A Baker's Dozen, Favorite Poems by Basho, Part ll

This is Part ll of a two-part compilation of major poems by Basho, along with commentary. It is recommended, though not necessary, to read Part l first. 

8. Autumn winds blowing

    Yet chestnut burrs

    Remain green

All right, we know it's in the genes. Chestnut burrs don't decide to remain green as chestnut leaves turn color and fall. The time for harvesting chestnuts is September through late October, depending on the variety. The chestnuts inside burrs that remain green are not ready for harvesting. Green chestnut burrs can be found even in late fall, after the leaves of the parent tree have fallen.

Some people "remain green" and deal with the vicissitudes of life better than others. I interpret this poem to denote the fact that optimism is linked to quality of life and to longevity. Whether optimism is in the genes or not, a positive, that is, a 'green' attitude can keep one above ground longer. The beauty of this poem is that even the healthiest attitude can't keep you alive forever: by late fall, all the chestnut burrs are brown, empty shells; they might stay green longer than the chestnut's deciduous leaves, yet they, too, eventually leave without a trace.

I've read that optimism often extends the lives of cancer patients. A good reason for me to become more optimistic!

9. 

Visiting loneliness

Just one leaf

Of the kiri tree

The kiri tree (paulownia) is found around the world, but is especially abundant in Japan. It is a stocky hardwood with abundant leaves as the photo shows. The tree bears lovely pink blossoms in the spring. The Japanese make one of their classical stringed instruments, the koto, from wood of the kiri. It is very fast growing; that and the fact of its having abundant leaves make kiri trees important removers of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere--if only there were much more of them and much fewer pollutants! The beauty of this poem lies in concentrating on a single leaf, even through it is surrounded by countless others. "Visiting loneliness" implies a deliberate act, a choice. To identify with one leaf which is surrounded by countless others is perhaps contrary to nature. I doubt if loneliness was widespread or even existed until the agricultural age began only about 12,000 years ago--a blink of an eye compared to over a million years of human evolution. Loneliness is not in our genetic makeup. Two implied solutions: 1) we have the choice to visit something else and 2). a way out of loneliness is not identifying with a single, lonely leaf, but with the entire tree and, by extension, with all of nature. Once we identify with everything, perhaps after many years of meditation, loneliness is impossible. Easier said than done!

10.

During a noonday nap,

how doubly cool it is to have

the support of a wall at our feet!

Hans Küng (1927-2021), the influential, non-dogmatic theologian wrote of the importance of having a letzter Halt, an ultimate support. In keeping with the poem's imagery, without it we might toss and turn and find no rest. In Basho's case, the letzter Halt would, of course, be the teachings of Zen. As an old doggerel rhyme begins, "Many a ship is lost at sea/ for want of tar and rudder." This seems especially true today as traditional supports break down. A Catholic TV program from long ago was entitled, "Lamp unto my feet." In Basho's imagery, ultimate support is a wall at our feet. Who knows what's behind it? It doesn't really matter, since it supplies the support that we need. Without it, we could not rest comfortably.

11.

White-haired relatives

Each with a cane

Visiting graves

A striking image of the opposite bookend, (the first being birth), supporting the book of life. If we're lucky enough to escape major sicknesses; if we live long enough, this is what awaits us: old age and death. Even with the support mentioned in the previous haiku, life can be very difficult indeed.

12.

At autumn's close,

My neighbor, old,

what does he now do?

It is wisdom to know when it's time to retire--in every sense of that word. When we continue to try to act as vigorously as we once did after our acting ability significantly diminishes, age will--abruptly or slowly, painfully--yank us from the stage. Like it or not, everything has its season, including you. (This doesn't mean that life isn't to be lived purposefully to the very end, far from it; however, life changes and we need to change along with it.) Will the wall of support mentioned in a previous poem continue to support us as we lie down finally? It certainly can, as a Spanish proverb implies: When we're born, we cry, while those around  us smile; when we die, those around us cry; it's then our turn to smile. 

13.

Falling ill on a journey--

Dreams still moving

Above withered grass

This poem can be interpreted as an outer-body experience indicating the transcendence of consciousness. The  body, the withered grass, is already dead, or at least gravely diminished--yet dreams still soar above. Near-death experiences indicate that consciousness can survive brain death--but for how long?  Hamlet's words regarding death as "the undiscovered county from whose born no traveler returns" still hold. We should focus on fostering good dreams for our consciousness, that is, by being wise and acting wisely, for such dreams can last to the very end--perhaps even beyond. 

I hope you have enjoyed reading some of Basho's masterworks. They have become part of my life--May they also become part of yours!

Senex's Haiku: Twelve Poems About Aging

Suddenly trapped in

A gossamer web, Gnat

Will not fly again

 

Youth imagines youth lasts

The butterfly alights

The thistle bobs

Senex is an old man

The audience laughs

He exits the stage

 

Poppies and lavender

One more spring, please

Autumn chrysanthemums

 

Squirrels on asphalt

Vultures riding thermals

Narrow roads

 

Glaciers melt

Methane rises

Earth exposed

My silence is loud

I'm humble, I'm proud

That's not allowed

 

Innocence ants

Innocent fungi

Little brains explode

76 years of failure

Haven't defeated me yet--

Entropy is a mess

 

The poem he wrote out for us

When we moved away

Is now illegible

 

Within the bare branch

‘Spring’s crinkled leaf’

Remains unseen

 

Invisible friends

Visit my grave

A lark sings

A Baker's Dozen: Favorite Poems by Basho, Part l

 Basho (1644-1694) is widely recognized as Japan's greatest poet. He was a master of haiku, that is, brief unrhymed poems of three lines with a strict form: first line, 7 syllables, second line, 5 syllables followed by a third line of seven syllables. Haiku are imagistic poems that sometimes--in Basho's case, often--get at the very heart of reality. It is no surprise that he studied and practiced Zen for the latter part of his life, the time when his greatest poems were written. Details about his life can readily be obtained by the interested reader; I will focus on the poems.

1. First Poem, the Most Famous of All

old pond

a frog jumps in

the sound of water

There is an anecdote behind this poem. Basho was sitting in a garden with poets and pupils as company. He began composing a haiku, which began with the image, 'old pond'. Shortly thereafter a splash was heard and the poem was soon completed.

Japanese, a language I don't know, is apparently very different from English. The emphasis is on nouns unadorned by definite or indefinite articles, which by the way, don't even exist in Japanese. One gets the impression of a one-or-two paneled painting, a Still Life by a Master--a Zen Master, that is. At best, haiku are completely concrete and profoundly symbolic at the same time.

This poem is no different. I give one interpretation; many are possible. The 'old pond' can be considered to be the teachings of Zen--or of any other profound system which can make its disciples become wise.  Practice is what is most essential; reading about Zen without ardently practicing Zen in meditation and in life will get one nowhere. You, like the frog, have to jump in the pond and swim. The last line is so beautiful; you can almost hear the splash. 

It's like the story of a disciple--there are many such stories--who struggled to obtain the wisdom of Zen all his life; suddenly he hears the cry of a cuckoo and becomes enlightened. He would never have reached this level if he hadn't practiced Zen ardently for years; similarly, there would be no water-sound if the frog hadn't jumped in.

A very evocative poem! 

2.

On a wintry morning

I sit by myself

eating tough strips of dried salmon

I have known and loved this haiku for over forty years!

The first line reveals the cold indifference of nature; the second line reveals the tragic isolation humans are prone to; the third line reveals the anhedonia resultant from the experience--there is no pleasure, not even in food. When it rains, inside and outside, it sometimes pours; it sometimes never seems to stop.

We project our feelings onto nature--She is perceived as being warm and kind when one is feeling warm and kind. When not, not. The isolation and extreme loneliness that plagues many individuals today was not characteristic during most of human evolution; I doubt if any hunter gatherer was as lonely as Kafka's Gregor Samsa; he or she was always surrounded by kin.

If you're depressed or in a very bad and isolated mood, this is the poem for you.

3.

Rough seas

stretch across to Sado

Above, the Milky Way

One of my favorites.

The island of Sado, part of the Japanese archipelago,  is several miles off the west coast of Japan. In this haiku, I picture a boat and its passengers being tossed about by rough seas. In the distance, a mount on the island of Sado is seen. The storm seems to stretch all the way to the island, which it probably does. It is night. One looks up and sees the Milky Way.  One suddenly feels centered, despite being tossed about by waves. The Japanese word for the Milky Way is, transliterated, Ama-nao-gawa, which means Heaven's river, a much lovelier term for the river of light caused by countless stars toward the galaxy's center.

I interpret this with one of my favorite sayings, 'All storms are local.' One contrasts a tempest which occurs on Earth with the absolute serenity of the heavens. The poem acquires a deeper meaning as one interprets the storm on the sea as a storm taking place inside oneself. It is amazing when one witnesses 'a hurricane' occurring between the ears, say, in a disturbed person, while a person in the next room remains healthy and calm. All storms are local--all demons, horrible thoughts, stormy views, etc. do not correspond to the outside world, they occur within. I repeat: all storms are local.

True, if we were able to get close to the stars of the Milky Way, everything would not be at peace. There would be solar flares, occasional massive supernovae, stars being swallowed by an enormous black hole, etc. Similarly, it has been pointed out that a forest might transmit a sense of peace, but close-up the struggle for life is everywhere. Tall trees, for instance, deprive saplings of light, dooming them to death. Both of these arguments are missing something essential, however. Once we transcend our egos, once the I, along with inordinate desires, buzzes off like an annoying mosquito, everything is at peace, at least according to Buddhist teachings. In addition one cannot deny that contemplating nature brings respite to the troubled breast.

'All storms are local' is another way of saying storms, especially internal storms, do not last.  I wish more young persons would realize this fact! Also: Buddhist practice often proves that we  can control internal weather. And, if not, we can accept our finite storms and contemplate, say, the peace of the heavens or that of nature, thus finding a durable eye of the storm in ourselves.

4.

Surprised, without even

a hat on my head, by

cold rain  What?

First a note on how I translate the haiku without knowing Japanese. The collection of haiku I utilized is An Introduction to Haiku by Harold Henderson, 1958. For each haiku, Henderson provided, along with his translation, a transliteration of the Japanese and a literal English translation. In this case:

kasa  mo  naki ware wo  shigururu     ka nanto-nanto

hat   even  not  me   on  get-cold-rain ?  what-not

I ignored the book's translation, which in this case is entitled Sudden Shower:

Not even a hat--

   and cold rain falling on me?

       Tut-Tut! Think of that!

Regarding the concrete meaning of the poem, we can all relate to times when we, without an umbrella, have been surprised by a shower.  Regarding the metaphorical meaning of the poem, we are aware that good fortune can turn on a dime. One day, one is in good health; the next day a diagnosis of inoperable cancer comes along. Change is inevitable, sometimes for the better, sometimes--especially when one lives long enough--for the worse. Zen demands that we accept life as it is, not how we would have it. Think of that!

5.

Soon to die

without any indication,

the chirps of locusts

I'll let you interpret this one. Sic transit gloria mundi. The wise are always ready.

6.

Sun's road

hollyhocks turn toward it

despite the rains of May

If I were to write 'don't ever give up,' or 'the wise know, however hidden, that the sun still is shining, just beyond the clouds', it would sound hackneyed. Leave it to Basho to convey this important message with a striking image.

7.

In Kyoto

I long for Kyoto

The cuckoo calls

A Western version of this would be, 'In Jerusalem, I long for Jerusalem.'   Kyoto, a holy city of temples, is the Japanese equivalent. Imagine, after much hard spiritual work, arriving in a holy city expecting a bit of holiness to rub off. One is disappointed; thus, 'In Kyoto, I long for Kyoto.' I'm reminded of one of my favorite Latin proverbs, by Horace: "Caelum non animam mutant, qui trans mare currunt, that is, 'Those who travel abroad change the sky, not their nature.' In other words, you can't run away from yourself, If you're not ready for wisdom, especially Zen wisdom, traveling to a holy place is not going to help. The last line, however, changes everything. The cuckoo has great spiritual significance in Japan. There are many Zen stories of sudden enlightenment in those who have worked hard on spiritual matters. When one is ready, all it takes is a cry of the cuckoo to usher in enlightenment. As I interpret this wonderful poem, the protagonist, having heard the cry of the cuckoo, no longer yearns for Kyoto, for he has become Kyoto.

A little bird, much more prosaic that the cuckoo, has told me that seven poems with interpretations are enough for one blog essay. Seven more by Basho, along with interpretations,  will soon follow. I hope you are enjoying  these amazing poems. Comments welcome.

Butterfly and Peepers

Does eighty make sense to eighteen?

She's anxious, she's afraid

We have the solution

Why won't she listen

Does life exist beneath

The ice of Enceladus?

I'll never know. She will.

Gran's shelves were spotless

Until Gran broke her hip

Moth eggs in the rice

Who wrote The Marriage of Figaro?

She doesn't know, yet knows

Beyoncé's latest hits

Who was Janet Reno?

Groucho, Fripp and Eno,

Durwood Kirby? Who?

Cherry trees blossoming

On the Potomac;

Will I see them again?

At the computer

Old and alone

Looking at pictures of flowers

Peepers, Butterfly,

What's left?

Wings

Pre-radiation Haiku

I, too, have cancer

Part of me is unaffected

Part of me is terrified

Jedermann's comment: Everyone's heading toward peace

Reefs blanch in the Anthropocene

Skeletal gardens

Small fry have nowhere to go

Jedermann's comment: Have-nots will be the first to drown

Haves party till haves sink

An ancient wall

Open hands

No fists

Jedermann's comment: Open hands are universal

All fists are local

Water stridor

Wrinkles the face of a pond

Box turtle stares

Jedermann's comment: Pond doesn't care

Nature's Seurats:

Age spots, freckles,

Stippled trout

Jedermann's comment: Cancer cells, too

Two ancient skulls

One 45,000 years old

One 76

Jedermann's comment: Both are mine 

Spots on a boulder

Split by an oak

The moss spreads

Jedermann's comment: Zeno was wrong

Everything moves

Slow as lichen

Fast as mushrooms

Waiting for Death

Jedermann's comment: cummings was right

death is bad

Death is good

How Did We Get into this Mess?

1.

Today, I begin my seventy-seventh year on this planet. It has been quite a rough ride.

It is normal for some one in his seventy-seventh year--especially one, like me, with health issues--to think about one's impending obliteration. If this is true--and it certainly is--along with the exigencies of personality and other factors, I can be considered normal--and then some.

Yes, I might not have all that long to live. Yes, I'm getting used to that. Millions of Americans are in similar shoes, some whose soles are worn down a good deal more than mine. You get old and die.  That's nature. It's only natural to experience the 'slings and arrows' of advancing age; get used to it.

I have, or, more precisely, almost have. But one thing I wasn't counting on is the very real possibility that the country of my birth might not even survive my own death. A horrible thought!

Imagine a dialogue between my present self and the self I once was, aged about fifty.

Old man: I hate to tell you this, but in twenty years or so we will have elected a man who will be as qualified to be president as the milk man you remember from your youth. (The guy who used to collect the empty glass bottles and provide new ones filled with a liquid white as a Pepsodent tooth--remember the fifties jingle, "You'll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!") This president's term will be an unmitigated disaster. His handling of the pandemic (don't ask) alone would be enough to relegate him to join the company of Buchanon and Johnson as the very worst presidents in our country's history--a fact which will be attested by history books long after both of us are gone.

Imagine this president solidly losing an election, but, not only refusing to concede, insisting that he won by a landslide. It turns out that this is not so surprising, since that president is a pathological narcissist, but here's the kicker: his party will largely not contradict him. Republicans and their base will support what will be known as the Big Lie, namely, that he who lost won. Tell a lie insistently enough and it just might become an accepted truth. The author of 1984 knew this; totalitarian regimes then and now make telling Big Lies the cornerstone of their autocratic prisons. 

Before you die, this will not only have happened in Russia, China, Nazi Germany and elsewhere, but will be happening right here in the United States. What does your poor middle-aged self, think of that?

Younger Self: Impossible! This isn't Saudi Arabia. This isn't Pakistan. This isn't Rumania.

Old self: Nevertheless, I really hate to tell you this, but it's true.

We are now at a time when, if Trump or one like him wins in the next presidential election, democracy in this country might very well not survive. (This is not merely the ranting of an obscure old man; the distinguished foreign affairs specialist and academic, Fiona Hill, an expert on Russia, recently has said the same thing.

How did we get into this mess?

2.

If the the hands of the non-Black working class ever joined hands with the Black working class, we would have a different and better country. Such a coming together would strike terror into the hearts of the (mostly) white-skinned bodies whose pockets runneth over with dark money. They have so effectively pitted the two groups against each other, that it seems increasingly unlikely that such a wished for (by me at least) state will come to pass in the near future. Why is that?

Daniel Shor, a well known data analyst believes that the Democratic Party, the only one which could bring all members of the working class together, is, to use Ezra Klein's words, "sleep-walking to disaster."

Many members of the white working-class are angry and grossly misinformed; Democrats still need to reach out to them. There is no other way.

For the  white working-class racial identity nowadays trumps economic self-interest. Non-college educated whites feel that the Democratic Party, which they have traditionally supported, has abandoned them. College-educated elites, the so-called East Coast liberals, according to working-class whites, are more concerned with diversity than they are with traditional working-class values, such as support for unions and many of the items in Biden's Build Back Better proposal.

The Republicans have played the race card brilliantly. They very effectively have burdened the shoulders of liberals with the race issue on one, and its variant, immigration, on the other. They have convinced their base that the Democratic Party is the party for them. This would not be so bad if the Republican base were evenly distributed across America, but it is not. The Electoral College and the fact that underpopulated states, where so many of the white working class reside, elect two senators each, just like the most populous, and mostly blue states. Do we have a functioning democracy when a state like California, with a population close to 40 million, gets the same amount of senators as a state like Wyoming, which has a population of fewer than 600, 000 people? (Thomas Jefferson, what were you thinking?)

The Republicans know they are a minority party and therefore have to cheat to win. They have done an admirably immoral job. While the Democratic base focuses on presidential elections, the Republicans made sure that they got control of governorships and state legislators. The undemocratic nature of this arrangement is evinced by the fact that, even in red states, the Democrats usually receive more than fifty percent of the votes, yet they still lose seats due to the egregious gerrymandering of districts in favor of Republicans. 

The present situation is so bad that, even though two-thirds of the population support abortion on demand, it seems increasingly likely that Roe v. Wade might be overturned, according to the will of the Republican minority.

Each segment of the Democratic Party seems to want justice for itself rather than striving to win. We hear advocacy for reparations, but doesn't one realize that reparations, however justified, would radicalize the opposition? How can one advocate for reparations in a country that doesn't even have universal health service, etc, etc. 

I call the hindrance to the passing of progressive legislation the Tennessee factor. (Lincoln, before the Civil War, wanted to get more Southern votes by appointing Andrew Johnson from Tennessee as the vice president. We all know how that turned out. The racist Johnson looked the other way as Jim Crow conquered the South.)

What I mean by the Tennessee factor is that Democrats must become more practical and concentrate on winning. They should reach out to rural red states with traditional working-class policies and tamp down stress on 'identity politics" for a while. (Note, as a white member of a large brown and black family, I am an ardent supporter of integration. As a means to this goal, I want Democrats to win and win big. I believe this will not be accomplished if Democrats don't take the Tennessee factor into consideration and become more practical.)

These are heady times--if Democrats don't get their act together, the last act will belong to the Republicans. It will end in tragedy.

If Trump or someone like him gets elected, it may well signal the end of our democracy. Democrats, our only hope, please stop squabbling amongst yourselves and concentrate on winning. If you don't, liberty and justice will go down with you.

The Cosmic Heart

An Orthodox friend told me

some frumme Jews have holes

drilled into their coffins

to share their new housing

with worms. Whatever is

breaks down. It is not

seemly for the believer

to imagine otherwise--

I ponder this while listening

to dreadful piped-in music

in a room of stacked vaults.

A newly chiseled date upon

my friend's tomb--He would

have chosen a box with holes

of simple wood--You gotta get

me outta here--Just kidding--

Life is good; if you love as

water flows, death's also good:

somehow know a cosmic heart

transcends desiccation.

                           Thomas Dorsett