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From his letters to followers and spoken word recorded by followers, I have culled 17 Basho statements on how to create a haiku, advice from the greatest of haiku poets to you writing haiku today. Three statements are from a letter Basho wrote in 1681 to his follower Biji. Throughout this letter, Basho repeatedly condemns “oldness” in poetry; as he later said to his follower Doho:. Oldness is the worst disease a poet can have. By “oldness” I believe he means what is “conventional, conforming to standards.”
Basho also put this idea in positive terms:
This Basho haiku illustrates his mastery of the use of ordinary words
Basho’s words are completely, utterly simple. No complications: seven ordinary words with the most basic grammar possible in Japanese and likewise in English. He says absolutely nothing new about cherry blossoms or memories – instead he ‘sums up and conceals’ a thousand years of poetic expression on these flowers and the memories that pass from one cherry blossom season to the next. The plain and ordinary words are “realized” through the thousand years of associations of Japanese life with cherry blossoms.
Thus ordinary words take on extraordinary meanings and feelings.
This single renku stanza combines the intriguing trio of child, whale, and shell; we start with medium-size child, then move out to enormous whale, return to small shell in boy’s hand, then spread out to fill the area with sound, the whale swimming away, the adults running to their boats, the boy watching excitedly from his post. So much life and aliveness.
That disease is “oldness,” conventionality, heaviness in writing. A three-foot child would be five or six, so have little higher cortical function to circumvent native spontaneity of the lower brain.
Children’s actions are whole, not divided by the endless conflict of adult concerns.
Strive to write poetry with that wholeness.
The scene the same in Basho’s time as in ours. The cold of early spring has passed, but there is still a chill in the air. Under a canopy of pinkish white blossoms, on ground scattered with petals, we lay out our favorite foods. The soup is brought to the picnic in an iron pot and heated over a fire. Namasu is raw vegetables (or
sometimes fish) sliced thin, and marinated in vinegar, popular at celebrations. Amidst the excited chatter of girls and women in their blossom kimono, the songs and laughter of relatives and friends, some more petals have fallen on the food. At the time of this verse, the Master said,
Haruo Shirane defines Lightness as: “a stress on everyday common subject matter, on the use of vernacular language, and on a relaxed rhythmical seemingly artless expression” -- each of these conspicuous in UNDER THE TREES.
Basho says that Lightness comes from the kakari, or rhythm of the words. Shirane, from his native Japanese ear, describes the rhythm in UNDER THE TREES in Japanese: the verse “starts slowly with four successive ‘o’ sounds (ko, no, mo, to) and then plunges into a strong consonant beat: (ni shi-ru mo na-ma-su mo sa-ku-ra ka-na) with each new syllable seeming to pick up speed, and then ends on the emotive, exclamatory kana, thus suggesting the inebriated mood of a cherry blossom party.” The final kana is “emotive, exclamatory,”
so HURRAY! We are celebrating the season of warmth and new Life. Lightness is Us, real people having fun, sharing food.
To those who love Western poetry, Basho’s verses of Lightness will seem so simple and Light they feel like nothing – but they leave the reader feeling good -- as opposed to Heaviness which relies on heavy word associations and allegory to make the reader feel sad. Even without tragedy, sensationalism, or negativity, Basho reaches into the human heart:- in this verse, through taste sensations – soup which could be so many possibilities and raw vegetables imbued with the sour of vinegar. Taste images bring us back to
the times when we ate those foods, times we celebrated together.
Basho compares an artificial verse by Kikaku with his own naturally occurring verse:
“Along a street in the desolation of winter, a few salted bream are lined up on a tray in a fish store. The lips drawn back in death reveal gums frightful in their coldness.” (Kon)
Basho said
Basho in his old age has discovered something else: Lightness. Poetry can be excellent without heavy and exaggerated imagery; instead of monkeys shrieking and jagged mountain peaks like monkey fangs, poetry can reveal ordinary scenes in daily life. Kikaku wrote his verse from imagination, not from any actual
experience of monkeys or mountains or the moon. It has nothing to give us; once the shock is over, nothing in the verse can we learn. “A fish store” is Basho’s genius. Another poet would have ended the poem with something bold, striking, philosophical, or religious. Basho however just says “A fish store”, with all its daily life associations in smell and sound and sight. Any woman in the temperate zone near the sea can see Basho’s haiku right before her eyes when she goes shopping in winter. Kikaku’s verse is suitable
only for people off in some fantasy world where monkeys shriek. It is literary and “old.” Basho’s verse is REAL and Light.
Words from the heart are good. Words from other words are not.
12 A stanza may have extra sounds, 3, 4, even 5 or 7;
Basho advises that we speak the verse out loud to insure that the phrases have “resonance” (hibiki) and do not “stagnate” in the mouth -- like water in a stream stuck behind a wad of fallen leaves, old, foul, and heavy -- but rather flow with natural rhythm that resonates in the listener’s ear. For many years I have enjoyed the natural resonance I hear when I speak:
Recently I considered changing the middle segment to “things brought to mind” or “thoughts come to mind” – but when I spoke these phrases out loud, I found that they “stagnate” in my mouth. “Things come to mind” is natural English and resonates.
Basho told Kyorai:
In a letter of 1690, Basho offered the following summary of the qualtities of Lightness,
and this haiku as an example:
A beggar sleeps under a straw mat in the freezing cold New Year’s weather. He has an identity, a human dignity within the glory of spring. If not for fortune, I could be him. The verse goes straight to its sociological meaning; it does not “spin about” aimlessly, yet is not “heavy”; it does not shove that meaning at the reader’s face.
To write poetry, you must “pass through things.”
This is not an actual apprentice monk but rather an ordinary kid whose head has been shaved close. Because ‘daikon gathering’ in Japanese tradition suggests a happy family excursion, I have added in “their”: we feel not this is not just any little boy, but “their little monk”— the youngest son loved by the whole family. Basho told Doho:
The image of “little monk” makes the child “stand out,” the bald round head on a child‘s body sitting on the horse high above the horizontal field, watching his elders at work. (See the painting.) This “standing out” is what “makes” the verse. The light color and roundness of the boy’s head are “cute,” while pulling gargantuan white radishes from the ground is dirty and rough. The important word here is “stand out.” Unless something “stands out in relation” to something else, there is no poem.
Two months before his death, although it was autumn, to his long-time followers aged like himself、Basho wrote a Spring verse.
Though our faces are wrinkled and pockmarked by the ravages of time, our poems can be as fresh and vibrant as the first cherry blossoms to emerge on their twigs. About this haiku Basho said:
For the “physical form” to be “graceful,” I believe the verse must have a consistent rhythm of beats.
Basho speaks of a “quality of turning" so the words have an accent and are not flat or boring - yet even with all that “turning,” the rhythm is a steady four beats per measure. By translating with a consistent four -beat rhythm 3 beats and pause / 4 beats without pause / 3 beats and pause – and using ordinary English words which (I hope) resonate, I aim for the graceful physical form with a musical quality Basho describes.
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The Three Thirds of Basho