A Reading of Poems by Matsuo Basho (1644—1694)

Sick on a journey —

over parched fields

dreams wander on

Matsuo Basho (H, 253)[1]

It is not unusual that the name of the Japanese poet Matsuo Basho is almost always associated with Haiku—this exceedingly brief form of seventeen syllables arranged in three parts of five, seven and five syllables successively.[2] By the time of Basho, the tradition of starting the entertaining form of the linked poem (Renga) with an opening verse (Hokku) of seventeen syllables had been well established.[3] However, it was Basho who refined this opening verse, enriched it with varied styles and themes, and thus turned it into a distinct genre of emotional depth and spiritual seriousness.

In the hands of Basho, therefore, this form was elevated “from word-play into lyric poetry, from a game played by poetasters into a spiritual dimension.”[4]  This new form—generally known as Haiku—has since been a model for successive generations of poets, both in Japan and abroad.[5]

But reinvigorating the form is only one part of Basho’s contribution. More important, perhaps, is his conscious endeavour to redefine the intrinsic element of silence in haiku poetry, so as to make it the main determinant of the whole creative process.

Inspired by Zen,[6] which stresses the inability of language to express the realities of man’s existence and thus “the all importance of ‘No dependence upon letters and words’,”[7] the Haiku poems of Basho tend to use the fewest possible words, depending for their effect on the power of suggestion. The tendency to be concise and reticent is, thus, a deliberate and conscious choice. Explaining the importance of silence in creating Haiku poetry, one of the Zen masters has this to say:

When a feeling reaches its highest pitch, we remain silent, even 17 syllables may be too many. Japanese artists… influenced by the way of Zen tend to use the fewest words or strokes of brush to express their feelings… suggestibility is the secret of the Japanese arts.[8]

This quality of suggestibility, which is inspired by the silence of the poet, is established by the silence of the poem:

Violets —

how precious on

a mountain path. (H, 76)

Flower under harvest

sun — stranger

to bird, butterfly. (H, 102)

Crow’s

abandoned nest,

a plum tree. (H, 134)

In these poems, as in other Haiku poems, a variety of natural phenomena and daily observations, of even commonplace events, are crystallized and presented in a compendious diction without ornamental devices. The actual words of each poem do not say much and, as in the Chinese and Japanese ink sketches, the details of the natural scenes are blurred. However, a closer look at the poems immediately reveals that their effect is by no means shallow or superficial.

In the first poem, the image of the blooming “violets” is juxtaposed with that of the deserted “mountain path,” and both in turn bring to mind a chain of contradictory images and emotions— life and death, joy and sadness, fullness and emptiness, ripeness and dryness, the inhabited places and the desolated ones. But, while the first line recalls the pleasant presence of the flowers, the second line draws the reader’s attention to their absence, suggesting that they become “precious” and desired only when they are absent. With the idea of this preciousness in mind, the cruelty of the “mountain path” becomes evident and even tangible.

The image of the flower in the second poem is implicitly contrasted with that of the empty fields. The view of the flower is thus alien, or at least surprising, to birds and butterflies, as it is reminiscent of the harvested plants. Again, the presence of the flower recalls the absence of the reaped corns, and the juxtaposition of both images highlights the plight of these birds and butterflies, being deprived of their natural environment.[9]

Likewise, the absence of the crow from its “nest,” in the third poem, is worrying for the “plum tree,” whose very identity as a shelter for birds is threatened. But the image of the “abandoned nest” emphasizes the ordeal of the lonely bird, and the more general tragedy of loosing one’s home.

The same drama of presence and absence can be seen in these poems:            

Cherry blossoms —

lights

of years past. (H, 50)

Summer grasses,

all that remains

of soldiers’ dreams. (H, 252)

Sick on a journey —

Over parched fields

Dreams wander on. (H, 253)

The view of the “Cherry blossoms,” in the first poem is an unmistakable sign of the coming of spring, and as such it is one of the joys of this season. But as the succession of the seasons is inevitable, the presence of these blossoms is a reminder of the absence of other seasons, and of the continual passing of days and years.

The word “remains,” in the second poem, paradoxically reveals the tragic absence of the dead soldiers, whose simple “dreams” have been arbitrarily terminated. However, the presence of “summer grasses” suggests that life will incessantly offer its valuable gifts in spite of, or perhaps because of, the death of the dreamers.

In the third poem, which is Basho’s last poem,[10] the dreams “over parched fields” point out to the approaching absence of the “sick” traveller. With his entire life behind him and his destined death within sight, the traveller clings to his dreams at the moment. Nevertheless, the same dreams will continue to “wander on” after his absence. Like the image of “summer grasses” in the second poem, the image of wandering dreams reflects the speaker’s great zest for life, his burning desire to enjoy every instant to the uttermost, as well as his awareness of both the temporality of his own existence and the continuity of time. One of Basho’s travel sketches casts light on this point:

Days and months are travellers of eternity. So are the years that pass by. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth till they succumb to the weight of years, spend every minute of their lives travelling. There are a great number of ancients, too, who died on the road. I myself have been tempted a long time by the cloud-moving wind — filled with a strong desire to wander.[11]      

The structure of these Haiku poems is designed to engage the reader in the process of creating their meaning and effect. The silence of the poems—manifested in the poet’s refrain from giving detailed descriptions—consistently frustrate all “expectations of a recognizable development.”[12] Nevertheless, this same silence—enhanced by the open-ended lines—is an inexhaustible source for a stream of thoughts, images and emotions, as the few words presented in each poem cannot account for the multiple interpretations that different readers, or different readings, may come upon. Thus, the invisible, the elided, and the unspoken in Haiku poetry are indispensable elements in creating its unique effect, and they are as expressive and suggestive as the visible, the cited and the spoken.

NOTES