.
Have you ever had a great thought and let is slip away?
Thoughts drip one by one Like fresh coffee Percolating . Write it Down Or its Gone — Haiku . Words on a paper In my pocket Gently laundered — Bashō no yōna, December 2024
Lost and Found
I lost the book long ago, but kept the memory.
Long ago, one summer, between college semesters, while traveling in Europe, I came across a book on a train somebody left. It was a well worn paperback copy of Arthur Koestler’s, The Act of Creation. In a nutshell, the idea was that the creative process consists the interplay of the seemingly unrelated ideas. A left and a right brain sword play. The strike of steel on flint to create a spark of inspiration.
The idea of idea forming held true whether the task was artistic, scientific, or comic. It’s not new unless you look at something from a different point of view. Take an apple, smell it, cut it, cook it or bake it. Let it ferment, you’ve got cider.
The process can occur while brewing a cup of coffee in the morning, or walking the dogs in the park in the afternoon, or lying in bed, trying to sleep, dreaming.
It is a dance between imagination and logic. Let emotion lead and logic follow. One must be willing to play the child and be different.
As Matsuo Basho found inspiration in the writings of the Buddhist monk Saiygo, who wrote, “one must master loneliness.”
“If not for loneliness, in this mountain village, where no one comes to visit, it would be hard to live here.”
とふ人も tou hito mo 思ひ絶えたる omotaetaru 山里の yamazato no さびしさなくば sabishisa nakuba 住み憂からまし sumiukaramashi
Matsuo Basho’s take on winter’s lonliness:
Winter will wither, The world to one color, One hears the sound of wind.
When winter has withered (the leaves) And the world is one color, One hears the sound of wind.
冬枯れ や . 世は一色に . 風の音 Fuyu gare ya . yo wa hito iro isshoku ni . kaze no oto
Playing with language.
Crudo invierno (El invierno se marchitará) El mundo de un solo color Y el sonido del viento . l’hiver a fané (les feuilles) et que le monde est d’une seule couleur, on entend le bruit du vent. . Wenn der Winter verwelkt hat, und die Welt ist nur einzige Farbe, hört man das Geräusch des Windes. — Spanish, French, and German
Winter comes, but so does Spring. And Spring brings the desire to travel.
“The days and months are eternal travelers. So too are the passing years. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth must endure the weight of years, spend every minute of their lives on the road. A great number of ancients died on the road. I myself have been tempted for a long time by the cloud-moving wind — filled with a strong desire to wander. And wander I must. Alone…”
Matsuo Basho, Introduction to Oku no Hosomichi (paraphrased)
l’hiver a fané (les feuilles) et que le monde est d’une seule couleur, on entend le bruit du vent.
Osage apples in profusion on the side of the road — a deer’s Thanksgiving . a plucked tomturkey sides and pumpkin pie — my Thanksgiving Bashō no yōna, Thanksgiving 2024
It’s November and it has been raining now for three days, day and night, night and day. Constantly raining. Occasionally, flashes of lightning illuminate the both the black nights and gray days. A poem or a book gives me comfort.
In this world Even when it is raining Sogi gives me shelter (Sogi’s poems give me comfort)
世に降るも更にそうぎの宿りかな Yoni furu mo sarani Sōgi no yadori kana
Yoni (in this world) furu mo (when it’s raining) sarani (even then) Sōgi (Sogi, a Japanese poet) no yadori (shelter) kana (I wonder). The addition of “kana” at the end of the haiku is suggestive of a question. Were Basho outside in the cold rain of November, sitting under an umbrella, would reading a poem, or writing a poem, or running the words through his mind, be much comfort?
I wonder.
Sōgi (宗祇, 1421–1502), was a Japanese poet, who like Basho, came from a humble family. He was a Buddhist monk in the Shōkoku-ji temple in Kyoto. Like Basho, he studied and wrote poetry, both waka and renga.
Sogi’s poem:
In the world, even when it is raining, there is shelter.
世にふるも更に時雨のやどりかな Yoni furu mo sarani shigure no yadori ka na
How many times have you had a sudden inspiration, looked around for a piece of paper to write it down, not finding a scrap or a pencil, repeated it, and thought you knew it by heart. Then, getting home forgot?
Basho gave us this advice which is sometimes translated as “I caught a glimpse of something in the light.” The idea being, I suppose, to write down our impressions in the light that let’s us see. And seeing is not seeing, but understanding. The Dao tells us so.
To see a thing On must see it In the light
物の見えたるひかり Mono no mietaru hikari — Matsuo Basho
Getting back, to random thoughts and rain drops, that never seem to stop:
A lightning flash, I thought … Why not pen a poem? . Outside, I hear the rain, Thudding on the ground I’m glad to be inside . I shiver at the thought Of the rain, and my cat Caught outside somewhere . A familiar refrain, Rain, rain, go away Come again another day
Longfellow’s Rainy Day poem (minus punctuation) begins like this:
The day is cold and dark and dreary, it rains and the wind is never weary … — Henry David Longfellow
Sogi, as drawn by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi, detail from a Wikipedia page
Let us set the stage with the death poem of Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536-1598), who brought order to a warring Japan:
like dew dropping down, like dew, then disappearing could that be me — maybe all that I’ve done in Osaka, a dream within a dream — Tototomi Hideyoshi 豊臣 秀頼, 1598
露と落ち 露と消えにし 我が身かな 難波のことは 夢のまた夢 tsuyu to ochi / tsuyu to kienishi / waga mi kana / naniwa no koto wa / yume no mata yume — 豊臣 秀頼, 1598
Then, Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川 家康 (1543-1616), who brought peace for a very long time.
Happy I am To wake up again And want to sleep some more
To dream of a floating world And the sky at dawn — Tokugawa Ieyasu (1616)
嬉しやと 二度覚めて 一眠り うき世の夢は 暁の空
Ureshi ya to/ Futatabi same te/ Hito-nemuri/ Ukiyo no yume ha/ Akatsuki no sora — 徳川 家康, 1616
Then, too, we have our beloved Matsuo Basho 松尾 芭蕉, who died on the road.
sick on my journey, dreams on a withered field go wandering
旅に病んで 夢は枯野を かけ廻る tabi ni yande/ yume wa kareno wo/ kakemeguru — Matsuo Basho, Death Haiku, 1694
Or, if you like,
sick on my journey dreams lost in a barren field running, round and round
On Death
What got me thinking of death today?
Was it Shakespeare who gave the doomed King Richard II this speech?
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? … — William Shakespeare, King Richard II
Was it the fact it has been too hot for late September. That last night it stormed and rained, and this morning the clouds remain?
Whatever it was, let’s leave it at that, … And live! — Bashō no yōna, Fall, 2024
matsuo-basho-haiku 