Once before I had posted a number of different translations of a haiku by Basho. Well, inspired by a discussion on at least one other blog that I follow, I decided to do it again, this time of an autumn haiku by Basho.
No. 38
on a withered branch from The Selected Poems of Matsuo Basho
a crow has settled trans. David Landis Barnhill
autumn evening
A solitary from The Sound of Water
crow on a bare branch-- trans. Sam Hamill
autumn evening
On dead branches from The Classic Tradition of Haiku
crows remain trans. Hiroaki Sato
perched at autumn's end
on a barren branch from The Classic Tradition of Haiku
a raven had perched --- trans. William J. Higginson
autumn dusk
On a leafless bough from The Classic Tradition of Haiku
A crow is sitting: -- autumn, trans. Harold Gould Henderson
Darkening now --
No. 120
on a bare branch from Basho: The Complete Haiku
a crow settled down trans.: Jane Reichhold
autumn evening
A black crow from Matsuo Basho: The Narrow Road
Has settled himself to the Deep North
On a leafless tree, trans: Nobuyuki Yuasa
Fall of an autumn day.
I like the subtle differences found in these translations. For example, that branch is described as "withered," "bare," "dead," "barren," and "leafless." They are not identical, or so it seems to me. Each suggests a different feeling. "Withered" gives the impression of something dying, long past its youth, soon to be dead. "Dead" has a finality about it: all life is gone. "Barren" says to me that it may be alive, but it is sterile; nothing can come from it. "Bare" and "leafless," however, are factual statements: this is the way that branch is. As we know the sequence of the seasons, we realize this is only a temporary state, and therefore it contains a element of hope. They will be bare and leafless for a time, but then there's spring.
My favorite is the second one, the translation by Sam Hamill
A solitary from The Sound of Water
crow on a bare branch-- trans. Sam Hamill
autumn evening
Which one do you favor?
Showing posts with label autumn poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autumn poem. Show all posts
Thursday, December 8, 2016
Monday, September 28, 2015
Lawrence Durrell: "Lesbos"
Another of Lawrence Durrell's enigmatic poems--I don't know why I read his poetry, but there's something there that fascinates me. Perhaps it's that attraction of the unsolved puzzle, one whose meaning is just out of reach.
Lesbos
The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint,
And earth's huge camber follows out,
Turning in sleep, the oceanic curve
Defined in concave like a human eye
Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve.
This balcony, a moon-annointed shelf
Above a silent garden holds my bed,
I slept. But the dispiriting autumn moon,
In her slow expurgation of the sky
Needs company: is brooding on the dead,
And so am I now, so am I.
-- Lawrence Durrell --
from Collected Poems: Lawrence Durrell
All seems well, he is comfortable but then the " dispiriting autumn moon" rises. For him, autumn is a melancholy time for it reminds him of those who have died, and perhaps of his own mortality.
The second stanza poses a problem for me. especially the second and third lines.
"Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve."
It seems to be a comforting situation, but I'm not sure about the "music they deserve."
Most interesting line is the first: "The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint."
Is there one that you find most interesting?
The title "Lesbos" refers to a Greek island and seems to have little to do with sexual preference. On the other hand, I may be missing something here, which is entirely possible.
Comments are welcomed and encouraged.
Lesbos
The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint,
And earth's huge camber follows out,
Turning in sleep, the oceanic curve
Defined in concave like a human eye
Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve.
This balcony, a moon-annointed shelf
Above a silent garden holds my bed,
I slept. But the dispiriting autumn moon,
In her slow expurgation of the sky
Needs company: is brooding on the dead,
And so am I now, so am I.
-- Lawrence Durrell --
from Collected Poems: Lawrence Durrell
All seems well, he is comfortable but then the " dispiriting autumn moon" rises. For him, autumn is a melancholy time for it reminds him of those who have died, and perhaps of his own mortality.
The second stanza poses a problem for me. especially the second and third lines.
"Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve."
It seems to be a comforting situation, but I'm not sure about the "music they deserve."
Most interesting line is the first: "The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint."
Is there one that you find most interesting?
The title "Lesbos" refers to a Greek island and seems to have little to do with sexual preference. On the other hand, I may be missing something here, which is entirely possible.
Comments are welcomed and encouraged.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Robert Frost: "Misgiving"
An Autumn Poem----
Misgiving
All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind !'
The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring
The leaves had promised themselves this flight,
Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.
And now they answer his summoning blast
With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl
That drops them no further than where they were.
I only hope that when I am free
As they are free to go in quest
Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life
It may not seem better to me to rest.
-- Robert Frost --
The usual debate is whether there is life after death. Is the soul or some sort of life force immortal and does it survive the death of the body? Frost, being Frost, doesn't see it that way in this poem, naturally. In the last stanza, Frost's usual place for mischief, he posits it a different way. He fears that he may follow the lead of leaf and branch and flower and take his final rest instead of attempting to go beyond what knowledge we have gained from life and finding out if there is something more.
A very disturbing thought. We spend much of our lives wondering about, speculating about, arguing about, even killing others who disagree about the possibility of life after death and then be too tired to find out when we have the opportunity. Typical Frost--always off on his own somewhere.
Misgiving
All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind !'
The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring
The leaves had promised themselves this flight,
Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.
And now they answer his summoning blast
With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl
That drops them no further than where they were.
I only hope that when I am free
As they are free to go in quest
Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life
It may not seem better to me to rest.
-- Robert Frost --
The usual debate is whether there is life after death. Is the soul or some sort of life force immortal and does it survive the death of the body? Frost, being Frost, doesn't see it that way in this poem, naturally. In the last stanza, Frost's usual place for mischief, he posits it a different way. He fears that he may follow the lead of leaf and branch and flower and take his final rest instead of attempting to go beyond what knowledge we have gained from life and finding out if there is something more.
A very disturbing thought. We spend much of our lives wondering about, speculating about, arguing about, even killing others who disagree about the possibility of life after death and then be too tired to find out when we have the opportunity. Typical Frost--always off on his own somewhere.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Some autumn haiku
The first winter storm has settled down over Tucson for the past two days--temperatures in the low 50s--grey, gloomy overcast skies--rain, rain, rain. . .
Perhaps that explains the temper of these haiku.
Deepen, drop, and die
Many-hued chrysanthemums . . .
One black earth for all
-- Ryusui --
Chilling autumn rain . . .
The moon, too bright for showers,
Slips from their fingers
-- Tokuku --
Rainy-month, dripping
On and on as I lie abed . . .
Ah, old man's memories!
-- Buson --
Gray moor, unmarred
By any path . . . a single branch . . .
A bird . . . November
-- Anon --
On one riverbank
Sunbeams slanting down . . . but on
The other . . . raindrops
-- Buson --
When the sun comes out again, if ever, I'll post more cheerful haiku.
All haiku come from
A Little Treasury of Haiku
Avenel Books, NY
translated by Peter Beilenson
Perhaps that explains the temper of these haiku.
Deepen, drop, and die
Many-hued chrysanthemums . . .
One black earth for all
-- Ryusui --
Chilling autumn rain . . .
The moon, too bright for showers,
Slips from their fingers
-- Tokuku --
Rainy-month, dripping
On and on as I lie abed . . .
Ah, old man's memories!
-- Buson --
Gray moor, unmarred
By any path . . . a single branch . . .
A bird . . . November
-- Anon --
On one riverbank
Sunbeams slanting down . . . but on
The other . . . raindrops
-- Buson --
When the sun comes out again, if ever, I'll post more cheerful haiku.
All haiku come from
A Little Treasury of Haiku
Avenel Books, NY
translated by Peter Beilenson
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Wallace Stevens: "The Reader"
I may have mentioned this before, but I will say it again: Wallace Stevens is an acquired taste, at least that's how I see him. I can't say he's one of my favorite poets, but every so often I have to browse through my copy of a collection of his poems, The Pa/m at the End of the Mind. So far most of his poems puzzle me to the extent I'm not even sure that I'm getting the overt sense of them, much less anything deeper. But, once in awhile I encounter one of his quirky ones that strikes a chord somewhere. Here's the most recent example, and it's an autumn poem also:
The Reader
All night I sat reading a book,
Sat reading as if in a book
Of somber pages.
It was autumn and falling stars
Covered the shrivelled forms
Crouched in the moonlight.
No lamp was burning as I read,
A voice was mumbling, "Everything
Falls back to coldness,
Even the musky muscadines,
The melons, the vermilion pears
Of the leafless garden."
The somber pages bore no print
Except the trace of burning stars
In the frosty heaven.
-- Wallace Stevens --
"Everything
Falls back to coldness,
Even the musky muscadines,
The melons, the vermilion pears
Of the leafless garden."
Stevens doesn't seem to be celebrating a rich harvest here, as many autumn poems do. This is a more somber poem. He might be contemplating autumn as the prelude to winter and death.
The Reader
All night I sat reading a book,
Sat reading as if in a book
Of somber pages.
It was autumn and falling stars
Covered the shrivelled forms
Crouched in the moonlight.
No lamp was burning as I read,
A voice was mumbling, "Everything
Falls back to coldness,
Even the musky muscadines,
The melons, the vermilion pears
Of the leafless garden."
The somber pages bore no print
Except the trace of burning stars
In the frosty heaven.
-- Wallace Stevens --
"Everything
Falls back to coldness,
Even the musky muscadines,
The melons, the vermilion pears
Of the leafless garden."
Stevens doesn't seem to be celebrating a rich harvest here, as many autumn poems do. This is a more somber poem. He might be contemplating autumn as the prelude to winter and death.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Robert Frost: October
Since this is October, it seems apt to post this poem by Robert Frost.
October
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the wall.
Frankly, I don't think that "October" is one of his best poems. But, it does have an interesting theme. We are used to hearing about summer as the slow, lazy time of the year. In this poem the poet asks that autumn also be slow, if only for the grapes' sake. I find that strange for it would seem that lowering the temperature would be important if the exposed grapes were to be saved. On the other hand, perhaps the heat is necessary, and the longer the grapes are bathed in the heat, the better they'll be. Knowing little of grapes, I can only guess.
Maybe there's another meaning to the last part of the poem, to the poet's plea for a long slow autumn. If it's autumn now, winter, the season of death, must be close behind. Possibly the poet wants time to slow in order to stave off winter, that there's no need to rush into winter.
October
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the wall.
Frankly, I don't think that "October" is one of his best poems. But, it does have an interesting theme. We are used to hearing about summer as the slow, lazy time of the year. In this poem the poet asks that autumn also be slow, if only for the grapes' sake. I find that strange for it would seem that lowering the temperature would be important if the exposed grapes were to be saved. On the other hand, perhaps the heat is necessary, and the longer the grapes are bathed in the heat, the better they'll be. Knowing little of grapes, I can only guess.
Maybe there's another meaning to the last part of the poem, to the poet's plea for a long slow autumn. If it's autumn now, winter, the season of death, must be close behind. Possibly the poet wants time to slow in order to stave off winter, that there's no need to rush into winter.
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