Haiku Bells

Long ago I believe bells, church bells, played an important role in everyday life, especially in rural areas.  I wonder if that's still true today.   Growing up in Chicago, I don't remember bells as being especially important or noticeable.  I wonder if we lost something when we moved from the countryside to urban areas.



     Cloud of cherry-bloom . . .
Tolling twilight bell . . .Temple
            Ueno?   Asakura?
                  -- Basho --


I remember reading in a novel (Proust?) about a traveler listening to the sounds of church bells in the village he has just left, when he reaches the crest of a hill and now hears also the sound of bells from the village he is approaching.



       Silent the old town . . .
The scent of flowers floating . . .
          And evening bell
            -- Basho --

What must that be like?  Silence....the scent of flowers... joined by the sound of a bell



              Voices of two bells
That speak from twilight temples . . .
               Ah!  cool dialogue
                       -- Buson --


I never connected bells with temperature, but cool is very apt. 



             Butterfly asleep
Folded soft on temple bell . . .
     Then bronze gong rang!
         -- Buson --


Poor butterfly!



               In the holy dusk
Nightingales begin their psalms . . .
         Good!  the dinner gong!
                   -- Buson --

Interesting shift from "holy dusk" and the nightingales' "psalms."  Contrary to the usual portrayal, these bells lead one from the sacred to the profane.



Ah!  I intended
Never never to grow old . . .
     Listen:  New Year's bell!
                 -- Jokun --

Is New Year's a time for sorrow at the passing of the old or joy at the entrance of the new?



     We stand still to hear
Tinkle of far temple bell . . .
      Willow-leaves falling
               -- Basho --

I think the tinkle of that far off temple bell would be the perfect accompaniment for those falling leaves.  I can close my eyes and see and hear them.



The calling bell
Travels the curling mist-ways . . .
             Autumn morning
                   -- Basho --

a bell and mist--again perfect for autumn




Are bells still important in places?



Above haiku are found in A Little Treasury of Haiku
Translations by Peter Beilenson. 

Basho's frog

This is probably one of Basho's most famous haiku.   I have a book titled Basho's One Hundred Frogs,  a collection of 100 different translations of this one haiku.  Surely, that must be a record of some sort.



Old pond
a frog jumps into
the sound of water.
          


This is my favorite translation.  I can picture myself sitting near a pond or river, with a frog nearby.  I can't see the water directly below the frog because of the bank.  The frog jumps and disappears in the sound of water.  I never do see the frog enter the water; he just jumps into the sound.  Oh, I know very well what happened, or think I do anyway.  However, maybe that frog really did jump into the sound of water. Just why this grabs me, I have no idea.  Perhaps you may have some suggestions. 


 From:
Basho: The Complete Haiku
Jane Reichhold, ed. and trans.




Following is a much more mundane (to me anyway) translation:

The quiet pond
  A frog jumps in,
    The sound of the water.

The comma provides a pause between the frog jumping in (and not "into")  and the resulting sound of water.
 tran.  Edward G. Seidensticker
from  One Hundred Frogs.
ed.  Hiroaki Sato

Basho: autumn haiku translations

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?  

Short ones, but. . .

Must be in a strange mood this morning as I read these short poems and found that they brought a smile, not a laugh, but just a gentle smile. I hope they do the same for you.


Caged Birds

The young finch asked the old one why he wept:
"There's comfort in this cage where we are kept."
"You who were born here may well think that's so
But I knew freedom once, and weep to know."

-- Ignacy Krasicki --
from World Poetry,  trans. Jerszy Peterkiewicz and
Burns Singer




Rival  Beauties

Slanting their parasols against the blaze,
They smiled politely, went their separate ways. . .

-- Rskuten --
from A Chime of Windbells, Harold Stewart, ed.







Hunger for Beauty

Beside the road a pink hibicus flowered,
Which my discriminating horse devoured!

-- Basho --
from A Chime of Windbells, Harold Stewart, ed.




The Master and the Dog

Because of thieves, a dog barked all night through.
The master, sleepless, beat him black and blue.
On the next night the dog slept; and thieves came.
The silent dog was beaten all the same.

-- Ignacy Krasicki --
from World Poetry,  trans. Jerszy Peterkiewicz and
Burns Singer







I hope the above bring a smile this Monday morn.

Missed cultural signals

No. 93

well nothing happened
yesterday has passed away
with globefish soup
                -- Basho --
from The Complete Haiku


Texts written in a foreign language always present a translation problem for anyone not familiar with the original language.  However, another problem is also present--lack of knowledge about the text's culture.  I find this a regular obstacle because I frequently read stories and poems in translation.  Regardless of my knowledge, limited or otherwise, I was not born in that culture and therefore miss much.

The haiku, brief as it is, presents that problem: many times I have read a haiku, get what it expresses and, yet, feel I'm missing something.  What's even more worrisome is that I wonder how many times I never suspected I missed something.

Fortunately, Jane Reichhold, the editor and translator of Basho: The Complete Haiku has provided an appendix which includes notes for every single haiku.  You can guess how much this helps.

I read the above haiku and was a bit puzzled for it appeared as though the point was that it's been an empty day, with its high point being a bowl of globefish soup the day before.  However, turning to the notes, I find the following:

"1678--spring.  The globefish, or puffer fish, is a popular delicacy.  If a globefish isn't prepared properly it can be deadly.  It remains an expensive dish because chefs have to be specially trained and licensed.  The expense and idea of tempting death add to the thrill of eating this food."


Now I understand.  This haiku is a sigh of relief.

Basho: just a brief post on a haiku

The following are two translations of a haiku by Basho that caught my attention. The reversal is what made me stop and consider it.

No. 7

rabbit-ear iris
how much it looks like
its image in water

-- Basho --
from Basho: The Complete Haiku
Trans.  Jane Reichold






No. 6

blue flag irises
        looking just like their images
                in the water

-- Basho --
from Basho's Haiku: Selected Poems of Matsuo Basho
Trans. David Landis Barnhill



It is so common to read how closely the reflection in the water resembled the object that the reversal made me stop and think.  This is one of those moments when words fail, which makes it a rare haiku. 

A Minute Meditation

This will be something new: a brief, irregularly appearing post on something I just read that struck me in some way.  It could be a haiku or only a line or stanza from a longer poem or a short quotation from a work of prose or fiction.  It will be short and brief and perhaps worth a minute or two of thought.


At the shrinemaiden's street
ceremonial robes being washed --
early summer.
                                   -- Buson --
                            


Usually poetry or nature writing celebrates the first appearance of a flower or a bird or animal or even a weather event as the sign of a new season.  Buson here suggests that human acts can also be a sign of a new season.





Buson (1716-1784), Japanese painter and poet, regarded as second only to Basho as a haiku poet.


haiku taken from Haiku Master Buson
trans.  Yuki Sawa and Edith M. Shiffert

Carl Sandburg: "From the Shore"

Here's one from Carl Sandburg that caught my eye as I was browsing through a collection of his poetry.


From the Shore

A lone grey bird,
Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.

Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,
Out into the gloom it swings and batters,
Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,
Out into the pit of a great black world,
Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown,
Love of mist and rapture of flight,
Glories of chance and hazards of death
On its eager and palpitant wings.

Out into the deep of the great dark world,
Beyond the long borders where foam and drift
Of the sundering waves are lost and gone
On the tides that plunge and rear and  crumble.
-- Carl Sandburg --
The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg


I have always envied birds for they live in three dimensions while I'm trapped in two.  Yes, I know about airplanes, but I am a fearful-flyer, a control problem, I suspect.  But I never really considered very deeply just what it means to be able to fly and just what it is like, especially during those times when there are no soft winds and a blue sky and a safe landing below--at least, that is, until I read Sandburg's poem. 

The use of alliteration and the hyphenated adjectives reminds me of some Old English poems that I have read, Beowulf being one and others--"The Seafarer" for example.  This is a brief quotation and one appropriate I think:

All I ever heard along the ice-way
was sounding sea, the gannet's shanty
whooper and curlew calls and mewling gull
were all my gaming, mead and mirth
At tempest-tested granite crags
the ice-winged tern would taunt
spray-feathered ospreys overhead
would soar and scream.  .  .
 -- Anon  --
Online translation of "The Seafarer" by Charles Harrison-Wallace.




And, of course, there's always a haiku that strikes a similar note.

Grey marsh, black cloud.  .  .
Flapping away in autumn
Last old slow heron
-- Anon --
A Little Treasury of Haiku
Trans. Peter Beilenson



I read somewhere (wish I could remember who said this) that a poem should make you see something new or see something old in a new way.  I think Sandburg has succeeded here.

Has he succeeded with you?   

Kenko: the ideal house

No. 55

"A house should be built with the summer in mind.  In winter it is possible to live anywhere, but a badly made house is unbearable when it gets hot.

There is nothing cool-looking about deep water; a shallow, flowing stream is far cooler.  When you are reading fine print you will find that a room with sliding doors is lighter than one with hinged shutters.  A room with a high ceiling is cold in winter and dark by lamplight.  People agree that a house with plenty of spare room is attractive to look at and may be put to many different uses."

-- Kenko --
from Essays in Idleness


As I live in Tucson, Arizona, I have to agree with Kenko's first statement.  Conquering the hot summers, especially at night, is most important.  When winter comes, I can always add a sweater if necessary.

Is the perceived difference between deep water and shallow, flowing stream real or psychological?   Perhaps more moisture is lifted into the air by a shallow, flowing stream than by a deep pool and that moisture is what gives the impression of coolness?  I must admit though I would find a shallow, flowing stream more interesting than a deep pool, although a deep pool does have its own attractions. 


Some haiku, remotely appropriate


      For deliciousness
Try fording this rivulet.  .  .
         Sandals in hand one hand
                        -- Buson --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku


 This hot day
         swept away
by the River Mogami
               -- Basho --
from The Sound of Water




At the ancient pond
      a frog plunges into
           the sound of water

                    -- Basho --
from The Sound of Water



 The last haiku is probably Basho's most famous; in fact there's a book titled something like 101 versions of this haiku.  This is my favorite simply because it suggests that the frog plunges, not into the pond, but into the sound of water, the sound of the splash.  Just why this fascinates me, I have no idea.      

New Year Haiku

I'm stealing this idea from Stephen Penz, over at First Known When Lost.  I hope you don't mind, Stephen.   As Stephen pointed out, there are various ways of taking haiku, so here's a few more to play with.



On jolly New Year's Day
     My last year's bills drop in
          To pay their compliments
                       -- Anon --


A cheerful way to begin the New Year.  My credit card bills won't arrive for another week, so they are a bit more considerate.



Such a fine first dream.  .  .
   But they laughed at me.  .  . they said
             I had made it up
                                     -- Takuchi --


First dream of the year.  .  .
I kept it a dark secret.  .  .
       Smiling to myself
                -- Sho-u --


A sad first dream:  compassion?
A good first dream: congratulations?
A fine first dream:  envy?




             Felicitations!
Still .  .  . I guess this year too
     Will prove only so-so.
                      -- Issa --

Pessimistic?  Or, fear of offending the gods with high expectations.  Can't remember which one, but I read that in one culture, it is dangerous to talk about how well things are going because the gods are always listening.    I think there's one brand of Christianity, one of whose main tenets is that we are not down here to be happy.

Still, with all that in mind, I do wish you all

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR!





Note from Wikipedia entry:
"Traditionally, the contents of the dream would foretell the luck of the dreamer in the ensuing year. In Japan, the night of December 31 was often passed without sleeping, thus the hatsuyume was often the dream seen the night of January 1. This explains why January 2 (the day after the night of the "first dream") is known as Hatsuyume in the traditional Japanese calendar."
" . Since 1873, the Japanese New Year has been celebrated according to the Gregorian calendar, on January 1 of each year, New Year's Day."

 The haiku come from A Little Treasury of Haiku,  trans. by Peter Beilenson.

More Autumn Haiku

The storm has moved on and the sun is now shining on Tucson. 


       Pebbles shining clear,
And clear six silent fish .  .  .
        Deep autumn water
                      --  Buson --



                                                  You turn and suddenly
                                        There in purpling autumn sky .  .  . 
                                                       White Fujiami!
                                                                 -- Onitsura --



     All the field hands
enjoy a noontime nap after
       the harvest moon
               -- Basho --



                                         The mountain grows darker,
                                      Taking the scarlet
                                            From the autumn leaves.
                                                              -- Buson --



  Entering autumn.
The painting of flowering plants
  A daily task.
                         -- Shiki --





Haiku 1 and 2
A Little Treasury of Haiku
trans. by Peter Beilenson


Haiku 3
The Sound of Water
trans. by Sam Hamill


Haiku 4
Silent Flowers
trans. by R. H. Blyth


Haiku 5
Haiku: a Hallmark Edition
trans. by R. H. Blyth

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

Loren Eiseley: Some short poems and a haiku by Roka

Footnote to Autumn

Old boulders in the autumn sun and wind,
Settling a little, leaning toward the light
As if to store its summer--these remain
The earth's last gesture in the falling night.

This then is age: It is to have been worked
By the forces of frost and the unloosing sun,
It is to bear such markings fine and proud
As speak of weathers that are long since done.



The second stanza:  could that refer to people?  I have seen photographs of people whose faces seem to tell the stories of their lives.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Night Snow


Nothing
Is lovelier
Than snowflakes at midnight
Drifting out of the dark above the
Streetlamps.
-- Loren Eiseley --


I can remember winter nights in Chicago, looking out the window at the snow coming down in the light of the streetlight in front of our house. 

- - - - - - - - - - -

Old Wharf at Midnight

Under
All decay sounds
The restless monotone
Of the sea at midnight creeping beneath
Old piers.


- - - - - - - - - - -

The Dark Reader

Old moons
these nights and years,
and moss on broken stones . . .
Who stoops by glow-worm lamps to read
your name?


-- Loren Eiseley --
from The Lost Notebooks of Loren Eiseley

- - - - - - - - - - -

     Winter rain deepens
Lichened letters on the grave . . .
     And my old sadness
                 -- Roka --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku

Fall Equinox: Autumnal Haiku

A bright autumn moon .  .  .
In the shadow of each grass
      An insect chirping
    -- Buson --


                                The calling bell
                    Travels the curling mist-ways .  .  .
                                Autumn morning
                                    -- Basho --


                                               Supper in autumn .  .  .
                                     The light through an open door
                                                 From a setting sun
                                                            -- Chora --

                                                   
                                Jagged candle-flame .  .  .
                            The very shape of autumn sifts             
                                  Through the shutters 
                                         --  Raizan --


Nights are getting cold .  .  .
   Not a single insect now
        Attacks the candle
                  -- Shiki --

                                
                                Swallows flying south .  .  .
                           My house too of sticks and paper
                                   Only a stopping place
                                             -- Kyorai --

                                                
                                                           All the world is cold   .  .  .
                                                        My fishing-line is trembling
                                                              in the autumn wind
                                                                       --  Buson --



                             White autumn moon .  .  .
                           Black-branch shadow-patterns
                                      Printed on the mats
                                                 -- Kikaku --


     First white snow of fall
Just enough to bend the leaves
      Of faded daffodils
                    -- Basho --


All haiku come from
A Little Treasury of Haiku
Edited and translated by Peter Beilenson

Emily Dickinson: The End of Summer

#1536

There comes a warning like a spy
A shorter breath of Day
A stealing that is not a stealth
And Summers are away --


But a spy is not supposed to be noticed!  The change from Summer to Autumn, at first I guess, isn't that noticeable--just a shortening of the Day and a slight loss of  ?   Perhaps the warning is the shorter breath and the stealing?  The Summer is dying. 



#1540

As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away --
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy --
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternon --
Th Dusk drew earlier in --
The Morning foreign shone --
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that wold be gone --
And thus, witout a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful 

Again, the sense that Summer doesn't just abruptly leave, but quietly steals away.
"Our Summer made her light escape"   Just small changes maybe, but into the Beautiful?
This is ambiguous.


#1572

We wear our sober Dresses when we die,
But Summer, frilled as for a Holiday
Adjourns her sigh --

The contrast between us and Summer during our last days.  Perhaps this explains the last line of the previous poem "Into the Beautiful."

--  Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Thomas H. Johnson, Editor




And as always, I can't help but think of similar haiku, suggesting that poets (and therefore humans) from around the globe aren't that different.

                  A single cricket
Chirps, chirps, chirps, and is still .  .  . my
           Candle sinks and dies
                                 -- Anon --

Nothing remarkable here--just a cricket going silent and a candle fading away


          So enviable .  .  .
Maple-leaves most glorious
    Contemplating death
                        -- Shiki --


     Should it have such worth,
What would I not give
    For the scenery of autumn?
                   -- Soin --


The last two haiku, seem related to the second and third poems by Dickinson..

Tucson Weather Report

Tucson Weather Report



Sunday, August 12, 2012

3:53 PM  MST

Temperature:          108 F

Relative Humidity     9%




        Such utter silence!
Even the crickets  singing .  .  .
        Muffled by hot rocks
                   --  Basho --

Carl Sandburg: a definition (nine actually) of poetry

Poets and critics and scholars have long debated the nature of poetry.  However, I don't think anyone has come up with one definition that satisfies everybody.   Carl Sandburg has come up with nine himself.


Nine Tentative (First Model) Definitions of Poetry

1.  Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged
               to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes,
              syllables, wave lengths.

2.  Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling
                life and then entombing it.

3.  Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into 
               horizons too swift for explanations. 

4.  Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

5.  Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of
                the unknown and the unknowable.

6.  Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

7.  Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made
               and why they go away. 

8.  Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and
               biscuits. 

9.  Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a
               deliberate prism of words.


Is this a poem?

I think Sandburg is really saying here that poetry can't be defined.  My favorite definition, though, comes from Robert Frost who once said, when asked what poetry was, that poetry is what gets lost in the translation.   But, if I had to choose one of Sandburg's,  I guess I'd go with No. 4.




   The sea darkening  .  .  .
Oh voices of the wild ducks
   Crying, whirling, white
                    -- Basho --

from A Little Treasury of Haiku
trans.  Peter Beilenson

Some Poems I've recently encountered

I seldom sit down and read a  book of poetry straight through over a period of days.  I usually pick one up and read a few poems and then put it down.  The next time I'm moved to read poetry, I may go back to that volume or I may pick up another one instead.   Why and how I got into this habit, I don't know, but I did somehow and so I do now.  These are some poems from two volumes that I've looked into most recently: Art and Nature: An Illustrated Anthology of Nature Poetry and A Little Treasury of Haiku.



The Best

What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearl'd;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-deck'd and curl'd
Till its pride is over-plain;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, the gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you're loved avian;
What's the best thing in the world?
--Something out of it, I think.

                  -- Elizabeth Barrett Browning --
                       from Art and Nature

What's the best?  She answers her question but then lists a weakness:  truths that do not hurt friends or pleasures that do not end quickly or memories that do not hurt.  Sadly she concludes by thinking that whatever is the best isn't something found in this world.  All the best things have pain attached to them, even as roses have thorns.. 


-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -
 . 

 Casida of the Rose


       The rose
was not searching for the sunrise:
almost eternal on its branch,
it was searching for something else.

      The rose
was not searching for darkness or science:
borderland of flesh and dream,
it was searching for something else.

      The rose
was not searching for the rose.
Motionless in the sky
it was searching for something else.
          -- Federico Garcia Lorca --
                 from Art and Nature

Its brevity adds to its mystery.  What is the rose searching for?   Something spiritual, perhaps? 
What is the rose?  Something that is almost immortal, a borderland, and motionless in the sky?
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

The Act            

There were the roses, in the rain.
Don't cut them, I pleaded.
         They won't last, she said.
But they're so beautiful
       where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she
       said,
and cut them and gave them to me
       in my hand.
                -- William Carlos Williams --
                     from Art and Nature.  

Two worlds colliding here?
Those who want to leave things the way they are for that is best.
Those who insist that beauty is fleeting, so we should take what we want before it's too late.




Here are several haiku that play with variations on that theme:

      Don't touch my plumtree!
Said my friend and saying so .  .  .
     Broke the branch for me
                       -- Taigi --


        My good father raged
When I snapped the peony .  .  .
           Precious memory!
                -- Tairo --


          I raised my knife to it:
Then walked empty-handed on  .  .  .
           Proud rose of Sharon
             -- Sampu --


Sadness at twilight .  .  .
Villain!  I have let my hand
Cut that peony
             -- Buson --


White chrysanthemum .  .  .
  Before that perfects flower
          Scissors hesitate
                 -- Buson --

Cut it and carry its beauty with you, for only a short time though.
But, it will die soon anyway.
Leave it so someone else can also enjoy its beauty.

Poets in Japan and the US, the East and the West:  perhaps the twain can meet, occasionally.

All haiku from A Little Treasury of Haiku,  Avenel Books
translations by Peter Beilenson

Basho: a haiku or two or maybe . . .

Some time ago I bought a collection of haiku by poets the editor called Haiku Masters.  When I opened it, I was surprised to find that it had no haiku by Basho.  In the Introduction, the editor explained that he hadn't included any by Basho because Basho was the Haiku Poet, and therefore superior to the Haiku Masters.

While I don't think every haiku by Basho is a gem, as some editors and commentators claim, I do think he has more gems than any other haiku poet and I can't argue when he's called the Haiku Poet..


Here are some:



          For a lovely bowl
Let us arrange these flowers .  .  .
       Since there is no rice

Opportunities to create beauty are everywhere.

-   -   -   -   -   -


        April's air stirs in
Willow-leaves .  .  .a butterfly
      Floats and balances.

My favorite haiku.  I've posted this one before and I'll probably post it again.


-   -   -   -   -   -


          White cloud of mist
Above white cherry-blossoms .  .  .
      Dawn-shining mountains

Sheer imagery


-   -   -   -   -   -


  Twilight whippoorwill .  .  .
Whistle on, sweet deepener
       Of dark loneliness

This goes straight to the heart: 
"sweet deepener
       Of dark loneliness"




All haiku are taken from A Little Treasury of Haiku, Avenel Books.
Translations by Peter Beilenson

Fall Equinox

Like last year, the first day of autumn, or the Fall Equinox, doesn't seem much like fall here in Tucson, where the temperature is expected to hit 100. But, the Sun and the Stars have decreed that today is the day, so here's a few poems that may be closer to reality in a month or so.

For you in northern climes, therefore:



Under the Harvest Moon

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the fragrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
with a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

-- Carl Sandburg --


(Autumn--the season of memories . . .)




Yellow autumn moon . . .
Unimpressed the scarecrow stands
Simply looking bored

-- Issa --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku






Autumn Refrain

The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of the sun, too, gone . . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never--shall never hear. And yet beneath
The stillness that comes to me out of this, beneath
The stillness of everything gone, and being still
Being and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never--shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.

--Wallace Stevens --


(I find this the most puzzling of the autumn poems.)




#656

The name - of it - is "Autumn" -
The hue - of it - is Blood -
An Artery - upon the Hill -
A Vein - along the Road -

Great Globules - in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain -
When winds - upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -

It sprinkles Bonnets - far slow -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then - eddies like a Rose - away -
Upon Vermilion Wheels -

-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
ed. Thomas H. Johnson


Autumn Note

The little flowers of yesterday
Have all forgotten May.
The last gold leaf
Has turned to brown.
The last bright day is grey.
The cold of winter comes apace
And you have gone away.

-- Langston Hughes --





Gathering Leaves

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.

But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.

I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?

-- Robert Frost --


(That last line raises some questions, doesn't it? Frost has a habit of doing that. Does the poem end on an ominous note?)




Dry cheerful cricket
Chirping, keeps the autumn gay . . .
Contemptuous of frost

-- Basho --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
(This poem also seems to end on an ominous note.)

(Just noticed the double tie-ins with the previous poem.)