There is a very interesting old summer hokku by Ryusūi:
Mayoigo no naku naku tsukamu hotaru kana
Lost-child ‘s crying crying grasping fireflies kana
A lost child;
He cries and cries
And grasps at fireflies.
Some verses make such excellent metaphors for one thing or another that we must resist the temptation to read them as such, because if we do so read them, we lose the poetry at which hokku excels — the poetry of the “thing-event” itself, with nothing added.
Westerners often simply do not understand this, because Western poetry very seldom enjoys something for itself; they think that one must add a “poet’s eye” to it, meaning additional commentary or metaphor or speculation or elaboration or ornamentation. But in hokku it is just the unspoken significance of the thing-event that is wanted, none of the rest, thank you!
What do I mean by a “thing-event”? I mean simply something being what it is, doing what it is doing; a leaf is both a thing (a leaf) and an event (leafing). Human beings human-be. Nothing exists stable and unchanging, not a stone, not a river, not a galaxy. So the “thing-event” in this verse is the little-child-crying-as-he-grasps-at-fireflies.
Robert Frost, in his poem “A Tuft of Flowers,” wrote:
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside the reedy brook the scythe had bared…
The mower in the dew had loved them thus
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
“Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.” That is the very spirit of hokku and its humility. When we want to be “poets,” we are taking the focus away from what we write and putting it on ourselves — and that is the opposite of hokku. Our writing should not be to draw the thought of the reader to us, but rather to just let him or her experience the unspoken significance of the thing-event, whether it be a tuft of flowers spared by a scythe or a little child weeping and grasping at fireflies. As we say in hokku, we must be silent so that Nature may speak.
Now, having warned the reader that Ryusūi’s hokku is NOT a metaphor, NOT a symbol, we are now free to say again that such a hokku, though it is neither of those things, nonetheless does make a good metaphor for human life.
It is interesting that in Japanese, the first word of the expression meaning “lost child” — mayoi — also is the Japanese translation of the Buddhist sanskrit term māyā, which means “illusion.” Māyā is the illusion of existence, our attachment to the idea of a personal “self,” our getting caught up in thinking that running after wealth and power and fame and sensual pleasure are real and important. People forget the old saying, “Birth is a disease whose prognosis is always fatal.” They neglect their spiritual development, spending all their time on television or parties, or (gasp!) the Internet. They do not know or have forgotten the old Buddhist parable from the Mahayana Lotus Sutra: A group of children were busy playing in a house that caught fire, too absorbed in their games to notice. Their father called and called for them to come out, but they were so wrapped up in their entertainments that they paid no heed to the fire or to him.
We are all in a burning house. We are all lost children. And we weep and weep about it, but what do we do? We continue to “grasp at fireflies,” even as we weep.
We are perfectly free to use a hokku as a metaphor, but we must not make the mistake of saying or thinking it IS a metaphor. And when we so utilize it, we must give up the poetry of the hokku in order to make our own use of it, putting it to a task for which it was not intended, no matter how well it does the job.