Silent Flowers II: More Blyth Translations

Title Kiku (artist unknown)

A little over two years ago, I did a post on a collection of R. H. Blyth haiku translations called Silent Flowers, edited and assembled by Dorothy Price for a small little Hallmark hardcover collection. Recently, my partner and I were headed to the woods for a few days and I always like to have a little volume of this sort on hand for both enjoyment and inspiration, so into the backpack it went.

Nothing like a trek through snowy woods, followed by a hot toddie of some sort, while a few of the classic haiku masters take an analogous trek through the byways of your brain. 

I found that many of the poems I'd highlighted in that past post appeared again on my little annotated sheet this go round. But there were some I missed last time, perhaps more subtle, certainly hitting me while I was in a different mood, so I thought I'd share a few more.

     The yellow chrysanthemums
Lose their color
     In the light of the hand-lantern. 

                 Buson 

The artist Buson dissects light itself, its gradations, its subtleties, its ultimate mysteries. There is a contrast here, too, between things man-made and things of nature. Might their even be a slight criticism of the former or is it just the artist as artist?

     A world of grief and pain:
Flowers bloom;
     Even then . . . . . 

               Issa

Issa, poet of sorrow and loss and humanity, once again gives us the big picture. This is reminiscent of his more well-known "the world of dew ... and yet" but with perhaps a slight bit of objectivity.

     They spoke no word.
The visitor, the host,
     And the white chrysanthemum.

                 Ryota

Ryota's poem made me think of Buson's "the scissors hesitate". Here the chrysanthemum is on equal par with the visitor and the host, as important an element in the conversation as the other two, no mean poetic feat, indeed.

     The moon in the water;
Broken and broken again,
     Still it is there. 

               Chora 

Chora's poem is simply transcendent; what it says of nature, and of life, "there are more things in heaven and earth," dear reader ... we need not complete the sentence, the revelation has done that for us. 

     The world
Is after all as the butterfly,
     However it may be. 

           Soin

This may be one of the finest haiku I've ever read. It pushes all the boundaries; of form, of philosophy, of insight. The metaphor that is not a metaphor, in a poetic form that defies all rationalization. 

This is stunning, in its literal as well as its figurative aspects. 

Silent Flowers is arranged around some rough themes - specific images and seasons. I'm going to wrap this post with the promise with still a third on this same book, hopefully with a lot less time between. Here is another butterfly poem Price selects to follow directly after Soin's:

    The butterfly having disappeared, 
my spirit
    came back to me. 

                 Wafu

How anyone could contemplate following Soin's poem with another, especially on the same subject, is almost ludicrous except Wafu's haiku equals it, if on a different level: the personal/universal rather than the universal/personal. To describe the essence of an experience such as this so precisely yet in a nearly metaphysical way almost defies belief. 

These are stunning examples of haiku, some on the near satori level of Zen (Blyth's especiality, as the fine folk say), many by classic haiku poets I have little familiarity with.  The magnitude of Blyth's life work may be extrapolated from this handful of works, done in some cases by seemingly 'minor' poets. 

Though this book is long out of print, it is still available for a song, as us humble folk are wont to say - check out copies here at abebooks, where you may often get better prices on new and used books from independent booksellers around the world than from the behemoth down the road.

All these years later, grouse or no, in all meanings of the word, Mr. Blyth shines through. We would hardly be here without him.


---------------- 

Chrysanthemum Secret (Photo) by W. S. Smith

perfectly straight
if we let it be...
chrysanthemum

 Issa

 translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

   

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Silent Flowers: R. H. Blyth Translations

Art by Nanae Ito

With a reading and poetry program last week and another reading and a poetry program this week, and the new issues in the oven getting ready to go out to contributors,  I've fallen a bit behind.  So, posted today is what I originally intended to put up on Friday and Issa's Sunday Service will return in its regular slot next week.   Meanwhile, all 77 songs to date can be found here in list form and here in jukebox form.

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Ah, Hallmark Editions books - small little hardcovers, with decorative dust jackets, that brought a world of sentiment alien to what is commonly thought of today when one says the word "Hallmark."   The little volume at hand is 55 pages long with some 140 plus haiku, all by masters of the form and translated by one of the first and finest of all haiku translators, R. H. Blyth.  There is a nifty intro that cites Wordsworth, one of Blyth's favorites - in fact, the intro may come from Blyth, there is no easy way to tell.  The overall selection was edited by Dorothy Price, who did a very fine job, indeed.

All for the remarkable price new of $2.50 back in the year 1967 (and 40 years later you can get copies for only a dollar more, including shipping), this little book packs a formidable punch.    The simply (in all senses of the word) stunning artwork is by Nanae Ito, in the traditional style.  I've mentioned this collection before, but only in regard to a handful of Issa translations.  I'd like to dip in a little more deeply now.

All 140 haiku were selected from Blyth's 4-volume masterwork, Haiku, from Hokuseido Press of Japan, unfortunately out of print and going for a pretty penny. The volumes are invaluable, no matter what you pay for them, and I don't often make rash statements when it comes to money.  This may seem puzzling on the surface, but the poems aren't half the beauty; Blyth's commentary is unsurpassed.  If you want to learn the origin of haiku, the spirit of haiku, the Way of Haiku, these volumes are your ticket there. 

From Silent Flowers, I've marked some 30 poems for further review.

     Silent flowers
speak also
     to that obedient ear within.

Onitsura

The first poem, from which the title derives, is unusual for a traditional haiku and all the more strong for that.  Silence is perfectly balanced by the ear within; only the inner ear may truly hear silence.   That the flowers themselves are given voice is lovely without being awkwardly anthropomorphic.  There is more of an almost synesthesiac quality if anything, suggesting one is "hearing" a smell or an vision.  Quite fine, since the philosophical implication is most important of all; the silent flowers, most often cherry blossoms in traditional haiku, are teaching us the ultimate lesson if we wish to hear.

     Just simply alive,
Both of us, I
     and the poppy.

Issa

There it is, folks - doesn't get plainer or simpler or truer or more beautiful than that.   After you read a poem like this, time to shut the book and get back to life.

     My eyes having seen all,
Came back to
     the chrysanthemums.

Isshō

That's not a typo - it is Isshō, not Issa, about whom I could find very little except that he was a poet of Kanazawa, who was warmly admired by Bashō.   This particular poem might be taken in two ways: in the moment and in a deeper philosophical sense.  In the moment, the poet returns to the chrysanthemums after literally looking about and seeing all.  Figuratively, there is a kind of resonance - having seen all in life, I return to the chrysanthemums because they are most worth seeing and may tell us all we need to know, as with both  Onitsura's and Issa's poems.   It is said that Bashō was so moved by the poet's death at a young age, he wrote the following uncharacteristically emotional poem for him:

On the Death of Isshō

Oh, grave-mound, move!
My wailing is the autumn wind.

Bashō 

     The scissors hesitate
Before the white chysanthemums,
     A moment.

Buson

This Buson poem I've talked about before, but I'm not sure if it was in the Blyth translation.  All these renderings seem damn near perfect, but this one is truly amazing.  The 1st line breaks at "hesitate" - which we do - the second ends with a comma - hesitating again - and the third, well, locks us firmly in that moment.  We know what comes next and I'm not talking about a blossom head falling to the ground.

I'm almost overwhelmed with how resonant these short renderings are.  There are two masters at work here at all times: poet and translator.

     To pluck it is a pity,
To leave it is a pity,
     Ah, this violet!

Naojo

Caught perfectly in the balance, the violet - and the human.   Each of these poems seems the final word - on all of poetry.

     They spoke no word.
The visitor, the host,
     And the white chrysanthemum.

Ryota

Oh, wait, it would seem no final word, no word at all, is needed.

     Striking the fly
I hit also
     A flowering plant.

Issa

     Simple trust:
Do not the petals flutter down,
     Just like that?

Issa

How could I have missed these two the first time I looked at Issa's work in this collection.  How wrong to strike the fly is seen in the result: two dead things.  And simple trust, what could be easier ... and harder?

     The long night;
The sound of water
     Says what I think

Gochiku

Here is a little mystery - what is the poet thinking, what is the water saying.  When we hear water, it says a lot of things to us.  What could it be, says the old person to the young person, what could it be?

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This week's sample poem comes from the Lillie archive comes from issue #124, March 2002.  

         Rainy winds...

    An orphan sycamore

Uses my grandmother's voice

               Patrick Sweeney

plum tree--
on my hut's unlucky side
blooming!

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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Haiku, edited by Peter Washington

Currently, it is very difficult to find a complete 4 volume set of R. H. Blyth's historic Haiku for under $200 (though you might be able to cobble together individual volumes for less @ abebooks - and at the moment there is this bargain for a set in fine condition) and this is really a shame. This seminal work is like an in-depth, life-long seminar in the essence of haiku, with arguably the most qualified teacher that has ever lived. The set includes hundreds of haiku translated by Blyth and one might say it is the most comprehensive collection of haiku translated into English. In addition, but of equal importance, this 4-volume work contains the history, context, and, Blyth's revelatory running commentary on all things haiku.

If you need schooled in old school, as we would delicately put it here in Pittsburgh, this is it.

Which is the long way round to introducing the book Haiku, edited by Peter Washington, part of the familiar Everyman Library series of Pocket Poets. Here's why.

Haiku is divided into two sections: Japanese Haiku and Western Haiku. Section one takes up over 200 pages of the nearly 250 page book. The vast majority of the pages contain 3 haiku. The Japanese haiku section, containing approximately 600 poems, is translated in its entirety by R. H. Blyth, all the translations coming from his own monumental 4-volume study cited above.

So, the good news is that a huge chunk of Blyth's translations from the Japanese haiku masters is now contained in one available volume, for the whopping price of 12.50 brand new, with copies going for as low as 99 cents on amazon. That's some savings.

The bad news is no commentary. How bad is that news, really? Well, for me the commentary is better than the translations. Sacrilegious, you might ask? But I would hasten to add that the translations are among the most valuable there are, which gives you some idea of how I feel about the commentary.

I'll leave it there, as far as good and bad news is concerned. What I would say is this: the books shouldn't be compared, they are two different animals sharing one lineage. Still, it would be criminal not to note how very important the original source of these translations is.

From the Blyth translations, I marked down an incredible 81 poems I considered strong enough for an in-depth look. The shorter Western haiku section also had over 30 very impressive pieces. Here's a sampling of very superlative haiku, indeed, from the sections on Buddha-nature and the moon:



Simply trust:
Do not also the petals flutter down
Just like that?

Issa

The puppy that knows not
That autumn has come
Is a Buddha.

Issa

Has the tail of a horse
The Buddha-nature?
The autumn wind.

Shiki

Moon-gazing:
Looking at it, it clouds over;
Not looking, it becomes clear.

Chora

The thief
Left it behind -
The moon at the window.

Ryokan

Tonight's moon -
Unthinkable
That there was only one.

Ryota

The next section is on birds, and so much more:

The voice of the pheasant;
How I longed for
My dead parents.

Bashô

In one single cry,
The pheasant has swallowed
The broad field.

Yamei

The wild geese having gone,
The rice-field before the house
Seems far away.

Buson

Now that the eyes of the hawks
Are darkened in the dusk,
The quails are chirping.

Bashô

The wren is chirruping
But it grows dusk
Just the same.

Issa

Other sections include haiku in the following categories: Happiness, Birds, Creatures, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and the New Year. The Western Haiku selection is divided into Traditional and Modern styles. Interestingly, within the traditional section Washington includes some of Blyth's "found" haiku from Western masters, such as Wordsworth, Hopkins, Shelley, Housman etc. In addition, he includes some of his own found pieces, but unfortunately does not indicate which selections are his and which are Blyth's. In my reading of the original Blyth volumes, these found pieces are among some of the most delightful moments; there is a synchronicity, a delving into the well of the collective unconscious that at once dazzles, fascinates, and astounds. Here are a few samples:

Daffodils
With the Green World
They live in

John Keats

In the broad daylight
Thou are unseen
But yet I hear thy sheer delight.

Percy Shelley

I will touch
A hundred flowers
And pick not one.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

A violet
By a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye.

William Wordsworth

The moonlight steeped
In silentness
The steady weathercock

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

It is no coincidence that these selections favor the Romantics; along with Thoreau, Whitman and Emerson, they far out weigh all others. Nature, of course, is the connection; we flow from it and it flows back from us. The Romantics and 19th century Americans, with their tentative connections to Eastern philosophy, are as steeped in it as Coleridge's weathercock in moonlight. Though these poetic greats did not write in the form, they did write from the feeling, the essence.

If you are a casual haiku reader or if you have read haiku all your life, this is an essential volume.

Provided, of course, you don't already have Blyth's 4 volume masterpiece.

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This week's featured broadside is entitled The Plot by Albert Huffstickler and was published as #136 of Lilliput Review. The broadside was in the hopper awaiting publication at the time of Huff's death. It is comprised of 7 brief poems (or 7 stanzas of the same poem), a loose sequence, each of which addresses the question of the plot. You know which one. Here is the cover photo by Sue Mendelsohn, taken of the "Pronto Food Mart," just down the street from where Huff lived, very shortly after his death:

The broadside is tiny, 2.75 x 4.25, yet poignant and powerful. What follows is the text in its entirety. This is a neat, teeny little booklet to have, available for a measly buck or, as an online special, a simple SASE. Even better, here it is in its entirety, sans hard copy:

The Plot

It's about how
we lose ourselves
then find ourselves again
changed


It's about finding
the hidden language
which isn't a
language at all


It's about
those moments when
everything makes itself known
then hides itself again


It's about
how all language
is misdirection
and how
without language
we are lost


It's about that
condition lurking
behind the word Love
never revealing itself

It's about loss,
about searching for
what was lost,
not knowing what it was,
finding it,
not recognizing it,
losing it again,
the search continuing

It's how the days
weave themselves
into tapestries of time,
brilliant,
fading. . . .

Albert Huffstickler

From one ancient master to another:




blades of grass--
lost among the raindrops
autumn dew

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don