An early summer daoku from this morning’s walk:
Sheltering under a maple
With rain dripping all around;
An early summer daoku from this morning’s walk:
Sheltering under a maple
With rain dripping all around;
Where I live, we are now entering the hottest part of the summer. In these times the two great contrasts are heat and coolness, and each gives meaning to the other.
In old hokku, the moon at night was always seen as a cool contrast to the heat of sun in the day. But coolness may also be expressed by sound, and when we have sound added to sight, that enhances the cool sensation, as we see in this old hokku by Fuseki:
Tsuki suzushi uma arai iru kawa no oto
moon cool horse wash-is river ‘s sound
We may loosely translate it in daoku form as:
The sound of horses
Bathing in the river.
It is very objective and clear, giving us only the essence of the scene/event, without any comment or opinion — any “thinking” — added by the writer; and that is the definition of daoku — objective hokku.
Writing daoku (objective hokku) in English is really very simple.
First, you need an experience involving Nature and the place of humans within and as a part of Nature. And for that, of course you need a connection to the natural world. One cannot expect to sit in a city apartment all the time and still write daoku, because there is no connection with Nature in such a place.
That means to write daoku, one must get out and connect with Nature, whether in a home garden, a park, or a trail through a field or forest, or a place by a stream, a pond, a river, the seashore, and so on. You get the idea.
Next, do not think of daoku as “poetry.” Do not think of yourself as a “poet.”
Think of daoku as recording an experience of the senses — whether seeing, tasting, hearing, touching, smelling, or a combination of any of these. But it is not just any experience. It has to be one that for some inexplicable reason, we feel to be significant. If someone asks us why it is significant, we cannot say — and that is why it is expressed in the simple words of daoku. The daoku evokes the experience, and with that comes the feeling of a significance beyond the words.
In daoku the words should be the means of transmitting the experience. And to keep that experience pure and strong, the writer should not add any of his or her own thinking about the experience. Daoku should just transmit the experience, free of any commentary or interpretation or elaboration by the writer.
When we write such a verse in English — or translate an old Japanese hokku with those characteristics into English — the result is a daoku — an objective hokku.
Here is a hokku in transliterated Japanese:
Hirou mono mina ikite iru shiohi kana
And here is the daoku it becomes in English:
Everything picked up
Chiyo is walking along the beach at low tide. She reaches down to pick up some seemingly lifeless shells, but is surprised to feel and see them moving in her hand; they are not dead, but alive.
Now as you can see, all that the writer needed to do was to put that experience into simple words. In English, we divide the result into three lines consisting of two parts — one longer, one shorter, and those two parts are separated by appropriate punctuation. Each line begins with a capital letter, and the whole verse ends with another appropriate punctuation mark.
It is just that easy.
Of course there are some things to keep in mind. A hokku is not just a random assemblage of things. We should feel a relationship among the elements of a hokku, just as the “moving things” in Chiyo-ni’s verse relate to the beach at low tide. And every hokku as daoku is set within the context of a particular season, which we add as a heading in parentheses, so it will be transmitted to the reader.
Hokku — and consequently daoku — should be written and read within the appropriate season, which keeps us in harmony with the seasons and their changes. The exception is that when learning, examples out of the appropriate season may be used.
It is also helpful to write daoku that show us something experienced in a new way, from a different perspective. That helps to keep the experience fresh and new. And never forget that feeling of un-speak-able significance. If a daoku is not felt to have that significance, it tends to be just uninteresting and mediocre.
Remember to keep daoku brief. In English there is no fixed number of required syllables. Use ordinary, everyday words. Above all, transmit the experience, not your thoughts about the experience.
Over twenty years ago, I was dismayed by what I was seeing of the poor quality of modern haiku on the Internet. Though many were writing it, none seemed to have an understanding of how — or even if — what they were writing related to the aesthetics of the old Japanese hokku. Most had never even heard the term hokku in those days, and thought old writers such as Bashō and Onitsura had written only haiku — not realizing that haiku was just an innovation begun at the end of the 19th century, long after Bashō’s time.
In an effort to remedy that, I began teaching online the basics of writing a brief verse form in English that was more closely related to the old hokku, and better reflected its aesthetics. The approach of the modern haiku community, by contrast, was simply to write whatever one wished as haiku, regardless of subject matter or aesthetics, as long as it was brief. The old hokku connection with Nature and the seasons was largely abandoned. The result was that modern haiku became whatever a given writer chose to call haiku — which is still very much the situation today. Modern haiku has no universally accepted standards, other than perhaps brevity. It ranges from the very conservative to the extremely innovative. So “haiku” today is an umbrella term that covers a confusingly wide range of often very different kinds of verse.
It was important in avoiding confusion, to distinguish the modern adaptation of hokku I was teaching from modern haiku, so I called it what it had originally been named for the greater part of its history — hokku. I did so because what I taught was a continuation of what I felt were the best qualities of old Japanese hokku. I left needless cultural and linguistic baggage behind, and taught a hokku that bridged the gap from the old and often more complicated hokku of old Japan to the simpler needs of a modern hokku reduced to its essentials, yet still based on the best of the old aesthetics.
Over time, however, it became obvious that even the term “hokku” needed some adjustment. It could (somewhat confusingly) signify either modern verses inspired by old hokku in English and other non-Japanese languages, or old hokku in Japanese. Further, what I taught expressed my view that a large part of what was included in the practice of old Japanese hokku was not, in my view, worth continuing as a modern practice in English. In earlier times there were different kinds of Japanese hokku, ranging from the very objective to the extremely subjective. My preference always tended to the more objective, which to me expressed not only hokku at its best, but also the deep roots of hokku in the aesthetic influences of Chinese Daoism and Zen Buddhism.
That is when I decided to call the modern English-language adaptation of the old objective hokku that I teach and prefer “daoku.” It clearly distinguishes that category of modern verse not only from old hokku in Japanese, but also from other modern forms of brief verse such as the varieties falling under the umbrella term “haiku.”
Occasionally, however, one might wish to write a slightly more subjective verse that shows some “thinking” instead of pure objectivity. We see that kind of “thinking” in this verse by Bashō:
Fleeting dreams beneath
The summer moon.
“Fleeting dreams beneath the summer moon” is the addition of “thinking” — a subjective interpretation or commentary on the objective first line of the verse.
For such slightly subjective verses I have adopted the name shinku, to distinguish them from the pure objectivity of daoku. The word shinku comes from a Japanese pronunciation of the old Chinese character for mind — “shin” — and the word for verse — “ku.”
Many old Japanese hokku are far too subjective — have too much thinking or intellectualizing by the writer — to fall under either of these classifications. I do not think they represent the best of old hokku, so they may safely be left to the literary history books.
When excessively subjective verses are removed, the two remaining classifications — daoku and shinku — offer a practical and convenient path forward for those wishing to follow the best essential aesthetics of the old Japanese hokku by applying them to writing new hokku for the modern English-speaking world. And of course what I say here about writing daoku and shinku in English may also generally be easily applied to writing them in other modern languages as well.
Of the two categories, my recommendation for writers is to focus mainly on daoku — objective hokku — while using shinku only sparingly.
When writing shinku, keep in mind that the subjective aspect should be slight, and it is best to generally combine it with objectivity, as we saw in Bashō’s “Octopus Traps” verse.
We see that slight subjectivity also in this spring verse by Buson:
As the petals fall,
The branches of the plum
It is not hard to see that “As the petals fall” is the objective part, and “the branches of the plum / grow older” is the subjective part — the interpretation of, or commentary on the petals by the writer.
It is sometimes more difficult to distinguish subjective and objective, as in this spring verse by Seifu:
The faces of dolls;
Without intending to,
I have grown old.
Still, we can see that “without intending to” is a bit of “thinking” added by the writer.
Verses like that of Seifu above show how one can still “tell the truth” in slightly subjective verses — and that is what we want in hokku of either kind: telling the truth, whether purely objective, or slightly subjective.
Daoku in English has very definite standards and principles, and these extend even to the appearance of a verse on the page, specifically to lineation, capitalization, and punctuation.
An English-language daoku is a verse of three lines, the middle line often — but not always — visually longer than the others.
The first letter of each line is capitalized.
There are two parts, a longer and a shorter.
The two parts of daoku are separated by appropriate punctuation.
The daoku ends with appropriate punctuation.
When shared, each daoku is given an appropriate seasonal heading, whether spring, summer, fall/autumn or winter. This heading is commonly placed in parentheses.
Follow these standards and you will have the accurate form of daoku — the container which holds the content, just as a shell holds a nut.
In daoku, everyone follows the same form. That is because the form works excellently, is very appropriate, and has proved its worth. But equally important, it gives no occasion to bickering over form. It thus contributes importantly to a sense of community in daoku. We speak the same “language” of form, the form works superbly, and that enables us to concentrate on content.
Now regarding punctuation, its great virtue is that it guides the reader through the daoku smoothly and effortlessly, and without confusion. It enables very fine shades of pause and emphasis, very important in how we experience a daoku.
As a general guide, here is how to punctuate daoku:
A semicolon indicates a strong, definite pause. It is generally used to enable the reader to absorb the setting of a daoku, for example in presenting the setting before moving on to the rest:
The summer wind;
A dash is used to indicate a longer, more meditative and connective pause, in cases such as
The summer wind —
It is typed as two hyphens.
One may also use ellipses for that purpose:
The summer wind …
A question mark is usually used to ask a question that in daoku is never answered:
The summer wind?
The exclamation mark is seldom used; it indicates something surprising or unexpected:
A summer wind!
The comma indicates a very brief, connective pause. It is often found at the end of a line that begins with a preposition:
In the summer wind,
A daoku always ends with punctuation, whether a period (.) — which is the most common — or a question mark (?), or an exclamation point (!) very sparingly used, and also the seldom-used final ellipses (….).
In length, a daoku is usually between seven and thirteen words. The important thing is to keep it brief, and without unnecessary padding.
This flexibility is very important to English language daoku, because a thing in English may be as visually brief as the word “fly” or as long as the word “dragonfly,” so we must be sparing while not becoming too rigid. The standard of poverty, if followed, ensures that in daoku we use just a few simple, ordinary words, including only what is necessary for clarity and good grammar.
That is daoku form in a nutshell.
There is thus nothing peculiar about the appearance of daoku in English. It uses ordinary language, ordinary words, ordinary punctuation. And again that frees us to concentrate on content, because though form may make something appear to be a daoku visually, it is only the content that will make a real daoku.
As I have said before, when I began teaching hokku — using that term –on the Internet — most people did not even know what the word meant. They were accustomed to the anachronistic term “haiku,” which they retroactively applied to the short verses of Onitsura, Bashō, and all the rest — even though that was not what those writers called them.
The reason I revived the term hokku for my use in teaching was not only that it was the original name of the verse form, but also it became quite obvious that it was very important to distinguish it from what modern haiku had become. Though modern haiku was loosely inspired by the old hokku — largely as a misperception and misunderstanding of it — in general it no longer reflected (nor does it today) the aesthetic values of hokku.
Today, hokku and haiku are two often widely divergent verse forms. My preference is for the hokku, while those who want a less challenging form may prefer modern haiku.
Now that we are about to enter spring — the time of new beginnings — it is also time for me to make yet another distinction. As readers here know, I have always favored hokku that reflect the traditional aesthetics hokku developed due to its roots in Buddhism — specifically Zen, which had a deep effect on Japanese culture — and in Daoism. Those origins gave hokku its specific character — its appreciation of Nature and the changing seasons, its sense of the transience of all things, as well as its selflessness and simplicity.
Old Japanese hokku did not always live up to those qualities. Mixed in among what to me were the best hokku, there were also a great number of hokku that displayed varying degrees of subjectivity. Subjectivity in hokku is adding the thoughts, opinions, comments, cleverness, intellection (“thinking”) and self of the writer. While subjective hokku may be interesting — or even quite good — as poetry, they cannot go beyond that. They leave an emphasis on the writer as “poet” and on what is written as “poetry.”
By contrast, in my view the unique contribution of the best of old hokku was its objectivity — presenting an experience of Nature and the place of humans within Nature directly, without “thinking” or cleverness or the writer getting in the way. It does not convey an experience through ideas, but rather through sensory experience — seeing, tasting touching smelling, and hearing.
What all this comes down to is that we may divide old hokku (and even modern hokku, to some extent) into subjective and objective verses. Subjective verses are more like what we are accustomed to in Western poetry, though of course considerably briefer. Objective hokku, however, are often quite unlike the bulk of Western poetry, though fragments of objectivity may be found within it, here and there.
To me, objective hokku were the best the old hokku had to offer, and that is what I like to teach. The term by itself, however, may be subject to some misunderstanding, because what is objective hokku to me — which of course includes Nature and the seasons as its foundation — may not be what others think of when hearing that term.
That is why — some time ago — I first introduced the word daoku for the kind of hokku I teach. The word is a combination of the Chinese dao — meaning “way” — the way of Nature, the way of the universe — a way of being in harmony — and the Japanese term ku, meaning “verse,” though it was borrowed from China and originally meant “song.” That gives us daoku — which we may think of as the verse of harmony with Nature.
Because it is a newly-coined term, it can be given a very specific meaning, and that meaning is basically what I have been teaching all along as hokku — more specifically objective hokku — and now very specifically as daoku. I think the use of this term — when supplied with a more complete definition — will prevent much misunderstanding as to precisely what I am talking about when I discuss the aesthetics, principles, standards, techniques and practice of hokku — the kind of hokku I prefer and teach.
Consequently, in future postings here, you will read less about hokku (though of course the term will still be used when appropriate) and much more about daoku — the particular form of objective hokku that to me exemplifies the greatest contribution old hokku made to the world. So when you see me referring to this or that verse of an old Japanese hokku writer as daoku, you will know that I am referring to a particular kind of largely Nature, season, and sense-based hokku. Yes, it is still hokku, but the use of the new terminology will enable me (and you as well, should you choose to adopt the term) to be very specific and clear as to precisely the kind of verse I teach, very clearly distinguishing it from all other kinds of objective hokku and hokku in general.
Expect more on the principles and practice of daoku as we enter spring (according to the old calendar) with Candlemas and the beginning of February. For long-time readers here, it will look very familiar as what I have long taught as simply “hokku” but now finer distinctions will be possible, and should lead to greater clarity in understanding.
Down the bright road,
A crow and his shadow
I saw that a couple of days ago. A crow swooped down not far from me, and as it flew very low over the sunny road, I was struck by the black shadow just below the crow and the black crow just above the shadow, both flying close in unison.
This is, I think, a good example of what I always say hokku should be: ordinary things, but seen in a new way or from a different perspective.
Years ago, I posted on objectivity in hokku. To me it is the very essence of what makes hokku a significant verse form. That is why — after so many years — I have taken to calling the kind of hokku I advocate Objective Hokku — “OH” for short.
This morning I came across a quote from the painter Andrew Wyeth that immediately spoke to me:
“There’s almost nothing here — which I like. I think I’m more attracted as I get older by nothing. Vacancy. Light on the side of a wall — or the light on these snowdrifts and the shadows across them. Makes me go back more into my soul, I guess.”
These are simple things most people tend to pass by without even noticing. But it is precisely that simplicity that is at the heart of the best hokku. It is one of the most difficult marks of hokku to convey, because people are so wrapped up in their thoughts about themselves and about the things surrounding them that they view the world through a kind of perpetual haze. But when one lets the mind calm down, and the haze of our constant thinking begins to disperse, then we can begin to really see what is around us.
When I was very young, and too immature to appreciate it, I spent several days in the practice of a form of meditation that involved paying attention to bodily sensations. Such a practice gradually takes us out of the torrent of thoughts that constantly flows through us, and it can have interesting results. I remember that after about three days of this, I suddenly noticed that I was seeing the world with an unexpected and very deep sense of three-dimensionality — with a kind of space and clarity that seemed new and unique to me. Just the simple intervals between trees on a street appeared something quite remarkable, because the “flatness” of the world seemed to have somehow opened up into crystal-clear depths.
I think perhaps a similar thing may have happened to Wyeth, who focused so much on visual perception that he began to see the world — from time to time — without the obscuring overlay of thoughts that weaken our perception of and appreciation for such simple things as light and shadow and form.
For me, one of the most difficult things to convey about Objective Hokku is its profound simplicity and its preference for ordinary things — but with this important difference: hokku looks for ordinary things seen in a new way, or from a different perspective. Because it is only by seeing things in such a fresh manner that — generally — we are able to convey that deeper perception our day-to-day inattention blurs.
Writing hokku is largely a matter of paying real attention to things and events happening in Nature, but doing so without covering them over with our thoughts and opinions and internal comments. We just let them be, like the sight of the slow passage of a beam of sunlight across the white wall of a room.
Hokku is not about our emotions — which is why we do not write about romance or sex, or other things that stir up the mind. That does not mean, however, that hokku is cold and without feeling. It is just a matter of direction. The wrong thing to do is to put our emotions onto nature, which results in subjective verses — verses colored with our thoughts about things. Instead, we just present a thing-event as it is, and that creates feelings within us. We do not act on the object; the object acts on us.
Even Masaoka Shiki — who continued to write hokku — though under a different term — had some verses that achieve this, for example:
A summer shower;
The rain beats
On the heads of the carp.
He is looking at the big carp in a pond. The fish rise to the surface, as they do when expecting to be fed by passers-by — and as they do so, the summer raindrops beat on the exposed tops of their heads. To explain the significance in this is impossible. It has to do partly with the wetness of the pond from below and the wetness of the rain from above and the meeting here of the two realms of sky and water in the fish. But when we talk of it that way, when we try to explain it, the significance disappears, because it cannot be explained; it can only be felt. Read the hokku and you feel it.
Here — with minimal changes — is what I posted some nine years ago:
I often mention the four approaches to verse:
1. The subject (the writer) treated subjectively (with the writer’s personal thoughts and opinions added);
2. The subject (the writer) treated objectively (without one’s personal thoughts and opinions added);
3. The object (that which is written about) treated subjectively (with one’s personal thoughts and opinions added);
4. The object (that which is written about) treated objectively (without one’s personal thoughts and opinions added).
Here is a hokku which — while dealing with emotion — treats it objectively, through its actual manifestation in action — Shōha’s
The boy frets;
That is the object (the boy and his emotion and the rain) treated objectively. The writer simply notes what is happening as he would note someone rowing a boat up a river. We feel the boy’s nervous fretting in the jerkiness of the words of the first two lines, with their single-syllabic abruptness:
Kite bought, / The boy frets
! ! – ! !
And then comes the smoothness of the third line,
which provides the steady background drone to the staccato fretting of the boy. It is a bit like the tamboura in Indian music, with its steady, ceaseless hum against which the changing melody of the sitar rises and falls. It is somewhat similar to Bashō’s “Old Pond” spring hokku:
The old pond;
A frog jumps in —
The sound of water.
The pond is the “drone” element, the background against which the sudden splash of the frog takes place. But in Bashō’s verse, the “temporal” element — the splash — happens only once, while in Shōha’s verse the jerky fretting is ongoing and staccato against the steady drone of the falling rain.
The important thing to note in this case, however, is that the subject is treated objectively, without the writer adding his thoughts and opinions. Shōha simply states what is happening: the boy has bought a kite; he frets as the rain keeps falling.
In hokku we keep to such objectivity, which means we generally write according to numbers 2 and 4:
2. The subject treated objectively.
4. The object treated objectively.
That is because hokku — Objective Hokku — is interested in things and actions, and not in all of the thoughts and opinions that the writer may put on them or associate with them. A hokku is not a springboard for thoughts and intellectual conclusions. Instead it is an experience of the senses — of seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, or smelling.
That is why in hokku we generally exclude the other two approaches to verse, 1 and 3:
1. The subject treated subjectively.
3. The object treated subjectively.
If you do not like to think of it in these terms, just remember that in hokku, whether we are writing about our “selves” or about something else, we keep our own thoughts and intellectualization and opinionating out of it. In doing so, we get the writer out of the way and let Nature speak.
In every dewdrop on the grass —
The morning sun.
There and back,
The only footprints are mine;
The snowy road.
Because Objective Hokku is a very selfless kind of verse, we generally avoid the words “I,” “me,” and “mine,” except in cases where they are necessary for clarity. That does not mean, however, that we do not use them at all. We use them, but we use them objectively. That means we speak of the self just as we would of a fox or a wild goose, or a river — without adding our own opinions and comments and interpretations.
Now oddly enough, when we do that, it removes the writer from the verse. The “self” in the verse — the experiencer — then becomes the reader. So when you read the hokku above, it is you seeing that the only footprints on the snowy road are yours, in spite of the fact that I wrote it this morning on my way back from walking through the snow to the grocery store. And because that is the way of Objective Hokku, I am happy to disappear entirely from the verse so that it may become your experience.
That is how the self appears in hokku. We might call it the “selfless” self.
Issa wrote a hokku that we might render in English as:
Half of it
Is fluttering snowflakes;
It is not a profound hokku, but it does express the “mixed” nature of early spring weather, when we still feel the Yin effects of winter though spring has weakened them.
The hokku makes a statement, but it is not an interpretation. That is important in distinguishing Objective Hokku from other kinds. It just tells us — objectively — what Issa saw (those last two words make me want to say “I saw Issa sitting on a seesaw” really fast), and because it is limited to that, we see it too.
That is the great virtue of Objective Hokku (in contrast to other kinds of hokku); it does not put a writer between the reader and the experience. And it does not block the experience with unnecessary words and interpretation.
In Objective Hokku, the difference is that we present the experience directly, in simple words. We do not write about the experience — we write the experience. Now of course we use words to do that, but the words are not important for their own sake — as they are in what we usually think of as poetry. Instead, the words are just the means of conveying the experience, as a cup conveys the experience of drinking cold water or hot tea. We do not want them to get in the way.
Nor do we want the writer to get in the way. If he or she does, then we no longer experience the hokku directly.
Issa wrote another hokku in which he “gets in the way” of the experience by adding an interpretation:
Noisy from morning on —
The foolish crow.
Instead of just presenting us with the mist and the morning and the continual caws and rattles of the crow, he comments that the crow is “foolish,” or we could also translate that as “stupid.” Issa has added his own “thinking” to the experience, so it is no longer objective. He has obscured the pure experience with his own opinion. To remove his comment, we could rewrite the verse as Objective Hokku, like this:
Noisy from morning on —
I hope you see what a difference that makes. It is no longer Issa telling us about his experience, it is now we who are having the experience itself, with nothing added, and no writer’s interpretation in the way.
Now how you react to Issa’s verse — and to the objective version — will tell us how you react to verse in general. Some people are not accustomed to thinking of verse as pure experience, without the added comments, opinions, or “thinking” of the writer. Some feel that to be “poetic,” all of that must be added. But as I constantly repeat, we should not think of hokku as “poetry” in the usual sense.
The great difference is that in Objective Hokku, the poetry is not in the words. They are — we could say — only the seed of poetry, that when read by the receptive reader suddenly sprouts into the experience in the mind. And that experience itself, pure and alone and unobscured — is the poetry in hokku.
In the first hokku, the experience is the spring rain, half mixed with fluttering snow. In the third, revised hokku, the experience is the spring mist and the continuous noisiness of the crow from morning on.
This purity of experience, with no writer or comments to hinder it, is the very essence of Objective Hokku. If you find that a significant discovery, then you are the kind of person who can appreciate Objective Hokku and its remarkable aesthetics.
What is Objective Hokku?
It is a hokku of things — not about our opinions of them or our interpretations of them. It is somewhat like tasting a bowl of soup. If someone asks you what you think of the soup, or what it reminds you of, or what it is like — then what you tell them is subjective. It is you talking about the soup, giving your opinions and interpretations of it — not the actual taste of it. So in hokku, we do not talk about the soup, we just hand you the bowl and say, “Here … taste!”
Because it deals with the “thing in itself,” Objective Hokku has no symbolism, no metaphor, no similes. It has meaning, but that meaning lies in the sensory experience, not in any explanation of it.
Objective Hokku is the distillation of the old Japanese hokku tradition down to its purest essence — the sensory experience of Nature and the place of humans as a part of Nature, set within the context of the changing seasons.
In Objective Hokku we leave aside all other aspects of the range of old hokku and focus on what is best and most unique in that tradition — the ability of one writer to transmit a sensory experience of Nature to another person, without any commentary or ornamentation or ego intervening.
Because our goal is to achieve that in the writing of hokku, we need not concern ourselves with how or why hokku were written in old Japan, or what the intent of the original author was. All we need do is to open ourselves to experiencing Nature and the seasons now, and to learn how to simplify an experience down to its essentials. Then we put that experience into a few simple words.
I often use translations of old Japanese hokku as examples of Objective Hokku, even though some of them originally had hidden allusions or meanings other than their “surface meaning.” To us that makes no difference if, as they stand, they work as Objective Hokku. We take the obvious meaning and leave the rest, because in Objective Hokku, the meaning is in the experience; nothing is hidden.
We see that in this spring hokku by Onitsura:
On the tips of the barley leaves,
It is primarily visual, but there is also an undertone of touch in the chill of the morning air as the eastern sky lightens. It allows us to experience a dawn in early spring, when the Yang energies — the active, warm energies — are growing, and the cold passive Yin energies are beginning to wane; spring is growing and winter is receding. We see Yang in the dawn and in the young barley leaves, and we see lingering Yin in the white frost that covers their tips.
Here there is no symbolism. There is only the bare experience, with nothing whatsoever added to it. Further, there is no writer visible anywhere in it, because the writer has become a clear mirror that reflects without addition or distortion. That is how a hokku experience is transmitted — selflessly — from one person to another.
It is important to note that even though I like to use selected old Japanese hokku as examples of Objective Hokku, one need know nothing about Japan or about the history of hokku. All we need are the principles of Objective Hokku as we practice it today. That makes it a living thing, not a relic of the past or a subject of academic speculation.
It is important to note that people too are a subject for Objective Hokku, but people seen as part of Nature, in the context of a given season, as in this spring verse by Suiha:
In Objective Hokku, we see the constant change inherent in Nature, inherent in our existence. Impermanence — transience — is at the very heart of hokku, because it is at the heart of life.
In future postings I hope to discuss Objective Hokku in more detail — its aesthetic principles, and how to write and read it. If there is anything you do not understand in these discussions, please ask, because no doubt there are others with the same questions.
Let’s look again at some good winter hokku:
The daikon puller;
He points the way
With a daikon.
That is one of the best of Issa’s hokku. A daikon is a very large, long, and white radish, much like a giant carrot in shape. Here, when Issa stops by a field and asks directions, the daikon puller holds out a daikon, using it as a pointer to show the way. It is like a part of his arm. Knowing this is a winter hokku, we can feel the cold air, and see the mud adhering to the long white daikon.
In Japan, daikon is a staple winter food. It is particularly good in winter cooking — such as in soups and stews — because it is beneficial for the lungs. One finds it appearing more and more in American markets.
Here is a verse by Rankō:
Day by day they break off
And float away.
That hokku is notable not only for its austere simplicity, but also for the attention — the awareness shown by the writer, who noticed the poetry in the breaking and floating away of the withered reeds — something many would pass by without a glance.
Again the snow
Begins to fall.
As the light of day begins to fail, flakes of snow begin to fall — first only a few, then increasingly more and more. We cannot help but sense there is some deep meaning in this because we feel it, but we are helpless to put it into words. It is a meaning of the senses and not of the superficial intellect.
Wordsworth similarly said,