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. 

Autumn Poems

Today, September 22,  2016 is the first day of Autumn, or the Autumnal Equinox, or if you prefer, the Fall Equinox.  In recognition of this, here are a few poems about autumn. 



No. 12

The morns are meeker than they were --
The nuts are getting brown --
The berry's cheek is plumper --
The Rose is out of town.

The Maple wears a gayer scarf --
The field a scarlet gown --
Lest I should be old fashioned
I'll put a trinket on.

-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson




With the moon-rising .. .
   Leaf after leaf after leaf
        Falls fluttering down
                     -- Shiki --
from Cherry-Blossoms: Japanese Haiku Series III
tran. not given





     The mountain grows darker,
Taking the scarlet
    From the autumn leaves.
                     -- Buson --
from Silent Flowers
trans R. H. Blyth



Clear autumn sky
   One pine tree
Soaring on the ridge.
               -- Soseki --
from Zen Haiku
Trans and edited by Soiku Shigematsu




Song at the Beginning of Autumn

Now watch this autumn that arrives
In smells.  All looks like summer still;
Colours are quite unchanged, the air
On green and white serenely thrives.
Heavy the trees with growth and full
The fields.  Flowers flourish everywhere.

Proust who collected time within
A child's cake would understand
The ambiguity of this--
Summer still raging while a thin
column of smoke stirs from the land
Proving that autumn gropes for us.

But every season is a kind
Of rich nostalgia.  We give names--
Autumn and summer, winter, spring--
As though to unfasten from the mind
Our moods and give them outward forms.
We want the certain, solid thing

But I am carried back against
My will into a childhood where
Autumn is bonfires, marbles. smoke;
I lean against my window fenced
From evocations in the air.
When I said autumn, autumn broke. 

-- Elizabeth Jennings --
from Collected Poems
  

 When I think of autumn, I do not think of autumn in Tucson, where I've lived for over 45 years.  Instead, I think of autumn in Chicago, where I grew up.

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

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.      

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

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

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

Winter Solstice: 2010

Night People Rejoice: this is your time!
Day People Rejoice: your time is coming, beginning tomorrow!

This is the shortest day of the year, or from a different perspective, it will be tonight, the longest night of the year. It is also the first day of winter, or so say the powers-that-be, at least for this part of the planet. Other parts, other powers-that-be, other rulings.




Buddha on the hill . . .
From your holy nose indeed
Hangs an icicle
-- Issa --
From The Little Treasury of Haiku
Nobody has ever accused Issa of being overly reverent.



Going snow-viewing
One by one the walkers vanish . . .
Whitely falling veils
-- Katsuri --
From LTH



Snow in the Suburbs

Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute;
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward, when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again,
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.

A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eyes,
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.

The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.
-- Thomas Hardy --



Wind and Window Flower

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
-- Robert Frost --




No. 1316

Winter is good -- his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield --
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World --

Generic as a Quarry
And hearty -- as a Rose --
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
edited by Thomas H. Johnson









In the wintry moon
Gales raging down the river
Hone the rock-edges
-- Chora --
From LTH



My very bone-ends
Made contact with the icy quilts
Of deep December
-- Buson --
From LTH