8 Thermidor CCXIV (July 26, 2006)
Learn About Pines From the Pine
I have a confession to make: I like haiku.1 There's something about it, perhaps the ability of great writers of it to fit so much into so little, that appeals to me. The unfortunate thing is that I don't know Japanese, which means I'm stuck with translations (which never fully get the meaning across), or with English language writers.
The thing is that, even without the rigidity of form and the inability to get all the potential double-meanings without copious notes, I prefer the translations. (Too often, I find, English haiku gets bogged down on the 5-7-5 rule at the expense of the imagery.) I guess, what it really comes down to, is that I like the idea of expressive minimalist poems, even to the point where I don't care whether the translation loses the basic rhythmic structure.2 I suppose that's why I like Ezra Pound's In a Station of the Metro3 so much; it's a minimalist poem that evokes the feel of the haiku without being tethered by the constraints of it.
So what's the point of this post, other than sounding silly and pretentious? Well, I recently picked up a book at the Salvation Army of translations of poems by Bashō, Buson, and Issa, and I figured I'd waste some time by posting a few (no more than a dozen from each, I promise) of my favourites from it. All, unless otherwise noted, have been translated by Robert Hass.
1. Yes, I know: technically the poets I refer to in this entry actually wrote what's known as hokku. However, how many people actually know what hokku is?
2. For example: compare Blyth's translations with Beilensen's, the latter of whom tried to follow the 5-7-5 rules.
3. In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Bashō:
Even in Kyoto—
hearing the cuckoo's cry—
I long for Kyoto.
The oak tree:
not interested
in cherry blossoms.
The winter storm
hid in the bamboo grove
and quieted away.
When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
but radishes.
Year after year
on the monkey's face
a monkey's face.
Sad nodes—
we're all the bamboo's children
in the end.
The morning glory also
turns out
not to be my friend.
Buson:
Autumn evening—
there's joy also
in loneliness.
Chrysanthemum growers—
you are the slaves
of chrysanthemums!
Morning breeze
riffling
the caterpillar's hair.
The end of spring
lingers
in the cherry blossoms.
Issa:
Don't worry, spiders,
I keep house,
casually.
Climb Mount Fuji,
O snail,
but slowly, slowly.
(Rearranged version of a translation by R. H. Blyth.)
Children immitating cormorants
are even more wonderful
than cormorants.
Don't know about the people,
but all the scarecrows
are crooked.
(This piece is preceded by the line: "Approaching my village:". Issa was involved in a dispute with his stepmother over his father's property, and the villagers sided with her.)
All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.
Not yet become a Buddha,
this ancient pine tree,
dreaming.
The cuckoo sings
to me, to the mountain,
to me, to the mountain.
These sea slugs,
they just don't seem
Japanese.
(Written in response to a call for patriotic poems. Sea slugs, the notes say, were normally a humourous subject in Japanese verse.)
Writing shit about new snow
for the rich
is not art.
(Response to a contest sponsored by a wealthy patron on the theme of "new snow".)
The world of dew
is the world of dew.
And yet, and yet—
A bath when you're born,
a bath when you die,
how stupid.
(His death poem.)
And I just realised that this marks the second time I've posted poetry to my blog. Up next, song lyrics!
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