Buson wrote in a variety of haikai styles. Some of the most striking elements are his realistic portraits of people, reflecting the influence of the Edo-za school; his fictional narratives; his ability to conjure up the atmosphere of a children’s story or fairy tale; his playfulness and sense of humor; his painterly eye; his construction of imaginary, romantic worlds; and his heavy use of Chinese and Japanese classical sources as a means of drawing the reader into another world. More than half of Buson’s hokku were composed at kukai—hokku meetings or parties where the topic was fixed or given in advance—leading to considerable richness in the use of seasonal words and topics. In contrast to Bashō, who frequently returned to his home in Iga, Buson was the poet of the lost home (never returning to his home village of Kema) whose poetry is pervaded by nostalgia, which is evident in “Spring Breeze on the Kema Embankment.”
HOKKU
At the beginning of the Tenth Month, I went on a pilgrimage to Shimotsuke Province and described the scene before my eyes, in the shade of an old willow called the Yugyō yanagi.
A haiga (haikai sketch), with the calligraphy and painting by Buson. The text, in flowing cursive script, is from Matsuo Bashō‘s Narrow Road to the Deep North, in which Bashō visits Kashin, who reminds him of the monk-poet Saigyō (1118–1190) and the prominent Buddhist monk Gyōki (668–749): “Under a great chestnut tree in the corner of the town, there lived a hermit monk. It seemed to me that his cottage, with its aura of lonely tranquillity, resembled that place deep in the mountains where Saigyō had gathered horse chestnuts. I set down a few words: ‘To form the character “chestnut,” one combines the graphs for “tree” and “west.”‘ I have heard that the holy monk Gyōki perceived an affinity between this tree and the Western Paradise and used the wood of the chestnut for staffs and pillars throughout his life: ‘Chestnut at the eaves—blossoms undiscovered by people of the world’ [yo no hito no / mitsukenu hana ya / noki no kuri].” The recluse monk Kashin, compared by Bashō to the undiscovered blossoms of the chestnut tree, is in his hut facing the huge chestnut tree to the left. The soft colors, the abbreviated calligraphic strokes, the light humor, and the haikai text are characteristic of haiga. The painting was once part of a folding fan, as indicated by the folding marks. (Courte of the Mary and Jackson Burke Foundation. Photograph: Christopher Burke.)
yanagi chiri Willow leaves fallen,
shimizu kare ishi the clear stream gone—
tokorodokoro stones here and there1
At a place called Kaya in Tanba:
natsugawa o kosu Crossing a summer
ureshisa yo stream—what fun!
te ni zōri sandals in hand2
sararetaru mi o The divorced woman
fungomude stomps into the field—
taue kana seedling planting time3
haru no umi The spring sea—
hinemosu notari all day long the waves
notari kana rising and falling4
ayu kurete You brought sweetfish
yorade sugiyuku but didn’t drop in—
yowa no mon the gate at midnight5
inazuma ya Flash of lightning—
nami moteyueru girdled by waves
Akitsushima the islands of Japan6
kusu no ne o Roots of the camphor tree
shizuka ni nurasu quietly moistened
shigure kana by the winter showers7
yuku haru ya The passing spring—
senja o uramu resenting the anthology editor,
uta no nushi a poet8
komabune no The Korean ship
yorade sugiyuku not stopping, passing back
kasumi kana into the mist9
Tobadono e Toward Toba Palace
gorokki isogu five or six armed horsemen hurry—
nowaki kana an autumn storm10
Fuji hitotsu Only Mount Fuji
uzumi nokoshite has been left uncovered—
wakaba kana the lush young leaves11
botan chirite The peony petals scatter
uchikasanarinu falling on top of one another
ni san pen two, then three12
ono irete My ax sinks in—
ka ni odoroku ya surprising scent
fuyukodachi from the winter tree13
yuku haru ya Spring passing
omotaki biwa no the lute lies heavier
dakigokoro in my hands14
ikanobori A paper kite—
kinō no sora no exactly where it was
aridokoro in yesterday’s sky15
Longing for the past:
osoki hi no The long, slow days of spring
tsumorite tōki piling up—
mukashi kana so far away, the past!16
samidare ya The rainy season—
taiga no mae ni before the great river
ie niken two houses17
mi ni shimu ya Piercing chill—
naki tsuma no kushi o stepping on my dead wife’s comb
neya ni fumu in the bedroom18
kindachi ni The fox disguised
kitsune baketari as a dashing prince—
yoi no haru spring evening19
shiraume ya White plum blossoms—
dare ga mukashi yori who from long ago stands
kaki no soto outside the brushwood fence?20
Early spring:
shiraume ni Amid white plum blossoms
akuru yo bakari night turns to dawn—
to narikeri the time has come21
[Buson zenshū, Kōdansha, 1992, vol. 1, translated by Haruo Shirane]
BUSON’S POETICS
PREFACE TO SHOHA’S HAIKU COLLECTION (SHUNDEI KUSHŪ, 1777)
As Buson states in his preface to Shōha’s Haiku Collection, Chinese poetry was critical to achieving his haikai ideal of the “departure from the common” (rizoku). At that time, Chinese poetry and haikai were considered to be two separate genres. The former was high and refined, dealing only with elegant topics (particularly as defined by the Sorai and Nankaku schools of Chinese poetry), and the latter was low or popular, treating the commonplace and using contemporary language. Here, however, Buson argues that Chinese poetry and haikai are unified in spirit, that haikai should aspire to the ideals of Chinese poetry, and that through Chinese poetry, haikai can turn to common (zoku) or contemporary language while departing from the common in terms of spirit and content. The author of the poems in this collection, Kuroyanagi Shōha (1727–1771), was a wealthy merchant who had studied Chinese poetry with Hattori Nankaku in Edo, where he met Buson. Shōha (whose real name was Shundei) eventually became a follower of Buson’s Yahantei school of haikai in Kyoto. The conversation recounted in the portion translated here from the preface to the collection of Shōha’s poems is thought to have taken place some time before 1766.
I once met with Shōha at his villa in western Kyoto. When Shōha asked me about haikai, I said, “Although haikai greatly values the use of common language, it nonetheless departs from the common.22 That is, haikai departs from the common while using the common. The doctrine of departure from the common [rizoku] is most difficult to understand. It is like the famous Zen master who said, ‘Listen to the sound of one hand clapping.’23 The principle of departure from the common is the zen of haikai.” Shōha was immediately enlightened.
He asked again, “Your explanation of departure from the common is, in its essence, profound and mysterious. Doesn’t it mean finding a way to accomplish the deed by oneself? Isn’t there another way? Isn’t there a quicker way to change naturally, to depart from the common without others knowing it, without knowing it oneself?” I answered, “There is: Chinese poetry. From the beginning you’ve been very skilled at Chinese poetry. You needn’t look elsewhere.”
Shōha had doubts and asked again, “Now Chinese poetry and haikai differ in character. And yet you tell me to disregard haikai and discuss Chinese poetry—isn’t this a roundabout approach?” I answered, “Painters assume that there is only one method for departing from the common, that if one re
ads many books, one’s literary inclinations will increase and one’s common or vulgar inclinations will decrease. Students must pay attention to this. To depart from the common in painting, they must throw away their brushes and read books. In this case, how can there be a distance between Chinese poetry and haikai?” Shōha immediately understood.
[Translated by Jack Stoneman]
JAPANESE-CHINESE POETRY
One important result of Buson’s interest in Chinese poetry and the bunjin ideal was the creation of an experimental poetic form that combined elements of haikai and kanshi. The three main works are “Mourning the Old Sage Hokuju” (Hokuju rosen o itamu), “Spring Breeze on the Kema Embankment” (Shunpū batei kyoku), and “Yodo River Songs” (Denga ka). These also can be regarded as linked-poetry sequences in which verses (in the case of “Spring Breeze,” eighteen separate poems) are linked to make one poetic sequence, as in haikai linked verse (but without its constrictive form). To later, modern poets, the Japanese-Chinese form seems to have foreshadowed the shintaishi (new-form verse) that appeared in the early Meiji period.
MOURNING THE OLD SAGE HOKUJU (HOKUJU RŌSEN O ITAMU)
Although it was first believed that Buson wrote “Mourning the Old Sage Hokuju” soon after the death of Hokuju (1671–1745), when Buson was around thirty years old, scholars now believe that he wrote it in 1775, when he was fifty-nine, at the same time that he wrote “Spring Breeze on the Kema Embankment.” The sequence, which was published posthumously in 1793, is told from the point of view of the narrator, who climbs a hill and listens to a pheasant mournfully tell of its experience, describing how the pheasant’s close friend suddenly died (probably from a gun, the source of the smoke), an experience that echoes that of the speaker, who also has suddenly lost a friend. The pheasant’s narration can also be read as a first-person narration by the deceased pheasant, which, like a ghost in a nō play, relives the moment of its own death.
You left in the morning. In the evening, my heart in a thousand shards How far you have gone!
Thinking of you, I wander in the hills.
Why are the hills so sad?
Among the yellow dandelions, shepherd’s purse blooms white.
But you are not here to see this.
Is the pheasant here? I hear its mournful voice:
“I had a friend. He lived on the other side of the stream.
Eerie smoke rose and scattered, a strong west wind
swept over the bamboo field, over the sedge moor,
leaving nowhere to hide.
I had a friend. He lived on the other side of the stream; today
There’s no sound at all.”
You left in the morning. In the evening, my heart in a thousand shards How far you have gone!
In my hut, I have no strength to offer a light to the Amida Buddha, have given no flowers. In the twilight, lingering in sorrow, a sense of awe.
Buson, Buddha’s disciple, with great respect.
[Buson shū, Issa shū, NKBT 58: 258–260, translated by Haruo Shirane]
SPRING BREEZE ON THE KEMA EMBANKMENT (SHUNPŪ BATEI KYOKU, 1777)
“Spring Breeze on the Kema Embankment,” Buson’s most famous long poem, consists of eighteen separate poems or songs that are linked to make one poetic sequence. The short introduction, which appears to be fictional and part of the poem itself, introduces the male traveler, the narrator who frames the whole poem. The poems are written in three styles, traditional hokku, Sino-Japanese prose, and metered lines of Chinese poetry, a mixture so innovative that the sequence was regarded by many twentieth-century readers as a precursor to modernist poetry. The separate songs are linked by association, as they are in haikai linked verse, of which Buson was a master, but they are also loosely unified by the narrative of a young woman’s journey home, which Buson compared in a letter with a michiyuki journey on stage.
One day I set out to see some elders in the village where I was born. After I crossed the Yodo River and began walking along the high riverbank at Kema, I happened to meet a young woman who also was returning to her village. For several miles we walked near each other, and sometimes we turned and talked together. She was cute, already becoming very attractive. To commemorate our meeting, I composed eighteen songs that express her feelings and called them “Spring Breeze on the Kema Embankment.”
Three whole days off,
she leaves Osaka, reaches
the Nagara River
Spring breeze—
the bank goes on and on,
her home still far24
I went down the bank to pick fragrant plants,
but everywhere brambles blocked the way.
How jealous those thorns are!
They’ve ripped my robe and scratched my thighs.25
Rocks rising from the rushing water—
stepping on some, I picked fragrant parsley.
Thank you, rocks, thank you so much.
You’ve kept my robe completely dry.
The willow
by the lone teahouse
older now26
The old woman at the teahouse
looks me over, says very politely
how glad she is I’m looking so well.
She also likes my fancy robe.
Two men drink wine at the only table,
talking in the south Osaka way.
They pay with three whole strings of coppers
and, as they leave, invite me to sit down.27
Old post town, two or three houses—
a male cat moans out for a mate,
no female comes28
From outside a hedge, a hen calls her chicks.
The ground outside is covered with grass.
The chicks try to fly up and over:
hedge too high, they fall—a third, a fourth.29
The road becomes three,
branching through spring grass—
the short way invites me30
Dandelions blooming in fives and threes,
the larger groups yellow, the smaller white,
just as they did three years ago
when I left along this path.
Softly she breaks off
a dandelion—from its short stem
white liquid31
Long, long ago . . .
my mother fills my mind.
Inside her robe,
at her breast, was another
very special spring.32
Springs passed—
older now, I work
in Osaka
White plum blossoms
in a rich merchant’s garden
near Naniwa Bridge
I’ve learned how
men and women love
Osaka style33
I set out from my village three springs ago,
leaving behind my little brother—
I’m a tree that’s forgotten its root,
a plum branch grafted on another trunk.34
As I near my village, spring deepens.
I walk on and on, then even farther
on the long, willow-lined embankment.
At last I stop and start downward.35
Raising my head, I make out my house in the twilight.
She must be leaning against the front door,
her hair white now, holding my little brother,
thinking, “This spring, surely she’ll come again this spring.”
Perhaps you know this hokku by Taigi, now dead:
Home for three days,
she sleeps again beside
her widowed mother36
[Buson shū, Issa shū, NKBT 58: 261–265, translated by Chris Drake]
HAIBUN
NEW FLOWER GATHERING (SHINHANATSUMI, 1784, PUBLISHED 1797)
New Flower Gathering consists of a series of hokku and a prose section of short passages on a variety of topics. The prose section begins with Buson’s discussion of poetry and then makes some comments on collecting art objects, followed by several accounts of the strange
doings of foxes and badgers, such as the one translated here, continuing an interest found in his hokku.
The Badger
Jōū of Yūki acquired a second house and had an old man stay there as a caretaker. Even though it was in the middle of town, it was surrounded by trees and luxuriant with plants, and because it was a place where one could escape the hustle and bustle of the world, I myself stayed there for quite some time.
The old man had nothing to do there other than keep the place clean. One time he spent the long autumn night praying over his beads in the light of a single lamp while I stayed in the back room, working on my haikai and my Chinese poetry. Eventually I grew tired, and I spread out the blankets and pulled them over my head. But just as I was drifting off to sleep, there was a tapping sound on the shutters by the veranda. There must have been some twenty or thirty taps. My heart beat faster, and I thought, “How strange!” But when I got out of bed and quietly slid open the shutter to take a look, there was nothing. When I went back to bed and pretended to be asleep, there was the same tapping sound. Once again I got out of bed and looked outside, but found nothing. “How very strange,” I thought, and consulted the old caretaker: “What should we do?” The caretaker responded, “It’s that badger again. The next time it starts tapping like that, quickly open the shutter and chase after it. I’ll come around from the back door, and it will probably be hiding under the fence.” I saw that he was holding a switch.
Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900 Page 78