Shiki's Haikai Taiyō

俳諧大要  Haikai Taiyō

俳諧  = haikai

大 = large; big; great; huge; vast; major; important; main

要 = main point; essential point; important thing; need, essence, pivot, key to

= 大要  essence, essentials

Often rendered as "Outline of Haikai"

Online source text:

https://aozorashoin.com/title/57350

Version source text: "Haikai Taiyo" (Outline of Haikai), Iwanami Bunko, Iwanami Shoten  

First edition published May 5, 1955 (Showa 30)  

Second revised edition published September 16, 1983 (Showa 58)  

Eighth printing published November 5, 1989 (Heisei 1)

Original source text:
First published in: "Nihon" (Japan), Nihon Newspaper Company  October 22, 1895 (Meiji 28) – December 31, 1895

This translation: mainly machine translation (DeepL)
The final (8th) section on renga is omitted from this translation.

At any points of confusion please refer to the original Japanese text.

— Keith Evetts 26 June 2026

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The Essentials of Haikai

Masaoka Shiki

Here was a blind haiku poet named Hanayama. Though he did not follow in the tradition of Mōichi, he simply began composing hokku. Gradually, after less than half a year of trying his hand at this art, his voice rang out with such clarity that listeners pricked up their ears. One night, he visited my temporary lodging, and as we sat together enjoying the sound of the insects, I too wished to compose a haiku, but had no guidelines to rely on. I earnestly pleaded with him, “Please write down for me the essentials I need to understand.” He replied, “As you wish,” “In days of old, I heard the blind man say, ‘Follow me, follow me.’ Though I do not claim to have studied that sage, I will pass on what I recall, mixed with my own words. Since it resonates so clearly in the ear, it must surely be a sign of true enlightenment.” With that, I took up my brush and, in haste, jotted down only the bare outline of these principles to present to the members of the Shōfū-kai. Please be so kind as to pass this on to Hanazan-shi.

Standards for Haiku

—Haiku is a part of literature. Literature is a part of the fine arts. Therefore, the standard of beauty is the standard of literature. The standard of literature is the standard of haiku. Consequently, painting, sculpture, music, theater, poetry, and fiction can all be evaluated according to the same standard.

— Beauty is relative, not absolute. Therefore, one should not judge the beauty or lack thereof of a single poem or a single painting in isolation. If one does so, it is only by implicitly comparing it to the many poems and paintings stored in one’s memory.

—The standard of beauty resides in the emotions of each individual. The emotions of each individual are unique. Therefore, the standard of beauty is also unique to each individual. Furthermore, even the same person may experience different emotions depending on the occasion. Therefore, the same person’s standard of beauty also varies with the occasion.

—If we assume that the standard of beauty resides in each individual’s emotions, then does a standard of beauty exist a priori? Even if we assume that a standard of beauty exists a priori (or a standard of beauty that hits the mark), we cannot know what that standard is. Consequently, we cannot know how individual standards differ from one another. In other words, such an innate standard has no relation whatsoever to our own art.

—When comparing individual standards of beauty, although there are minor differences within broad similarities and minor similarities within broad differences, an induction based on various facts reveals that, overall and over the long term, they tend to move in roughly the same direction. To use an analogy: ships traveling from the Southern Hemisphere to the Northern Hemisphere may head northeast or northwest at times, or due east or due west, or even south at other times; yet, when we look at the overall result, it is as if they are all heading from south to north. If this direction can be named the “innate standard of beauty,” then it should indeed be so named. For the sake of argument, let us call this the “general standard of beauty.”

—If the same person applies different standards of beauty at different times, the later standards generally tend to approximate the general standard. Among people of the same era who hold different individual standards of beauty, the standards of those with scholarly knowledge generally tend to approximate the general standard. However, in special cases, this is not necessarily the case.

Haiku and Other Forms of Literature

—The distinction between haiku and other forms of literature lies in their differing rhythms. Other forms of literature may or may not have a fixed rhythm. However, haiku has a fixed rhythm. Although it is generally said that a single haiku consists of three lines of five, seven, and five syllables, there are also forms with six, seven, and five syllables; five, eight, and five syllables; or six, eight, and five syllables, among countless other minor variations. Therefore, haiku should not be strictly distinguished from other forms of literature.

First, there is no question of superiority or inferiority when comparing the rhythms of haiku with those of other literary forms. The suitability of a rhythm depends solely on the subject matter being described. For example, complex subjects are suited to novels or long poetic works, while simple subjects are suited to haiku, waka, or short poetic works. Simplicity is the strength of Chinese poetry; precision is the strength of European and American poetry; grace is the strength of waka; and lightness and wit are the strengths of haiku. However, this does not mean that haiku entirely lacks simplicity, precision, or grace—nor do other literary forms.

—The standard of beauty lies in the sense of beauty. Therefore, nothing other than the sense of beauty influences the standard of beauty. What is admired by the masses is not necessarily beautiful; what is practiced in high society is not necessarily beautiful; and what was created in past eras is not necessarily beautiful. Therefore, haiku is not beautiful simply because it is generally fancied, nor is it unbeautiful simply because it is practiced in lower social circles. It is not beautiful simply because it is one’s own creation, nor is it un-beautiful simply because it is the work of a contemporary.

—Generally speaking, there is no question of superiority or inferiority when comparing haiku to other forms of literature. Those who compose Chinese poetry regard Chinese poetry as the highest form of literature; those who compose waka regard waka as the highest form of literature; and those who favor plays and novels regard plays and novels as the highest form of literature. However, these are merely individual opinions. While those who regard haiku as the supreme form of literature may also be said to hold a personal view, haiku nonetheless occupies a place within literature and is by no means inferior to other literary forms. When viewed against a general standard, this becomes self-evident.

Types of Haiku

—The types of haiku are largely the same as those of literature in general.

—Haiku can be classified according to various criteria.

—Haiku can be divided into two categories: composition and language (what the ancients referred to as “heart” and “form”). There are degrees of skill and lack of skill in both composition and language. Some are skillful in one aspect but lacking in the other; some are skillful in both; and some are lacking in both.

—When comparing composition and language, there is no fixed hierarchy of superiority or inferiority. Some excel in the beauty of their composition, while others excel in the beauty of their language. First, in design, there are forms that are vigorous, gentle, grand, delicate, elegant yet simple, graceful, profound, plain, solemn, light and lively, ingenious and striking, understated, complex, simple, serious, humorous and whimsical—and if we were to distinguish them further, there would likely be countless variations.

—Just as there are distinctions in design, so too are there distinctions in language. A vigorous design must be accompanied by vigorous language; a gentle design must be accompanied by gentle language. Elegant and unadorned language suits an elegant and unadorned design, and plain language suits a plain design. The same applies to all other cases.

—Themes can be subjective or objective. A subjective theme describes the state of one’s mind, while an objective theme describes, as they are, the objective things reflected in one’s mental image.

—Themes can be natural or human-related. Artistic expression of human affairs refers to the depiction of all matters pertaining to humanity, while artistic expression of nature refers to the depiction of all things outside of human affairs, such as astronomy, geography, living organisms, and minerals.

—None of the distinctions outlined above imply superiority or inferiority.

—All of the distinctions outlined above are merely relative. Therefore, their boundaries should not be strictly defined.

—Some individuals are capable of mastering all these variations, while others excel in only one.

—Furthermore, phenomena such as haze, heat haze, and the east wind in spring; the fragrant breeze and cloud-capped peaks in summer; dew, fog, the Milky Way, the moon, and the wild wind in autumn; and snow, sleet, and ice in winter are all fixed phenomena, and thus it is appropriate to treat them as such. However, there is certainly no objection to composing poems about summer haze in conjunction with the summer season, or about autumn cloud-capped peaks in conjunction with the autumn season.

—When one sees a theme related to the four seasons, one should immediately evoke associations with that season. For example, the word “butterfly” does not merely evoke a small scene of a fluttering little insect flying to and fro; it also conjures a scene in which, as the warmth of spring gradually sets in and plants begin to sprout, men and women in small groups enjoy themselves amidst the yellowing vegetables and green wheat. It is only through this association that infinite charm is born within the seventeen-syllable universe. Therefore, those who do not understand the associations of the four seasons ultimately do not understand haiku. It is also reasonable to say that those lacking this association will find haiku shallow and insubstantial. (It may be said that the seasonal themes used in haiku possess a unique meaning specific to haiku.)

—Many miscellaneous haiku, lacking associations with the four seasons, have shallow meanings and are unfit for recitation. However, when it comes to subjects that are majestic and grand, one does not necessarily have to wait for the changes of the seasons. Therefore, we occasionally encounter this type of miscellaneous haiku. Among the extremely few miscellaneous haiku composed since ancient times, more than half are those that praise Mount Fuji. And yet, the verses worthy of recitation are, once again, those about Mount Fuji.

—A certain person asked, “I have already heard the argument that time should be artificially limited and named to serve as a theme. Why, then, is space not limited and named in the same way?” The reply was: “Time repeats the same changes year after year in the same order; therefore, it should be limited and named.” However, changes in space lack even the slightest sense of order and are irregular. For example, mountains, rivers and seas, open fields, and farmlands—none of these follow any order. Therefore, if one wishes to name them, one must name each and every place within the scope of human perception. Such are place names. Since place names represent a distinction that is even clearer than that of time, using them in haiku is an excellent method for expressing the most complex imagery with the simplest words; yet, no single person can possibly know every place name on Earth and the scenery associated with it. Moreover, precisely because these distinctions are so clear, the scope of their application feels extremely limited. To put it another way, while place names correspond to the names of the four seasons, they are so clearly defined that they become too narrow in scope, and they are unlikely to evoke any emotion in those unfamiliar with the place. In other words, while anyone can readily understand the changes of the four seasons, many people in Tokyo are unfamiliar with the famous sites of Saikyo, just as many people in Saikyo are unfamiliar with the famous sites of Tokyo.

The First Stage of Study

—If you wish to compose haiku, you should write down whatever comes to mind. Do not seek sophistication; do not hide your clumsiness; and do not be ashamed in front of others.

—The moment you decide to compose a haiku—whether it be half a verse or a full verse—you should write it down. Beginners often give up simply because they cannot fit the idea that has come to mind into seventeen syllables; this is a great loss. If it does not fit into seventeen syllables, fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, nineteen, or even twenty-two or twenty-three syllables are perfectly acceptable. It is also a mistake to abandon an idea simply because you do not know elegant or sophisticated words. Whether it be refined language, colloquial speech, Chinese terms, or Buddhist terms—it does not matter; one should strive to craft a single verse of verse, even if it requires some effort.

—From the very beginning, there are those who ask about the “kireji” (cutting word), seasonal themes, and kana usage. While it is good to know many things, mere knowledge does not guarantee one’s ability to compose haiku well. There are many examples in the world of people who, despite knowing nothing of grammar, compose skillful poems that astonish others. One should understand that haiku, in particular, has absolutely no regard for language, grammar, cutting words, or kana usage. However, those who wish to learn should gradually acquire this knowledge.

—When composing haiku, it is good to show your work to a senior practitioner in the field and ask for guidance. It is actually counterproductive for a beginner to feel ashamed. Haiku composed during the early stages are often free from vulgarity and quite good, whereas once one becomes slightly more skilled, one often falls into vulgarity.

—Although it is unwise for a beginner to refrain from composing haiku simply out of shame, the underlying motivation—the desire to produce good haiku—is a very commendable one. I wish to hold onto this mindset for years to come.

—There are those who compose many haiku themselves but do not show them to others. If you feel there is no one from whom to seek guidance, it is acceptable not to show them. Through the act of composing many haiku, inspiration naturally arises. It may seem somewhat roundabout—as if you are spending months or years of arduous effort to gradually discover something that a senior practitioner could explain in a single sentence—but it is actually not at all roundabout. What is gained through such toil and hardship sinks deeply into the mind, so that it will never be forgotten (1); it is easily applied when composing haiku (2); and it will serve as a starting point for future discoveries (3).

—You should write down the poems you have composed on scraps of paper. It is also good to recite your own poems to yourself from time to time; in doing so, you may be able to express things you were previously unable to put into words. Furthermore, this serves as a way to gauge your own progress; not only is it enjoyable in itself, but it may also spur you on to the next level of improvement.

—When composing haiku, keep in mind that each poem should contain one element from each of the four seasons. However, this is not an absolute requirement.

—Whenever possible, describe the scenery of the current season; this makes associations come more readily, deepens your emotions, and makes composition easier. That said, it is by no means forbidden to think of autumn while in spring, or of winter while in summer. One should simply follow one’s inspiration as it arises.

—For those who compose haiku themselves, reading haiku from throughout history—both ancient and modern—is absolutely essential. Furthermore, one should make marked progress both in composing and in reading. When comparing one’s own haiku to the masterpieces of others, one will discover the subtle nuances in their artistic conception. When you compose your own haiku after reading others’ masterpieces, your ideas will flow freely, your tone will become natural, and you will feel as if the spirit of a master has taken possession of you.

—When you feel as though you are making significant progress, or when—for whatever reason—ideas seem to be overflowing uncontrollably, you should seize that moment without delay and compose as many haiku as you possibly can. Such moments are indeed opportunities to take a step forward and make progress; they share the same spirit as the “great enlightenment” of Buddhism and the “descent of the Holy Spirit” in Christianity, and you will feel a subtle sense of joy within your heart. However, such occurrences are common in the study of haiku. If, upon experiencing it even once, you think you have already attained complete enlightenment, you will fall into “wild fox Zen” and will not escape the cycle of reincarnation for five hundred lifetimes. One’s aspirations must be set high.

—If you wish to read haiku by the masters of old, the haiku anthologies from the Genroku, Meiwa, An’ei, and Tenmei periods are generally recommended. Among these, *Haikai Shichibu-shū*, *Zoku Shichibu-shū*, *Buson Shichibu-shū*, and *Sankei-shū* are particularly excellent. As for individual collections, one should read *The Bashō Haiku Collection* (any edition is acceptable, but be cautious as it contains a mix of good and bad poems), *The Kyōrai Hokku Collection*, *The Jōsō Hokku Collection*, and *The Buson Haiku Collection*. However, none of these are entirely free of poor verses. Among these, the ones with the fewest poor haiku are likely *Sarumino* (one of the *Haikai Shichibu-shū*), *Bushō Shichibu-shū*, and *Bushō Haiku Collection*. (*Gojin Gohyaku-dai* is widely available in bookstores and is convenient for beginners.)

—It is good to read old haiku texts; it is also good to copy them; it is good to extract and compile passages you particularly like; and it is good to categorize them under a single theme.

—Even if you borrow about half of an old haiku, as long as the other half is original, it will not feel forced. From time to time, you should take good material from old haiku and adapt it to your own style. Or, by imitating the rhythm of old haiku, you should come to understand variations in tone.

—Many who study in a conventional, run-of-the-mill style seek skill from the very beginning and prioritize subtlety. Since masters also guide them in this direction, they ultimately fall into petty tricks and never open their eyes to true insight. Beginners tend to value haiku as grand as a towering udo plant. Since udo does not grow as a garden tree, masters seem to favor artificially twisted pines and the like. Admittedly, if one intends to compose haiku within the confines of a miniature garden, such approaches may be acceptable. Indeed, the masters’ haiku are miniature-garden-like. However, the world of haiku is not so confined.

—Some beginners, seeing others attempt to express their own thoughts through old haiku, begin to doubt whether the ancients have already exhausted the possibilities of haiku. This is merely seeing uniformity and failing to perceive distinction. Try taking just one more step forward. You will come to wonder why the ancients left behind such fine themes and bestowed them upon you.

—A beginner, having been given the theme “Milky Way,” attempts to compose a haiku. The first line that comes to mind is:

Ah, the sea—the Milky Way stretches across Sado Island　　　　　　Basho

Midnight—the Milky Way has shifted its course　　　　　　Ransetsu

As the night deepens—the Milky Way above the rice paddies　　　　　　Yizen

And so on. At that moment, as I racked my brains in search of a fine verse, I felt that the essence of the Milky Way had finally been fully expressed in these three lines, leaving not even the slightest room for anything more. So I cast aside my brush, let out a deep sigh, and said, “Enough, enough.” Having since leafed through ancient haiku anthologies, I recall frequently coming across verses about the Milky Way. Even if they are not of the highest caliber, they all possess a certain tone and sensibility and are by no means trite. For example:

Do not let the rain wash away my servant—the Milky Way　　　　　　　　

Will it turn to waves?

The head of the horse being beaten—oh, the Milky Way　　　　　　Kyōrai

Is it being drawn across the sky—a single Milky Way?　　　　　　　Otokushū

Does the west wind prevail over the south?—oh, the Milky Way　　　　　　　　Fumikuni

I’ve grown accustomed to it little by little—this night’s Milky Way　　　　　Shirao

Does the Milky Way appear higher than the stars?　　　　　　Ibid.

The shadow flowing along the river—the Milky Way　　　　　　Kyōtai

Does the Milky Way seem close enough to leap into?　　　　　Shirō

The coolness of the Milky Way’s clearing has passed me by　　　　　　Ibid.

The Milky Way—is it right above where I speak with Tamori?　　　　　　Otsuni

The end of the pole used to hang laundry to dry—is that the Milky Way?　　　　　Rangai

　　Mount Kyogō

The mountain wind—both the oak and the cypress—the Milky Way　　　　　　　　　Ibid.

When I consider how these stories can be moving, comical, grand, sincere, eccentric, or as varied as the people who tell them, I realize that my initial conception was indeed rather clumsy; because I had viewed the Milky Way merely as a vast expanse in the sky, no creative ideas came to mind. Indeed, if one were to imagine the Tanabata stars as human beings, tugging at their hems as they cross the Milky Way for the sake of love, it might be quite amusing. When I look up at the Milky Way from horseback as dusk falls; when it hangs white against the dense, lush trees on a mountain; or when, while chatting with someone along the way, I suddenly look up and see the Milky Way seeming to fall upon the nape of my neck— if one does not view the Milky Way as a vast expanse but instead imagines it as a ditch two or three shaku wide; or if one sees the Milky Way fluttering like a kokubihimo or a kubikon offered as an offering on Tanabata—depending on how one looks at it, a single strand of the Milky Way can take on countless forms, and one comes to understand this.

—When one has merely heard or seen two or three of another’s poems, one feels as though there are no other ideas. However, when one sees and hears ten, twenty, or even a hundred poems, one will instead gain countless new ideas. The way the ancients avoided reading old poems for fear that their own creative vision might already have been expressed is an act even more ridiculous than covering one’s ears while stealing a bell.

—It is good to try composing one haiku per topic across many topics; alternatively, it is also good to explore as many variations as possible from a single topic—such as ten haiku per topic or even a hundred.

—When attempting to compose, say, one hundred haiku on a single theme, you will likely find the first four or five extremely difficult to craft. After that, it will become somewhat easier; once you reach twenty or thirty, you should be able to compose the remaining hundred in no time, and you will likely feel capable of producing another hundred or so.

—It is also good to compete with others for rankings or points. However, competing for prizes such as cash rewards is vulgar and not something a gentleman should do. Winning the lower volume or a volume of haiku is not difficult. Depending on the occasion, it is also appropriate to offer a book on haiku as a prize.

—One must not engage in matters related to personal gain, such as the Mikasa-zuke contest, prize-winning haiku contests, or gambling.

—It is acceptable to compose dozens or hundreds of haiku in an hour, or to spend several days refining a single haiku. Composing quickly fosters boldness, while composing with great care fosters caution.

—If there are words or subjects in a haiku that you cannot understand, you should consult an index or ask a scholar to clarify them. If you can clearly understand all the words and subjects but still cannot grasp the meaning of the haiku, you should reflect on it deeply yourself. If you still cannot understand it after deep reflection, then ask a scholar.

—Many beginners, when interpreting haiku, seek to uncover the author’s ideal. However, haiku that are purely idealistic are extremely rare; the vast majority describe things as they are. Indeed, artistic merit is often found more in the latter. For example,

An old pond—a frog jumps in; the sound of water　　　　　　　　Basho

When seeing this haiku, some people may try to read too much into it—wondering if the author’s ideal was to express tranquility and solitude, if it is a verse expressing enlightenment in Zen Buddhism, or if it points to some other meaning—but it should simply be viewed as a haiku that stands on its own, without any underlying ideal. It is simply what Basho composed upon hearing the sound of a frog plopping into an old pond.

Lightning—yesterday in the east, today in the west　　　　　　　Kikaku

This embodies the ideal of the impermanence of all phenomena; though ordinary people may regard it as a fine verse and praise it, as literature it is worthless.

First, there are always beginners who attempt to compose haiku using metaphors, difficult themes, “kanmuri-zuke” (verses with a specific title), “kanri” (verses with specific footwear), palindromes, “mekurazuke” (blind-folded haiku), and haiku on current events and miscellaneous topics. However, these conditions are all elements outside of literature; they are, so to speak, things unrelated to literature that have been cloaked in the guise of literature. Therefore, even if they are commonly recited, they do not constitute haiku. If one were to compose on such themes and yet attempt to imbue them with some literary charm, it would be a playful pastime reserved for the seasoned and mature. It is beyond the reach of a beginner.

—Those without learning find it difficult to distinguish between refined and vulgar tastes, while those with learning often stray beyond the bounds of literature by leaning too heavily toward the ideal. Nevertheless, in the end, those with learning are infinitely superior to those without.

—Those who write prose, poetry, or novels, when suddenly attempting to compose a haiku, often find the language too simple. They say, “After all, a haiku is incapable of expressing any idea.” However, this stems from a difference in the habit of association; it is impossible to achieve because they attempt to cram complex ideas entirely into seventeen syllables. If one selects a simple idea suited to haiku, it can be easily contained within seventeen syllables. Even if the subject matter is complex, if one extracts the single most literary and haiku-like element from it and contains it within seventeen syllables, it will become a haiku. Beginners should remember that composing is far more essential than debating.

—If anyone attempts to imitate the old style of haiku, the masters will dismiss them, calling their work “old-fashioned” or “a rehash.” Little do they realize that the very works they themselves delight in as novel are nothing more than rehashes from the Tenpō era onward. Even among rehashes, there is a vast difference in value between gold and lead. Beginners must not be confused by this.

—Even ancient haiku texts that expound on the theory of haikai are not suitable reading for beginners. Even works by the Shōmon school contain eight or nine out of ten errors. While their spirit may not necessarily be mistaken, their wording often fails to convey that spirit, leading to confusion among later generations—and this is the case time and again. If you wish to study kana usage, handwriting, and the like, do not turn to haiku manuals but rather to ordinary Japanese books. There are surely many such works, such as *Kogentei*, *Yachimata no Kotoba*, and *Tama no O*.

—Some say that since haikai is meant to be humorous, anything that is not humorous is not a haiku. This is a narrow-minded view worthy only of a laugh. They say this merely because they themselves happened to enter the world of haikai through something humorous. It is like a horseman who prefers cloudy sake saying that clear sake is not true sake.

—Some beginners struggle because they have not yet established their own standards; while this is certainly true, there is no need to worry about it. As you write and read more, your standards will naturally become established.

—Haiku should be written simply to amuse yourself. Thinking that others will find it interesting even if you yourself do not is the mindset of a student of a master, straining to string together scenes and objects. Those who compose with the aim of obtaining a piece of chirimen silk or a gold watch should look at their work after removing the references to the silk and the watch. They will likely find it to be a haiku so clumsy and vulgar that they are shocked by it themselves.

—It is not advisable to struggle to compose haiku when you have free time. Nor is it advisable to agonize over forcing yourself to compose haiku when you are busy. When inspiration comes, let it come; when it does not, let it be. There are times when you cannot compose even a single verse during quiet moments, yet during busy times, you can compose several verses in an instant. This is most interesting.

—It is good to set aside distracting thoughts for the sake of haiku, but you must never forget your main occupation. However, without enthusiasm, you will not progress on this path; yet, if you are too enthusiastic, you may end up neglecting your main occupation. It is up to the individual to know where to draw the line.

—Haiku themes typically draw on scenes of the four seasons. However, themes should not be limited to seasonal scenes. One should also take miscellaneous themes outside the seasons and weave in the seasonal element. Unless one attempts both, one will ultimately be unable to escape a narrow-minded perspective.

—The subject of a haiku need not necessarily be the main focus of the poem. It is sufficient simply to incorporate the subject into the verse. For example, if you are given the subject “headscarf,” making the headscarf the main focus makes the poem prone to vulgarity and banality. Therefore, do not forget to occasionally treat this subject lightly, incorporating it into the verse while shifting the focus elsewhere.

When I first traveled down to Tōbu

Taking off my headscarf, adjusting my collar—Mount Fuji shines clear　　　　Koshun

　As in this example, there is no problem with composing a haiku that focuses on Mount Fuji. If one does not do so, the work will inevitably drift into banality, and the scope for variation will narrow. Therefore, unlike in waka poetry, there is no need to nitpick over whether a haiku strictly conforms to its title or not.

—When you receive a haiku topic, it is not only acceptable to not make it the central focus, but it is also acceptable to treat the topic as a purely imaginary concept that does not exist in reality. For example, when given the autumn topic “covered in ivy”:

At the torii gate of the shrine in the fields, there was not even a trace of ivy　　　　　Ryōto

　As mentioned above, it is acceptable not to include the actual object—in this case, ivy—in the haiku itself. This still qualifies as an autumn haiku.

—In the “Tsukunami-shya” school, there is a practice called “mojimusubi” (character binding) for certain themes. For example, if the theme is “snow” and the binding character is designated as “後” (after), the character “後” must be incorporated into the haiku about snow. This is simply a precaution against the many amateur haiku poets who plagiarize or imitate the snow haiku of the ancients, or who repeatedly recycle their own old haiku, when the theme is merely “snow.” It is not something that should be done by anyone who understands morality and possesses a sense of honor and shame. Moreover, those who rely on “character-tying” will never be able to compose fine haiku.

—Even if others deem a haiku poor, if you consider it good, do not concern yourself with others’ opinions and continue to compose that style. If it is indeed a poor haiku of that style, as you compose it repeatedly over time, you will naturally come to feel aversion toward it.

— It is said that many beginners, upon seeing haiku by the masters and their contemporaries, are unable to understand them in the slightest. This is ultimately because they have seen too few classical haiku. One need not conclude that haiku is difficult to learn simply because one cannot understand the old verses. One should proceed along the path starting from what one is able to understand.

—The notion that composing haiku that are difficult to understand is a sign of sophistication is nothing more than the narrow-minded prejudice of a vulgar person. Convoluted verses are not valuable; ordinary verses are, in fact, quite valuable.

—Although the true charm of haiku lies in the fact that it cannot ultimately be interpreted and must await each person’s own realization, the interpretation of the words and phrases themselves can, of course, be easily explained. Therefore, for the sake of beginners, explanations of classical haiku should be provided, along with some criticism.

(The items listed in this first phase of study were written down as they came to mind; consequently, they are inevitably disorganized and contain some repetitions. I ask the reader to please bear with me.)

—The morning glory has taken the bucket; I had to go elsewhere to fetch water　　　　　　Chiyo

　Since the morning glory’s vine has wrapped itself around the bucket and the vine has not been cut off, the bucket cannot be retrieved; thus, it is said that the morning glory has “taken” the bucket. The meaning is that, because the bucket was taken, one had to go elsewhere to fetch water. This idea of “borrowing water” is extremely vulgar and seems like a superfluous addition. It would be better to simply state that the morning glory has “taken” the bucket. Even the phrase “taken” is extremely vulgar. It is better to simply and quietly depict the morning glory vine clinging to the bucket. Although this haiku is widely known and popular, it is too vulgar to be called a true haiku.

—The Cherry Tree by the Well: “Dangerous Sake, Drunkenness” — Shūshiki

It is said that a girl named Shūshiki, when she was thirteen, tied a ribbon to a cherry tree in Ueno; hence, the tree was named the “Shūshiki Cherry Tree,” and it remains to this day as an ancient tree surrounded by a fence behind the Kiyomizu-dō. The well itself still remains nearby. (However, according to scholars, the true location of the Akishiki Cherry Tree is not here but closer to Mount Suribachi.) The meaning of this is that a drunkard, wishing to see the cherry blossoms blooming by the well, approaches the tree without a care in the world; the phrase expresses concern that he might accidentally fall into the well. The subject of the word “dangerous” is the drunkard, not the cherry blossom. Moreover, since the term “drunkard” is not explicitly used—it is merely implied by the phrase “drunk on sake”—it is difficult to interpret this as one would a standard sentence. Now, like Chiyo’s morning glory verse, this verse is vulgar and unpalatable to the eye. However, compared to Chiyo’s, it may be slightly less vulgar.

—Troubled by mosquitoes, the mosquitoes are also troubled—the fan, oh fan...    Anonymous

    Though I do not know whose verse this is, it is one commonly circulated among the common folk. Its meaning requires no interpretation. A verse such as this is vulgar to the extreme, and even compared to the previous two verses, it ranks several levels lower. However, since many among the common folk refer to such things as “haiku,” I merely point out this delusion.

—　What is this? The flower-viewer’s sword is so long.　　　　　　　　　Kyōrai

　The meaning is that the poet reproaches a person who has gone out to view the flowers while carrying a long sword. Since it is a flower-viewing outing, one ought not to enter the crowd wielding such a formidable long sword; the poet mocks this lack of refinement, asking, “What is this?” Although these verses contain a certain degree of idealism and are thus widely circulated and praised among the common people, “famous verses” are by no means limited to this type. On the contrary, one must recognize that verses of this kind are prone to becoming vulgar. While this verse, containing such idealism, may be considered a “famous verse” of the highest order, it is extremely dangerous for beginners to study verses of this kind.

—　The sight of Higashiyama, resembling a person sleeping under a futon　　　　　　　　Arashiyuki

　Those unfamiliar with the actual landscape will find it difficult to appreciate the subtleties of this scene. One should try visiting Kyoto and gaze intently at Higashiyama. Standing near the low mountains, where the peaks rise and fall in gentle undulations, the landscape resembles a person sleeping under a futon. That is precisely why this metaphorical and evocative verse was composed. Although this verse is not one of the finest in terms of elegance, it excels in its humor and wit, and is not easily imitated. Moreover, this verse possesses a characteristic of haiku that is difficult to grasp, not only for the uninitiated but even for ordinary literary scholars. That is the fact that it is a winter season. Futons are associated with winter, and although this verse uses the futon as a metaphor, since there is nothing else that could serve as the season, it is still considered winter. If, as the uninitiated might interpret it, this verse were merely a metaphor for Mount Higa, it would be merely a bit amusing and lack any real charm; however, it is precisely because it is set in winter that it acquires its charm. Even the capital itself looks desolate in winter; amidst the bleakness and cold, when one gazes upon Mount Higashiyama, it too has shed its springtime charm and lies there desolate and cold. Yet, when one imagines it as if it were sleeping with a futon pulled over its head, there is a touch of whimsy amidst the desolation, and one feels a certain fascination. If anyone doubts this, they should contemplate this verse while viewing the Higashiyama Mountains in summer, and then again while viewing them in winter, comparing the nuances of their charm. They will surely gain some insight.

—　When I think of it as “my snow,” it feels light upon my hat　　　　　　　Sokaku

　It is commonly transmitted as “When I think of it as ‘my thing,’ the snow on my hat feels light.” However, “When I think of it as ‘my thing’” is extremely vulgar; one should follow the version “My snow.” The meaning requires no interpretation. Because this haiku has found its way into songs like the Hanauta, it gives off a somewhat sensual impression; though the common folk may find it charming, this is precisely why the verse is considered vulgar. As a verse by Sokan, it should be appreciated for its originality. If anyone were to imitate it, they would inevitably fall into the wrong path.

—　For a while, a moonlit night above the flowers　　　　　Basho

　This is a poem composed by Basho in Yoshino. It refers to the abundance of flowers in Yoshino, expressing the idea that, since the entire landscape is covered in blossoms, the moon lingers over them for a while. The use of “for a while” here implies a somewhat extended period. Although this is a verse that amateurs and enthusiasts tend to favor, it lacks depth. This is likely because the poet rushed toward an ideal rather than capturing the actual scene.

—　As if it were my own affair, the loach flees from the root of the water dropwort.　　　　　Jōsō

　Water dropwort is a sign of early spring. The idea here is that when the poet reached out to pick the water dropwort, the loach near it, perhaps fearing it would be caught, fled and hid elsewhere. The use of personification to depict the loach in a lighthearted, playful manner is a signature trait of Jōsō. Though not particularly refined, it remains a famous verse nonetheless.

—　Even the little house by the temple gate plays on the winter solstice　　　　　　Bonchō

　The winter solstice is the day when the days are at their shortest and marks the return of the yang energy. However, here it is not used in that sense. Indeed, since the winter solstice is a fixed day for memorial services in the Zen tradition, even the small household living in front of the temple gate spends this day in leisure due to its connection to the temple. It is clear from the context of the verse that “in front of the gate” refers not to the gate of an ordinary house, but to that of a temple. Furthermore, while it is unclear exactly what purpose the “small house in front of the gate” serves, judging from the context, it is evident that this is a small household that, whether directly or indirectly, makes its living from the temple. Although this is a haiku from the Genroku era, the use of Chinese-derived terms like “mon-mae” (temple gate) was rare at the time. One might wonder why, then, it resembles the style of Buson in later generations; the answer is that, since it refers to the gate of a mountain temple, it is read as “mon-mae” using the Sino-Japanese pronunciation. Not limited to mountain temple gates, Buddhist terminology often employs Sino-Japanese terms. Now, regarding the value of this haiku: while it is not inherently a haiku with lingering resonance, the fact that it is so perfectly composed—with not a single loose thread—leaves no doubt that it is the work of a master. Indeed, as a haiku about the winter solstice, it surely belongs in the highest category. The way it is expressed—with simplicity and nonchalance—actually captures the essence of the winter solstice and gives it depth.

—　“A villager has crossed, I suppose—frost on the bridge”　　　　　　　　　Sōin

　The meaning of the verse is simply that, upon seeing footprints in the frost on the bridge, the poet imagined that a villager must have hurried across. However, this haiku was composed by Sōin, the founder of the Danrin school; the purpose of the verse is not to evoke a particular mood, but rather to achieve a rhythmic harmony in the words—which is the hallmark of the Danrin style. Although this haiku uses characters such as “sō” (候), which are borrowed from Noh play dialogue, that alone does not yet create the necessary verbal harmony; surely there must be a line in a Noh play that goes, “Have the villagers crossed over?” (Though I do not recall exactly which Noh play it is from) the meaning of that Noh passage is an inquiry asking if a villager is “coming this way” in this area; however, in this haiku, the meaning of the character “wataru” (“to cross”) is repurposed—it is not used to mean “coming this way,” but rather to mean “crossing the bridge”—thereby creating the wordplay. Many Danrin-style haiku are of this sort. Now, while haiku of this sort made a notable contribution to the history of haikai, when judged by today’s standards, they are likely not worth a single word. This is solely because they lack even the slightest trace of what is called “taste” or “aftertaste.”

—　The world changes in the time it takes to go three days without seeing it—just like cherry blossoms.　　　　　　Ryōta

　This is a famous haiku known to most people. The meaning of the verse is that the transience and change of the world are akin to cherry blossoms blooming to their fullest in the blink of an eye. Since it is a haiku that anyone can easily understand and because it contains an ideal, I believe it is admired by the general public. However, as I have said before, works that contain an ideal are not necessarily good. How much more so for a haiku with such a vulgar tone as this one—it is hardly even worthy of being called a haiku. Nevertheless, as a first attempt, it is worth preserving. It is something that should never be imitated. Although it is commonly passed down as “In the three days I was away,” the version with “while I was away” is still preferable to the one with “in the three days.” Using “no” turns it into a mere metaphor, lacking flavor, whereas using “ni” makes “cherry blossoms” the subject and creates a concrete scene, thereby generating a certain charm.

—　　Morning glories—even if dyed indigo, they are not strong　　　　　　Yaru

It is commonly said that if thread is dyed indigo, it becomes strong and durable. However, this is a playful remark suggesting that even indigo-colored morning glories have a lifespan limited to that single morning and are not strong. Yaru’s haiku are generally of this sort. Although these have a certain charm, they are not the sort of things a beginner should imitate.

—　　A couple who were once to be executed by their own hands now exchange clothes　　　　　　Bushō/Buson

　This skillfully captures a plot often found in old novels. A certain man had become intimately involved with his master’s daughter or a lady-in-waiting; before long, word of this reached his master’s ears. Since such an affair was strictly forbidden by the household’s rules, the man was to be executed by his master’s own hand, but those close to him likely interceded and pleaded for the lives of the two. The poem then describes how the two went on to become husband and wife and live a peaceful life. “Clothing change” (koromo-gae) is also written as “sōi” and refers to the practice of shedding one’s cotton-padded garments in early summer and switching to a single-layered kimono. The specific use of “sōi” in this verse is intended to convey that the two have now established their own household and are living peacefully; the choice of phrasing and the overall composition are the height of sophistication. His ability to take the complex realities of human life and render them so masterfully in verse is precisely why Buson, as a great haiku poet, established himself as a distinct figure alongside Basho. 

—　Having fallen on hard times, she sings at Sekidera: “Oh, my headscarf…”　　　　　Kito

　The headscarf is worn in winter. “Sekidera” refers to the name of the Noh play *Sekidera Komachi*, which recounts the events following Komachi’s fall from grace. This poem depicts the sight of a person who was once of high standing but has now fallen into poverty, singing *Sekidera Komachi*. The specific reference to *Sekidera Komachi* is made precisely because the subject is a person who has fallen from grace. The “headscarf” here refers to the headscarf worn by someone who has fallen on hard times. The continuation, “Singing in a headscarf,” implies that the person wearing the headscarf is singing—a common poetic device in haiku. Furthermore, the use of “headscarf” as the seasonal word—which signifies winter—complements the mood of a person’s decline well, and it also evokes the image of a desolate figure wearing a headscarf instead of a proper hat.

—　With his back to the peach blossoms, he splits wood—is he the master of the peach tree?　　　　　Hakuo

　“Peach” here refers to peach blossoms, signifying spring. Judging from the context, the “master of the peach tree” is likely a woodcutter or a farmer. “Splitting wood” means chopping firewood. “With his back to the peach blossoms” means he is splitting wood with his back to the peach blossoms. It captures the scene as it is, with a touch of rustic charm.

—　The cuckoo sings—the saltiness of the water shield is just right　　　　　Kyōdai

　“Water shield” is commonly known as “jyun-sai,” but here it is read as “nuna.” “Just right” refers to the preparation of the water shield, meaning the saltiness is not too strong. Now, as for the relationship between the cuckoo and the water shield, there is no real connection; it is simply a coincidence of the season. It is not necessarily the case that the cuckoo’s call is heard only when one is eating water shield. Rather, since the season when water shield is prepared “lightly seasoned” roughly coincides with the season when the cuckoo sings, these two elements are used to evoke this particular time of year. Moreover, the fact that both occur in summer—the cuckoo’s clear song and the subtle flavor of water shield—is sufficient to evoke the refreshing atmosphere of early summer. The quality of these verses is largely determined by the skill with which these elements are combined.

—　The first snow—not quite enough to spread far and wide—falls only on Mount Hiei　　　　　Chōmu

　Although the first snow did fall, the amount was so small that it could not be said to have fallen everywhere; rather, it fell only on the summit of Mount Hiei. The phrase “not quite enough to spread far and wide” personifies the first snow to convey this idea. This should be considered a skillfully crafted verse.

—    Sunagawa—an evening breeze that makes me long for a pillow　　　　　　　　Rankō

　While out by the Sunagawa River enjoying the cool evening breeze, the poet is struck by the river’s clarity and feels a lighthearted desire to borrow a pillow and lie down on the sand along the riverbank. It is a witty haiku.

—Drop by drop, the tower’s droplets—like spring snow　　　　　　　　　Niryū

　Spring snow melts quickly. However, since the roof of a five-story pagoda has both sunny and shaded areas, once it begins to melt in one spot, it gradually melts here and there, until eventually droplets fall everywhere. This is a masterfully crafted haiku.

—　Is it the scent of chrysanthemums? In Nara, the ancient Buddhas       Basho

In this haiku, the chrysanthemums and the Buddhas have no specific spatial relationship. It does not necessarily mean that chrysanthemums are offered before the Buddhas, nor does it mean that chrysanthemums are blooming right beside the Buddhist hall; if one were to insist on a spatial connection, it would simply mean that both the chrysanthemums and the ancient Buddhas are in Nara. Although it is likely that the author visited Nara precisely when the chrysanthemums were in bloom—and thus probably used this haiku to evoke Nara—the juxtaposition of chrysanthemums and ancient Buddhas, both imbued with a sense of utter desolation, appears utterly still. Herein lies the author’s keen insight.

—　Autumn wind—on a white-wood bow, the string is drawn tight　　　Kyōrai

　In summer, if one draws a string on a white-wood bow, the glue is said to peel away; thus, one waits for the cool of autumn to do so. That is why the phrase “autumn wind” is used. However, if that were all, it would be a purely logical verse with no sense of poetic charm. Indeed, in ancient times, the bow was a sacred weapon; needless to say, it was used on the battlefield, and there were even rituals—such as “Higame-hiki”—to ward off demons and evil spirits. When paired with the austere, solemn quality of metal, it naturally gives rise to infinite poetic charm. How much more so when that bow is made of white wood! The color white evokes a sense of sacredness and solemnity; therefore, the color of autumn is white. This verse was composed with casual ease yet retains its masculine spirit. It is a truly admirable verse.

—　The cuckoo does not sing, yet the lark flies in a cross shape　　　　　　　　Kyōrai

　The cuckoo is a bird of summer, while the lark is a bird of spring. However, since the cuckoo does not sing in spring and the lark sings even in summer, this verse is set in summer. The meaning is that the cuckoo flies horizontally in a straight line, while the lark soars straight up from below. Thus, it describes the moment when the cuckoo cuts across the lark’s path as it rises, forming a cross-like pattern. It is a most ingenious verse.

—　In the darkness, at the corner of the gate, where the wisteria blossoms have ceased, I knock—       Kyōrai

　In the dark of night, as one attempts to knock on a gate, the darkness extends even an inch ahead, making it difficult to determine where the gate actually is. However, since the wisteria flowers blooming all over the nearby fence are visible as white even in the darkness, the poet surmises that the spot where the flowers briefly cease must be the gate. Since the night scene is beautiful, this is a haiku that amateurs tend to praise. While this haiku is not bad, it is not a particularly good one—it is merely the sort that amateurs tend to like. (However, compared to Chiyo’s haiku on morning glories or the one on autumn-colored cherry blossoms, this one is several grades higher.) If the phrase “gap in the blossoms” were revised, it would likely become an even finer haiku.

—Who pulls at the sleeve of a young maiden, causing her to cry out like a pheasant? There is such a thing.

　Although the pheasant has a gentle appearance, it utters a terrifying cry; thus, it is as if a maiden, her sleeve suddenly pulled by a demon, were to cry out loudly without realizing it. This verse may be interpreted as likening the maiden’s cry to that of the pheasant, or as likening the pheasant’s cry to that of the maiden—either interpretation is valid.

—　Returning in a sullen mood, I see a willow in the garden　　　　　　Taitō

As the folk song goes, “Returning in a sullen mood, I see a green willow at the corner of the gate,” so people are likely well acquainted with this image. The meaning of the verse is this: After encountering something infuriating elsewhere and returning home in a huff, the poet sees a willow in the garden hanging gently downward and realizes that, just like this willow—which does not resist the wind but remains gentle and supple—one must navigate the world with such gentleness. Although this haiku contains such an ideal and has even found its way into traditional folk songs, it is thoroughly mundane and reveals its true nature as a run-of-the-mill piece. It leaves an even more unpleasant impression than Chiyo’s haiku about morning glories.

—　How many women do I think of as my wife while viewing the cherry blossoms?　　　　　　　Haritsuka

　As one mingles among the cherry blossom viewers, many beautiful women dressed in brocade appear; thus, one thinks, “I wish that woman were my wife,” or “I wish this young lady were my wife.” The bustling, chaotic scene of the city’s flower-viewing festival is revealed in the background.

—　I rode a hideous horse up the cloud-capped peak　　　　　Tōnyū

　“Cloud-capped peak” refers to the summer season, when there are many strange, cloud-capped peaks. Since the appearance of these clouds brings heat, it is customary to use “cloud-capped peak” to describe the clear, sweltering summer sky. Since this verse describes a traveler riding on the bare back of a horse, it goes without saying that the horse is not a fine one; however, the specific use of the term “unseemly” implies that it is far more unseemly than usual. This is because, under the scorching sun, the horse is carrying a rider and trudging along, leaving it utterly exhausted and unable to make much progress; its coat is soiled with sweat, presenting a truly unsightly appearance. Once this haiku is recited, it is as if one can see the exhaustion of both rider and horse under the scorching sun.

—While beginners are free to approach the art of haiku from any direction they choose, in practice, many ordinary students who compose haiku tend to use Chinese terms and adapt Chinese poetry. For example, taking the line “Water, villages, mountains, and city walls; a tavern flag flutters in the wind” (水村山郭酒旗風) by Du Mu and my own composition, and adding autumn scenery to it—

— A sand shark, a goby, a fishing rod—the wind blows past the sake shop’s banner at Mizumura Mountain Fortress”　　　　　　　　Aransetsu

Even something like this is a haiku. It is acceptable to gain insight into the art of haiku from this point onward. Furthermore, even without using established phrases, simply arranging the scenes before one’s eyes in a single line should not prevent it from being a haiku.

— seven-layered pagoda, seven temple halls, and eight-layered cherry blossoms　　　　　　　　Basho

— Yabudera Temple: bamboo shoots on a moonlit night, the cuckoo’s call　　Seibi

—  Ura-yama: dawn haze, late-blooming cherry blossoms　　　　　　　　　　　Ujin

　There are examples such as these. Among these three haiku, Seibi’s is considered the finest.

First, it is more difficult for someone trained in waka to enter the realm of haiku than it is for a poet to do so. This is not because of the nature of waka itself, but because what is commonly called waka today lacks literary merit. The poems in the *Man’yōshū* were not composed with literary artifice in mind, yet many possess a childlike innocence and are free from vulgarity—qualities that, in fact, make them literary. The *Shinkokin Wakashū* contains excellent pieces here and there. The *Kinkai Wakashū* likely contains about ten masterpieces that will be celebrated for all time. By the time of the later Tokugawa period, only those works characterized by delicate refinement came to be regarded as somewhat literary. Those who advance beyond these poems can certainly enter the realm of haiku, and it goes without saying that doing so is easier than for a poet to enter the realm of haiku. However, if one comes from waka like those in the *Kokin Wakashū*—which have language but lack artistic conception—entering the way of haiku will likely be extremely difficult. This is because haiku does not accommodate a leisurely, drawn-out tone; rather, it leans toward the urgent and immediate. To give an example of haiku-like waka:

— “As if hail were falling on the armor of a warrior polishing his arrows—the bamboo groves of Nasu”—Minamoto no Sanetomo

—such examples are accepted as valid. In addition to these, verses from the *Shinkokin Wakashū* such as “White waves in the open sea wash away the setting sun” and “Hail falls upon the broad-leaved Japanese chestnut,” as well as Mabuchi’s poem about the eagle in the storm and the poem about the evening shower at Awazu, are masterpieces of waka and possess a quality that could also serve as inspiration for haiku.

—Previously, I attempted to interpret some classical haiku for beginners, but those were not intended to serve as standard examples. Therefore, I shall now present a dozen or so haiku that should be regarded as standards, thereby concluding this first phase. However, while it goes without saying that those entering the world of haiku will each choose their own path—whether through delicacy, subtlety, grandeur, or humor—I believe that proceeding through simplicity is the most common approach and, moreover, the true path. For this reason, I have selected simple verses here. No matter which path one takes, upon reaching the summit, there will be nothing left to do but gaze upon the single, great moon in the cloudless sky.

— A willow hanging down from five or six branches...　　　　　Kyōrai

— Long days—the sounds of construction at the Great Buddha Hall...　　　　Riyū

—The cold north wind—the metallic-tasting water left behind in the harvested fields...　　　　　　　　Izen

— The spring moon rises from the clear water　　　　　　Kyōroku

— Calling out, they handle the cormorant ropes in the rapids　　　　　Ryōto

— Swallows soaring along the road to Kamakura　　　　　　　　Shōhaku*

—A rural temple where the chanting of the Buddha’s name drifts gently on a spring day　　　　　　同

—The stillness of clear water where chestnut leaves sink　　　　　　同＊

—  Here and there, dianthus blooms linger in the withered field　　　　　　Same

— Straw piled high in the vast, desolate withered field　　　　　　Same

— The chill of Taga’s torii gate by the roadside　　　　　Same

— A summer shower—naked horses galloping along the river　　　Masahide

— Mountain pines, one after another, like a cloud of flowers　　　　　　Ibid.

— The scent of goods in the city under the summer moon　　　　　　　Bonchō

—The shrike cries as the setting sun sinks deep into the women’s pine grove　　　　Ibid.

— A long, single river winding through a snowy plain　　　　　　　Same

— Is that the willow at the gate corner that travelers pass by?　　　　Chora

— Spring rain—a crane cries among the pines at Waka-no-ura　　　　Same

— At my hermitage, Ioh, only fallen leaves from the enoki tree?　　　Same

Since none of the above haiku seek to achieve a sophisticated rhythm, but simply string together things as they are, they are truly plain and straightforward, and should be understandable to anyone. Yet, when one considers the value of these haiku, most of them are first-rate works and rank among the finest in the world of haiku.

[[ subsequent editor of 1955 edition notes: * The author of this haiku is “Ryūin,” not “Shōhaku,” as Shiki himself clarifies in *Zui-mon Zui-tō*; however, I have left it as it appears in the original text.]]

The Second Stage of Study

—Any student who has composed five thousand haiku should immediately enter the second stage. Even for an ordinary person with some education, once they have composed 10,000 or more haiku, they will inevitably enter the second stage.

—Even if the number of haiku does not reach 5,000 or 10,000, talented individuals often develop naturally over the course of several years and, before they realize it, find themselves in the second stage. This is because, even if they do not compose many haiku themselves, over the years they frequently read others’ haiku and hear explanations of the art.

—The boundary between the first and second stages is not clearly defined. However, those who compose haiku initially feel as if they are lost in a thick fog, as though they are relying on others to create their poems. However, as they accumulate a large number of haiku and the passage of time, they will come to master the composition of a single haiku; they will be able to offer a rough critique of both the haiku of the ancients and their own; and they will reach a point where they feel they can rely on their own inner judgment to some extent. We shall define the stage beyond this point as the second stage.

—Even among those who have entered the second stage, differences in their innate disposition and in the methods and sequence of their progress inevitably lead to variations in the degree to which they develop. For example, Person A may be developed in terms of composition but lack the language to match it; Person B may be developed in terms of language but lack the composition to match it; Person C may understand refined taste but not subtlety; and Person D may understand subtlety but not grandeur—such are the variations.

—What course of action should be taken by those who excel in classical elegance but are lacking in other areas, those who excel in delicacy but are lacking in other areas, and those who excel in boldness but are lacking in other areas? The answer is: There is no single prescribed course of action. First, cultivate your strengths to make them even greater. Second, strive to refine the areas where you fall short. If you can pursue both simultaneously, do so.

—Even if one adopts a policy of specializing in one’s own particular style, it is still necessary to be aware of some degree of variation. Becoming aware of variation lies in making a conscious effort to experiment with variations in one’s own haiku and in diligently reading a wide range of haiku from both past and present. It is also acceptable to imitate the style of ancient poets or of a particular era.

—There are those who, upon observing that the style of a certain ancient haiku poet differs from others, deem it something to be avoided. However, once they try imitating those haiku themselves and come to grasp their essence, they may suddenly come to appreciate the novelty of that style. Therefore, it is essential to study widely and compose frequently.

—Among the various forms of variation, haiku that are grand and majestic are considered the finest. Although the essence of grandeur and majesty is difficult to explain, in terms of form, works that evoke a sense of vast space are grand. The vast expanse of lakes and seas, the towering majesty of mountains, the boundlessness of the sky—whether it be the sight of thousands of troops and tens of thousands of horses arrayed across a vast wilderness, or the Milky Way and stars stretching to the horizon—all of these are undeniably grand. That which possesses great force is majestic. The briskness of a gale, the surging of raging waves, the roaring of a waterfall [#Replacing the “号” in “三水＋號” with the “将” radical, 46-15], or a flood surging toward the heavens and sweeping away villages, or two armies clashing as bullets rain down, or warships engaging each other and setting the sea ablaze with depth charges—all of these are nothing but majestic and mighty.

First, even among the smallest things, there are those that appear comparatively grand and majestic. For example, when viewing peonies, if one compares a bouquet of several blooms to a single bloom, the single bloom will seem larger. This is not because the flower is particularly large, but because, being a single bloom, there is nothing to compare it to. Similarly, when composing a poem about peonies in a garden, if one describes a single peony plant without specifying a location, one will perceive the peony as larger than if one were to describe a specific spot. Again, this is not because the peony is large, but because there is nothing to compare it to. (There is also the principle that something appears large when viewed up close and small when viewed from a distance.) For example:

—  A single peony blossom stands out—　　　　　　Shunrai

— A peony with four or five blossoms, some in shade, some in sunlight—       Baishitsu

　If you compare these two verses, you will sense that the flower in the former is large, while the one in the latter is small.

—  Peonies, growing still by candlelight　　　　　　Kyroku

—  Peonies hanging heavily over the wall　　　　　Shiro

If you compare these two verses, you will sense that the peonies in the former are large, while those in the latter are small. Although calling this “grand” may be considered an inapt choice of words, describing something as “large” in contrast to “small” is certainly acceptable.

First, as stated at the outset, there is no difference in ordinary artistic value between things that are grand and majestic and those that are delicate and intricate. However, the reason I specifically mention grandeur and majesty here is that haiku of this kind are so rare that the longing for them is all the more intense. If one asks why such haiku are so rare, the reasons are: first, few people in the world appreciate this style; second, there are few natural or human-made vistas of this scale in the world; and third, the limited number of characters in a haiku makes it difficult to convey such a grand vista.

First, although the standards of art are not fixed within our individual subjectivity, when viewed objectively, the value of the same work of art may vary depending on the time and circumstances. That is to say, because our standards include the principle that novelty is beautiful and the trite is not, they inevitably fluctuate objectively. For example, a design that was once praised as an interesting painting would, if imitated today, be rejected by everyone as trite. Similarly, poems, essays, and novels that are currently praised as innovative will, if many in future generations adopt the same style, eventually come to be despised as trite. (Although the phrase “Fuyu-ryūko” from the Genroku era comes somewhat close to this meaning, it could not escape ambiguity because people in that era lacked a deductive mindset.)

—Grand and majestic verses are few and far between, and those who compose such verses are likely to be welcomed and praised by those who yearn for them. However, because grand and majestic subjects are so rare and seldom witnessed, they tend to fall into clichés. Furthermore, since it is extremely difficult to encapsulate grand and majestic subjects within seventeen or eighteen characters, even when one attempts to compose a haiku based on a grand spectacle, the scene or event depicted often remains vague and indistinct, making it difficult for the reader to discern what exactly is being described. Those with some knowledge of haiku who, merely to feign an appreciation for grand vistas, compose verses of this sort often fall into banality or produce work so vague and obscure that it is impossible to interpret. This should serve as a lesson.

—Since ancient times, those who have composed truly grand and majestic haiku have been exceedingly rare. Let me record, by way of example, those that come to mind:

Oh, the sea—the Milky Way stretching across Sado Island　　　　　　　Basho

Even the wild boar is swept along by the autumn gale　　　　　　　Ibid.

“The lake’s water has risen—the May rains,”　　　　　　　　Kyōrai

“A flash of lightning illuminates the sea’s surface,”　　　　　Shihō

“The first tide—a courier boat amid the waves of Naruto,”　　　　　　　　Bonchō

“Today’s moon rises from the grass where the storm blows,”　　　　　Chura

“May rains—two houses facing the great river,”　　　　　　　Bunsan

The lake’s water tilts—is it time for rice planting?　　　　　　　　Kito

A trail of ants continues from the cloud-capped peaks　　　　　　　Issa

The cicadas are silent—the Chikuma River clings to the sky　　　　　　Ibid.

The waterfall plunges into the thicket with a *to*/*to* sound　　　　Shiro

and the like. (Although there are several other haiku by Basho that are grand and majestic, I will not mention them here because they have already been discussed in *Basho’s Casual Conversations*. Beyond these, there are countless others that are comparatively grand and majestic.)

—One must also study delicate and intricate haiku. People who are naturally lacking in artistic sensibility, or those who are too broad-minded in their Confucian studies, often fail to appreciate this kind of aesthetic. However, eight or nine out of ten of those in the world who are called artists or literary figures tend to lean toward this one side. Yet, among those eight or nine out of ten, those who reach the very pinnacle of delicacy and intricacy are likely to be fewer than one out of ten. Those who study nature understand the subtleties of every blade of grass and every tree; those who observe human affairs recognize the profound essence of every detail and every minute thing; and those who perceive the fleeting motives within the human heart are extremely rare, if not nonexistent. In haiku, while it is not necessary to examine human affairs with the same meticulous detail as a novelist, the study of nature must be as subtle and precise as possible. This is because, while meticulous human affairs cannot be fully contained within seventeen syllables, delicate aspects of nature can often be encompassed within that space.

—Although it is not necessary to cite examples for every delicate and intricate haiku, I will list a few that come to mind below.

Dandelions, their leaves blooming among the undergrowth　　　　　　Shūka

A child mows the grass and picks out the violets　　　　　　　Ōho

Shaking whitefish together with four hands　　　　　　Kikaku

The nightingale’s body turned upside down—is this its first song?　　　　　　Same poet

The iris wilts, yet blooms from beneath　　　　　　　Jiyū

How lovely—the bud of the dianthus has formed　　　　　　Heijū

The bush clover flowers gradually wither and reach their peak　　　　　　Koshū

Grass blades—one by one, as if their stems were broken—　　　　Kakei

The grass of early spring glows faintly as the mortar is stirred　　　　　　Ginkō

By the smoldering fire, as the year draws to a close, how small my knees seem　　　　　　Shiseki

Chickweed clings to the soil of the withered field　　　　　　Ren-no

—There are few grand things, but many delicate ones. If several delicate things are combined, they can form a single grand thing; if a single grand thing is divided, it can become several delicate things.

—Just as those who see the grand often fail to see the delicate, so too do those who see the delicate often fail to see the grand. One must be mindful of this.

—There are refined and vulgar forms of both the grand and the delicate. Those who favor the grand see only the grand and fail to distinguish between the refined and the vulgar, just as those who favor the delicate see only the delicate and fail to distinguish between the refined and the vulgar. The current school of masters leans toward the delicate yet fails to understand refinement, prioritizing vulgar tastes instead. Therefore, their verses are vulgar and crude. The current school of scholars leans toward the grand yet lacks skill; therefore, if they do not fall into banality, they inevitably produce verses that are crude and lacking in taste. They also use this as their standard when evaluating others’ verses. Those who favor the delicate should cultivate greater boldness, and those who favor the grand should cultivate a more refined sensibility.

—Some themes are inherently grand; others are inherently delicate. To illustrate this using themes from the four seasons:

Summer Mountains, Summer Fields, Summer Grove, Blue Gale, May Rain, Cloud-Capped Peaks, Autumn Wind, After the Storm, Fog, Lightning, Milky Way, Starry Night, Harvested Fields, Cold North Wind, Winter Wasteland, Winter Grove, Barren Fields, Snow, Drizzle, Whale

—these are examples of the grand. 

—Also, East Wind, Violet, Butterfly, Horsefly, Bee, Mosquito Larva, Snail, Water Strider, ※( “head radical + 支,” Level 3, 1-92-22) earthworms, spiderlings, fleas, mosquitoes, dianthus, fans, lanterns, flowers and plants, brazier, kotatsu, tabi socks, winter flies, smoldering embers

—these are examples of the delicate. 

While it is common to treat the grand as grand and the delicate as delicate, there is also value in the skill of taking a grand subject and composing a poem that is relatively delicate. For example, when composing poems about the May rains:

Clouds drenched, a river spews hot spring waters—May rains　　　　　Haruki

In the shadow of the mountains, the lake grows dark—May rains　　　　Gin’ei

　Rather than drinking deeply and heartily,

At the doorway, where frogs swim in the drizzling May rain.　　　　　　Sampū

The shamisen—wrapped in a nightgown, the drizzling May rain.　　　　　　Kokaku

—these examples seem to express things with a certain delicacy. Furthermore, one must possess the skill to occasionally compose works with a relatively grand scale even on themes that are similarly delicate. For example, on the theme of butterflies:

A sleeping butterfly—I’ll dip its wings in ink at the edge of the rim　　　　　　Haso

Flying about, the butterflies at the opening move in a bewildering whirl　　　　　Shōzan

— creating a gentle and beautiful composition is, of course, excellent in and of itself, but that is merely the standard approach. If we rethink this slightly:

“A whirlwind where one can see a certain number of butterflies”　　　　　Ipai

“A butterfly flying straight across the Yabase”　　　　　　　Mokudō

—one expressed with strength and the other with grandeur—such works should be both rare and intriguing.

— First, there is a tendency for those who favor elegance and simplicity to dislike grace and refinement, and for those who favor grace and refinement to dislike elegance and simplicity. Observing this in today’s reality, elderly people with an old-fashioned outlook tend to lean toward elegance and simplicity, rejecting grace and refinement as the epitome of vulgarity and coarseness. Furthermore, contemporary artists and writers often lean toward the elegant and graceful, dismissing the refined and rustic as crude and unartistic. Both are examples of one-sided arguments.

—Even within the refined and rustic, there is distinction between the refined and the vulgar; even within the elegant and graceful, there is distinction between the refined and the vulgar. Those who lean toward the elegant and rustic, upon hearing the words “peasant” or “hoe,” immediately deem them correct and pay no heed to anything else. This is why they regard other things as crude and uncivilized. Those who lean toward the graceful and refined, upon hearing the words “young maiden” or “gilded screen,” immediately deem them correct and pay no heed to anything else. This is why they regard other things as vulgar and obscene.

—An old man, his skin weathered by the sun, with a hoe slung over his shoulder, plucked a single branch of peach blossoms and returned from the rice paddies. An old woman, having finished washing clothes, stood by the thatched gate in the twilight to greet him. Meanwhile, a hungry sparrow peered through the gap and pecked at the dried rice by the well. This is surely a tasteful and artistic touch. In a large hall of over ten tatami mats, a gold folding screen encircles one side, and fourteen, five young girls cut a single peony branch and were about to place it in a vase when someone repeatedly called out her name; the girl, startled, pricked up her ears—how charming! It was the parrot perched on the eaves, weary of long days, playing this little prank. This is surely a graceful and artistic concept. To achieve artistic expression through both elegance and simplicity as well as grace and beauty, it is not only necessary to select the elegant and simple aspects of an object and the graceful and beautiful aspects, but also to combine them artistically. However, it is difficult to explain in theory whether such a combination is artistic or not. It is best to evaluate it in practice.

First, it is the typical sentiment of a poet to prefer seclusion, profundity, and tranquility while disdaining bustle and commotion. It goes without saying that the former is refined and the latter vulgar; yet, bustle and commotion do not necessarily lack literary elements. Indeed, when any mundane thing is viewed with a detached eye, that very act of detachment gives rise to a certain refined charm. Take the phrase, “I look upon the people of this world with a cold eye” (白眼看他世上人); while “the people of this world” refers to extremely mundane individuals, the addition of the three characters “look upon with a cold eye” (白眼看) seems to create a supreme sense of elegance. (See also the previous section on “Elegance, Simplicity, Grace, and Beauty.”)

—Reasoning is reasoning; it is not literature. However, cloaking reasoning in the guise of literature to express a seventeen-character argument is also an application of literature, so it is good to try this from time to time. Just do not let literature be overshadowed by reasoning. If one tries to conform to logic, one strays far from literature; if one tries to conform to literature, one strays from logic. This is simply because the two are fundamentally different in nature, so there is no question of right or wrong. To create a work that harmoniously blends the two requires extraordinary effort, yet may not necessarily garner the expected acclaim; one must be prepared for this. Indeed, ordinary literary critics fail to appreciate the toil involved and simply reject such works on the grounds that they are “rationalistic.” Moreover, the common folk will not accept them unless they are presented in an even more vulgar and overt manner.

—Although not strictly “reasoning,” works such as farewells, partings, captions for paintings, congratulatory and condolence messages, and translations are somewhat similar. For example:

— Living in this world, a person’s memorial service—the first eggplant of the season.　　Kito

A verse such as this—seeming trite yet not trite, vulgar yet not vulgar—possesses infinite subtlety in its refusal to seek the bizarre or to play with artifice, yet the average person is unlikely to feel anything at all. Indeed, not only will they feel nothing, but they will likely fail to understand it altogether. If it were a memorial service, for instance, ordinary people might find value in trite thoughts—such as remembering the deceased, seeing them appear as a phantom before their eyes, reflecting on how quickly time passes, lamenting that they have no friends left since that person’s death, or paying respects to the spirit through tears—and while there is nothing to be done about this, a person who aspires to be a literary figure ought to think a little more deeply. Even in this haiku by Kito, the way the phrase “living in this world” is used obliquely, followed by the detached closing line “a person’s memorial service,” and then the seemingly casual placement of “first eggplant”—all of this conceals infinite emotion within the heart, and the meticulous craftsmanship in the language is undeniably evident. In short, this kind of haiku requires skill both to compose and to appreciate.

—Beginners, of course, know nothing at all, but those who have delved a little into haiku should realize that haiku based on theory, or those with prefaces or introductions, are difficult. However, once they have gained a little more experience and, with great difficulty, manage to compose this kind of haiku, they may feel a private sense of joy; delighted merely by having expressed it, they may fail to discern the haiku’s elegance, vulgarity, or quality. It is essential to constantly reflect on one’s own work.

—Haiku from the Tenpō era onward are, on the whole, vulgar and trite, and unbearable to look at. They are called “tsukinami-chō” (run-of-the-mill style). Nevertheless, it is necessary to examine this type of haiku to some extent. For example, those who have entered the world of haikai often admire haiku in the tsukinami-chō style, or even compose them themselves. This is because such people, having seen few examples of the “Tsukinami-chō,” pick out those that are somewhat closer to the “Shōchō” style and evaluate them as such. How could they possibly know that this type of haiku represents the very height of banality within the “Tsukinami-chō” school? Those who wish to avoid embarrassment should study the “Tsukinami-chō” style to some extent.

—As students, they sometimes imitate the run-of-the-mill style and call it novel. It may indeed be novel to them. However, it has long been considered trite in literary circles. It is laughable to the uneducated.

—In haiku, there are the Teitoku style, the Danrin style, the Basho style, the Kikaku style, the Mino style, the Itami style, the Buson style, the Kyotai style, the Issa style, the Otsuni style, and the Aoi style ( “insect + ‘rei’ radical,” Level 3, 1-91-50) style—yet these are merely historical outcomes. There is no reason why those who follow School A must reject School B, or why those who study School C must necessarily disparage School D. Regardless of which style or school it may be, take what is beautiful and discard what is not.

—Many in the world adhere to the Bashō style, yet I deliberately seek the unusual and wish to follow the Danrin school. This is what is called “pretending to be austere”—a form of self-imposed austerity. However, haiku derived from such self-imposed austerity are not literature in the slightest. We have inherited the tradition of the Kikaku school; therefore, we intend to compose haiku in the Kikaku style. Haiku derived in this manner from a particular school are not literature.

—Plum blossoms and the bush warbler; willows and the wind; the cuckoo and the moon; the full moon and clouds; famous sites such as Mount Fuji, Arashiyama, and Mount Yoshino—everyone knows how trite these themes are. Nevertheless, an umbrella in the spring rain; a woman in late spring; a nun among the wisteria blossoms; a horse in the May showers; a waterfall amid the autumn foliage; cattle in late autumn, lanterns in the snow, crows in the biting wind, and famous sites such as Kyoto, Saga, Omuro, Ohara, Mount Hiei, Mii-dera, Seta, Suma, Nara, and Utsu—the banality of these motifs is something that only those deeply immersed in haiku can truly appreciate.

—While the concept should be as innovative as possible, there are times when one must employ the skill of reinterpreting these clichés to transform the stale into the fresh and the lifeless into the living.

—If a person who has only ever viewed Japanese paintings were to suddenly see one or two Western paintings, they would be so startled by the vast difference that they would be unable to judge their quality for a while. The same is true for someone accustomed to viewing only Western paintings who suddenly sees a Japanese painting. Similarly, even in haiku, when a concept is entirely novel, the viewer is unable to judge its skill or lack thereof. Some may regard it as the pinnacle of beauty, while others may consider it the epitome of clumsiness. However, after many days and months have passed, and after repeatedly reciting this haiku and as more people have attempted to imitate it, if one quietly savors the original verse once more, even those who previously proclaimed it the pinnacle of beauty will regret having praised it too highly, and those who previously declared it the pinnacle of clumsiness will be ashamed of their shallow judgment. Therefore, when one encounters a novel verse, one should praise or criticize it only after careful contemplation and reflection. This is a pitfall from which even the greatest masters cannot escape.

—In terms of composition, there is a distinction between “flexible” and “inflexible,” which refers to whether the elements combined are harmonious and appropriate. For example, if you have the first twelve characters or the last twelve characters but have not yet found the remaining five, you should try substituting them in various ways. This process of substitution is precisely what makes the composition flexible.

○○○○○Night rain on piled snow　　　　　　Bonchō

After settling on the lower twelve characters as “Town center, eh,” one might try various replacements for the upper phrase, such as “In the town center, eh,” “Freezing, eh,” “A waning moon, eh,” “Loneliness, eh,” “The sound of loneliness,” “A thatched roof, eh,” “Quiet, eh,” “A thatched boat, eh,” “Returning, ah,” “Withered reeds, ah,” and so on—though there are countless possibilities, Basho ultimately declared that the five characters “Shimogyo, ah” must not be altered. One must not be lax in the careful refinement of every single character and phrase.

—It is common practice to refine a haiku when deciding which specific words or phrases to use. However, for some reason, after having already composed seventeen characters, many students fail to scrutinize each part of the verse to determine what can and cannot be changed. When one, feeling proud of having composed a famous verse, shows it to someone else, and that person asks, “What about this word?” one often realizes, “Indeed, that is unsettling; the word ‘such-and-such’ would have been better,” and so on—there are many instances where one’s shortcomings become apparent. If one discovers this while still alive, it will amount to nothing more than a momentary embarrassment; but once dead, one will be powerless to do anything about others’ criticism.

—Examples of themes from the four seasons that lend themselves easily to variation:

Spring wind and autumn wind; late spring and late autumn; May rain and seasonal showers; cherry blossoms and autumn leaves; evening showers and seasonal showers; summer fields and withered fields; summer groves and winter groves.

—If we were to list subjects related to the four seasons that lend themselves easily to haiku,

spring breezes and autumn breezes; late spring and late autumn; the May rains and the seasonal showers; cherry blossoms and autumn foliage; evening thunderstorms and seasonal showers; summer fields and withered fields; summer groves and winter groves—

and so on—the list would be endless. At first glance, these themes may seem too disparate to be considered contradictory; however, in the actual practice of composing haiku—regardless of skill level—such discrepancies are a constant occurrence. The difference lies solely in the fact that seasoned practitioners are always mindful of this, while impetuous beginners pass over it entirely without a second thought.

—For those who study haiku and enter the field, it is most desirable to achieve mastery in both composition and language. While everyone initially progresses with both going hand in hand, this applies only to a specific aspect and not to the whole. For example, one might be highly skilled at harmonizing the tone of a haiku to achieve an elegant yet simple style, yet the tone may be completely out of harmony when composing a graceful and refined haiku. This requires careful and thorough study.

—In language, there is a distinction between “tight” and “loose.” “Tight” refers to a composition where each word is tightly woven together, with not a single character to be moved. “Loose” refers to a composition that, when heard, gives the impression of being naturally relaxed and not fully resolved. To use an analogy, the difference between a koto string that is taut and one that is loose is something even a layperson can readily discern. Whenever a phrase feels loose, one must scrutinize it carefully. There will surely be something to note, such as: “This word is superfluous,” “This word could be shortened even slightly and still convey the meaning,” or “If I switch the positions of this word and that word, the flow of the sentence will not feel forced.” There are instances of poor composition even among the seasoned, and instances of skillful composition even among amateurs; however, a verse whose rhythm never sags is invariably the work of a seasoned hand. One should pay close attention to the famous verses of the ancients.

—Although a lack of rhythm in a haiku cannot be described in absolute terms, to cite a commonly understood example: verses with many filler words tend to lack rhythm, while those with many nouns tend to have a tight, cohesive rhythm. Filler words are, first and foremost, “te ni wa”; second, “adverbs”; and third, “verbs.” Therefore, if you wish to minimize a lack of rhythm, it is essential to reduce the use of “te ni wa” as much as possible. Try examining haiku from the Tenpō era onward. Because “te ni ha” are used in unnecessary places to construct a verse, the rhythm becomes sluggish and unpleasing to the ear. Next, adverbs also cause sluggishness, and verbs are similarly prone to it. However, the use of adverbs and verbs depends on how they are employed. To give an example of a sentence that is currently too loose:

A moon that is not quite a moon, merely illuminating the withered field　

The only elements necessary in this verse are the two words “moon” and “withered field.” If one says, “The moon merely illuminates the withered field,” the meaning of “inadequacy” is naturally implied within it; if one says, “The withered field under the inadequate moon,” the meaning of “merely illuminating” is naturally implied within it. No, in fact, both are merely superfluous words. The meaning of this haiku is sufficiently conveyed simply by saying “the moon over the withered field” or “the withered field under the moon.” The feeling that one must repeat the same thing in countless ways for the meaning to emerge stems from the shallow thinking of beginners and outsiders. Now, if I were to cite others who have composed poems about the moon over a withered field besides this one:

The moon, too, now rises from the earth—a withered field.　　　　　　Uju

Torches—a withered field where the moon shines.　　　　　　　　Taiko

The moon bursts forth in broad daylight—a barren field      Kin’u

　Although these three haiku vary in skill, compared to Sōkyū’s verse, they all rank higher in quality. Indeed, these verses do not state outright that the moon is “inadequate” or “merely shining”; rather, they imply that meaning between the lines and, furthermore, blend in additional artistic elements to make the verse interesting. This is because a verse that simply describes “the moon over a barren field” would be too simplistic to qualify as a haiku. However, there are also verses that simply describe the moon over a barren field.

A barren field where the true nature of the crescent moon is revealed　　　　　　Kantō

　This is an example of such a verse. Although this verse is, of course, rather childish, the way it ingeniously brings out the crescent moon and is composed in a single, fluid stroke places it far above Sō※ (the character “虫” combined with the “礼” radical, Level 3, 1-91-50). Bear in mind, however, that Ame Jū and the three others were all from before the Tenmei era, whereas Kantō was from the Genroku era. At this point, if one considers that Sō※ (character composed of “insect” radical and “rei” radical, Level 3, 1-91-50) was the founder of the Tenpō school and a renowned master of his time, who would not wish to spit in his face? Moreover, it is not merely that this particular bad verse happens to appear in Sō’s* (character composed of “insect” and the “ri” radical, Level 3, 1-91-50) poetry; his complete works are entirely filled with this sort of dross. And to go so far as to claim that this school represents Basho’s true spirit is truly to make one a criminal against Basho.

—There are varying degrees of looseness. If we take the previous argument to its extreme, a phrase consisting solely of a string of nouns would be considered the finest verse. However, a certain degree of looseness is acceptable. The specific degree, however, can only be determined by examining each instance in practice. Furthermore, there are two types of looseness: looseness affecting the entire verse and looseness affecting only a part of it. When the entire verse is loose, it is either the most beautiful or the most unattractive. For the most part, a haiku that is tight in structure, with only a portion being loose, is invariably poor.

—It is said that the haiku style was at its tightest during the An’ei and Tenmei periods. Therefore, haiku from that era are generally good. Compared to these, haiku from the Genroku period are somewhat slack. However, since the slackness in the Genroku period is of a different nature—being slack overall yet still well-balanced—the finest haiku of Genroku surpass those of Tenmei. In short, the finest Genroku haiku are rich in erudition, while Tenmei haiku have little. From the Tenpō period onward, the style is generally slack, and there is not a single haiku worth selecting. In waka poetry, the *Man’yōshū* is somewhat loose, but its looseness is well-executed. The *Kokin Wakashū* is loose and poor. The *Shinkokin Wakashū* is somewhat more refined. The Ashikaga period was generally loose, resembling the Tenpō period of haiku. In Chinese poetry, the Wei and Six Dynasties periods, like the Man’yō era, are loose but good. The Tang period has little looseness, and even when it is loose, it is not bad. It resembles the Genroku period of haiku; might it be said that the Song dynasty was generally loose? By the Ming and Qing dynasties, there was a strong tendency toward tightness, resembling the An’ei and Tenmei periods of haiku. (However, depending on the poet, there were still quite a few loose examples.)

—To compare the varying degrees of “loose” style in haiku, let us list three examples from the Genroku, Tenmei, and Tenpō periods.

The trees standing side by side have grown old; plum blossoms　　　　　　Shara

I love the varying paces of the two plum trees at the foot of the hill　　　　　　Bunsan

Scarcity is the norm in this hermitage; plum blossoms　　

Setting aside for the moment any discussion of the quality of the poems themselves, regarding their tone: Genroku’s (Sera) poems have a quality of presenting the scene as it is—unadorned, uncontrived, and laid bare. Tenmei’s (Bushō) poems, on the other hand, seem as though he has tightened and tightened them, refusing to loosen even the slightest bit of what tends to be loose, as if determined not to let them budge even a fraction. Tenpō’s haiku, on the other hand, gives the impression of having deliberately loosened elements that were already prone to looseness. In short, Genroku should be appreciated for its naturalness, while Tenmei should be appreciated for the ingenuity it employs. Only in the Tenpō period, however, did the style reach a point where it seemed to have gone even further than Genroku—that is, those who pretended not to exert any ingenuity but in reality did so—resulting in haiku that have absolutely no redeeming qualities. At the very least, unless one has a detailed understanding of the syntactic variations within these three styles, one cannot be said to have entered the hall of haiku. There are those in the world who often describe Tenpō-style verses as being in the style of Buson. This is laughable.

—Genroku and Tenmei each have their own strengths; it is fine to follow either. Furthermore, there are many examples of Genroku-style haiku resembling Tenmei-style, and Tenmei-style resembling Genroku-style. This is because, when natural and human craftsmanship reach their pinnacle, they converge.

—It is said that Sato Issai once remarked, “A sage is like a red raincoat: even if there is but a single tight spot on the chest, the whole remains loose and floaty yet never comes apart.” The sense of restraint in the Genroku style is likely something like this. The Tenmei style is like wearing a kimono with every crease perfectly aligned, pulled tight to the very limit, leaving not even half a fub of slack; the Tenpō style is like a slowpoke who tends to wear his hakama askew as he goes around collecting offerings at festivals. To use architecture as a metaphor: Genroku is like a house with round wooden pillars and a thatched roof, where the garden trees—whether pine or cedar—are left just as they are; Tenmei is like a house with square, hewn pillars, staggered flooring, and built-in shelves and cabinets, devoting every detail—from the transom decorations to the ceiling boards—to beauty while avoiding vulgarity, as if the house were built with wedges driven in to ensure it never moves; the Tenpō period, on the other hand, used round logs only for the posts beside the floor, forced a single round window into the structure, and used natural wood even for the brackets supporting the water basin, while the gate’s※ ( “木＋眉,” Level 3, 1-85-86) was invariably made of rotten wood; yet inside the house, they would have used vulgar, mass-produced items such as elaborately crafted desks, inkstones, teapots, and tea bowls. Furthermore, to apply this to conversation: people of the Genroku era spoke the truth as it was, whether it was interesting or not; people of the Tenmei era told lies skillfully and entertainingly; and people of the Tenpō era recounted mundane, everyday stories as if they were true, though in reality, those too were likely lies.

First, the emotions evoked by the four seasons are felt in much the same way by anyone who pays even a little attention to nature. However, it goes without saying that for those deeply versed in haiku and poetry, their appreciation of the seasonal moods develops naturally and with precision. Even if one were to compose thousands of haiku using mountains, rivers, and plants—which one might not even find interesting—as material, they would not qualify as true haiku. One must first perceive the beauty of mountains, rivers, and plants before composing haiku about them. The deeper one’s perception of beauty, the more beautiful the haiku will be. The deeper one’s understanding of mountains, rivers, and plants, the more profoundly one will sense their changes over time—that is, the sensations of the four seasons. Beginners compose haiku merely by briefly conjuring images of mountains, rivers, and plants before their eyes; therefore, unless their haiku are mundane, they tend to be crude and haphazard. Consequently, even if someone who has deeply studied nature presents a haiku born of careful reflection, a beginner will be completely unable to appreciate its beauty. This is because the beginner is unaware that such elements of beauty exist within nature.

—It is said that for a haiku poet, spring is the best time to visit Kyoto, and autumn is the best time to visit Nara; only then can one compose a truly famous verse. This statement is indeed true. However, even if one visits Kyoto in autumn or Nara in spring, the experience is by no means lacking in charm. On the contrary, there are places in Kyoto that simply must be visited in autumn, and places in Nara that simply must be visited in spring. There are also places that simply must be visited in summer or winter. Yet the public is entirely unaware of the unique atmosphere these two seasons bring. For example, if we consider just one location in Nara—Kasuga Shrine, the lanterns along the corridor, Mount Wakakusa, the South Great Gate, Kōfuku-ji Temple, the Kinukake Willow, and the Nigatsu-dō Hall are most suited to spring; the slopes of Mount Mikasa, the groves near Mount Tamuke within the grounds of Kasuga Shrine, and the spots where shrines are visible through the trees—all these deeply forested, secluded places are most suited to summer; the atmosphere of the ancient capital, the aura of ancient Buddhas, the dilapidated parts of the Seven Great Temples, the desolate corners of the town, and the calls of the deer are best suited to autumn; all places suitable for autumn are also suitable for winter, though winter has a certain austere quality not found in autumn. To cite some haiku by the ancients on the four seasons of Nara:

Nara-zaka—the fields, the mountains’ double-layered cherry blossoms—　　　　　　　Tankō

Emerging from the mosquito net, young leaves as I leave Nara—　　　Bushō

The scent of chrysanthemums—in Nara, the ancient Buddhas　　　　　　Basho

Nara’s seven nights—the seven great temples in the drizzling rain　　　　　　Chodo

　and so on. To summarize, spring is beautiful and delightful; summer is vast and pure; autumn is aged and somewhat desolate; and winter has a desolate, parched feel.

—Among the seasonal themes of haiku, those pertaining to human affairs—and which are not widely known to the general public—typically evoke a very faint sense of the season. For example, the Tsukuma Nabe Festival, though classified as a summer event, rarely evokes a sense of summer for those who compose poems about it or read such poems. How much more so when it comes to the difference between whether it is held in April or May—most people are almost entirely unaware of it. Therefore, those who compose haiku on this subject struggle greatly, and indeed, even the haiku composed on this theme since ancient times cannot escape being bland and insipid. This is because there is no association with the season.

“Kimigayo” and the Tsukuma Festival—just a single pot　　　　　　　　Etsujin　　

This is the only poem that has been handed down from the Chikuma Festival; though it is said to be worth reciting over and over, its tone bears no relation whatsoever to the seasonal mood. Rather, it gives the impression of reading a haphazardly composed verse. However, this is solely my own fault for being unfamiliar with the Chikuma Festival. If I were accustomed to witnessing this festival firsthand, how could I fail to feel the spirit of the season? And once that spirit is evoked, why should I struggle to compose a fine verse? Similarly, with events such as the Daishi-kō, although I personally feel the sense of winter is extremely faint, those who are physically present at a Tendai temple and witness it firsthand will surely evoke numerous associations with winter. In short, when I compose poems about human affairs I have little experience with, it feels just like composing a random verse, and I cannot escape the sense of insipidity.

—Although the subject of “frogs” has been associated with spring since the days of waka poetry, I do not tend to evoke a sense of spring. On the contrary, I am inclined to evoke a sense of summer. The fact that it is designated as a spring theme must surely run counter to my ordinary emotions. In particular,

An old pond—a frog jumps in, the sound of water　　　　　　　　Basho

there is almost no sense of spring. Yet it does not evoke a sense of summer either. This haiku simply conveys the same feeling as a “miscellaneous” haiku.

—The first stage can be mastered by anyone, while the second stage is somewhat specialized. For this reason, those with genius may enter the second stage from the very beginning without passing through the first stage. However, since the second stage requires a great deal of training and study, both the gifted and the less gifted must proceed slowly, following the proper sequence and advancing through the ranks. In this regard, the gifted may actually fall short of the less gifted. This is because the gifted are often gradually undermined by their own pride and self-importance.

—Reading classical haiku texts requires both historical and personal research. The sequence in which School A declined and School B rose, or School C waned and School D flourished, along with the differences between these schools and the causes of their transformations, constitute the main focus of historical research. The distinctive characteristics of each haiku poet, the schools they founded, the extent to which they emulated their predecessors, and their master-disciple relationships constitute the main focus of personal research. Those who, unaware that several schools were popular during the same era, attempt to forcefully establish a single, unbroken lineage for each school fall into the trap of the historian. At the same time, those who, unaware that similar trends existed—that is, that there were general characteristics of the era—attempt to attribute those characteristics exclusively to a single haiku poet fall into the trap of the individual researcher. There are those who study haikai but are unfamiliar with waka, Chinese poetry, or Western poetry; they might happen to read the collected works of a certain poet and say, “This person resembles a certain haiku poet.” Yet it is not uncommon for such individuals to attribute the characteristics of waka, Chinese poetry, and Western poetry to this single person. A literary scholar must be well-versed in the relevant fields.

—There are two approaches to composing haiku: relying on imagination and relying on realism. Beginners generally tend to rely on imagination. When one’s imagination is exhausted, one must rely on realism. Realism encompasses both human affairs and nature, as well as the accidental and the deliberate. Depicting human affairs is difficult, while depicting nature is easy. There is little material for depicting the accidental, but plenty for depicting the deliberate. Therefore, seeking out natural scenery with the aim of realism is most suitable for haiku. If one can manage a pilgrimage of several dozen days, that would be most excellent. For those with official duties, touring the countryside on Saturdays and Sundays is also acceptable. Stealing half a day to take a stroll in the suburbs is also acceptable. If there is no other choice, strolling through Ueno or Bokutei after dinner—would it be so difficult to come up with two or three fine haiku? A flower-filled morning is fine; a moonlit evening is fine; the haze at noon is fine; a night rain is fine—is there any time that is not suitable for a haiku? A mountain temple is fine; a fishing village is fine; a vast plain is fine; a mountain stream is fine—is there any place that is not suitable for a haiku?

First, even if you travel with the aim of capturing reality, a train will be of no use whatsoever. It is best to walk, calming your mind and avoiding distractions. Straw sandals are preferable to shoes or geta. A straw hat and leg wraps are better than Western-style clothing and a bat-wing umbrella. Traveling alone, without companions, is particularly good. However, rushing ahead, greedily covering distance, and walking until one’s strength is exhausted will, on the contrary, make it difficult to compose haiku. There are countless instances, such as when one happens to set foot in an unfamiliar place, becomes lost, drags one’s feet, and finally crosses a mountain at night to seek lodging at the foot of the mountain.

—When traveling ordinarily, one usually seeks out scenic spots and historic sites. Although these places do not necessarily offer artistic scenery, they are most suitable for composing haiku precisely because they evoke historical associations. However, one must not forget that ordinary, everyday scenery also contains countless beauties beyond these famous sites. Scenic spots and historic sites are few in number, and because so many people are familiar with them, they tend to become trite. Ordinary, everyday places, on the other hand, are countless, offer great variety, and do not become trite; therefore, one should set scenic spots and historic sites as destinations while seeking out natural beauty along the way. One should feel as though the songs of birds and the flowers and grasses are welcoming one, and as though the shadows of clouds and the moonlight are comforting one.

—Basho admitted that he had no poems about Mount Fuji or Yoshino—and this is true. Moreover, he was unable to compose a single poem even at Matsushima. It is not uncommon for many literati and poets of the world to visit these places and lament their inability to compose fine verses. Is this not the result of a lack of understanding of art and literature? The shape of Mount Fuji is, in general, not artistic. Although it is Japan’s highest mountain, and various poems and legends have successfully imbued it with a sense of sacredness, the aspects of that sacredness have been exhaustively described and now belong to the realm of the trite. Places like Yoshino and Matsushima occupy a vast expanse of space and, at first glance, seem to require a great deal of time to appreciate; while they possess natural beauty, they are not artistic. (That is to say, it cannot be made into art.) Even if it were artistic, it would not be suitable for haiku. Although it might be possible to break this scene down into fragments and turn them into numerous haiku, people do not recognize them because a single fragment of the scene does not embody the distinctive character of the entire landscape. Yet it is as if even someone like Basho were striving to take an impossible landscape and turn it into a haiku. Is this not an unreasonable demand? How much more so for a place like Matsushima, which is sorely lacking in natural beauty. People mistake the bizarre for beauty; therefore, they regard Matsushima’s bizarre scenery as Japan’s greatest beauty. This is a grave error. Since ancient times, there have been no famous poems or paintings of Matsushima; this has always been the nature of the place. If there are any outstanding poems or haiku about Matsushima, they certainly do not depict the true scenery of Matsushima. (I am unfamiliar with Yoshino, so I will not discuss it here.)

—Shall I take a walk through the mountains, forests, and countryside to gather material? First, in the deep groves, the withering wind whistles through the dead and evergreen trees; fallen leaves, piled up along the winding, gentle slopes, rustle softly; and where the fields extend to the edge of the hill, where a row of winter trees stretches diagonally, with just the top of a torii gate peeking out above them; the water in the winter rice fields has dried up here and there, revealing the stubble of harvested rice plants※ (the character “禾＋魯,” Level 3, 1-89-48) * (禾＋魯, Level 3, 1-89-48),* the water in the winter rice paddies was dry in patches, and among the mostly withered grass, only the red stems of smartweed remained. Walking along a small path through the fields, the water in the winter ditches was low, and while the grass was mostly withered, only the red stems of smartweed remained; at one spot, the lotus in an old pond had withered, and geese and ducks were making a racket hidden among the reeds, The sky was clear and high, a fine late-autumn day; the kites’ dance had grown still, and far off in the distance, a five-story pagoda soared, with Mount Fuji appearing small and white beside it. As dusk approached, I heard the sound of a sudden shower falling lightly and, feeling a sense of wonder, looked between the trees to see only the eerie, half-moon of the tenth day of the month. I found myself instinctively gesturing, as if to say, “Everyone must surely agree that true beauty lies here.” As the cold intensified, I hurried home, where even the crumbling brazier felt comforting; the treat of natto soup served with a hot bath is a delight best savored in the moment—elegance can be found anywhere.

—A verse born of pure imagination is either the most beautiful or the most clumsy. Yet the most beautiful are exceedingly rare. Though one may think it the most beautiful at the time of composition, many verses become so cloying that they make one want to vomit when viewed half a year or a year later. Even when depicting real scenes, the most beautiful are still hard to come by, but second-rate verses are the easiest to produce. Moreover, many realistic haiku retain some charm even after many years have passed.

—At first, it is common to feel that one cannot compose haiku without relying on imagination. Eventually, when one tries to depict real scenes, one feels at a loss, and nothing seems to become a haiku. However, once one gains enough experience through repeated practice to compose realistic haiku to some extent, one will find that nothing is as interesting or as easy to compose as realistic haiku. It is also at this time that one realizes the banality of fantasy and the freshness of realism. I once spoke with the oil painter Gyūban. Gyūban said, “In painting, too, when competing through fantasy, the seasoned artist will surely win, and the young artist will surely lose. However, when it comes to painting from life, the works of young artists are often enough to astonish even the seasoned ones.” How true that is.

—To compose a haiku based on imagination, one may sit motionless with eyes closed, visualizing the ideal realm of heaven. One may also sit at one’s desk, holding a hand warmer, and recall past experiences. It is also acceptable to leaf through ancient haiku texts and derive new ideas from the verses of others. It is also acceptable to gather with a few people to take turns leading the session, engage in competitive composition, or tackle assigned themes.

—When attempting to compose a haiku from imagination based on a given theme, if the theme is particularly difficult, the author—even a seasoned poet—often cannot avoid producing a clumsy verse that is hard to bear after much agonizing over it. In the book *Haikai Mondō*, there is a section titled “Kyōroku’s Explanation of His Own Discoveries and Inventions.” At the very beginning, he records his principles for composing haiku based on a given theme. He says:

"My teacher said, “When composing a haiku, one should not simply draw inspiration from the titles of one’s fellow disciples; that is not the way. If one seeks inspiration from elsewhere, then indeed, one can produce a great many works.” I replied, “I “Ara-no” and “Sarumino,” I have discovered this truth. To illustrate my approach to composition, I liken it to placing a topic in a box, climbing onto the box, standing on it, and searching the heavens and earth—and so on and so forth."

This, indeed, is the secret to composing haiku.

—If a poet leans too heavily toward fantasy, they easily fall into banality and find it difficult to capture nature. If they lean too heavily toward realism, they easily fall into mediocrity and find it difficult to achieve the extraordinary. Those who lean toward fantasy tend to forget that there are countless excellent themes right before their eyes in the mountains, rivers, and countryside, and instead grope aimlessly in the dark. Those who lean too heavily toward realism tend to become confined to the small world right before their eyes, forgetting that ancient objects and distant landscapes hold unique and fresh inspiration.

—There is a style that is neither purely imaginative nor purely realistic, but rather a blend of the two. That is, drawing haiku themes from novels, plays, Noh plays, and the like; adopting motifs from paintings; or translating literature from other countries—these are examples of this approach. Although this method is extremely cunning and often allows one to produce fine haiku without much effort, those who lack maturity frequently end up with clumsy verses and suffer failure. This is because the strengths of paintings and novels sometimes correspond to the weaknesses of haiku, and the strengths of Chinese, European, and American literature are not necessarily the strengths of haiku.

—Those Who Favor Grandiosity Attempting to force grandiosity by adding the character “大” (great) to everything is often a futile endeavor. If the subject is already small, one should add the character “大” to make it great. Examples include “Great Peony,” “Great Banner,” “Great Ship,” and “Great House.” However, if an object is already large, adding the character for “great” not only fails to make it any larger but may, on the contrary, create a sense that the object is confined within certain boundaries, thereby making it seem smaller. Examples include “Great Sky,” “Great Sea,” “Great Mountain,” “Great River,” and “Vast Plain.”

—Humor also belongs to literature. However, the humor found in haiku and that found in senryū naturally differ in degree. The humor of senryū lies in making people laugh until their sides ache. The humor in haiku, on the other hand, requires a touch of elegance. Therefore, a haiku that resembles a senryū is a poor haiku; if viewed as a senryū, it is even poorer. A senryū that resembles a haiku is a poor senryū; if viewed as a haiku, it is even poorer.

—There are those who favor an eccentric style, and such eccentricity also belongs to literature. However, it is essential that the eccentricity of the composition and the eccentricity of the language go hand in hand. There are works where the composition is eccentric but the language is not—much like a madman who is sometimes serious. There are works where the composition is not eccentric but the language is—much like a sane person pretending to be mad. Neither is literary.

—Many skilled practitioners dislike the character “ya” at the end of the second line of a haiku. For example:

※(Character composed of “stream” radical + “bird,” Level 4, 2-91-81) Niwa: A chicken’s single foot, winter hibernation　　　　　　　　　　Jōsō

Coming to call, it floats—a cat’s love　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 This is because when beginners use this kind of “ya,” it often causes the entire verse to lose its rhythm. That said, there is no reason to avoid it at all costs. As seen in the verses cited above, each has its own charm and a well-balanced rhythm, so the use of “ya” does not cause the verse to lose its rhythm. This is a flaw that arises from an excessive aversion to a sense of slackness. Meisetsu said, “Although the ‘ya’ in the second line tends to create a sense of slackness, if the following five-character phrase includes not only a noun but also verbs and adjectives, a certain harmony can be achieved.” For example,

The nightingale’s song echoes here and there—a humble cottage.　　　　　Buson

In a haiku like this, the presence of the word “gachi” prevents the “ya” from sounding too slack. This statement is true.

—There are old haiku that even those well-versed in the art find difficult to understand. If such a haiku relies on ancient events or archaic language, one should search through relevant books. However, if the words themselves are common yet the meaning of the entire poem remains obscure, one must ponder it at length. Failing to understand even a single haiku is not only a source of shame but also proof that one has yet to reach a certain level of proficiency in haiku. Inventing meanings that do not exist to make a haiku seem more profound is a flaw of ancient commentators. Discarding difficult haiku without thoroughly exploring their inherent meanings is a flaw of today’s students.

—Even those who have entered the second stage of their training—and who, of course, have no difficulty understanding ordinary haiku—are unable to interpret those that are meticulously crafted and intricately detailed. There are instances where they take a verse that a master has painstakingly composed and dismiss it as ordinary. I shall now cite several haiku from both past and present to point out the meticulous craftsmanship of haiku poets, and offer some commentary as well.

—   Fallen pine needles at a Zen temple—is it Kannazuki?　　　　　　　　Bonchō

　Those who interpret this haiku say: “It merely depicts the desolate atmosphere of Kannazuki. Moreover, the choice of ‘pine needles at a Zen temple’ possesses a certain poetic charm,” and so on. If, as the interpreters say, the pine needles of a Zen temple were intended to express the desolation of around October, it would have been more appropriate to use “Shimotsuki” (the month of frost) rather than “Kannazuki.” This is because Shimotsuki is even quieter than Kannazuki. The interpreter also said, “Shimotsuki and Kannazuki are essentially the same; it was merely a matter of poetic rhythm that led to the use of ‘Kannazuki.’” This is the view of one who does not understand Bancho. Even a master poet of the Genroku era, knowing that “Kannazuki” is a variant of “Shimotsuki,” would not resort to such a temporary expedient merely for the sake of syllable count. How much more so, then, for Bonchō, who surpassed others in his meticulous preparation? This can be seen in Bonchō’s haiku in *Sarumino*, which are so tightly constructed that not a single character should be altered; his unwavering stubbornness on this point is also evident in the *Koraishō*. Therefore, could those who used “Kannazuki” in this verse truly have done so merely as a temporary expedient? It is certain that Bonchō gave this matter deep consideration. Indeed, since October is the time when many tree leaves fall, in haikai, falling leaves are considered a seasonal motif of October, while the falling leaves of evergreen trees—such as those of the pine—are all classified as belonging to summer. However, it goes without saying that the falling of pine needles, for example, occurs throughout all four seasons. Therefore, the meaning of this verse must be that, while during the month of Kannazuki, fallen leaves pile up everywhere—so much so that they make a sound even under geta or zori—this Zen temple alone has only a few old pine needles scattered about. The one who murmured this verse must have felt that this purity and solitude embody the very essence of a Zen temple. To put it another way, while everywhere else is littered with fallen leaves, creating a rather gloomy and dreary scene, this Zen temple—with its rows of nothing but pine trees and no other trees mixed in—should, even during this season of falling leaves, have none of the usual fallen leaves; only pine needles scatter, giving it a truly Zen-like atmosphere. (This verse was likely inspired by Nanzen-ji Temple.) It is here that we see the phrase “Kanna-zuki” remains absolutely fixed. If it were “Shōgatsu,” the season of falling leaves would already have passed; it would be impossible to tell whether the fallen leaves had been blown away or swept up. In that case, it would not sufficiently convey the image of a Zen temple with nothing but pine trees.

—　Swallows that have learned their lesson no longer open their beaks at the bell tower.　

Yayū was renowned for his eccentric writing style. Consequently, of the thousands of verses he composed, eight or nine out of ten belong to the eccentric or witty and humorous genres. However, there are few others quite like this verse in its extreme wit and humor. The essence of this verse lies in the single character "chou" (懲).  And yet, the very thing that people fail to grasp also lies within this phrase. Therefore, to fathom the meaning of this verse, one must understand why the swallow has been deterred from entering the bell tower. Since swallows fly in a straight line, it is likely that on one occasion, without a second thought, it flew straight toward the bell tower and, unexpectedly, struck its head against the bell, suffering a painful blow. Thus, fearing it might suffer another painful experience if it entered the bell tower, it learned its lesson and refrained from doing so. Although I do not believe such an event could actually have occurred, I suspect this humorous phrase was composed by drawing an analogy from the way swallows fly without looking ahead. Some may consider this interpretation too far-fetched and offer various other interpretations. However, compare that interpretation with the one presented here: see which best captures the meaning of “lesson learned” and which best illustrates the swallow’s nature. Only then will you realize that this interpretation is not far-fetched. However, this verse is too playful and of the lowest possible taste. It should by no means be called a fine verse. Some may suspect that this kind of humor is somewhat close to the style of senryū, and there may be those who argue that it is unthinkable for a haiku poet to write in the senryū style. Yet, anyone who has read Aru’s collected works surely knows that his work is nothing more than playful humor. For example:

A willow that won’t break—I get it—hangs low

With a hoe in hand and three legs, washing while pounding the rice paddy

Ferns reaching out toward the mountains of Ashigara

The heat is stifling at the very sound of someone speaking

The sound of insects from one side of town in one ear

An intruder came and knocked on the gate—I’m taking my medicine　　

　Although their skill may vary, all their designs lean toward humor, and in every instance where wit is employed, they are entirely similar. From this, one can infer the full picture.

— A mysterious strongman bursts in—what a strange sumo match!　　　　　Buson

　Even those deeply immersed in haiku—who compose their own and have produced countless excellent verses—still dismiss this verse as ordinary and insignificant, giving it not the slightest consideration. Yet when asked to interpret it, their explanation is shallow, almost as if they were analyzing a run-of-the-mill haiku. If Buson were to hear this, what would he say? This verse is certainly not a masterpiece among those in the *Buson Shū*; rather, it ranks toward the lower end. Nevertheless, the skill of a master is often judged by his lesser works. Is this verse perhaps sufficient to gauge Buson’s skill? Indeed, the spirit of this verse lies in the single character “怪” (kai). It is also in this character that people’s misunderstanding lies. Although I cannot fully fathom the various meanings in which the Japanese word “ayashi” is used, in the past, it was not uncommon to refer to unsightly, lowly homes or “suspicious” houses as such. However, that is not the intended usage here. Generally, the word “ayashi” is used to convey the meaning of the kanji “怪.” “Kai” refers to the strange, supernatural beings, superhuman strength, divine mysteries, and demonic phenomena—all things beyond human control. The meaning of this passage can be explained as follows. In a certain place, at the beginning of autumn, every night a group of young men from the village would gather to hold a street sumo match at a crossroads. Those who prided themselves on their strength would gather of their own accord, pretending to be grand champions and top-ranked wrestlers, strutting about with swagger as they spent an entertaining night by the bonfire until late into the night. One night, a man unlike any they had seen before arrived at the sumo ring and declared, “I, too, wish to test my strength.” The young men, in the prime of their youth and brimming with youthful vigor, thought, “What could a man of this stature possibly amount to?” and rushed at him headlong—only to be casually thrown to the ground. The next young man, determined to defeat this formidable opponent, locked arms with him—only to be thrown with stunning precision. As countless others who challenged him met the same fate, a certain Ōzeki finally stepped forward, striding confidently to avenge the group’s collective humiliation. Everyone watched with bated breath, thinking, “This is the match to watch.” The two men rose to their feet, locked arms with a “Hey!” and a “Whoa!”—pulling left and dodging right—and glared intently at one another. Just then, for some reason, the other man seemed to close in suddenly, and even the great Ozeki was effortlessly slammed down right in the center of the ring. The spectators were stunned. Soon, all sorts of rumors began to spread from mouth to mouth. But who was that man who had burst in? He was a face unfamiliar to this village. When they asked the people of Kitamura, they didn’t know him; when they asked the people of Minamimura, they didn’t know him either. Yet he did not have the bearing of a sumo wrestler who had made his debut in the ring, nor did he look like a warrior on a training journey passing through. One suspicion piled upon another. The whispers grew ever more boisterous. Among them, an elderly referee cleared his throat and said in a low voice, “Everyone, be quiet. That man must surely be the Tengu said to dwell atop this mountain. Judging by his behavior tonight, he is clearly no ordinary man. I suspect he has taken pity on our excessive pride in our own feats of strength—which he finds quite laughable—and has thus come to teach us a lesson.” At this, everyone exchanged glances and shivered, pulling their collars tight around their necks. Buson truly took this very scene as his subject and encapsulated it within seventeen characters. Yet the essence of it lies in nothing other than the single character “mystery.” Sumo wrestling is a difficult subject; it is a matter of human affairs. If one were to speak directly of these complex, mundane human affairs from the surface level, one would inevitably sink into vulgarity. No matter how much one might probe for literary significance beneath the surface, the “thousand-ryō banner” would ultimately fail to serve as material for a haiku. Yet, as for Buson’s literary prowess—in extracting this poetic realm, imbued with a certain refinement, from the midst of such mundane circumstances, and encapsulating it within the single character “strangeness”—no one in the three hundred years of haiku history has come close to matching his achievement. Some may deem this interpretation unjust and attempt various other interpretations. However, such interpretations likely stem from an inability to grasp the meaning of the character “strange”; otherwise, they are merely the ramblings of those who do not understand Buson’s literary prowess—where every character and phrase is as precise as metal and as immovable as Mount Tai.

First, while expressing the inexpressible is a mark of great skill, this is typically done only by those who compose poems about mundane subjects and strive to make them as elegant as possible. No matter how elegant the subject matter may be, it is nearly impossible to condense a wealth of imagery—enough to fill more than seventeen characters—into just seventeen characters; thus, it seems that haiku poets of old have generally avoided attempting this. Nevertheless, is it not acceptable to have one or two verses of this kind? Ikenishi Gonsui is indeed a master of this style.

—Here is a poem that describes events from a very ancient era as if the poet himself had witnessed them firsthand. I have heard that in the past, there were regions where people who had grown old and were no longer of any use were cruelly abandoned in the mountains and valleys. I have heard that Mount Obasute in Shinshu is said to be the site of such a practice. The story takes place during a winter night—a cold, clear night when the sky was filled with stars shining so brightly they seemed ready to spill over—and the poet, about to set out for Obasute, orders that a hot water bottle be warmed. Anyone would think it impossible to condense such a rich scene into just seventeen characters, yet the poet composed the following verse:

To cast out my aunt, I warm the hot water bottle on this starry moonlit night　　　　　　　Genmizu

　It captures the scene without the slightest sense of constraint. Truly, this must be called a groundbreaking masterpiece. (However, there is still something about this verse that I do not fully understand. What exactly is the purpose of placing the *[“酉＋間”]* in the hot water bottle? Is it simply to warm one’s own hands and feet because of the cold, or is there some other meaning? I await the guidance of the experts.)

—Even in Genmizu’s works, there are few other examples of these haiku.

Kurozuka: The demoness captures the court lady and cuts off her flesh and child, roasting them over a brazier.　　　　　　　　　Genmizu

This verse is the only one that bears even a slight resemblance to the previous verse about the yuba. The meaning of this verse is likely that the demoness of Kurozuka has captured the court lady, cut off her flesh and child, and is roasting them over a brazier. Just as the previous verse gains a sense of dread by being set in winter, this verse—also set in winter—evokes an even more terrifying feeling.

—　Clear water that awakens the path within me　　　　　　Bakushi

　Though this is by no means a verse of high literary merit, the fact that the author managed to transform even such a subject into a haiku is a testament to his skill. The meaning of the verse is this: during the sweltering heat of the three dog days of summer, one drinks cold water to moisten a parched throat, and as the water passes through the esophagus, one feels a cool sensation in one’s chest—this is what the verse describes.

Human nature is good

—　“After breaking a branch, I hear a voice: ‘Take it’—the plum by the fence”　 Sen Toku

　Although this haiku is said to be vulgar in conception and of little merit, the function of the middle seven syllables is something that students of haiku must not overlook. When one has just picked a plum from a neighbor’s hedge and is about to leave, the casual remark, “Please take this,” is succinctly rendered as “a voice calls out, ‘Take this’”—a touch that truly reveals the poet’s maturity. However, the value of this haiku is not even worth a single sentence.

— The castle at the summit—how delightful are the young leaves!　　　　　　Buson

　The meaning of the verse is clear enough. Some might say that, upon seeing the Chinese term “summit,” he resorted to a desperate measure; others might say he was merely seeking the unusual. However, Buson did not seek the bizarre, nor did he resort to desperate measures. The reason he used “zetsuchō” (peak) rather than explicitly stating “summit” is that the strong cadence of “zetsuchō” makes the mountain seem all the more precipitous, thereby giving greater force to the sense of “delightful” and bringing the entire verse to life. Furthermore, by setting the season as “new leaves,” the scene—where the lush greenery of early summer has grown so thick as to half-conceal the castle tower—conveys the strongest sense of the castle’s fortitude. If the poem were set in winter, the atmosphere of an empty, ancient castle would be heightened, rendering the phrase “reassuring” inappropriate.

—Many students use numerous Chinese loanwords in their haiku, believing they have achieved originality, but this often results in overly convoluted expressions that detract from the poem’s charm. The use of Chinese loanwords should be limited to the following cases:

Cases where the meaning cannot be expressed without a Chinese term

Cases where Chinese idioms are used

Cases where the use of a Chinese term improves the rhythm

—Contemporary new phenomena may be used in haiku. However, since many new phenomena are vulgar or crude, care must be taken in their selection.

The Third Stage of Study

—The course of study concludes with the third stage.

—Those in the second stage should already be considered members of the haiku community. It is not difficult to make a name for oneself in this generation. Only those who aspire to become masters of haiku may enter the third stage. Those who are content with mere fame in this generation will ultimately not be permitted to enter this stage.

—The third stage has no set graduation date. Those who enter it early may become masters for a hundred years; those who enter it late may become masters for all eternity.

—The second stage is open to those with a natural literary talent who can pursue it as a hobby. The third stage is open only to those who specialize in literature.

—In the second stage, even those of limited learning or who are lazy can still cultivate this art. The third stage is accessible only to those who are diligent and devoted to their studies.

—One may enter the second stage without even realizing it. The third stage is accessible only to those who have resolved to enter it of their own accord.

—Even those who specialize in literature cannot progress beyond the second stage if they are arrogant, look down on others, and lack the will to study and refine their craft.

—Haiku books worthy of reading should be read as soon as they are obtained. Upon finishing a book, it is essential to assess its strengths and weaknesses.

—It is absolutely essential to distinguish between the trite and the novel in haiku. The scope of what is considered trite or novel varies depending on one’s level of study. The more haiku one reads, the more one will likely perceive what is trite. Those in the second stage, when viewing the haiku of beginners, will see only what is trite. Those in the third stage, when viewing the work of those in the second stage, will see the same. And so on. However, there is no better way to learn to distinguish between the trite and the novel than to read many books on haiku.

—For those who practice haiku as a hobby, it is not a problem if their own poems happen to resemble older ones. However, those in the third stage cannot use such similarities to mask their banality; it merely serves to highlight their own lack of knowledge.

—Whether one draws from imagination or realism, one must be thoroughly skilled in both. One must also possess the skill to make the non-literary as literary as possible.

—One must fuse imagination and realism to produce a grand literature that is neither purely imaginary nor purely realistic. Those who are overly fixated on imagination or overly rigid in their adherence to realism are, of course, far from the mark.

—One must be well-versed in the various forms of haiku and possess one’s own distinctive style.

—If one is satisfied merely by reading books on haiku, one will do no more than taste the dregs of the ancients. One must seek new material beyond traditional haiku. One should read history and geography books to find new material. If possible, travel the world to gather new material directly from nature.

—One must also have a general understanding of literature other than haiku. First, waka; second, Japanese prose; third, novels, Noh plays, and theater; fourth, Chinese literature; and fifth, Western literature.

—Only specialists are capable of creating literature. It is not necessarily a fault to be skilled in waka but not in haiku, or to be skilled in Japanese prose but not in Classical Chinese. However, the standards of literature should not differ from one genre to another or from one region to another. Therefore, one who knows the standards of waka but not those of haiku does not truly know the standards of waka. One who knows the standards of haiku but not those of the novel does not truly know the standards of haiku. It goes without saying that standards must be uniform across all of literature.

—One must not only be well-versed in literature but also in the arts in general. The standards of literature must be applicable to painting, sculpture, architecture, and music.

—One who has grasped the standards of haiku must not judge the beauty or lack thereof of waka unless one can interpret it; must not judge the beauty or lack thereof of Chinese or Western poetry unless one can interpret it; and must not judge the beauty or lack thereof of painting, sculpture, architecture, or music unless one can interpret them. Therefore, a haiku poet must not only delve deeply into a field but also possess a broad understanding of many others.

—To be well-versed in literature and the fine arts is not enough. One must be well-versed in all fields of learning and have a clear understanding of all matters. However, the number of things one can personally experience in a lifetime is extremely limited. Therefore, if one wishes to learn much and gain broad knowledge, relying on books is the very best method. History should provide material; geography books should provide material. All other miscellaneous writings, without exception, provide some good material.

—One must not consider it sufficient merely to create literature of the highest beauty; one must strive to create ever more literature of the highest beauty.

—If one devotes such effort to a single haiku, then haiku exists; and where haiku exists, Japanese literature exists.

[[Note: there follows a chapter devoted to Haikai and Renga]]

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Source text: "Haikai Taiyo" (Outline of Haikai), Iwanami Bunko, Iwanami Shoten  

First edition published May 5, 1955 (Showa 30)  

Second revised edition published September 16, 1983 (Showa 58)  

Eighth printing published November 5, 1989 (Heisei 1)

First published in: "Nihon" (Japan), Nihon Newspaper Company  

October 22, 1895 (Meiji 28) – December 31, 1895

* The mixed usage of "到る" and "至る" (both meaning "to reach"), "相違" and "相異" (both meaning "difference"), "五月雨" and "皐月雨" (both meaning "early summer rain"), and the ruby readings "ほうご" and "ほご" for "反古" follows the source text exactly.

* Contracted sounds and geminate consonants in ruby text that appear to be based on modern kana usage have been rendered in small characters.

Input: Kazuo Sakai  

Proofreading: Kazuhiko Okamura  

Created on September 25, 2016

Aozora Bunko creation file:  

This file was created by Aozora Bunko, the Internet library (http://www.aozora.gr.jp/). The inputting, proofreading, and production of this file were carried out by volunteers.