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?  

Basho's eight nameless little hills

Translations frequently pose problems for some readers of works that aren't written in the language of those involved, whether it be a literature class or a discussion group. In order to get the issue out in the open and demonstrate the possibilities, I made up a handout that consisted simply of a number of translations of a haiku by Basho. The point being that if a short poem of seventeen syllables could produce this variety, then a novel or short story could be expected to produce many more "versions."

So, I thought I would provide a number of the translations all based on one haiku by Basho.

Enjoy:

1.
It is spring,
Even nameless hills,
Are decorated
With thin films of morning mist.


2.
Yes, spring has come;
This morning a nameless hill
Is shrouded in mist.


3.
Because spring has come,
This small gray
Nameless mountain
Is honored by mist

4.
This unimportant
small gray mountain is lifted
aloft in a mist.

5.
Spring-- through
morning mist,
what mountain's there?

6.
Spring morning marvel...
Lovely nameless little hill
On a sea of mist


7.
Because of early spring, this nameless hill
Is knee-deep in the gauze of morning still.

8.
Spring!
a nameless hill
in the haze.




Quite a variety generated by only seventeen syllables. All generally have similar elements: a small hill, nameless or not important enough for a name, spring, morning mist or haze.

What differs is the focus of the poem: some on spring or the mist or the hill. Which one is "right"? I don't know, not being able to read Japanese and frankly I think those who could read Japanese probably couldn't agree either.

Which one is your favorite?

For some reason I seem to prefer the even numbered versions, especially 2 and 6.


1. Matsuo Basho: The Narrow Road to the Deep North
Penguin Classics; trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa

2. R. H. Blythe, Haiku: Volume 2, Spring
Hokuseido

3. Haiku Harvest, Peter Piper Press
trans. Peter Beilenson and Harry Behn

4. More Cricket Songs
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
trans. Harry Behn

5. Basho: On Love and Barley
Penguin Classics, trans. Lucien Stryk

6. A Little Treasury of Haiku
Avenel Books, trans. Peter Beilenson

7.Harold Stewart, A Net of Fireflies
Charles F. Tuttle Company

8. Unable to find the source. If anyone
recognizes the text, please let me know.