14. Bashō composed this hokku in 1694, on Chrysanthemum Festival Day (Chōyō), which fell on the ninth day of the Ninth Month, while stopping at Nara on the way to Osaka on his last journey. Nara, the capital of Japan in the eighth century, is known for its many temples and buddha statues. The chrysanthemum, considered the aristocrat of flowers in classical poetry and a seasonal word for late autumn, possess a strong but refined fragrance. The many buddhas in the ancient capital of Nara evoke a similar sense of dignity, solemnity, and refinement as well as nostalgia for a bygone era.
15. Bashō composed this hokku, which appears in Backpack Diary, in the autumn of 1694, shortly before he died in Osaka. Bashō had been invited to a poem party at the home of one of his close followers, but he did not feel well enough to go and instead sent a poem that subtly expresses his deep regret at not being able to meet this friends. The poem (in highly colloquial language) suggests the loneliness of a traveler implicitly seeking companionship, the loneliness of those who live together and yet apart in urban society, or the loneliness of life itself, particularly in the face of death—all of which resonate with late autumn (aki fukaki), associated in classical poetry with loneliness and sorrow.
16. Bashō composed this poem in the late autumn of 1694, at the end of his life. The hokku, which was written at a large haikai gathering, can be read as an expression of disappointment that, at the end of his life, in the autumn of his career—aki no kure can mean either “autumn’s end” or “autumn evening”—he is alone, and/or as an expression of disappointment at the lack of sympathetic poetic partners, as an expression of desire for those who can engage in the poetic dialogue necessary to continue on this difficult journey
17. Bashō’s last poem, written four days before his death on the twelfth day of the Tenth Month of 1694, during a journey in Osaka, suggests a journey that remains unfinished.
18. Kyoriku composed this hokku in the winter of 1692 when he visited the Bashō hut at Fukagawa outside Edo. Using the metaphor of the box, Kyoriku argues that the poet must look beyond the “boundary” (kuruwa, originally meaning “castle wall”), that is, beyond the established associations of the topic. In classical renga, the added verse was typically linked to the previous verse by yoriai, established poetic and literary associations, which were conveniently listed in renga handbooks. In the example that Bashō praises, Kyoriku goes beyond the “boundary” of “winter chrysanthemums” (kangiku), a classical seasonal topic, by combining it with a vernacular word, ikedaikon, the large white radishes that farmers pulled out of the field and buried “alive” (ike) in the dirt, where they were stored until spring. The winter chrysanthemum was a flower (usually yellow, sometimes white) that bloomed in the winter after the other flowers had died and that was admired in classical poetry for its ability to endure the frost. The juxtaposed images, which at first glance seem antithetical, are unexpectedly joined by their implicit ability to endure the winter cold “alive.” The hokku can also be read as a greeting from the guest, Kyoriku, who implicitly compares himself to the lowly radish lying at the feet of the elegant chrysanthemum, the master and host Bashō.
19. Bashō composed this hokku in the early spring of 1691, during his stay in the Kyoto-Osaka area following the journey to the Deep North. Manzai, a vernacular word, refers to the costumed, itinerant performers who went from house to house performing songs and dances in celebration of the New Year. The manzai dancers make their rounds early in the New Year, at the beginning of the First Month (February). The plum trees usually bloom at the beginning of spring, in the First Month, but slightly later in the cold of the mountain village. The phrase “the New Year dancers are late” (manzai ososhi) implies that they arrived after finishing their rounds in the town, by which time the plum trees are already in bloom. The two parts of the hokku are thus joined by a seasonal congruence: the late blooming of the plum tree in the mountain village and the late arrival of the manzai combine to create a sense of delayed spring in the mountains. The original hokku probably served as a poetic greeting to Bashō’s hosts at Iga, praising the beauty of the spring scene.
20. To borrow Dohō’s metaphor, the reader first “goes” to part A, explores its connotations, and then “returns” by another route to part B, seeking to find a common path between A and B. The emotional or atmospheric flow first moves in one direction and then returns in a different direction, resulting in a mixing of the two currents.
21. The passage reveals that the poet did not begin with the place—Shimogyō, the southern part of Kyoto, from Third Avenue (Sanjō) south—and attempt to describe it. Instead, he started with an image of rain quietly falling on a blanket of snow, which in the Japanese context suggests warmth, and attempted to match its connotations. In contrast to the aristocratic northern half of Kyoto, southern Kyoto was a bustling, energetic area filled with merchants and craftsmen, which echoes the warm feeling of the accumulated snow.
22. Kyoriku attempted to cross the gap between the plum blossom scent (ume ga ka), a classical topic, and the vernacular word asagiwan, a pale blue or aqua lacquer bowl painted with birds and flowers. He tried various intermediaries until he settled on “beneath the guest’s nose” (kyaku no hana ni wa), an intermediary that brings together the plum blossom scent and the aqua bowl to suggest a larger banquet scene: the guest, smelling the fragrance of plum blossoms, raises the elegant bowl to his mouth. The fragrance of the plum blossoms resonates with the atmosphere of the exquisitely painted bowl. Here the poet “combines” by going outside the circle of established associations but needs an intermediary to do it.
23. In the classical tradition, the wild duck (kamo) was often found floating on a winter pond or the sea, and its figure and voice were associated with loneliness, longing for home, uncertainty, and, most of all, coldness. In a haikai reversal, this wild duck appears warm (nukushi), its feet tucked beneath its “feathered robe” (kegoromo).
24. Kyorai argues that since the combination poem can be composed quickly and relatively easily, it is suitable for beginners, but that the more accomplished poet will not limit himself to this particular technique. Furthermore, a number of good combination poems, especially impromptu ones, remain within the “boundary” or circle of established poetic associations. Here Kyorai suggests that when beginners compose combination poems, they should go outside the established poetic associations, which makes it easier to find new material and avoid clichés. The rule, however, does not apply to accomplished poets, who can either discover new connections within the boundary of established associations or approach the traditional associations in new, haikai-esque ways. For example, “spring,” “moon,” and “plum blossoms,” which appear together in Bashō’s hokku, were closely associated in the classical poetry, especially as a result of The Tale of Genji, in which the fragrant plum blossoms in the light of the misty evening moon represent one of the beauties of spring. The haikai character of Bashō’s hokku lay instead in the manner of the expression, especially in the rhythm. The middle phrase—which comes to a slow stop, ending on three drawn-out successive “o” sounds, the last sliding into the vowel “u”—suggests the gradual vernal movement that brings together the moon and the plum blossoms.
25. Dohō here selects two poems by Bashō, a celebration and a lament, in which the speaker’s respect is expressed through an object that reflects the “status” (kurai) of the addressee. In the first hokku, from Backpack Notes, the purity (kiyoshi) of the repolished mirror, which resonates with the whiteness of the snowflakes, symbolizes the purity and holiness of the newly reconstructed shrine. In the second hokku, from Skeleton in the Fields, the elegant plum blossoms reflect the refinement and high status of the bishop, who died in the First Month (February), when the plum tree is in bloom. Bashō, who sent this hokku to his disciple Kikaku, did not hear of the bishop’s death until the summer, the Fourth Month (May), the season of the deutzia, an ornamental shrub with white flower clusters that remind the poet of the whitish plum blossoms. The poet pays ho
mage to the shrine and the bishop through the images of the holy mirror / snow, and the plum blossoms / white deutzia, respectively.
26. In other words, the poem implies that the observer is a recluse who appreciates the quiet loneliness, enough to hear the sound of the frog and to be sensitive to the approach of spring.
27. In the first verse, someone smashes a decorative, silver-glazed bowl on a mansion veranda, suggesting an upper-class setting. This dramatic tension “reverberates” in the added verse, in which a narrow-bodied saber, the type worn by aristocrats, is drawn, presumably in preparation for a violent confrontation.
28. Dried vegetables (hoshina)—probably dried radish leaves—were placed on top of a bowl of rice to make an inexpensive dinner. Realizing from the nature of the food that the character in the preceding verse was a woman of extremely low station, perhaps a maid working in a warehouse, Bashō matched her with a groom, a man of equally low social status.
29. Bashō, the guest of honor, greets his Nagoya hosts in self-deprecatory and humorous fashion, comparing himself with Chikusai, the eponymous antihero of a popular seventeenth-century comic novel (kana-zōshi) in which the protagonist, a poor, eccentric, quack doctor from Kyoto, embarks for Edo, composing comic waka (kyōka) along the way, and arrives in Nagoya, his clothes in tatters. Bashō has similarly arrived in Nagoya, blown about by the withering gusts, a seasonal word for winter and an implicit metaphor for the hardship of journey and his lowly position. The verse, particularly the opening word kyōku (mad verse), is an implicit invitation from Bashō to his hosts to join him in a new poetics of poetic madness (fūkyō) in which the poet’s pursuit of poetic beauty—especially dark, cold, and impoverished images—is so extreme as to appear mad to the world.
30. The second verse, which is read together with the opening verse, must take up what is left unstated by the hokku, maintaining the same season and ending with a nominal. The white or crimson flowers of the sasanqua, a seasonal word for winter, scatter over or spray from the large traveler’s hat, perhaps as a result of the withering gusts. Yasui, the host of the session, implies that although his guest may claim to be an impoverished, windblown traveler, his appearance is bright and colorful, thereby tacitly accepting Basho’s invitation to poetic madness.
31. Kakei, the local haikai master, shifts from winter to autumn. Ariake (early dawn) is a seasonal word for autumn. The elegant nickname Master of Early Dawn suggests a colorful, elegant dandy, thus pushing off from the dark figure in the opening verse. The Master of Early Dawn, whose hat is decorated with sasanqua flowers, has been ordered to oversee the construction of a brewery.
32. The red-haired horse, which appears to be tied up in front of a brewery or a wine bar, is a packhorse and may be carrying a barrel of wine. In the fashion of a status link, the socioeconomic connotations of the red-haired horse, which belongs to the world of merchants and farmers, directly echo that of the wine bar or brewery. The horse is shaking dew—associated with autumn and early morning—off its mane.
33. The red-haired horse now stands in a large field of grass in Korea, which was thought at the time to be a kind of wild frontier with vast plains. Here the colorless grass, suggesting late autumn, echoes the packhorse’s sense of impoverishment and coldness.
34. Shōhei, who was the scribe and whose participation is limited to this verse, moves from a close-up to a wider shot, establishing the time of the previous verse and adding a human element, that of the farmers harvesting rice in a field—probably poor farmers working on a small plot on the edge of a wild field of Korean grass. This verse, which is the sixth, marks the end of the overture (jo), or the first section of the sequence.
35. In Yasui’s verse we look through the eyes of a recluse into the field where the farmers are harvesting rice. The action of giving lodging to a heron, a bird known to avoid humans, suggests a nature-loving recluse, which resonates with the implied loneliness of the autumn evening in the previous verse. The verse also can be read allegorically. Yasui, the host of the session, implicitly offers his humble residence to the visiting haikai master.
36. Bashō transforms the person in the grass hut into someone taking refuge and growing back his hair while in hiding—perhaps a monk who has taken the tonsure but is impatient to return to the secular world. The verse raises a number of intriguing questions: Why did the person take vows? What has caused the person to want to return to secular life? Is it related to a failed love affair?
37. This is a love verse, a requirement for a sequence. Jugo transforms the secluded male figure into a woman who has recently given birth and is now nursing a child. A woman seems to have been betrayed or deceived by someone who has taken her child away, causing her pain and resentment. Whatever the reason, the love affair has caused the woman to escape to a place, perhaps a temple, where she is waiting for her hair to grow back, and in the process she has left behind a suckling infant, forcing her to “squeeze dry her [swollen] breasts,” a startling haikai phrase.
38. Kakei transforms the previous “love” verse into a Buddhist verse on the topic of impermanence (mujō): the pain is no longer caused by betrayal or deception but by death, by the illusory nature of life. The woman squeezing milk out of her swollen breasts is now a mother whose child has just died and who weeps next to a newly marked grave, which stands as an unfading reminder of the illusory nature of all things.
39. Bashō turns the mother weeping in front of the stupa into someone who has spent the night at a wake: during the Edo period, relatives of the deceased customarily remained in a mourning hut all night and read sutras. Now, in the early dawn, it is so cold that someone has lit a fire, which casts a shadow. After four nonseasonal verses, the sequence returns to winter, indicated by the word “cold.”
40. Tokoku transforms the person lighting the small fire into a vagrant or beggar living in an abandoned house whose owners have left or disappeared as a result of poverty. The implied desolation of the empty house and the poverty resonate with the hollow feeling of the silhouette in the previous verse. To some readers, the silhouette may even suggest the ghost of the dead owner.
41. After five consecutive verses on people, Kakei shifts to a landscape verse and a new locale. Koman, a popular name for a provincial prostitute, suggests that the empty house is part of an abandoned post town, where prostitutes used to sell their favors to travelers. Or perhaps it was the presence of the prostitutes that caused the house to be abandoned. In either event, a willow named after a legendary prostitute now stands in a rice field. The dropping of the willow leaves transforms the previous nonseasonal verse into autumn. The sense of autumnal fading, including the implied death of a once-famous prostitute, reflects the mood of decay and emptiness in the abandoned house.
42. Yasui’s verse, which continues the autumn season with the image of mist, places the willow tree next to a riverbank where a man is pulling a boat upstream. The boat puller appears to be lame, pulling in uneven, jerky movements.
43. This is a moon verse, which was required. “Gazing sideways” implies that the thin moon still lies low on the horizon. The person wondering about the boat puller now becomes a passenger in the boat, probably lying in bed and looking out sideways. Like a scent link, the awkwardness of the boat passenger, who must lean sideways to look at the moon, echoes the awkwardness of the lame man, who is pulling the boat unevenly. A connotative parallel also emerges between the thin dawn moon and the lameness of the boat puller.
44. Jūgo transforms the person gazing sideways at the moon into someone (a lady-in-waiting?) who has retreated from the imperial palace to a city block with gossipy neighbors. The classical verb oriiru (to retire from court service) creates a Heian, classical atmosphere, suggesting a fictional character, perhaps Evening Faces (Yūgao) in The Tale of Genji, whom the highborn hero discovers in a dusty corner of the capital. The gazing of the previous verse now suggests the boredom of an aristocratic lady living amid talkative commoners.
45. In composing the cherry blos
som (hana) verse, a requirement for a sequence, Yasui deepens the Heian aristocratic atmosphere of the previous verse and transforms the person who retired to a city street into a Second Nun, a high-ranking female imperial attendant who took the tonsure after the death of an emperor. A woman or child from the local neighborhood is asking the Second Nun, who has recently retired from the palace, about a distant, imperial world. Or another nun, who has retired from the palace to a gossipy street, is asking the Second Nun about the cherry blossoms at the imperial palace.
46. In Bashō’s opening verse, which is implicitly on the spring topic of lingering winter cold (yokan), the speaker is walking along a mountain path, smelling the fragrance of the plum blossoms (ume ga ka), a seasonal word for early spring. Then, perhaps when turning a corner, the sun suddenly “pops up” (notto), a colloquial adverb with a roundish, warm sound.
47. In the second verse by Yaba, which is read together with the first verse, the pheasants along the mountain path fly out from the grass, crying as they flee, apparently surprised at the sound of the footsteps. The primary function of the second verse was to expand on the content of the hokku, or opening verse, maintaining the same season and filling out and extending the setting. At the same time the two verses are linked by overtones, as in a scent link. Here the sharp cries of the pheasants connotatively echo the startling, bracing feeling of the sun as it suddenly appears in the early morning amid the scent of the plum blossoms.
48. In the third verse, which links with the second verse while turning away from the first verse, Yaba turns to the human world and describes the farmers’ free time in the spring (haru no tetsuki), which they use to build or repair their houses. The pheasants are outside the houses being repaired.
Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900 Page 33