On the Road with Basho

Few poets personify the archetype of the wanderer so much as the 17^th century Japanese writer Matsuo Basho (1644-1694). He developed a hybrid form, haibun, to reflect both his inner and outer journeys, alternating prose passages with three brief lines that came to be known as haiku. His travels were a way for him to keep his work fresh while also giving him a freedom he wouldn’t otherwise have had as a civil servant, scholar, or monk. In 1687, he started a solo journey that’s reflected in his travelogue, Notes for My Knapsack (Oi no kabumi). Here he describes riding his horse during a storm and stopping beside rice fields*:

winter rice fields,

my horse and I — shadows

in the rain  

Rather than rely on literary allusions to cherished sites, Basho wanted to visit them in person, and this practice gives his work veracity and a sense of immediacy as in this haiku, dated 1688 and composed while on a stay at the temple of Zenko-ji, located below Mount Obasute:

dissolving all thoughts

of the four sects — moonlight

over Mount Obasute

(The reference to sects refers to the various schools of Buddhism.)

In 1689, he embarked on a five months long journey with his friend and student, Sora, and this trip is portrayed in his most well-known work, The Narrow Road to the North (Oku no hosomichi). Moved by the turn out of his pupils to see the pair off in their little boat, he composed these memorable lines: 

grasses are fading,

birds are chattering — and tears

blur the eyes of fishes

Early on, they paused at a grotto at Back View Falls (Urami-no-taki), where they sat in meditation behind the waterfall, still considered a sacred pilgrimage site today:

hearing water fall

from the inside out — entering

summer’s temple

In his final years he visited Ueno, Nara, Kyoto, Edo, and Osaka, among other places, meeting with students, and continuing to cultivate the notion of lightness, or karumi. In Osaka, he became ill and died there in the fall of 1694. These are among his last lines, reflecting his dedication to haiku, renga, and life on the road: 

on the vast way —

not tilling the same small plot

year after year

worn and ill —

this traveling heart lingers

in autumn fields

*all haiku versions by jg

New Poems and Haiku

Thanks to the editors of the River Heron Review’s Poems, for Now, for selecting an ekphrastic poem inspired by the early Chinese painting, Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute: The Story of Lady Wenji. The painted scroll (artist unknown) and poems by Lui Shang still resonate today with themes of war and its consequences.Thanks also to the editors of the upcoming Buddhist Haiku Anthology: The Awakened One, to the editors of Cattails, a journal from the United Haiku and Tanka Society, and to Wales Haiku Journal. 

The Fires

As I write this, over a million acres have burned on the west coast, several people have died, and thousands have evacuated. The scope of the devastation is almost incomprehensible. My prayers go out to the victims of this tragedy and their families, and to all those men and women who are working to save property and lives — firefighters, healthcare workers, law enforcement, and so many others — our prayers and gratitude for your service.

The fires aren’t limited to California, Oregon, and Washington. Conditions stemming from global warming have contributed to “climate fires” in other states such as Colorado, Idaho, and Alaska. There are currently 97 large fires “that have burned 4.7 million acres across several states,” according to the National Interagency Fire Center. In Oregon, which has been particularly hard hit, the Mayor of Ashland, John Stromberg, has set up a website for contributions to help the recovery process. It can be found at ashland.or.us/ashlandresponse.