Anthology of Japanese Literature (42 page)

CONVERSATIONS WITH KYORAI

[
Kyoraish
ō
]
by Mukai Kyorai

The brevity and apparent simplicity of the seventeen-syllabled
haiku
led to its wide popularity in Japan, where only a very inarticulate person remained incapable of an extemporary verse. However, in the hands of its masters, the
haiku,
far from representing an impromptu reaction to the sights of nature, was usually a highly conscious form of verse, demanding compliance with exacting aesthetic principles. Bash
ō
(1644-94) was famous not only as the supreme
haiku
poet, but as the foremost interpreter of its theories. His conversations with his pupil Kyorai (1651-1704) contain a fair sample of his views. Some of them are translated below.

The method employed by Kyorai in demonstrating various facets of "the Master's" opinions was to give a verse, either a
haiku
or a four teen-syllabled "second verse
" (waki),
and then report what the Master said about it. The notes in brackets are intended to help elucidate special points.

[
One of the ideals of the
haiku
was to have each word indispensable and inalterable, no doubt a product of the brevity of the form. In the following conversation a critic suggests that the wording of a poem by Bash
ō
might have been changed.]

The Master said, "Shohaku criticized this poem on the grounds that I might just as well have said "Tamba" instead of "
Ō
mi," or "departing year" instead of "departing spring." How does this criticism strike you?" Kyorai replied, "Sh
ō
haku's criticism completely misses the mark. What could be more natural than to regret the passing of the spring, when the waters of the Lake of
Ō
mi are veiled so enchantingly in mist? Besides, it is especially fitting in a poem written by one like yourself who is living by the lake." The Master said, "Yes, the poets of old loved spring in this province almost as much as in Kyoto." Kyorai, deeply struck by these words, continued, "If you were in
Ō
mi at the close of the year, why should you regret its passing? Or, if you were in Tamba at the end of spring, you would not be likely to have such feelings. What truth there is in the poetry of a man who has been genuinely stirred by some sight of nature!" The Master said, "Kyorai, you are a person with whom I can talk about poetry." He was very pleased.

. .

One day when the Master was lying on his sickbed in Osaka, he called me to him and said, "This verse resembles one I composed not long ago at Sonome's house:

I have therefore changed the 'Clear cascades' verse to:

The rough draft of the original version must be in Yamei's house. Please destroy it." But it was too late—the poem had already appeared in several collections.

. .

[
"The Monkey's Cloak
" (Sarumino)
was a collection of verse by Bash
ō
and members of his school, published in 1691. In the following, Bash
ō
is struck by the words "skylark of Akashi" because of the graceful allusion to another poem
.]

This poem was being considered for inclusion in "The Monkey's Cloak." Kyorai said, "It's just like the Master's

It should not be included." The Master said, "The 'skylark of Aka-shi' is not a bad image." Kyorai replied, "I don't know about the 'skylark of Akashi,' but the poem merely substitutes a boat for a horse. It shows no originality." The Master commented, "He hasn't made any advance in the conception of the verse, but you may include it or not as you please on the basis of the Akashi skylark." We finally did not include it.

. .

[
The art of making a
haiku
from a trifling incident.
]

Kyorai said, "Kikaku is really a clever writer. Who else would ever have thought of writing a poem merely about being bitten by a flea?" The Master said, "You're quite right. He deals with trifling matters in a most eloquent way." This criticism seemed to me to describe Kikaku's art completely.

. .

[
Bash
ō
likens himself to a wild duck stricken while in flight; a fisherman's hearth has not only crickets but shrimps.]

When wc were compiling "The Monkey's Cloak" we were asked to choose one of these two poems for inclusion. Bonch
ō
said, "The verse about the sick wild duck is good, but the other about the crickets mixing with the little shrimps has a freshness which makes it truly outstanding." Kyorai answered, "The verse about the shrimps is unusual, but had I noticed the scene in the fisherman's hut I could have written it myself. The one about the wild duck, on the other hand, is so noble in tone, so subtly perceptive, that I wonder how anyone could have conceived it." After some discussion we finally asked permission to include both verses. The Master later said, laughing, "You seem to have argued yourselves into thinking that a sick duck and a litde shrimp have about equal value."

. .

[
In the attempt to make the
haiku
as suggestive as possible, deliberately ambiguous language was often used. Here, however, Basho discovers a meaning in Kyorai's poem which the author did not think of
.]

Kyorai said, "Shad
ō
thinks that the last line should be 'monkey of the moon,' but I think that 'guest' is better." The Master said, "How can he suggest such a word as 'monkey'? What had you in mind when you wrote the poem?" Kyorai answered, "One night, when I was walking in the mountains by the light of the harvest moon, composing poetry as I went along, I noticed another poet standing by the crags." The Master said, "How much more interesting a poem it would be if by the lines 'Here too is someone, guest of the moon' you meant yourself. You must be the subject of the verse."

. .

[
Shimoky
ō
was a very quiet district of Kyoto
.]

This verse at first lacked an opening line, and everyone from the Master downward tried to think of one. At length the Master settled on the above line. Bonch
ō
said "yes" to it, but still didn't seem satisfied. The Master said, "Bonch
ō
, why don't you think of a better opening line? If you do, I'll never write another
haiku!'
Kyorai said, "Anyone can see how good a line it is, but it's not so easy to appreciate that no other line would do. If members of some other school heard what you said, they would think that you were ridiculously pleased with yourself, and they would make up any number of opening lines. But the ones which they considered to be good would seem laughably bad to us."

. .

[
The difference in subjects suited to the classical
waka
and the
haiku.]

When I asked the Master what he thought of this verse, he pondered for a long time without saying whether it was good or bad. I mistakenly thought that, master though he was, he didn't know how hunters wait at night for a boar to return to his lair at dawn, and I explained it all to him in great detail. Then he remarked, "The interest of that sight was familiar even to the poets of former times. That is why we have the
waka:

When a subject can be treated even within the elegant framework of the
waka,
there does not seem to be much point in giving so prosy a description within the freer compass of the
haiku
. The reason why I stopped to think for a while was that the verse seemed somehow interesting, and I was wondering if something couldn't be done with it. But I fear it's hopeless."

. .

[
Kyorai takes Bash
ō
too literally
.]

When I was first studying haiku I asked the Master how to write an opening verse. He replied, "It must be written firmly and clearly." As a test of my abilities I composed the above verse. When I asked his opinion of it, he gave a great laugh and said, "You still haven't got the ideal"

. .

[
Bash
ō
's technique in linked-verse demonstrated: by evoking the excitement caused by the blossoming of the cherry tree he gives a most dramatic picture of the arrival of spring in a dark wood
.]