To Go or Not to Go

December 15, 2023
Middle America

Ten days before Christmas, the shopping is done, the house is festive, thanks to the wife. Bashō no yōna, the 21st century disciple of Matsuo Basho (aren’t we all?), has one job. Let the dog out in the morning. So, he gets up, makes the coffee, and finds the dog at the back door, looking puzzled.

It is raining outside.

It’s raining outside,
The dog’s at the door, she pauses,
To go or stay, we wonder!
Bashō no yōna, December 2023

No one likes the rain in December.

初しぐれ猿も小蓑をほしげ也
hatsu shigure saru mo komino o hoshige nari

first winter shower
(first freezing drizzle)
a monkey, it seems,
wants something to wear, like us.
Matsuo Basho, Monkey’s Raincoat, Winter 1689

hatsu (first) shigure (cold autumn/winter rain) saru (monkey) mo (too, also) komino (something to wear) o hoshige (wanting something, i.e. to wear, a raincoat) nari (also)

Monkey’s Raincoat

Baby it is cold out there.

When Basho and his friends showed up for a renga party, sometime towards the end of the year, they did so in the freezing rain wearing overcoats to protect the from the steady drizzle, (shigure).

Shigure, is that steady downfall that comes in late fall and early winter, the kind that soaks one to the bone.

Sarumino, or the Monkey’s Raincoat, is the fifth of the seven poetry anthologies compiled by Basho and his disciples. It was written in Ueno (his hometown), Kyoto and Omi, along Lake Biwa. Composed as a form of renga by Basho and his disciples and was published in 1691, three years before Basho’s death. Edited by Kyorai and Boncho.

初しぐれ猿も小蓑をほしげ也
hatsu shigure saru mo komino o hoshige nari

Source Notes.

Gabi Greve’s excellent website on all things Basho has multiple translations of the Japanese text.

The Monkey’s Raincoat online in book form by the Haiku Foundation.

Wintry Wind

rider on horseback in the snow, hiroshige

Go, says Laozi

Laozi, the kindly Old Master, said “Go!”

So I went for a walk in the woods in December. And what did I get, for following such advice? No, not some peace of mind? But a cheek swelling ache on my frozen face from the wind that blows in December.

A Withering Wind,
A Cheek swelling Ache,
On a Strange man’s Face
Matsuo Basho, Autumn, 1690

I confess I have been outdone. A better translation can be found. From a collection of Winter haikus by Basho, Buson, and Issa, gathered up in a nice little package like a Christmas gift from Chris Kincaid. ‘Wintry Wind’ was his title. ‘Withering Wind’ is more along the lines of what Basho was thinking, but a month can make a difference. Check it out.

Yes, you noticed. This is an autumn haiku. Yes, the cold wind blows in Autumn, the withering kind that causes the leaves to fall. But you see, it is now December, and its worse, for the trees are bare, and it’s my face, and not that of the stranger I see, that is frozen.

Original Japanese

こがらしや　頬腫痛む　人の顔
kogarashi ya hoobare itamu hito no kao
Matsuo Basho, Autumn, Winter 1690

kogarashi (a leaf withering wind) ya (exclamation) hoobare (swollen cheeks) itamu (it hurts) hito no kao (a person’s face)

Bob Van Huss

In memory of my father-in-law, Robert (Bob) Van Huss, who liked to say, “It gets darn cold when the North Wind blows.” That wind is not a gentle kiss. With all its might, it socks you in the nose.

Pooh Park

Aka Chisholm Park

Between Fall and Winter
On a blustery day, I went for a jog
In Pooh Park
Bashō no yōna, between fall and winter, 2023

‘Pooh Park’ better known as Chisholm Creek Park, home to the Great Plains Nature Center in Sedgwick County, Kansas. The volunteer at the Center explaining that the park has about one hundred acres of woods and fields, and all sorts of critters, but no bears, making it not quite ‘Pooh Perfect.’

Pooh, full name, Winnie the Pooh, is the creation of English author A. A. Milne and English illustrator E. H. Shepard. Pooh is a Matsuo Basho like bear who speaks in rhymes, while curiously seeking adventure.

How do you get to Pooh Park?

Cross the bridge
if you dare,
to enter Pooh Park
Bashō no yōna, between fall and winter, 2023

Beware, you’ll have fun.

cross the bridge if you dare to enter Pooh Park

Rainy Days

雨の日や

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
Bashō no yōna, on a theme of Seneca, October 2023

**ame no hi ya seken no aki o sakai-chō**

Hearing His Voice

1666

Ueno, Iga Province

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)

Radishes

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.

秋叢繞舍似陶家,
遍繞籬邊日漸斜.
不是花中偏愛菊,
此花開盡更無花.

Qiū cóng rào shě shì táo jiā,
biàn rào lí biān rìjiàn xié.
Bùshì huā zhōng piān’ài jú,
cǐhuā kāi jìn gèng wú huā.
Yuan Zhen, 779-831, late Tang dynaty

Tao Qian, a poet of Jin Dynasty (4th and 5th century).

In the quiet of the night

September 13, 1681, Enpou 9
under a Chestnut moon,
Basho, 37 years old

secretly at night
a grub in the moonlight
drills into a chestnut

夜ル竊ニ虫は月下の栗を穿ツ
yoru hisokani mushi wa gekka no kuri o ugatsu
Matsuo Basho, September 13, 1681

A grub becomes a boweevil

A grub becomes a boll weevil, Tosei, an unripe peach ripens and becomes Matsuo Basho.

Tosei, the poet who would one day become Matsuo Basho, left Edo for the rural Fukagawa District, to find a home in a simple cottage. His disciples planted a banana tree (basho), but it had hardly taken root. Matsuo is studying Buddhism, thinking about transformations.

Notes on Translation. yoru (night) hisokani (secretly) mushi (a grub, a bug ) wa (particle indicating this, the grub, is what we are talking about) gekka (moonlight) no kuri (‘no’ particle meaning of, ‘kuri,’ meaning bury, scoop) o (an particle expressing a sigh or emphasis ) ugatsu (drill, pierce)

Uri Nasubi

Uri Nasubi — Squash (melons) and eggplant.

September, Autumn is here now, the weather is cool. In my garden the squash is done and the eggplant is late. Fortunately, the grocery stores are stocked with both. In Fall, I like goulash and ratatouille. The Japanese prepare similar dishes.

During the trip known as Oku no Hosomichi, in the first week of September, at Kanazawa, Basho got the bad news that one of his pupils had died. Sora was unwell. This haiku, Basho notes, was written on a visit to a grass hut.

In the coolness of Autumn
let each of us peel these
— melons and eggplant

秋涼し手毎にむけや瓜茄子
aki suzushi te goto ni muke ya uri nasubi
Matsuo Basho, Autumn, 1689

aki (autumn) suzushi (cool, refreshing) te (hand, by hand) goto (each, each one; either each one of us, or each piece of fruit) ni muke (for the purpose of, goal) ya (emphasis) uri (melon, squash) nasubi (eggplant). One can find several recipes online for a Japanese meal consisting of squash and eggplant.

P.S. A Japanese proverb reads: “Don’t let your daughter-in-law eat your eggplants in Autumn,” meaning don’t let yourself get taken advantage of.

A literal translation suggests that one shouldn’t let one’s wife eat eggplant in autumn. The confusion arises because yome (嫁) can mean both ‘wife’ (bride) and ‘daughter in law.’ Either way there is some health concerns since eating eggplant may cause an acidic reaction in the stomach.

In Autumn, don’t feed your wife eggplants.
秋茄子は嫁に食わすな
akinasu wa yome ni kuwasuna

Basho did not intend his haiku as such. Rather, as part of the grieving process, let those present share in the grief by preparing a meal.

It’s Hot

August 1689
Oku no Hosomichi

I have no GPS to track Matsuo Basho on his journey into Japan’s northern interior (Oku no Hosomichi). Roughly speaking, it is July or August, depending on one’s use of the lunar or solar calendar. Basho and Sora, his traveling companion, are on Japan’s western coast, near Niigata. Four or five months into their journey by foot, boat, and pony. They have go to be getting homesick. There is little relief from the bright red sun.

Red, bright red!
a sun without pity and
now the autumn wind!

あかあかと日はつれなくも秋の風
aka aka to hi wa tsurenaku mo aki no kaze
Matsuo Basho, Oku no Hosomichi, on the western coast, August 1689

Back in Kansas

Late August, 2023
The Flint Hills, Kansas

It’s one hundred and six in the shade. It is Kansas in August. The sun is without pity to poets and dogs. Is the autumn wind refreshing?

My God, it’s hot, it’s hot. The sun is a big burning ball of fire in a bright blue sky. The autumn winds wilt what’s left in my garden. Out on the Flint Hills, there are few trees. I hardly sweat. I heave, I gasp, mercy me, it’s hot, damn hot!

Notes on Translation

aka (red, bright red) aka (red) to (several meanings, here probably meant as emphasis) hi (sun) wa (topic marker for the sun) tsurenaku (‘unsympathetic,’ ‘doesn’t care.’ Another source suggest that this means ‘ignorant,’ as in the sun is just being the sun and nothing more. This less anthropomorphic view is in line with Buddhism and Taoism, i.e. ‘the sun is the sun and nothing more.’) mo (another topic marker as the poet’s thought shifts to the autumn wind) aki no kaze (autumn wind).

Post Script

Bashō no yōna (the pseudonym for the author of this blog) has a daughter, who like Matsuo Basho earns her living with pen and tongue. If you are looking for confidence coaching, social media advice, and fantastic advertising check her out at hannahdavisspeaks.com, the place where you will find your voice.

Wild Abandon

June, 1687

It is June 21. Summer has arrived and everything has changed, or has it? Matsuo Basho is out for a walk, alone, with paper and pen, composing, on a warm day, when suddenly he is startled by a frog jumping into an old familiar pond.

“Poems are never completed — they are abandoned.”
Paul Valery, La Nouvelle Revue Française, 1933

That is close to the truth of what Valery said, but not exactly. Exactly said, it is this: “Aux yeux de ces amateurs d’inquiétude et de perfection, un ouvrage n’est jamais achevé, – mot qui pour eux n’a aucun sens, – mais abandonné.”

In English, it becomes: “In the eyes of these lovers of restlessness and perfection, a work is never finished – a word which for them has no meaning – but abandoned.” As Valery was discussing his poem The Cemetery by the Sea, work becomes “poems”.

Even that, dear friends, is not exact, for Valery goes on to add other words by way of explanation. That is, he adds context. Context is the setting, time, mood, age, feeling, something that clarifies its meaning.

Let us take Matsuo Basho’s well known frog haiku:

Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

古池や蛙飛こむ水のおと

Old pond — frogs jumps in — sound of water
Matsuo Basho, Jōkyō 3, 1687, age 43

Does it matter if the pond is large or small, covered in lily pads or algae, the frog is startled, that the frog was croaking, that Basho is startled, that he was walking or sitting, thinking, talking, the sound is splash or kerplunk?

The frog disappears. Is this a spiritual transformation? kawasu — 換える, 替える, 代える, are verbs meaning “exchange” or “substitute”. Suddenly, we are on a metaphysical plain.

What if we think or the haiku as a question: What is the sound of water? Of course, it is many things, the sound of waves on the shore, or a mountain stream that flows upon the rocks. What if we ask a small child?

To a frog, she thunk — “kerplunk.”

Thus, to the enlightend Buddhist monk and the delighted little girl, Basho’s haiku is this:

An old pond, the frog that jumps becomes, the sound of water.
Matsuo Basho, revised haiku

Let us write with wild abandon, get lost in thought, never done.
Basho no yona, Summer 2023