Poetry is not everybody’s cup of tea. Nobel laureates Joseph Brodsky, Derek Walcott, and Seamus Heaney (friends, they were—ah, to be a fly on the wall when those three got together) suggest that literature in general and poetry in particular are the best tools for prying open the closed mind.

To acquire a taste for poetry is less difficult if the poems are neither lengthy nor too complex. Hamlet, despite Shakespeare’s reputation, might put one off. Many poems by Robert Frost might serve though it could be argued that he lacks elegance. 

The cup pictured above is both simple and elegant. Many kayaks possess the same qualities. Classical guitars are relatively simple and certainly elegant. Simplicity is the quality of being plain or natural. Elegance, in this sense, is the quality of gracefulness and, perhaps, ingenuity.

Haiku are simple poems of seventeen Japanese syllables. With their origin some 800 years ago, they began as humorous and sometimes ribald forms of expression for Japanese wits much like the limerick in English. There was a young man from Boston who used to drive an Austin … That sort of business.

In the 17^th century Matsuo Bashō changed all that. He was an inveterate traveler, walking many miles throughout Japan. His most famous composition is The Narrow Road To The Deep North. This book and his other travel journals were not only examinations of famous places in Japanese history, but also deep probes into his own psyche. His writing combined prose and poetry and both formal and informal themes.

Sleeping in a stall—fleas, lice, horse pissing nearby

Poems such as these are accessible and a good place to begin acquiring a taste for words so arranged. What elevated Bashō from both his contemporaries and his predecessors was his ability to select just the right word that captured a moment in his travels, but also offered insight and reflection. So, while his poetry may be an ideal place to begin, there seems to be no end to the consideration one might give to his words.

Breaking the silence of an ancient pond, a frog jumps into water—a deep resonance

Connoisseurs have spent lifetimes on those few words. The reason lies in the nature of the Japanese language. The initial suggestion was to begin with Japanese haiku. Even in translation, these poems offer more for the reader than do haiku in English or other languages. 

The penchant for rendering English haiku in three lines of five, seven, and five syllables is strictly an affectation. Bashō wrote his poems in one line that was either horizontal or vertical. Translations of Japanese haiku, older verses especially, are often given with the original kanji included. Kanji are the Chinese characters the Japanese adopted for their written language. This provides an opportunity for the reader to explore another dimension of the poems.

Kanji are simply picture words, miniature works of art. Anyone who enjoys jigsaw puzzles will have no problem deciphering kanji. A literal translation is not difficult to come by. Deciding on a more figurative rendering becomes something to ponder. Consider the title of Bashō’s most famous work:

Oku no Hosomichi

Pronunciation is straightforward. The vowels and consonant are much like Italian. Unlike English, there are no stressed syllables. The repetitive ‘o’ sound in the title is intentional; and this, of course, is lost in translation.

Nobuyuki Yuasa, whose rendering of the work has become a classic, suggests: Narrow Road to the Deep North

Others prefer Journey to the Interior. Literally, ‘oku’ means interior, ‘no’ gives to, and ‘hosomichi’ narrow road or path. The key point is contained in the word ‘oku.’ The notion of ‘interior,’ given the nature of Bashō’s intent, seems essential to any credible translation.

Nobuyuki is known for his figurative translations. Jane Reichhold, author of Bashō, The Complete Haiku, is more literal. Shades of meaning and depth of understanding are what are at stake.

Bashō’s so called ‘death poem,’ recited to his disciples, was translated by Reichold as:

ill on a journey

dreams in a withered field

wander around

My translation:

Sick on my journey,  dreams wander the withered  field

旅に病んで　夢は枯野を　かけ廻る
tabi ni yande/ yume wa kareno wo/ kakemeguru

廻

The character above translates (see jisho.org) as ‘go around,’ ‘revolve’ and so becomes ‘wander.’ Japanese verbs, like German, come at the end of the sentence. Kakemeguru currently means ‘to rush about.’ For Bashō, in 1689, the word meant ‘to drift’ or ‘amble.’ Wander is sufficient and offers the alliteration with withered.

As Emerson suggested and others have seconded, art is all in the details. And once one is immersed in such minutiae as rhyme, alliteration, cutting words, season words, let alone meaning, one tends to leave one’s ego nestled quietly within the grey matter of one’s frontal lobe.

Information on Basho, The Complete Poems and The Narrow Road To The Deep North can be found in BOOKS.