This article was published in serial form in the Kokumin no tomo from September 23 to October 13, 1892.
………
Anyone who has traveled through Suruga Province has likely heard of a scenic spot known as Togetsuhō; it lies in a valley called Izumigaya, nestled between hills, which one reaches by turning off the road just west of Mariko Station in Abe District. Should a traveler pause there and encounter a kindly old man willing to share tales of the past, they would almost certainly hear stories about the renga poet Sōchō. Since the days when Sōchō gazed upon the moon, its light cool and clear, years and months have raced by, and three hundred and sixty seasons have come and gone; yet he lives on in the hearts of the country folk. The moon overhead, which he once admired in verse, retains the same aspect today; provided the clouds do not occasionally intervene, it ceaselessly sheds its pure radiance.
He was born one year before Ashikaga Yoshimasa, known as the Lord of Higashi-yama and infamous throughout history, ascended to the shogunate. He lived through the reigns of four subsequent shoguns – Yoshihisa, Yoshitane, Yoshizumi, and Yoshiharu – and passed away in the fifth year of the Kyōroku era (during Yoshiharu’s reign). The Ōnin War, an unprecedented conflict in Japanese history, took place when he was still a young man with the fresh, rosy complexion of youth.
He lived during a time when the world was gradually falling into disarray; voices from afar cried out that the Muromachi regime’s days were numbered and that a period of great chaos and fragmentation was imminent. Yet, despite being born into such turbulent times, he was a fortunate man. Although the central realm was in utter disarray and the authority of the Muromachi government had waned, the provincial governors and territorial lords held sway as powerful rulers over their domains, and under their governance, the local populace often enjoyed a life of peace and tranquility.
While many court nobles and scholars tearfully left the Imperial capital only to find unexpected comfort and contentment upon seeking refuge with powerful provincial clans, he was different; not only was he already a resident of Suruga, but he also enjoyed the favour of the provincial governor, the Imagawa clan. Thus, in the first year of Eishō, at the invitation of the Imagawa retainer Saitō Yasumoto, he moved to Izumigaya, built a hermitage named Saiya-ken, and lived out the remaining twenty-nine years of his life in quiet seclusion.
He lived a life devoted entirely to the aesthetic pursuit of refined elegance; yet, to this day, the villagers have not forgotten him. He performed no great deeds for the common people, he never pleaded the hardships of the rain-drenched peasant before those in power, never brought water to parched plains, and never built bridges across impassable streams. And yet, the heartless world showed him compassion, and his name endures in the memories of farmers who often forget even the death anniversaries of their own great-grandfathers. What secret lies behind this?
He created a form of poetry, specifically renga, that was accessible to the common people, quietly giving voice to their sentiments. While it is true that the practitioners of this poetic art could include aristocrats and city dwellers, renga stands out within Japanese literature as the form most easily understood by the common people, the one most readily within their reach, and it is for this reason that I term it ‘commoner’s poetry.’
Flowers bloom in splendor and roosters crow vigorously; the character of a people is largely shaped by the natural scenery amidst which they live. In America there is a vast countryside, where the Rocky Mountains divide the sky, the Mississippi River flows in majestic maturity, and plains stretch endlessly to meet the stars. What impressions arise upon looking at the Japanese islands? In that moment, the Japanese islands no longer appear to our eyes as a mere pleasure garden. Even the peerless peak of Mount Fuji, the cherry blossoms in their glory, or Mount Yoshino, cloud-like in its floral splendor, and Lake Biwa, with its waters rippling under Mount Hiei, seem, when compared to the landscapes of continental nations, little more than miniature tray gardens or garden ponds.
Indeed, save for the vast oceans that encircle it, the nature of our land is exquisitely beautiful and gentle. If one were to personify this nature, she would be a maiden of enchanting youth, beautiful yet approachable, inviting intimacy without a trace of malice; her smiles and charms so captivating that even the stoutest of men would be left spellbound, unable to tear themselves away. It is hardly surprising, then, that the Japanese people, born and raised amidst such splendid scenery, should possess a poetic sensibility toward nature.
Since ancient times, Japan has been nurtured by a beautiful and gentle nature; indeed, the land itself seemed to cultivate a poetic spirit in its people. Because imperial anthologies prioritized works by emperors, courtiers, and military commanders, one might assume the common people were indifferent to this exquisite natural beauty; yet, even among them, flashes of poetic genius would occasionally shine forth, rare and brilliant, like stars glimpsed on a rainy night. However, as the waka tradition evolved into a specialized craft, most commoners lost the opportunity to express their poetic sensibilities through that medium; it was only with the emergence of the popular renga form that the poetic sentiments of the common people, long held in quiet accumulation, found a channel through which to flow forth.
Although it began as renga (linked verse), the initial three lines, known as the hokku, eventually came to exist independently as a short poem, ultimately evolving into the haikai poetry of the Tokugawa period.
If we classify them by era, waka belongs to the literature of the ancient and medieval periods, whereas hokku belongs to that of the early modern period. If we classify them by the social class of their creators, waka is the literature of the aristocracy, while hokku is the literature of the common people. If we classify them by literary nature, waka falls under refined, classical literature, whereas hokku belongs to the realm of the vernacular and the popular. Although there are such significant distinctions between the two genres, it is a fact worthy of note that, when we examine the ideals held by their most distinguished poets, we find they are essentially the same.
The ideals, sentiments, and rhythms that once found expression in waka poetry have simply donned new attire to manifest themselves in hokku. The Japanese landscape, which once stirred the emotions of emperors, court nobles, and warriors, evokes the same response in the haikai poets of the modern era. Observing that the Japanese of the waka age are no different from the Japanese of the hokku age, we recognize that, despite their various social strata, they share the same fundamental characteristics as poets. We see that while the Japanese people have undergone manifold changes in attire, language, and politics between ancient and modern times, their poetic nature has remained constant throughout the ages; thus, we are compelled to acknowledge the profound harmony between the Japanese race and the nature of their land.
The plum blossom does not lose its essential nature simply because it blooms upon a humble mound. The Japanese landscape, which once inspired courtiers to compose verses of admiration, now moves monks, Shinto priests, warriors, farmers, merchants, and artisans alike to sing in seventeen-syllable poems; yet the shared beauty they express remains the same as in ages past. Waka and hokku may be likened to sisters: the elder, waka, was raised in the inner chambers of the aristocracy and thus naturally possesses a noble, ladylike elegance; the younger, hokku, married into the common folk and acquired the demeanor of a practical, down-to-earth housewife. Nevertheless, as both were born with the Japanese landscape as their father and the characteristics of the Yamato race as their mother, they share a great many similarities.
One quality found equally in both waka and hokku is the ‘sublime.’ Poets of waka and hokku understand the beauty of nature. Like butterflies captivated by blossoms, or small sea bream swimming amidst beautiful seaweed, they delight in the beauty of the natural world. Spring flowers, the autumn moon, morning dew, evening wild geese, towering mountains, flowing rivers – they capture the emotions that ripple through the human heart in response to the moods and transformations of nature.
Yet, they were unable to perceive that ‘sublime’ quality, a majestic force transcending mere beauty, which, rather than simply delighting the human heart, evokes a sense of reverent awe. The solemn grandeur of the Book of Job, which moved Carlyle to describe it as “A noble book; all men’s book; it is our first, eldest statement of the never-ending problem, man’s destiny, and God’s ways with him here in this earth.” and the desolate, starkly poignant sentiments found in Tang poetry, such as the imagery of vast, sandy wastes where Chinese and barbarian faces never meet, find no parallel in either waka or hokku verse.
It is a notable fact that few waka or hokku poems take specific individuals as their subject matter. Of course, there are instances, akin to the Chinese tradition of composing verses based on history, where historical figures are depicted; yet such cases are rare, as these poets primarily focused on nature and love. The treatment of love as a theme is common in waka but infrequent in hokku, a distinction that warrants further examination and will be discussed later. However, since most love poems serve merely as outlets for a poet’s pent-up romantic longing or as vehicles to display poetic talent, without delving into the character or personality of the beloved, it cannot be said that these poems treat the individual as their subject.
To imagine that waka and hokku, unless they take human figures as their subjects, fail to serve as hypnotic chants that imprint the deeds of ancient heroes upon the tender memories of village children, or that adopting such subjects would naturally foster hero worship and a spirit of loyalty to the Emperor and patriotism, is to vastly overestimate the nature of waka and hokku. Poets of waka and hokku are merely children nestled in the bosom of nature, singing only of nature itself; their eyes do not reflect the human will or the exploits of great heroes. Figures such as warriors battling on the field, statesmen steering the great machinery of government from the halls of power, or women serving as the angels of a happy home, none of these held any appeal for them.
One cannot say that love is absent from hokku poetry; however, it is a fact worth noting that such poems are not as numerous as they are in waka. After all, love is the most poignant, beautiful, and poetic of human sentiments. Thus, as the Japanese proverb ‘theft born of poverty, poetry born of love’ suggests, a lover is naturally a poet, indeed, one cannot help but be a poet when in love. Yet, the fact that love poems came to occupy nearly half of the content in successive anthologies represents a lack of balance, an excessive leaning toward the single theme of love.
Love is not a subject that encompasses the entirety of human affairs; indeed, when compared to the vastness of nature, the realm within it suitable for poetry is exceedingly narrow. Yet, the reason love poetry alone flourished to such an extent is that the poets who composed it were largely young aristocrats, gentle and refined, tender of heart, and prone to tears. It was precisely because such effeminate men, who delighted in anthologies filled with love poems, held sway that the governance of the realm was ultimately wrested from them by the warrior class.
Whether love poems corrupted the hearts of court nobles, or whether love poems arose because the hearts of court nobles were corrupted. I will not discuss the cause and effect for a moment, but I acknowledge that the exuberance of the old rivals who vehemently declared that waka poetry should not be read Japanese-style, was not entirely unreasonable. Fortunately, the opening verse was discovered by commoners, so it was not biased towards love.
Another point of criticism shared by both waka and hokku is their lack of a sense of moral imperative. Neither form has ever given voice to the profound pangs of conscience, the burden of sin and repentance, and the genuine anguish accompanying it, that a devout Christian experiences at the moment of spiritual awakening. Poets of waka and hokku have never grieved amidst unquenchable fires, nor heard the hellish cries of those gnashing their teeth in torment, nor contemplated the terrors of a dark and fearful future.
Even they, at times, must surely have heard the faint voice of conscience echoing within; yet they paid it no serious heed. They accepted the teachings of morality in all earnestness, savoring them deep within their hearts, much like catching the scent of plum blossoms in the dark of night. They did not, however, truly grasp the distinction between good and evil in any profound sense.
It is a fact worthy of note that both waka poetry and hokku exhibit a tendency toward world-weariness. While a certain recent historian has characterized the literature of the Kamakura period as pessimistic and that of the Tokugawa period as optimistic, this view demands a more precise examination. Generally, a worldview regarding the nature of the world inevitably manifests in one of two directions: the first is a turning away from the world to seek a state of quietude or nothingness; the second is the pursuit of fleeting pleasures, driven by the sentiment expressed in the phrase, ‘Let us eat and drink’ as Paul once described.
One path leads to the state of a monk knocking at a temple gate beneath the moonlight; the other leads to the realm of the libertine who, heedless of the morrow, feasts on the flesh of cattle and horses. Both exemplify facets of a philosophy of life, or a stance toward the world. If this holds true, then the optimism perceived in the works of these poets is not, in fact, merely a variation of pessimism. Indeed, even these haiku poets would at times directly articulate their philosophy of existence. Why did the image of a crow perched on a withered branch at autumn dusk become a favorite subject for them? Why did the evening scene, with the lowing of cattle echoing through the air, serve as poetic material? They found a unique pleasure in profound solitude and sought to lose themselves for a time in a state of inaction and thoughtlessness, is this not a pure form of a philosophy of life?
The fact that waka and hokku share a commonality, taking beauty as their theme, setting aside the ‘sublime,’ and depicting nature while leaving the human figure in the background, stems from the way Japanese ‘nature’ has deeply harmonized with the Japanese spirit to forge a distinct national character. Their shared tendency to place little emphasis on moral concepts while elevating worldly sentiment is a trait cultivated partly through the influence of our natural landscapes and partly through the impact of Buddhism. Thus, one could reasonably conclude that the many similarities between waka and hokku are primarily attributable to the influence of ‘nature.’
However, as previously mentioned, waka is like an elder sister of noble birth, whereas hokku is like a younger sister, the wife of a commoner. Though they share the same lineage, they were sown in different fields; inevitably, their paths of development diverged. While waka and hokku align perfectly in fundamental respects, they differ markedly in the finer details. In what ways do they differ? Let me discuss this briefly.
1. They differ in the scope of their subject matter. Because waka poetry was the province of court nobles, its themes were quite narrow; conversely, because hokku poetry was created by commoners, its themes were exceedingly broad. Long ago, when Zhuang zi answered a question from Dong Guozi, he stated that the Dao exists in ants, in broken tiles, and, ultimately, even in urine and excrement, leaving Dong Guozi utterly dumbfounded. If we were to compare waka poets with hokku poets, the relationship would be much like that between Dong Guozi and Zhuang Zi: while waka poets do not seek poetic subjects beyond a strictly limited sphere, hokku poets recognize that a poetic subject can be found even in the home of a beggar.
Yosa Buson who devoted his days to the arts of poetry said:.
“The very form of haikai is like setting out at dawn clad in a straw raincoat and hat, with bamboo staff and tightly bound straw sandals; making no distinction between city and countryside, nor lingering too long in one place, one might find oneself trudging through snowy streets or stumbling across grassy plains shimmering in the heat haze. There were times he found solace in the simple fare of a mountain temple, or, an occasion for laughter, was invited to lodge at a humble earthen-floored cottage. Waking from sleep at the roots of trees or upon rocky crags on moonlit or cuckoo-calling nights, he would press on toward unseen horizons. From the shores of Satsuma to the remote straits of the Kuril Islands in Ezo, was there any corner left unvisited? Truly, this vast expanse was the path he walked and the playground of his spirit; wherever his fancy led and his eyes could reach, he wandered with the wind…”
In taking the myriad phenomena of the world, leaving nothing out, and making them all subjects for poetry, the haikai poet surely surpasses the waka poet.
Pilgrims traversing the fields,
Street performers singing and dancing,
Moon-viewing dumplings, snow-cloaks,
Votive lanterns, pleasure boats drifting on the river
What among these fails to provide poetic inspiration?
Compared to waka poetry, which tends to limit its famous sites strictly to the likes of the cherry blossoms of Yoshino or the moon at Sarashina, the scope here is arguably far broader.
2. Haiku poets abound in wit, whereas waka poets possess refinement.
This distinction stems from the poets’ own stations in life: waka poets were typically court nobles largely insulated from the rough tides of the world; consequently, their poetry naturally tends toward a gentle, measured tone, rarely displaying sharp, clever ingenuity. In contrast, haiku poets were often commoners intimately acquainted with human nature and the realities of the world; thus, they frequently produced striking aphorisms, lines that pierce straight to the heart with a single phrase. In waka poetry, the poets consider it proper to conceal their inventiveness, the hokku poet, by contrast, seems to regard revealing it as the ideal.
3. Hokku is more skeptical than waka; having emerged in an age of skepticism, it bears a skeptical character. Even if waka poets were world-weary, they possessed a form of religious faith; they recognized that human life is even more fleeting than a lightning flash, and some among them deeply extolled the virtues of Amida Buddha. Thus, the assertion made by Mr. Hajime Onishi, that “there is no religion in waka”, is difficult to accept. In contrast, hokku poets are generally indifferent to religion. Of course, this does not mean they never took gods or Buddhas as poetic subjects; however, they treated them merely as elements of the scenery. Religiously speaking, they walked a vague, indeterminate path.
Bashō, hailed as the restorer of haiku, admired the character of the monk Saigyō and took his Sankashū (Mountain Hermitage Collection) as an ideal model; yet, his devotion was directed solely toward Saigyō the poet, not toward emulating Saigyō the religious figure. Because hokku were easy for commoners both to understand and to compose, they spread with remarkable speed and reach. No matter how remote the mountain village, one was sure to find a few practitioners of the art. During the festivals of local guardian shrines, the village’s amateur poets would pour their hearts into composing verses to display on lanterns, vying with one another in poetic skill. In the cities, too, many engaged in this pastime, ranging from elderly men who had handed over the family business to their sons, to the scions of wealthy merchants who had not yet assumed control of the family trade.
As the practice spread in this manner, many professional poets, known as ‘haikai-shi’ emerged. Most resided in urban centers, earning their livelihoods by providing critiques and corrections for a fee. The term ‘tenryō’ (grading fee) referred to the remuneration received for critiquing hokku verses; these fees were generally set at fixed rates, and the poets also received seasonal honoraria, paid either twice or four times a year, from those known as their disciples. Those who excelled in the art were thus able to support themselves independently, and not a few even amassed considerable wealth.
The reason they were able to achieve this status was that, as poets of the common people, they found it easy to attract disciples. Consequently, even in an era when one could not make a living solely as a novelist, there were haikai masters who could successfully establish and maintain their own schools.
However, such success was the lot of only the great masters; the vast majority of those who called themselves haikai-masters could not sustain an independent livelihood. They were inevitably compelled to act as a sort of intermediary, relying on the patronage of the wealthy and powerful, a situation that was simply unavoidable. They would gather around a wealthy man and lure him to the pleasure quarters. They frequented the estates of daimyo, amusing foolish lords with their antics. They were invited by retired wealthy merchants, spending entire days catering to their whims. When one considers that a man of such abundant poetic talent was compelled to live as a sort of slave merely to survive, one cannot help but weep for the sake of literature, yet, in truth, it was a situation that could not be helped.
Such was the lot of the haikai poet it was only natural that their social standing was not particularly exalted. Consequently, those who harbored noble ambitions to make a mark on the world were unwilling to become haikai poets. The public viewed them in the same light as physicians or wondering monks. Thus, even aspiring poets came to regard themselves as social outcasts, often engaging in eccentric or dissolute behavior to satisfy their own rebellious impulses. Consider the case of Kikaku: he was uninhibited, indifferent to social conventions, and constantly intoxicated; one cannot help but lament the circumstances that shaped such a great poet. Ultimately, the eccentricities of haikai poets were merely a reflection of the scorn in which society held them, the distorted development of great talent denied its proper place.
Given how society treated haikai poets, those of little principle or discernment, like birds imitating cormorants, would clumsily ape the airs of true aesthetes.
I once read a piece by Shikitei Sanba titled ‘The Pretensions of the Aesthete,’ in which he captured the type with a keen, observant eye; the story left me convulsed with laughter. In his account, the so-called aesthete and his companion walked along the Sumida River embankment beneath a sky heavy with snow. They stumbled repeatedly in the snowdrifts. Unable to withstand the biting wind, their lips turned blue. Drawn by voices drifting down from a nearby tavern, they cast envious glances upward. One of them inadvertently cried out, “Alas, how cold!” but, urged on by the other, who exclaimed, “How extraordinary!”, he felt compelled to echo that sentiment. In their attempt to affect the air of refined aesthetes, they nearly froze to death. Such behavior was surely not limited to these two alone; it seems there were many haikai poets who, believing they ought to perform acts that transcended the mundane, engaged in theatrical displays of eccentricity.
While professional hokku poets often exhibited such tendencies, those who were not professionals, individuals with established livelihoods who poured their poetic spirit into their work during moments of leisure, often possessed a truly dignified character. They were independent men of learning who commanded respect. They celebrated the achievements of their fellow villagers and mourned those who passed away, giving voice to the shared sentiments of the community through their poetry. As local educators, they instilled an appreciation for literature in the youth. Indeed, the fact that commoners in rural areas during the Tokugawa shogunate were not entirely unlettered is truly owing to the presence of these minor poets.
When examining this tradition of haikai, one finds that during the Edo period, the art generally comprised three schools and passed through three distinct periods.
The first phase unfolded in Kyoto and its vicinity. The second phase originated in Osaka, centering on Nishiyama Sōin; this is known as the ‘Danrin’ style. The third phase emerged in Edo, centering on Matsuo Bashō, and represents the so-called ‘Shōfū’ (orthodox style). These constitute the broad outlines. While there is no doubt that these three schools possessed distinct stylistic differences, I have already examined their fundamental commonalities; thus, I leave the discussion of their minor variations to the specialists. However, I wish to add one point: the emergence of these various schools was entirely driven by the momentum of reaction.
If one compares the so-called Danrin style with the Seifū style, one finds that the former is humorous while the latter is refined; the former vies for cleverness in phrasing, whereas the latter prioritizes meaning; the former scatters eccentricities, while the latter favors simplicity and balance. Literary trends and political affairs shift rapidly, rarely does anything remain unchanged for a decade. When a style reaches the extreme of ethereal lightness, it inevitably swings back toward gravity and substance; when it reaches the extreme of intricate elaboration, it inevitably swings back toward plainness and simplicity, such is the natural order of things. After all, human beings do not advance in a straight line but rather progress by oscillating between extremes. They may welcome the Seifū style at one moment and value the Danrin style at another, with their fortunes rising and falling depending on the era, the people involved, or the region; yet, when viewed through the comprehensive lens of the historian, the differences between them are minor variations rather than fundamental distinctions, and do not require exhaustive debate.
However, Basho’s character warrants some closer examination, for he was a towering figure, a veritable titan, in the world of haikai poetry, and as such, his personage deserves a place in our literary history. Even though public opinion regarding him was divided, with some critics condemning him as a ringleader of vice who led his disciples into lives of frivolous indulgence, and scholars of classical Japanese literature scorning him for the indecency of composing poetry in the vernacular, he was undeniably a man who stood far above his contemporaries.
What strikes me with particular a wonder is his profound grasp of the true nature of a poet. He often maintained that ‘the greatest recluse lives in the city.’ This single phrase may well be said to represent the very source of the hokku poet’s superiority, in certain respects, over poets of waka or classical Chinese verse. If poetry is to serve as a wellspring for refining public morals and customs, surely the poet ought to dwell in the metropolis. If the bustling, ceaseless life of the city is to be imbued with true meaning, is it not essential for a poet to be there to sing of it?
Herein lies the true essence of his stature as a great poet of the common people.
What further deepened my respect for him was the profound way he won the hearts of others and the way he gathered many brilliant minds under his tutelage, molding each of them into a person of true caliber. Observing his disciples follow him, one was reminded of how followers attend the founder of a religious sect; they looked to their master as if he were a figure of extraordinary power, deferring to his judgment in all matters. Many of his students remained by his side for over a decade, sometimes more than twenty years, staying with him until the very end of his life. Upon his death, they fashioned a memorial tablet for him and knelt before it in reverence, as if worshipping a deity. Rarely in the history of Japan has a poet been so deeply revered during his lifetime and so profoundly mourned after his passing.
His disciples, such as Kikaku, Fūsetsu, Kyoroku, and Shikō, each possessed a distinct character; yet he embraced them all, allowing no discord to arise among them. One must recognize that he was not only a man of genuine feeling who bound others to him through compassion, but also a man gifted with the talents for leadership and keen discernment.
Fortunately, the art of haikai found such a person to serve as the vehicle for expressing its poetic genius, thereby elevating its stature. It is no coincidence that, to this day, anyone who speaks of haikai poetry invariably praises Bashō.
In short, the hokku was a form of poetry for the common people of old Japan. While it may have lacked the vigor to struggle for liberty and equality or the spirit of bold enterprise, it perfectly embodied the sentiments of commoners who found contentment under warrior rule: their ideals, their love of nature, their indifference toward religion, their modest desires, and their appreciation for a life of tranquility. All these traits, mild, gentle, unassuming, and beautiful, found direct expression in the form. The intellectual and emotional currents of the common people, the lowest stratum of old Japan, flowed through this very channel.
