Sunday Poetry III -- Matsuo Basho, A Casual Artist and Adventurer

On the Poet's Trail:

by Michael Yamashita

Nearly three years ago, back before my most cherished of subscriptions sadly expired, I read one of my all-time favorite articles in the good periodical, National Geographic.  While I have sung NG's praises repeatedly since my childhood, this particular article came together in a rarely exquisite nexus of photography, essay, and art.  Being the bugger English snob that I am (and hypocrite to boot), I've often snubbed my nose at the "poor" writing of the photographers and scientists that generally pen for the magazine (I've since humbled myself and been humbled), though I've always praised the photography.  Also, I've always been a fan of the chosen subject matter in general, being a general subscriber to Life on Earth and the weirdness it pulls out of itself.  This article, however, I'd have never anticipated of the magazine, which I've received via grandparents, parents, and, though with less consistency, my own small investments.  It's LITERATURE, after all!  Yet, somehow and if not immediately, it made perfect sense.

I'd heard of Matsuo Basho, Japanese poet and reputed father of the haiku, but I'd never read more of his stuff than a few of those three-liners in my various literature text books.  The NG article piqued my interest, however, with its scattered Basho quotations, some minor biography, and, most of all, that combination of pictures and narrative from the lucky man who got to go mirror that--well, I want to say PILGRIMAGE, but that's not what it was.  The guy just went for a walk!

The best part of the article for me was the great word "hyohakusha," which according to NG translates to "one who moves without direction," which is a travelling descriptor I've wished for myself my entire life (just imagine: me and my steel drum, one-way ticket to Italy...), but that's another entry.  I snapped out of it and thought instead of a perfect, big-assignment writing prompt for my creative writing students.

That, too, is another entry.

I found dug up a text for Narrow Road to a Far Province and was entranced.  (There's a little bit a wikipedia, HERE, but I really recommend reading the whole thing--it's THAT worth it.)  I'd quote from that very file now, however and unfortunately, somewhere along the line I lost my file for the book and since then all the good translations have been ripped from the web.  Even Google Books has only got an excerpt of an introduction!

But I did find a translation HERE, which, while being a somewhat--or apparently--clumsy translation, yet offers a decent, free glimpse into the experience of Basho's wandering (despite my gripes with the words, the website is nicely interactive and offers notes throughout the text--always nice).  Here are a few excerpted poems:

It looks as if
Iris flowers had bloomed
On my feet --
Sandals laced in blue.

*

Bitten by fleas and lice,
I slept in a bed,
A horse urinating all the time
Close to my pillow.

(I laughed out loud when I first read this one; the other translation I read was not quite so demur.)

*

I felt quite at home,
As if it were mine,
Sleeping lazily
In this house of fresh air.

Crawl out bravely
And show me your face,
The solitary voice of a toad
Beneath the silkworm nursery.

With a powder-brush
Before my eyes,
I strolled among
Rouge-plants.

In the silkworm nursery,
Men and women
Are dressed
Like gods in ancient times.

This one was written by Basho's travel companion, Sora.  He tends to be a bit wordier than his practically terse master, though at times Sora's words tend to be less frivolous--maybe he's compensating for some literary insecurity.

*

In the utter silence
Of a temple,
A cicada's voice alone
Penetrates the rocks.

*

The night looks different
Already on July the sixth,
For tomorrow, once a year
The weaver meets her lover.

The great Milky Way
Spans in a single arch
The billow-crested sea,
Falling on Sado beyond.

*

Move, if you can hear,
Silent mound of my friend,
My wails and the answering
Roar of autumn wind.

*

On a cool autumn day,
Let us peel with our hands
Cucumbers and mad-apples
For our simple dinner.

*

This is the final poem of the journey:

As firmly cemented clam shells
Fall apart in autumn,
So I must take to the road again,
Farewell, my friends.

***

Additional note:

I've always been interested in the complexities of translation.  Translating from a language so dissimilar to our own as Japanese lends particular challenges.  Check out THESE nine translations of a single passage from Basho's work.