Learn from the pine. By Basho

Ushibori by Kawase 1930 AIC Bruce Goff Collection

 Learn from the pines by Basho

LEARN about pines from the pine, and about bamboo from the bamboo.

Don't follow in the footsteps of the old poets, seek what they sought.

The basis of art is change in the universe. What's still has changeless form. Moving things change, and because we cannot put a stop to time, it continues unarrested. To stop a thing would be to halve a sight or sound in our heart.

Cherry blossoms whirl, leaves fall, and the wind flits them both along the ground. We cannot arrest with our eyes or ears what lies in such things. Were we to gain mastery over them, we would find that the life of each thing had vanished without a trace.

Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things-mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.

One should know that a hokku is made by combining The secret of poetry lies in treading the middle path between the reality and the vacuity of the world.

One must first of all concentrate one's thoughts on an ob-ject. Once one's mind achieves a state of concentration and the space between oneself and the object has disappeared, the essential nature of the object can be perceived. Then express it immediately. If one ponders it, it will vanish from the mind.

Sabi is the color of the poem. It does not necessarily refer to the poem that describes a lonely scene. If a man goes to war wearing stout armor or to a party dressed up in gay clothes, and if this man happens to be an old man, there is something lonely about him. Sabi is something like that.

When you are composing a verse, let there not be a hair's breadth separating your mind from what you write.

Quickly say what is in your mind; never hesitate a mo-ment.

Composition must occur in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree, or a swordsman leaping at his enemy. It is also like cutting a ripe watermelon with a sharp knife or like taking a large bite at a pear.

Is there any good in saying everything?

In composing hokku, there are two ways: becoming and making. When a poet who has always been assiduous in pursuit of his aim applies himself to an external object, the

color of his mind naturally becomes a poem. In the case of the poet who has not done so, nothing in him will become a poem; he consequently makes the poem through an act of personal will.

Haikai exists only while it's on the writing desk. Once it's taken off, it should be regarded as a mere scrap of paper.

There are three elements in baikai. Its feeling can be called loneliness (sabi). This plays with refined dishes, but contents itself with humble fare. Its total effect can be called elegance. This lives in figured silks and embroidered bro-cades, but does not forget a person clad in woven straw. Its language can be called aesthetic madness. Language resides in untruth and ought to comport with truth. It is difficult to reside in truth and sport with untruth. These three elements do not exalt a humble person to heights. They put an exalted person in a low place.

The profit of haikai lies in making common speech right.

If you describe a green willow in the spring rain it will be excellent as a renga verse. Haikai, however, needs more homely images, such as a crow picking mud snails in a rice paddy.

The hokku has changed repeatedly since the distant past, but there have only been three changes in the haikai link.

In the distant past, poets valued lexical links. In the more recent past, poets have stressed content links. Today it is best to link by reflection (utsuri), reverberation (bibiki), scent (nioi), or status (kurai).

In this mortal frame of mine, which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices, there is something, and this some-thing can be called, for lack of a better name, a windswept spirit, for it is much like thin drapery that is torn and swept away by the slightest stirring of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind or another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, or at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either by its unquenchable love of po-etry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore it hangs on to it more or less blindly.

Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.

After wandering from place to place I returned to Edo and spent the winter at a district called Tachibana, where I am still, though it is already the second month of the new year.

During this time I tried to give up poetry and remain silent, but every time I did so a poetic sentiment would solicit my heart and something would flicker in my mind. Such is the magic spell of poetry. Because of it, I abandoned everything and left home; almost penniless, I have kept myself by going around begging. How invincible is the power of poetry to reduce me to a tattered beggar.

There is a common element permeating Saigyo's lyric po-etry, Sog's linked verse, Sesshu's painting, and Rikyu's tea seremony. It is the poetic spirit Jurabo, the spirit that

s never found others. Indeed, ever

of the seasons.

leads one to follow nature and become a triend with things

For a person who has the spirit, everything he sees becomes a flower, and everything he imagines turns

oubts of one pear

into a moon.

Those who do not see the flower are no different from barbarians, and those who do not imagine the security by entering

moon are akin to beasts. Leave barbarians and beasts be-

hind; follow nature and return to nature.

wished

Every form of insentient existence-plants, stones, or

to measure

be a scholar, but it

utensils -has its individual feelings similar to those of men.

chable love of po-

an the art of writ-

When we observe calmly, we discover that all things have

their fulfillment.

it more or less

One need not be a haikai poet, but if someone doesn't live inside ordinary life and understand ordinary feelings, he's not likely to be a poet.

Clad in a black robe, I was neither a priest nor an ordinary man, for I wandered ceaselessly, like a bat that passes for a bird at one time and a mouse at another.

I always feel when sitting in company with Kikaku at the same party that he is anxious to compose a verse that will please the whole company. I have no such intention.

Le's admirable to have an undistracted mind, praiseworthy to be without worldly talent and knowledge. The same can be said of a homeless wanderer, but leading a life so liberated requires an iron will.

Since ancient times, those with a feeling for poetry did not mind carrying knapsacks on their backs or purting straw sandals on their feet or wearing simple hats that barely pro. tected them from the elements. They took delight in dinci plining their minds through hardship and thereby attaining a knowledge of the true nature of things.

One needs to work to achieve enlightenment and then re. turn to the common world.

The bones of haikai are plainness and oddness.

A verse that has something interesting in it is all right, even if its meaning isn't very clear.

Eat vegetable soup rather than duck stew.

The style I have in mind is a light one both in form and in structure, like the impression of looking at the sandy bed of a shallow river.

The leaves of the basho tree are large enough to cover a lute. When they flutter in the wind, they remind me of the injured tail of a phoenix, and when they are torn, they remind me of a dragon's ears. The tree does bear flowers, but unlike other flowers there is nothing gay about them. The big trunk of the tree is untouched by the ax, for it is utterly useless to build with. The monk Huai-su wrote on the leaves, and Chang Heng-ch'u saw the new leaves unfurling and took incentive in hsi studies. I love the tree, however, for its very uselessness. I take my ease in its shade and am fond of it because it is so easily torn by wind and rain.