Haiku of the Japanese Masters - Lucien Stryk

Two weeks back, I mentioned a used bookstore trip that yielded two little haiku treasures.  At that time, I took a look at The Duckweed Way: Haiku of Issa.  Today I'd like to look at the other volume: Haiku of the Japanese Masters, translated again by Lucien Stryk and Takashi Ikemoto.

This collection is once again published by Rook Press of Derry, Pennsylvania, this time in a limited signed edition of 300.  The scope is broadened: instead of one poet, we have 55 poems by 23 poets, including the 4 masters of masters, Bashō, Issa, Buson, and Shiki.  Some of the poems by the 4 masters I've looked at before and will try not to repeat.

I marked 18 of the 55 poems for further perusal and right off the bat I noticed that one was the "cormorant" poem by Bashō that I've mentioned a couple of times previously.  Moving on, there is

Cherry blossoms-
so many,
I'm bent over

Sobaku

One can feel the weight of the blossoms, literally and metaphorically.  It would seem that the blossoms are so full and hanging down so low, the poet must bend to avoid hitting them.  The bowing is, of course, also a sign of respect.  In addition, the sheer volume seems to be overwhelming, so as to cause the poet to bend at the very idea of their immense beauty and profound significance. 

Nameless,
weed quickening
by the stream.

Chiun

Both in the previous post and this one, the brevity of Stryk's translations has been emphasized.  Brevity is this poem's essence and the reason that it works for me though, admittedly, it almost falters.  Bashō, too, has a poem about a nameless tree or flower and the sense of that haiku, as I remember, is one of universality rather than specificity.    Buson has a poem about a nameless river wherein the lack of familiarity in an unknown region evokes the unknown, fear of the unnamed.  With Chiun's poem there are a number of possibilities.  The weed quickening mirrors the stream quickening, so perhaps there is rain or wind.  Though unnamed, it is effected by the water the same as any known weed.  Perhaps there is not enough here to sketch in a bigger picture.  But the poet's observation is intent and precise.

Spring plain,
gulped
by the pheasant's throat.

Yamei

Sound has overwhelmed sight (and perhaps smell) in this haiku, but there is something else, too.  Has the pheasant ingested the essence of the field, becoming part of the field itself as a result, so what appears to be a disparate evocation of two elements is actually one?

Old pond,
leap-splash-
a frog.

Bashō

Mostly, I only comment on the poems I like, the ones worth passing on to folks or further pondering.  I don't, however, like this rendition of Bashō's classic poem.  I think I'm used to the poem being predicated on sound.  The oral quality in this version shifts to visual, otherwise how could the observer know that there has been a leap before the sound?  Or maybe I'm being too fussy here.

Buddha Law,
shining
in leaf dew.

Issa

I noted this one in The Duckweed Way post but it was new to me then and still fresh so here you have it again: I simply love it.

Thunder-
voices of drowned
in sunken ships.

Taigi

This is a haiku that reminds us that Japan is an island nation, whose very existence is inextricably bound with the sea.  The ghosts of Japanese culture are conjured here and somehow, for me, they are palpable in this brief little poem.  Various cultures ascribe the sound of thunder to various mythological sources - when I was young, it used to be said thunder was the sound of the gods bowling in heaven.

Autumn wind,
the beggar looks
me over, sizing up.

Issa

Though part of the same chapbook series, The Duckweed Way, which is exclusively Issa haiku, did not have this translation.  Who hasn't had this feeling, which in this poem balances precariously between humor and fear (I'm guessing the former for the poet).  Beggars know well their clientele, observation being the primary way.  Yet, has autumn and its cold winds pressed the beggar a little closer to desperation?  In Stryk's rendering, sizing, which functions as slang, may also call to mind the tailor fitting one for a coat.  This may be spurious, however, since Issa wasn't likely to have clothes worth very much to anyone.

Dewy morn-
these saucepans
are beautiful.

Buson

This is one of Buson's painterly poems and I love it - pure image, it still somehow resonates with deeper meaning.

Pure brush-clover-
basket of flowers,
basket of dew.

Ryoto

Another painterly image, this time from Ryoto.  The moment is perfect, the dew reminding us it is only (!) a moment and will soon pass, as will the flowers, and all.  The dew in Ryoto's poem has made me look back at the dew in Buson's, with a different eye, and I sense the resonance even more.

Autumn-
even the birds
and clouds look old.

Bashō

The quality of the light or the color of the sky, with the feeling of wind and dampness, are all brought to the fore with two simple words "look old."  Concision like this in haiku translation is peerless.

There is another Ryota poem that is quite good that is again painterly in the Buson manner and another Issa noted in the Duckweed post.   I'll finish, however, with three other beauties, one of which is an Issa poem not in the Duckweed book:


On the iris
hawk's
soft droppings.

Buson

Don't weep, insects-
lovers, stars themselves,
must part.

Issa

May he who brings
flowers tonight,
have moonlight.

Kikaku

6 brief words in Buson's poem and the 1 upon which it turns is "soft."   The tactile quality evokes the feel of the iris also and the whole picture presents us with a hint of a complete life cycle.  Issa and his compassion for "lower" life never gets old and this is a great little poem I don't recall seeing before.  Notice the poet's use of contrast between the very small (insect) and the large (star) with us humans in between, the contrast emphasizing the power of the similarity to great effect.  Kikaku's poem is a perfect way to finish - a beautiful wish, almost a prayer, that is lovely in and of itself.

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This week's poem from the archive comes from issue #119, back in September 2001.  Enjoy.

Sycamore

   One day all the leaves blow away
   I have been worrying
   about the wrong things

Ray Skjelbred

And the master's final word:

downstream, the gate
to knowledge...
evening's red leaves

Issa

best,
Don

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Six Gallery Press Reading

Photo by Jessica Fenlon

Last Saturday's Six Gallery Press reading at Modern Formations went very well. As with last August's reading, I read a mix of past Lilliput poems and some of my own work. Here are the poems from Lillie:

National Poetry Day

This being that fine occasion
to honor appreciative friends
with a wisdomy verse
pulled from one's hip
I am telling myself to first
keep straight my pockets
so as not to go
blow my nose into
William Carlos Williams

Richard Swanson

only one flower
is needed to answer
your question

Stanford Forrester

winter haiku
here, we have five or six
words for snow
and they all start with fuck

Mark DeCarteret

Because

You are tired, because I thirst for
salt, we turn to each other.
You are barefoot. It is winter.
This is going to be a difficult story.

Gayle Elen Harvey

an echo

The grassy grassy grassy
--plain
reaches out across across the road
--the road
cutting man's lifeline in two two
trying trying to reclaim for mother
--nature nature
what is by all rights
hers and hers and hers

Michael Estabrook

How Frightening to be the Male

a pair of cardinals on my neighbor's
fence: the male--so bright, so eye-
catching, so out-there, so
dispensable

Kelley Jean White

Cannibal

When you've rent the flesh and sinew
from my supple skeleton and you've
sucked the last sweet drop of marrow
leaving lonely, brittle bones
will you save the jagged splinters
to adorn your chieftain's chest
or scatter them like toothpicks
over yesterday's dung.

Sue De Kelver

Each step into simplicity :: undoes the weave

Grant Hackett

We forget we're mostly water
till the rain falls
and every atom
in our body
starts to go home

Albert Huffstickler

¶blue thorn gallop rose
why does language have to be so perfect?

Charlie Mehrhoff

TAOUBT

Ray Skjelbred

In addition to the Lilliput poems, I opened with a quote from Jim Carroll, and a dedication to his memory. The quote:

"It's too late
-to fall in love with Sharon Tate.
-And it's too soon
-to trace the path of the bullet
-in the brain of Reverend Moon."

Jim Carroll

I followed the Lilliput reading with 7 poems of my own, with only one that I'd read in August. Though I practiced "an echo" by Michael Estabrook, it was difficult to get the right aural effect and I'm afraid I didn't do it justice. Otherwise, I think it went over pretty well. Not too shabby for an old man decidedly out of practice. Overall, it was a solid reading by all. Che Elias from Six Gallery did a great job picking readers and so my personal thanks to him. I was particularly taken with the work of M. Callen, Scott Silsbe, Karen Lillis and Bill Hughes but, again, all the readers impressed.



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Since this is a week folks are likely on the road for the holiday, I'll keep it brief. I'm in the process of combing through all the poems for the Bashô Haiku Challenge again. Though I've made a large preliminary selection, I'm going through every poem once more to make sure I didn't miss anything and that what I previously set aside is actually up to snuff. Editing the mag all these years has taught me to space out multiple readings of particular items since mood, attention, and physical condition can actually effect how one approaches work. I read most work first thing in the morning while I'm fresh and rested and save the mundane stuff of replying, printing, collating etc. for later in the day. I'm hoping to make an announcement of the winners by December 2nd, December 9th at the latest.



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This week's featured issue is #150, a broadside of 11 poems by powerful tanka poet, Pamela Miller Ness. Enjoy.

Autumn again
in the Japanese garden;
leaves
of last year's euonymus
burn still in my journal.

A bud
of the red anemone
ready to burst . . .
the child
she never bore.

Years
after her passing
on the path
I greet my neighbor
in Mother's voice.

Pamela Miller Ness

a wind-blown boat
a skylark
crossing paths

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

And thanks to Jessica Fenlon for sending along the photo of me cawing "Crow" from the reading.




best,
Don

Beckett on Dante, Freud Meets Aquinas, and the Fine Art of the One Word Poem

Cover collage by John Harter

Last week's posting opened with an elegant quote by James Wright concerning Dante. Perhaps Dante would be appreciative of a maniacal mood swing to another aspect of his persona, as well as ours. In my job, I read literally dozens of reviews every week, concentrating on the areas of literature. In the Times Literary Supplement 11/30/07 under the heading "Cultural Studies", there is a review of Valerie Allen's On Farting: Language and Laughter in the Middle Ages. From that review, the following:

"Samuel Beckett, the creator of more than one flatulent character, when asked about his ambitions once replied: 'All I want to do is sit on my arse and fart and think about Dante.'"

One might suppose that reading dozens of literary reviews weekly might be conducive to all sorts of reactions, but that line of thought is surely a cul-de-sac. Rather, better to take the high road and press on to Joyce Carol Oates's review of Bernard Malamud: A Writer's Life by Philip Davis in the Dec. 21-28 TLS, for the following interesting tidbit on the pitfalls of the biographer:

"In the preface ... Davis quotes the notorious remarks of Sigmund Freud on the futility of the biographical enterprise: 'Anyone turning biographer has committed himself to lies, concealment, to hypocrisy, to flattery, and even to hiding his own lack of understanding, for biographical truth is not to be had, and even if it were it couldn't be useful.' Such an irrational outburst leads one to wonder what Freud was desperate to conceal from biographers, and whether he succeeded ..."

Freud and his talking cure have long been discredited, despite or, perhaps, because of its many successes; Oates's little diatribe, of course, prompts the reader to wonder how such "an irrational outburst leads one to wonder what" Oates was desperate to conceal about the futility of the reviewing enterprise. Extending this logical progression of thought with a mighty Aquinian (as opposed to Kierkegaardian) leap, one might actually come to posit that Freud was, in his notably prescient way, commenting on the blogging enterprise of the early 21st century and its futility.

Under every rock, a post-modern observation lurks, it would seem.

So, enough of what I do when not reading poetry, posting letters, laying out new issues, and thinking about Dante. More selections of poetry have been added to the Back Issue Archive; there are now 14 back issue samplings up online, with over 80 poems. More samples, of course, are posted every week in this blog, so there are now well over 100 poems from the past 18 years of Lilliput Review online, with more to come. This week's selections come from #135, pictured above. As a lover of the short poem, I've an unhealthy fascination for the one line poem and, even more narrowly, perhaps, and even more life threateningly, the one word poem. Among the selections below is one of my favorites ...

2003

Just before spring

the war begins

but - ignorant -

the pink blossoms

keep opening

their tiny fists

Julie Toler

The year comes to an

end, another begins. Still

it is not finished.



David Lindley










TAOUBT



Ray Skjelbred









Each that we lose takes part of us;

A crescent still abides,

Which like the moon,

some turbid night,

Is summoned by the tides.



Emily Dickinson




Here's to peace in 2008.

Best till then,
Don.