Umi ga sukoshi mieru

海が少し見える小さい窓一つもつ
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)

umi ga sukoshi mieru chiisai mado hitotsu motsu
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)

with a small window from
which you can see
the sea a little


Ozaki's being all irregular again, in this case writing a long haiku with 20 sounds. I'm not sure how best to translate 'hitotsu motsu', but above I've added 'with a' to my original translation. That first translation was influenced by a French translation I found on the net, which doesn't seem to translate 'hitotsu motsu'. This blog isn't about French I know, but 'on' in French is also more satisfying than 'you' in English, while 'one' would be far too formal as the subject. Given the strong feeling that 'I' could also be the subject, it might be better to avoid a subject altogether, if it wasn't for the fact we'd get something unwieldy like 'from/which it's possible to see/the sea a little'.

This poem was also written on Shodoshima, and I imagine Ozaki looking out the window of his hermitage at the sea. Shodoshima is most famous in Japan as the setting for the novel and later film, Twenty-Four Eyes, by native author Sakae Tsuboi. The film won the Golden Globe for best foreign film in 1955. Within Japan the island attracts many tourists, including presumably literary pilgrims, as Wikipedia tells me two other distinguished writers were born there, but I hope those pilgrims also pay tribute to Ozaki Hosai, who died there.

Alternate searches

'chisai mado'

Kare-eda

枯枝ほきほき折るによし
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)

kare-eda hoki hoki oru ni yoshi
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)

dead branches:
good for
snapping


I couldn't find 'hoki hoki' in the dictionary, not even at dic.yahoo.co.jp, but from context it's clearly the onomatopoeic sound of breaking dead branches. It presumably means the same as 'poki poki' which is in the dictionary, with the example sentence even using 'kare-eda'. I'm pretty sure I've had a similar experience before of looking for an onomatopoeic word, not being able to find it, and then finding it in a slightly different form. Incidentally, 'boki boki' is also in the dictionary, with the suggested translation, 'crunch', for breaking wood, metal or bones.

This is an almost ridiculously simple poem, but I like it with its pleasure in sound. Having written that, I suppose darker interpretations are possible, with the undertones of decay or the fragility of age perhaps. Still, until someone proves to me that it's a dark poem I'll think of it as upbeat. The previous haiku had fourteen sounds, and this one only has thirteen (rather than the seventeen of 5-7-5) but Ozaki wrote them even shorter, and probably his most famous haiku (certainly judging by its internet presence) 'seki wo shite mo hitori' (even when I cough I'm alone) had only nine sounds. That one's more difficult to think of as upbeat.

Alternate searches

'kareeda', 'hokihoki oru'

Iremono ga nai

入れものがない両手で受ける
(尾崎放哉 1885-1926)

iremono ga nai ryote de ukeru
(Ozaki Hosai 1885-1926)

no bowl,
I receive with
two hands


Now here's a man who's certainly moved away from the traditional haiku. It's difficult to know even how to break it up into three parts, because although haiku always appear in English in three lines, in Japanese they appear in just one line across or down the page. The most obvious way to break it would be in the middle to form a 7-7 pattern 'iremono ga nai / ryote de ukeru', which makes it look like the broken-off second half of a tanka, when haiku are said to have developed from the first half of the tanka. Scroll down to 'Origin and evolution' on the Wikipedia haiku page if you want to know more.

'Iremono' translates literally as something you put something in, or less literally as 'container' or 'case', so I've interpreted a bit by using 'bowl'. It's a little mysterious what Ozaki is receiving though. On this Japanese site, there's an interview with a woman who knew Ozaki (though more for being the alcoholic rector of a hermitage than a poet) when she was 12, and he was living out the last few months of his life on the island of Shodoshima. He sometimes visited her uncle, and she often spent time at her uncle's house. She says that what he received were steamed potatoes, and they wouldn't give him a bowl because he had a bad cough, and they were worried that he might spread TB. As with potatoes, it might be as well to take this story with a pinch of salt, but if true it's interesting.

Alternate searches:

'ryoute de ukeru'

Omowazu mo

思わずも/ヒヨコ生れぬ/冬薔薇
(河東碧梧桐 1873-1937)

omowazu mo / hiyoko umarenu / fuyu sobi
(Kawahigashi Hekigoto 1873-1937)

unexpectedly
a chick is born,
winter rose


Translations of this haiku are available on the net, mostly in languages other than English, though there is one in English. However, I didn't find it immediately, so I'll include my own rather similar version (which really was all my own work - not many ways you can translate this poem!) Without the furigana in my book, I'd probably have read the last two characters as 'bara', but 'sobi' is another word for 'rose'. 'Sobi' is actually three kana (そうび, which could be written 'soubi') so that preserves the 5-7-5 pattern for Kawahigashi again, despite his reputation for breaking that pattern down (maybe it was later in his career).

The form 'umarenu' struck me as a little strange here, as it looks like a negative form. However, 'nu' can apparently be a perfect form as well, describing something that has happened, and if you google 'umarenu' you find that it is also used in carols translated into Japanese talking about Jesus being born. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of Christian reference in the use of the word and what might be a miraculous winter birth. Not that I have any evidence for Kawahigashi being a Christian, but the ideas were certainly floating around at the time, with the recent interest in Western ideas. Besides this, if there is a Christian reference, there's something faintly ironic about it that might suggest a non-believer, given the gap between the 'Saviour of Mankind' and a little katakana chick.

Alternate searches:

'fuyu soubi'

Haru samushi

春寒し/水田の上の/根なし雲
(河東碧梧桐 1873-1937)

haru samushi / mizuta no ue no / ne nashi-gumo
(Kawahigashi Hekigoto 1873-1937)

spring cold:
a cloud without roots
over the paddy field


I like the way Kawahigashi juxtapositions the cloud, ready to be blown in who knows what direction by the cold spring winds, with the fixed paddy field, going nowhere. The cloud is ready to move, and it will move, but this transient moment of it hovering over the field is captured in the haiku's word picture. So there's a tension (which I suppose is part of the haiku spirit) between the fixed words of the poem, and the impermanence of the moment.

I found some interesting information about Hekigoto at this page. It seems he knew Masaoka Shiki (six years older), when he was a boy and was taught baseball by him (Shiki was a big baseball fan and wrote some tanka about the sport). He became a disciple of Shiki and further loosened the rules of haiku by getting rid of the 5-7-5 count for lines, a style that became known as 新傾向俳句 ('shin keiko haiku' or literally 'New Trend Haiku'). However, you've probably noticed the above poem sticks to the traditional pattern.

Alternate searches:

'nenashi gumo', 'nenashigumo'

Benkei ni

弁慶に/五条の月の/寒さかな
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)

benkei ni / gojo no tsuki no / samusa kana
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)

cold enough
even for Benkei
on Gojo under the moon


There's a story behind this one. Benkei was a warrior monk, and he set himself the task of collecting 1000 swords by duelling with passing warriors on Gojo Bridge in Kyoto. He got to 999, but the next warrior he met was Minamoto no Yoshitsune who defeated him, and Benkei subsequently became Yoshitsune's loyal follower. There's more than a hint of Robin Hood and Little John about this part of the story. I'm not sure whether the episode is part of the literary classic The Tale of the Heike, but many of Yoshitsune and Benkei's later adventures were, cementing the two men's place in Japanese culture. You can read about Benkei at Wikipedia, and there have also been several pictures of their duel, for example this one.

I've found it a little difficult to translate the poem (reasonably!) elegantly. The sentiment seems to be something along the lines of 'It's cold tonight. I bet even Benkei (who was such a tough guy), when he was on Gojo Bridge at night (waiting for passing warriors), would have felt this kind of cold.' Incidentally, there is a Japanese interpretation here, which helped me. This would be a good haiku to memorise and use when you're next in Japan and someone talks about how cold it is, 'samui, ne'. Casually repeat the haiku and you'll sound really clever (or possibly really smug and annoying).

Alternate searches:

'gojou no tsuki no'

Nagaki hi ya

永き日や/欠伸うつして/別れ行く
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)

nagaki hi ya / akubi utsushite /wakare yuku
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)

a long day,
we swap yawns
and part


I've finally got a book out from the university library about grammar in the old days in Japan. As such I now know that 'nagaki' used to be the standard form for 'nagai', at least when it came just before the noun. If it came at the end of the sentence, it would be 'nagashi'. I don't want to discuss grammar in too much detail, and throw around grammatical terms I've only just learnt, so I won't. Suffice it only to say that Japanese grammar used to be at least a little more complicated than the grammar you need to get by today.

Apparently this poem was written when Soseki, then 29, parted with the poet, Kyoshi Takahama at Matsuyama. I can't find any further information about this particular haiku, but Soseki was teaching English at Matsuyama, where Takahama also lived, until in 1896 (when he was 29) he moved to Kumamoto. So we could speculate that the poem was written about this particular parting. Unfortunately, it seems to me like a haiku where knowing something about the background would enhance it. Taken literally, I find it a little dull.

Harawata ni

腸に/春滴るや/粥の味
(夏目漱石 1867-1916)

harawata ni / haru shitataru ya / kayu no aji
(Natsume Soseki 1867-1916)

spring dripping
into the guts,
the taste of gruel


According to a few Japanese websites (including this one), the above haiku refers to a specific moment in Soseki's life, when he was recovering from a critical illness. He went to stay at a spa in Shuzenji to treat a stomach ulcer, but his condition got worse and he started spitting blood. During his recovery, he was unable to eat for a long time, until finally he was allowed a bowl of gruel, which seemed to him incredibly delicious. Until I discovered this fact, I was considering translating 'kayu' as 'porridge', which has more tasty connotations in English than 'gruel' (for me at any rate).

It should also be noted that 'harawata' translates directly as 'guts' or 'intestines', but figuratively as the heart. When I originally translated this, I wrote 'spring dripping /on the heart', but having a look at the page for 'harawata' on Yahoo! (jp) dictionary, it doesn't seem like quite the right heart (not the kokoro). I've come to prefer the 'guts' version as more immediate and direct, though I'm still not certain it's nearer the mark.

Tsuku tsuku boshi

ツクツクボーシ/ツクツクボーシ/バカリナリ
(正岡子規 1867-1902)

tsuku tsuku boshi / tsuku tsuku boshi / bakari nari
(Masaoka Shiki 1867-1902)

nothing but
cic-cic-cicada
cic-cic-cicada


Well, I did my best on the translation. The tsuku tsuku boshi is a kind of cicada that appears between late summer and early autumn, and its name comes from the sound it makes. Natsume Soseki and Lafcadio Hearn both write about this particular cicada, Soseki referencing them in Kokoro, with the narrator noting how they put him in a 'strangely sorrowful mood', and Hearn writes that their music is 'exactly like the song of a bird'. If you're curious to hear the tsuku tsuku boshi, you can head over to the relevant page in Wikipedia (ja), scroll down and press the play button. I wasn't too impressed with that, so I followed the external link to find something that sounded more like 'tsuku tsuku boshi'. This is better, though it's a Quicktime file which always takes a moment to load for me (maybe you too).

Back to the haiku, which is rather minimalist, and I imagine might have caused some controversy back in the day. I'm not a huge fan of turning everything into katakana, though I'm a little embarrassed to say that because it sounds rather snobbish. It seems a little like someone writing in ALL CAPS, if not so extreme. But there is something I like about this poem, which is perhaps the aptness of the subject matter to the idea. Those cicadae just go on and on, without getting bored, and this particular kind are endlessly enacting themselves through saying their names.

Alternate searches:

'tsuku tsuku boushi'

Yo no naka no

世の中の/重荷おろして/昼寝かな
(正岡子規 1867-1902)

yo no naka no / omoni oroshite / hirune kana
(Masaoka Shiki 1867-1902)

dropping the
world's burden:
afternoon nap


Once again there is 'kana' in the haiku. It seems this afternoon sleep is very important to Shiki somehow, but in English an exclamation mark or dot dot dot at the end would look absurd. Another point to note in the translation is that 'oroshite' would probably translate more directly as 'laying down' than 'dropping', but I felt that didn't scan too well. Perhaps I'm being a little flippant about Shiki's sleep, as the point is not so much about forty winks, as taking some time out from work and returning refreshed. It's a rather simple point perhaps, but in this case I don't feel there's anything else behind the poem.

Having said which, it's beautifully expressed. I'm reluctant (and probably unable) to unpick all the sounds, the effects of the recurring 'o's and 'n's, but they do combine to achieve a wonderful poem, making it far more than its straightforward 'meaning'. With today's haiku by Shiki, and previous haiku by Buson and Issa, I've now looked at one from each of three of the four great masters of the form. The remaining figure is Basho, of course, and due to his fame, all of the poems in my book by Basho are readily available elsewhere on the internet.