Basho and the Lightness of Death

This past week, I've completed reading The Essential Basho, translated by Sam Hamill. The four travel journals were interesting, as mentioned in the section quoted in last week's post. I was happy to move on to the selection of haiku, which takes up approximately half the book, three haiku per page.

I've begun to warm up to Basho's poems which focus on a poetic principle he called "lightness." Here is David Landis Barnhill, whose Basho's Haiku I'm currently reading, on the concept of "lightness":

The concept of sabi can be intertwined with many aspects of the Japanese, Buddhism, and poetry. There is a principle of lightness that can be found within these aspects. Lightness can be described as the beauty of things plain and ordinary against the bright and glorified beauty. It is seeing the beauty in the simplicity of things, rather than the elaborate. Ueda describes the principle of lightness as, “a dialectic transcendence of sabi” (Matsuo Basho 34), then goes on to relate lightness to sabi by saying, “Sabi urges man to detach himself from worldly involvements; “lightness” makes it possible for him, after attaining that detachment, to return to the mundane world” (Matsuo Basho 34). He makes a great point in showing how the two ideas work off of each other. It is sabi that the person is trying to sense, what they are clearing there mind for. It takes mental concentration to detach oneself from the everyday reality of the layperson. Once that detachment is achieved, there must be a point when it is allowed to dissipate so that one can return to the ordinary world. And it is this principle of lightness that brings the person back, by having them focus on the plain, simple, and ordinary for all of its beauty.

Here are a selection of the 28 haiku I marked for further review:



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Like the buck's antler's,
we point in slightly different
directions, my friend

You weren't home when I came-
even the plum blossoms were
in another yard

In windblown spring rain,
budding, like a straw raincoat,
a river willow

Grass for a pillow,
the traveler knows best
how to see cherry blossoms

Father and mother,
long gone, suddenly return
in the pheasant's cry.

At the ancient pond
a frog plunges into
the sound of water

Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggest they
are about to die

Wrapping dumplings in
bamboo leaves, with one finger,
she tidies her hair.

The morning glories
ignore our drinking party
and burst into bloom

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I'm not sure that the poems that appeal to me are the ones for which Basho is most appreciated, though his most famous haiku ("At the ancient pond") is included in this selection, primarily because I thought it was one of the best versions I've read. One of the comments at the first Basho post noted that Hamill wasn't a favorite translator and he does seem to have taken some liberties, ironically ones that I feel make Basho more accessible to someone like me who is certainly no expert. In the "buck's antler's" haiku I particularly like that, though pointed in slightly different directions, these friends ultimately will always end up in the same place. "plum blossoms" somehow seems to be ironic, funny and heartbreaking all at once: try doing that with 14 words sometime! "strawcoat" is quite literal because Basho was always on the road and, one would imagine, frequently taking advantage of all available "strawcoats." There also seems to be a joy here at the return of his "strawcoat" in spring which he no doubt sorely missed in winter. Of course the traveler "knows best" how to see cherry blossoms: lying under the tree. Beside the principle of lightness, Basho seems to leave much room in each haiku for the individual reader to participate in its writing, in a sense. "Father and mother" is a pure Proustian moment and I love it because it has the emotion so characteristic of Issa and not often on such overt display with Basho. "cicadas" may seem obvious, though the point can never be emphasized enough. Still, it called to mind for me a review I was reading this week of a book about human psychology and how our species is the only one which understands its coming death. Perhaps that review tainted my reading but one can't help feeling that he is not only saying that cicadas don't know death and he is commenting on the human condition. How simply beautiful is "Wrapping dumplings ...", pure essence. If one of the Imagist school had written this, they would be immortal. Finally, morning glories are my favorite flower and I've been known to quaff a pint or two, so I personally can attest to the truism of this little gem.

Cover art by Wayne Hogan

This week's featured back issue of Lilliput Review is #159, from November 2007. Enjoy.



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#64
You are dreaming
of the bush warbler
I said to him defiantly
But just in case I lifted
The green curtain and peeked out.

Yosano Akiko
translated by Dennis Maloney

Translation
Wearing down like a rock
in the years of a river
a poem

Donny Smith

#12
Poet, sing of this night
Alive with lights and
The wine we served.
Our beauty pales
Compared with the peony.

Yosano Akiko
translated by Dennis Maloney

Mown Hay
Just to the southwest they're
cutting hay in the closing light.
I wonder how my life could come to this.

Jeffrey Skeate

It was like stardust in an old hand undertook me
coming through from where my soul began.

Janet Baker

----------------------------------------------------


There are now over 60 issues in the Back Issue Archive and 138 suggestions in the Near Perfect Books of Poetry list.

I've got to stop all this friggin' counting.

till next time,
Don

Isabella Rossellini, Dante's Inferno, and Antonio Machado

Cover by Wayne Hogan

Well, this week started with some Green Porno, so who am I not to share? Is it poetry? Maybe not, but it is lyrical in its own way and we need truth like this in a post George Carlin world. Thank you, Isabella Rossellini.

And, oh, yeah, humor. (Don't miss the other mini-films on the side bar).

I've had an idea percolating for a blog post at Eleventh Stack (the blog at my "other job") and it seemed worthy of sharing here (the idea, not the post). I stumbled across the fact, thanks once again to the folks over at the Bookslut blog, that there is a paper puppet version of Dante's Inferno, due for DVD release next month. Here is the trailer, posted at YouTube:





For those with hearty hard drives, you might want to try one of the higher-tech versions at the film's website. If the trailer tantalizes, Ovation TV has posted a 4 minute excerpt that portrays the Flatterers as congressional lobbyists (if this isn't in the spirit of the original epic poem, I'll take my 8th circle punishment right now. Oh, what the hell, here's the 4 minute excerpt (there is no doubt that this is poetry):





Perhaps I've strayed a bit and need a stopover in the 6th circle on my way down. Obviously, that one ain't my call.

In the more traditional area of poetics, I've been digging into a parcel of poetry books this past week, including Han Shan (more about that in a future post, I hope) and C . D. Wright's new take on the state of things, given Iraq and all that, in Rising, Falling, Hovering. If you are detecting some cynicism in the way the later part of the previous sentence trailed off, it seems I've got still another stop to consider. But I'll withhold judgment on that for a moment. Today what I'd like to recommend is a good, strong dose of Antonio Machado.





Dennis Maloney and Mary G. Berg have translated a volume of Machado's enigmatic short poems entitled There Is No Road, published by White Pine Press and pictured above. The works are all short, blending aphorism, philosophy, and a lyrical mysteriousness that is pure poetry. Here are a handful to give you a taste:

It is good to know that glasses
are to drink from;
the bad thing is that we don't know
what thirst is for.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Man is only rich in hypocrisy;
he relies on his ten thousand disguises
----------to deceive
and uses the double key that protects his house
to pick the lock of his neighbor.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Look in your mirror for the other one,
the one who accompanies you.

-----------------------------------------------------------

These chance furrows
why call them roads?
Everyone on a journey walks
like Jesus on the sea.

At 110 plus pages, one poem per page, there is much to ponder here. I'm partial to Dennis' work as I've published a volume of his Issa translations, Dusk Lingers, and one of love poems from the classic 100 Poems by 100 Poets entitled Unending Night. There will be a companion volume to the later focusing on nature poems from 100 Poems to be published in the Modest Proposal Chapbook series sometime next year. The clear, concise language of the translation of Machado comes through in There Is a Road. It's definitely worth a look.

Speaking of journeys, the tour of Lilliput Review's back pages continues this week with issue #83, published in November 1996. If anyone is actually keeping tabs, I've skipped #84, which was a broadside issue by Christien Gholson, Winter Prayers. As with many of the broadsides, excerpting work just doesn't do it justice. If you are interested, it is still available for $1 or can be bundled with 2 other broadsides, for a total of 3 for $2.00. On to the poetry in #83 ....

it is still

worth the risk
to sit, old and troubled
inside the heart
and scrape the walls
worth everything
to dip fingers
in the gravy
to paint the tablecloth
with words
necessary and fat.

jen besemer

----------------------------------------

The Ego and the Raven

Wings, talons, hair, horns:
Why heed a raven's lecture
when you've got it all?

Marjorie Power

----------------------------------------

places I've never been
people I've never met
the things that connect us

David Stensland

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And one that probably hasn't aged so well ...



I Can't Believe Its Not Buttofucco Madonna

has an oily
texture of
rancid
margarine

Lyn Lifshin

----------------------------------------

Yikes, I can't end with that - here's a Donny Smith translation of an Anonymous Greek epigram:

epigram

The puckered rosebud opens, darkens, withers.
Where it was sweet, now it prickles.

Anonymous (translated by Donny Smith)

Till next time,
Don

That Smirking Face, Cassadaga, and f/k/a

With That Smirking Face, Jeffrey Winke and Matt Ciprov have put together a fascinating collaboration of word and image. An 8 page broadside (one piece of heavy grey stock 11 x 17” paper, folded twice and uncut), That Smirking Face is comprised of 13 haiku, 2 haibuns and four razor-sharp illustrations, the one reproduced above gracing the cover. In addition, Matt Cipov has also provided woodcut-like portraits of Jeffrey Winke and himself on the back cover. This is a high quality production, limited to 250 copies, issued by Distant Thunder Press of Milwaukee. Winke’s work is every bit as sharp and clean as Cipov’s lines, no mean feat in 3 lines or less. Here are a handful of examples:



storage shelf
a couple of suitcases
filled with darkness


a kicked can
cartwheels
into its echo


shadows
layer themselves
tight doorway



Since there are a limited number of these available and I felt this is the kind of work, both poetic and artistic, that would appeal to the Lilliput Review audience, I’ve acquired a few copies for distribution. They are available for $5. If you’d like one, send payment made out to “Don Wentworth.” If you’d prefer, copies are also available directly from Distant Thunder Press, 234 North Broadway, Unit 513, Milwaukee, WI 53202, <distant_thunder_press@gmail.com>. Also, it may be purchased directly from the author, with details at his website. You won't be disappointed; it is worth the effort.

On another, equally creative front, I believe I’ve recently run into the album of the year for 2007: Cassadaga by Bright Eyes. Admittedly a lean year in new music, especially for a “harmless old coot” (last week’s most memorable quote, from a younger work colleague in reference to yours truly) like myself, Cassadaga brings the literate while not sacrificing the excitement, danger, fun and angst that has defined rock since the first musical curled lip and knowing sneer. Here’s a taste, from the song "Four Winds":


“Your class, your caste, your country, sect, your name or your tribe
There’s people always dying trying to keep them alive
There’s bodies decomposing in containers tonight
In an abandoned building where
The squatters made a mural of a Mexican girl
With fifteen cans of spray paint and a chemical swirl
She’s standing in the ashes at the end of the world
Four winds blowing through her hair …

The Bible’s blind, the Torah’s deaf, the Koran’s mute
If you burn them all together you get close to the truth
Still they are pouring over Sanskrit on the Ivy League moons
While shadows lengthen the sun
Cast off the schools of meditation built to soften the times
And holds us at the center while the spiral unwinds
Its knocking over fences, crossing property lines
Four winds cry until it comes …


It will be no surprise for those familiar with modern lit that an even more direct allusion to W. B. Yeats follows in the next verse. And if you think there's no way these lyrics can be sung, especially melodically, think Dylan and think again. For those unfamiliar with the catalogue of Conor Oberst’s work, Cassadaga is an excellent point of entry. Give it a spin.

This past week saw another reprint of a haiku from Gary Hotham’s “Modest Proposal Chapbook” Missed Appointment in the blog f/k/a, self-described as the home of “breathless punditry and one breath poetry.” Check it out; the haiku are always high quality.

This week’s tour of back issues of Lilliput Review arrives at #138, from May 2004. The issue was dedicated to the memory of Cid Corman, who had recently passed away and was a friend of and generous contributor to Lillie. The pages of this issue were enhanced by the wonderful artistic work of the Swedish artist/poet Henry Denander. Here is an example from that issue:

The cover of #138 was a poem by Cid, published in his memory, and the following samples from that issue will begin there. Once again in the middle of winter (January 2008) there is a longing for spring and David Lindley, of Heathcote, Warwick UK, does that so well in two poems here. Finally, Donny Smith’s homage to Lorca, with thoughts of something spring-like tucked in there somewhere.

Existence
All you have
and all you
have to give

Cid Corman

It is spring only
because something unceasing
calls me by its name

David Lindley

The hedgerows burst with
green shoots as though deciding
against saintliness.

David Lindley

Lorca dream
The wind on the down of a young man’s
face, the sun on his torso, drops of sweat
sliding down into his waistband,
rain on a newly planted field, or a flock
of starlings circling to roost before a storm.
I woke and remembered only el rumor de los sexos.

Donny Smith

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The final note today is sad one, a personal one. Yesterday at work, we lost one of our long time colleagues to a year long battle with illness. She died much too young. Cathy Duhig was one of the most intelligent people I've ever met, no small feat in my profession. She was quick witted, lightning fast on the uptake, an excellent writer, acerbic, high strung and, at times, funny as hell. She had a near encyclopedic knowledge of women's issues and gave the IMDB a run for its money when it came to being a repository of little known facts about Hollywood films. Her passing is a great sadness. This posting is dedicated to her memory.

too soon, too soon,

too soon - new daffodils sway

in a chilly eastern breeze.

Don