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!

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.