Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900
Page 29
iza saraba Let’s go
yukimi ni korobu snow viewing
tokoro made until we tumble over!
Bashō
utsukushiki kao Scratching
kaku kiji no its beautiful face—
kezume kana the pheasant’s spurs
Kikaku
. . . Someone might say that the “feet of the wild duck” and “the feathered robe” form a combination or that the poet combines “the pheasant’s spurs” with “face,” but what could they say “snow viewing” was combined with? When the late Master spoke about combining objects, he appeared to distinguish between those that worked inside the boundary and those that worked outside it. Kyoriku, it seems, defined the combination poem as something that went outside the boundary. But some poems, such as the following, combine inside the boundary, just as some combine outside the boundary:
haru mo yaya Spring
keshiki totonou gradually taking form—
tsuki to ume moon and plum blossoms24
Bashō
[KHT 10: 206–207]
GREETINGS
Much of Basho’s prose and poetry, like that of his contemporaries, was dialogic and fulfilled socioreligious functions such as complimenting a host, expressing gratitude, bidding farewell, making an offering to the land, or consoling the spirit of a dead person. Almost half the roughly 250 hokku in Basho’s three most famous travel accounts originally were social addresses or replies of this sort.
shiragiku no White chrysanthemums—
me ni tatete not a speck of dust
chiri mo nashi to catch the eye
This hokku, which Bashō composed at the residence of Sonome, or Madame Sono (1664–1726), one of his disciples, is typical of Bashō’s mature style in that at the same time it describes the purity and elegance of a white chrysanthemum, it compliments the host. As a greeting, a hokku could pay homage not only to the host or companion but also to the spirits of places, to ancient poets, and to religious figures. In the following excerpt from Three Booklets, Dohō comments on this technique.
toginaosu The holy mirror,
kagami mo kiyoshi repolished, is also pure—
yuki no hana blossoms of snow
ume koite Longing for the plum blossoms
unohana ogamu I pray to the white deutzia—
namida kana tearful eyes25
The first poem, on snow, was composed on the occasion of the reconstruction of the Atsuta Shrine. The first five syllables—“repolish” [toginaosu]—directly express the spirit of rebuilding and pay homage to the shrine. The second poem, on plum blossoms, was composed on the death of Bishop Daiten of the Engakuji temple. The poet pays tribute by comparing the deceased priest to plum blossoms and then bowing before the white deutzia [unohana] which were in bloom when the poem was composed. In both cases, the poet’s feelings are revealed indirectly through an object that captures the character and status of the person or place being addressed.
[NKBZ 51: 559]
OVERTONES
One of the characteristics of the landscape style, particularly that of Basho’s haikai, was that it often infused the external landscape (kei) with human emotion or sentiment (jō)—a fusion influenced by both the classical tradition and the Chinese poetry that came into fashion in the 1680s. In Principles of Chinese Poetry for Beginners (Shogaku shihō, 1680), Kaibara Ekiken notes: “In poetry, the scene is always in the emotion, and the emotion is always in the scene.” In Ten Discussions of Haikai (Haikai jūron, 1719), Shikō, one of Basho’s late disciples, develops this notion into one of the central tenets of the Bashō style, using the famous frog poem, which was composed in 1686, as an example.
furuike ya An old pond—
kawazu tobikomu a frog leaps in,
mizu no oto the sound of water
Truly, when it comes to what is called contemporary haikai, one is reminded of the poem on the frog in the old pond. Although it appears that the poem possesses absolutely no emotion, Bashō has managed to suggest the emotion of quiet loneliness.26 This is what is called the overtones of poetry. Isn’t this what haikai is all about?
[Haisho taikei, vol. 9, translated by Haruo Shirane]
THE ART OF LINKED VERSE
Before Basho’s time, the standard length for both renga and haikai was the hundred-verse sequence (hyakuin). From around 1678, however, when Bashō began to develop his own style, he turned to the much shorter thirty-six-verse sequence (kasen), which had rarely been used in classical renga. Haikai, like renga, could be composed by a single individual as a solo composition (dokugin). But for Bashō, haikai was a communal activity in which two or more participants took turns adding verses to create a sequence. Each added verse (tsukeku) was joined to the previous verse (maeku) to form a new poetic world while pushing off from the poetic world that had been created by the combination of the previous verse and the penultimate verse (uchikoshi). Like classical linked verse, haikai depended on two simultaneous movements: the meeting (tsukeai), or the link to the previous verse (maeku), and the parting (yukiyō), or the separation from the verse before the previous verse (uchikoshi).
The manner in which the added verse reworked, transformed, and twisted, usually in humorous fashion, the world and language of the previous verse and the penultimate verse was directly related to the way in which haikai parodied classical texts and conventions: both involved pushing off and recontextualizing existing texts or established worlds so as to create new meanings and perspectives. At the same time, the complex rules of linked verse guaranteed a sense of continuity amid the constant change and movement and ensured that the cultural memory, particularly as embodied in the seasonal landscape, would be passed on, thereby providing the foundation for linkage and imaginative play. As a form of popular literature, haikai reflected the variegated social and economic worlds of the participants—who ranged from high-ranking samurai to merchants, farmers, doctors, and priests—but it also provided an important window onto “imagined worlds,” onto the newly discovered “past” of China and Japan, giving the participants a sense of sharing both a history and a cultural tradition.
Bashō and his disciples distinguished three types of links, (1) the word link, based on lexical or classical associations, which was typical of earlier haikai; (2) the content link, based on scenic or narrative extension; and (3) the scent link, in which the added verse was joined to the previous verse by scent, mood, atmosphere, or other subtle connotations. Bashō’s haikai are generally a mixture of content links and/or scent links. In turn, the scent links were divided into various subcategories such as reverberation (hibiki) and status (kurai).
REVERBERATION LINK
In a reverberation link, an excited, dramatic mood—an emotional intensity and tension—passes from one verse to the next. The following is from Kyorai’s Gleanings (Kyoraishō).
kure’en ni On a veranda
gin-kawarake smashing to bits
o uchikudaki a silver-glazed bowl
hihosoki tachi no Watch out for
soru koto o miyo the drawn saber!27
The Master gave this link as an example, his right hand pretending to smash a bowl and his left hand pretending to draw a saber.
[NKBZ 51: 504]
STATUS LINK
Another type of scent link is the status link, in which the two verses are joined by socioeconomic connotations, usually based on clothing, possessions, or other material signs. The following is from Kyorai’s Gleanings.
Bonen asked, “What is a status link?” Kyorai answered, “A status link occurs when one grasps the social status of the content of the previous verse and adds a verse that matches that social status. Even if the added verse is superb, if it does not match the social status found in the previous verse, the result will be disharmony. Allow me to explain, using a love verse by the Master.
uwaoki no Even while chopping
hoshina kizamu mo the dried vegetables
uwa no sora her heart was aflutter
uma n
i denu hi wa When the horse stays in
uchi de koisuru the groom makes love at home.28
In the first verse, the woman is not the principal wife or a female attendant in the house of a samurai or that of a townsman. Instead, she is of lower social status, a maid working at a post station or a warehouse—a status matched by the content of the next verse, about a groom.
[NKBZ 51: 504–505]
WITHERING GUSTS (KOGARASHI, 1684)
The thirty-six-verse sequence called Withering Gusts is often thought to mark the beginning of the Bashō style, revealing the socioliterary dynamics of Bashō’s communal art. In the fall of 1684, at the age of forty, Bashō left his home on the outskirts of Edo and began a journey that was later commemorated in Skeleton in the Fields (Nozarashi kikō). In the winter, he arrived in Nagoya, one of the major urban centers of that time, where he was invited to compose haikai with a group of local poets—Tokoku, Yasui, Jugo, Shōhei, and Kakei—with whom he eventually produced Winter Days (Fuyu no hi), the first major haikai anthology of the Bashō school. With the exception of Kakei, a doctor of samurai origin and the local haikai leader, all the participants in Withering Gusts were young, well-educated, wealthy urban merchants. Yasui was an affluent dry-goods merchant; Jugo, a well-to-do lumber dealer; and Tokoku, a successful rice merchant. As the honored guest and visiting haikai master, Bashō composed the hokku, or opening verse. Yasui, the host, wrote the second verse, and Kakei, the local haikai master, added the third verse. The following is the first half of the sequence:
kyōku Mad Verse
kogarashi no In the withering gusts
mi wa Chikusai ni a wanderer—how like Chikusai
nitaru kana I have become!29
Bashō
taso ya tobashiru Who’s that?
kasa no sazanka sasanqua spraying over a sedge hat30
Yasui
ariake no Making
mondo ni sakaya the Master of Early Dawn
tsukurasete construct a brewery31
Kakei
kashira no tsuyu o A red-haired horse
furuu akauma shaking dew off its mane32
Jugo
Chosen no Korean grass
hosori-susuki no the long thin blades
nioinaki colorless33
Tokoku
hi no chirichiri ni In the scattered light
no ni kome o karu harvesting rice plants in the fields34
Shōhei
waga io wa My grass hut—
sagi ni yado kasu where I offer the heron
atari nite a lodging35
Yasui
kami hayasu ma o Having to hide
shinobu mi no hodo while the hair grows back36
Bashō
itsuwari no “The pain of deception”
tsurashi to chichi she thought
shiborisute squeezing dry her breasts37
Jugo
kienu sotoba ni By an unfaded stupa
sugosugo to naku sobbing with heavy heart38
Kakei
kagebo no A silhouette
akatsuki samuku in the early dawn cold
hi o takite lighting a fire39
Bashō
aruji wa hin ni An empty house
taeshi karaie the owners died of poverty40
Tokoku
tanaka naru In a rice field
Koman ga yanagi the Koman willow
otsuru koro dropping its leaves41
Kakei
kiri ni fune hiku A man pulling the boat
hito wa chinba ka in the mist—is he lame?42
Yasui
tasogare o At dusk
yoko ni nagamuru gazing sideways at
tsuki hososhi the thin moon43
Tokoku
tonari sakashiki Retiring from court
machi ni oriiru to a street of gossipy neighbors44
Jūgo
ni no ama ni Asking the Second Nun
konoe no hana no about the cherry trees in full bloom
sakari kana at the imperial palace45
PLUM BLOSSOM SCENT (UME GA KA, 1694)
The following is the opening of a two-poet haikai linked-verse sequence referred to as Plum Blossom Scent, which Bashō composed with Yaba in Edo in the early spring of 1694 and subsequently published in Charcoal Sack (Sumidawara, 1694). Bashō died in the early winter of the same year in Osaka, so this is one of his last sequences. It reveals the poetics of “lightness”—which stressed everyday commoner life, contemporary language, and rhythm and avoided heavy conceptualization or allusions to the past—that was characteristic of his last years.
ume ga ka ni In the plum blossom scent
notto hi no deru the sun pops up—
yamaji kana a mountain path46
Bashō
tokorodokoro ni Here there pheasants
kiji no nakitatsu crying as they fly away47
Yaba
yabushin o Beginning
haru no tesuki ni house repairs in
toritsuite spring’s slow season48
Yaba
kami no tayori ni From the city: news
agaru kome no ne of a rise in the price of rice49
Bashō
[Translated by Haruo Shirane]
THE POETICS OF HAIKU
At first, haikai emphasized wordplay, parody, and satire, but by the middle of the 1680s, it had become a more orthodox form, a vernacular counterpart to waka and renga (classical linked verse). Bashō, who stood at this crossroads in haikai history, faced the difficult task of creating poetry and prose that had the spiritual, aesthetic, and social implications of traditional Japanese and Chinese poetry while retaining haikai’s earlier popular character. Many of the poetic ideals of the Bashō school—expressed in slogans such as kōga kizoku (awakening to the high, returning to the low), zōka zuijun (following the Creative), butsuga ichinyo (object and self as one), and fueki ryūkō (the unchanging and the ever-changing)—reflect various attempts by Bashō and his disciples to bring together these two seemingly contradictory trajectories, to create poetry that was simultaneously orthodox and unorthodox.
AWAKENING TO THE HIGH, RETURNING TO THE LOW
If medieval haikai comically inverted the social and religious hierarchy by lowering gods, buddhas, and other figures of authority and power to vulgar or lesser beings, Bashō tended to work in the opposite direction, finding the subtle, the refined, and the spiritual in a regenerative process in everyday, commoner life. This transformative movement was reflected in the notion of sabi/shiori, which applied medieval, aesthetic overtones to vernacular language and scenes, and in the larger poetic ideal of kōgo kizoku (awakening to the high, returning to the low), which he developed toward the end of his career. The following is from Doho’s Three Booklets (Sanzōshi).
The Master taught, “You should awaken the spirit to the high and return to the low. You should constantly seek out the truth of poetic art and, with that high spirit, return to the haikai that you are practicing now.”50
[NKBZ 51: 546]
FOLLOWING THE CREATIVE
The poet’s relationship to nature is revealed in the slogan “following the Creative” (zōka zuijun). Zōka (Ch. Zaohua), the Creator or the Creative, was not a transcendent, anthropomorphic deity but a creative spirit or force that gave birth to and constantly shaped nature, including human beings. According to the following passage from Backpack Notes (Oi no kobumi), which Bashō wrote around 1690, Saigyō, Sōgi, Sesshū (1420–1506), and Rikyū (1522–1591)—the great medieval masters of waka, classical renga, painting, and tea ceremony, respectively—are united by a common spirit, that of following the Creative. The way of art (fuga), the way of the inner spirit, and the way of the cosmos (of the Creative) have become inseparable.
The fundamental spirit that stands at the root of Saigyō’s poetry, Sōgi’s linked verse, Sesshū’s paintings, and Rikyū’s tea is one and the same. Those who practice such arts follow zōka, the Creative, and make the four seasons their friends. What one sees c
annot but be cherry blossoms; what one thinks cannot but be the moon. When the shape is not the cherry blossoms, one is no more than a barbarian; when the heart is not the cherry blossom, one is no different from an animal. Leave the barbarians, depart from the animals, follow the Creative, return to the Creative!51
[NKBZ 41: 311]
OBJECT AND SELF AS ONE
Spiritual cultivation is also implied in Bashō’s notion of “object and self as one” (butsuga ichinyo), which he explains in the following passage from Dohō’s Three Booklets. Bashō argues that when composing poetry, the poet must be selfless—a state implied in “following the Creative”—in order to enter into the object and grasp its essence. If not, the spirit of the poet and that of the object will not be united, and the result will be verbal artifice.
When the Master said, “As for the pine, learn from the pine; as for the bamboo, learn from the bamboo,” he meant casting aside personal desire or intention. Those who interpret this “learning” in their own way end up never learning.
The word “learn” means here to enter into the object, to be emotionally moved by the essence that emerges from that object and for that movement to become verse. Even if one clearly expresses the object, if the emotion does not emerge from the object naturally, the object and the self will be divided, and that emotion will not achieve poetic truth (makoto). The effect will be the verbal artifice that results from personal desire.52
[NKBZ 51: 547–548]
UNCHANGING AND EVER-CHANGING
The ideals of fūga no makoto (the truth of poetic art), zōka zuijun (following the Creative), and kōga kizoku (awakening to the high, returning to the low) were ultimately related to that of fueki ryōkō (the unchanging and the ever-changing), a notion that Bashō developed during his journey to the Deep North in 1689. In “Praise to Portraits of Three Saints” (Sanseizu no san, 1692–1693), Bashō wrote, “The ever-changing nature of poetic art [fuga] changes together with heaven and earth. One respects the fact that the changes are never exhausted” (NKBZ 41: 539). The Three Booklets records his remark that “the changes of heaven and earth are the seeds of poetry” (NKBZ 55: 551). The permanence of haikai is found here in its constant change (ryūkū), a paradox in which the “ever-changing” becomes the “unchanging” essence of haikai. Basho’s poetic career, too, was marked by constant change as he moved rapidly from one style or approach to another. At the same time, he held that “unchanging” poems move us as deeply now as they did audiences in the past. Haikai, with its freedom and open expanse of language and topics, both encouraged and depended on this “unchanging” dimension, the result of constant change. As with many of his other poetic concepts, Bashō wrote little about fueki ryūkō. Instead, his disciples, especially Dohō, Kyorai, and Kyoriku, extensively debated the notion after his death, leaving us with conflicting interpretations. As the following passage from the Three Booklets (Sanzōshi) reveals, Dohō saw fueki (the unchanging) and ryōkō (the ever-changing) as two sides of the same poetic principle: