The Quiet of Winter, A Haiku

the quiet of
a winter night[1]

静かな冬の夜
shizukana fuyuyoru[2]

An ukiyo-e style picture by ChatGPT. Not too bad. I didnt ask for snow, but it otherwise works.
An ukiyo-e style picture by ChatGPT. Not too bad. I didn’t ask for snow, but it otherwise works.

At least in Japan, Autumn may be the most famous time for the nightly noises. For whatever reason, insects are especially alive and making themselves known on autumn nights. But the other seasons so have their nightly sounds too. The frogs calling out for mates in spring and the cicada buzzing all summer, among others.

But winter? It’s dead silent out there. Well, I mean, except for the modern noises of cars, which it’s hard to get away from unless camping in the middle of nowhere. But the sounds of the non-human life out there? Besides the occasional dog barking or cat meowing, there is almost nothing.

It’s eerie in a way and lends to the feeling of winter being a dead time. Of course this is harder to pick up on in the modern world where we all lock ourselves up indoors and drown out the silence with Netflix, making a winter night not much different from a night in any other season. Yet part of us is still attuned to this and it shows up in various ways in our lives. The depression of winter, for instance, which is normally attributed almost entirely to less sunlight; the lack of the sounds of nature has also been hypothesized as being a contributing factor.

At the same time, this silence can also be peaceful, especially after an especially busy and loud day. It’s still just a little unsettling when opening a window to let in some fresh air and hearing… nothing… But under the right circumstances, that can also be peaceful and relaxing. At least for awhile.


I wrote this haiku last night after the kids had been somewhat more problematic than usual, to put it mildly. Once they were finally in bed, I went in my room, opened the window to let in some air,[3] sat back and listened to the nothingness. Then wrote down that haiku.


  1. Not enough syllables, right? Naw. I will post my thoughts on what exactly is a haiku at a later time, but see this post to understand that this isn’t as uncommon as you might think.

    The Japanese translation I give might be too plain. I was going for a Santōka feel, but may have missed in that goal.  ↩

  2. See: Pronunciation of Japanese  ↩

  3. It wasn’t that cold, but even on cold nights I like to let in some fresh air. It’s easier to sleep when it’s a bit chilly anyway. (Or maybe I’m just strange.)  ↩

Bashō’s New Year’s Wealth

According to the traditional Japanese calendar, we are into spring. Let’s jump back nearly 350 years to see what one old poet was thinking about at this time.

春立つや新年ふるき米五升
haru tatsu ya shinnen furuki kome go-shō[1]

spring begins—
a new year, yet my fortune remains:
nine liters of old rice
—Bashō[2]

Strange flower drawing on the gourd aside, this AI-generated image isn’t half bad.
Strange flower drawing on the gourd aside, this AI-generated image isn’t half bad.

Bashō wrote this on or around the first day of the year 1684, which would be around now when converted to the Gregorian calendar. On the old Japanese lunar calendar, spring was the start of the year.

He is having some fun here, contrasting the new year against his old rice. Despite being quite famous by this point in his life as a poetry teacher, he embraced poverty, both for spiritual reasons and artistic ones. One of his few possessions was a gourd that had a capacity of around five shō, an amount that would be roughly equal to nine liters (roughly the same in quarts, for those allergic to the metric system).

Though it signified poverty, it also represented the freedom of having few possessions—making him feel rich. In fact, an early draft of this haiku had the line ware tomeri (我富めり), “I’m rich!”

This goes well with another haiku he wrote:

ものひとつ我が世は軽き瓢哉
mono hitotsu waga yo wa karoki hisago kana

only one possession—
my world as light
as this rice gourd

The kigo (season word) here is haru tatsu (春立), “spring begins”

Balding Japanese Salaryman Eraser

This is almost perfect. As you use it and rub off the top layer, it gives the illusion of going bald.

A bit expensive, but it would be a lot of fun to use. Next time I go to Tokyo Hands, I’m going to have to see if they carry this.

LINK: Salaryman Eraser

Moonflowers and Women

Shakespeare famously asked, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”, drawing a parallel between the beauty of a woman and the image of a typical summer. But what if we compare a woman to moonflowers?

夕顔や女子の肌の見ゆる時
yūgao ya onago no hada no miyuru toki[1]

the moonflowers…
a woman’s skin, like the blossoms
is revealed
—Chiyo-ni[2]

Moon flowers by Otani Masashi
Moon flowers by Otani Masashi

Moonflowers bloom at night in the autumn. They suggest an ephemeral beauty as we transition from the heat of summer to the cooler weather of autumn.

There is some speculation that Chiyo-ni is referencing a very famous scene in The Tale of Genji (Genji Monogatari) where Prince Genji observes the silhouette of a woman through her blinds at night, framed by moonflowers at the gate of her residence. The moonflowers in the story suggest a secret love affair.

Others, however, suggest that this is reading too much into things, proposing instead that Chiyo-ni was making a more general observation: women typically do not undress until late at night, when everyone else is asleep, except for the moonflowers. Especially at the time, women were very busy with keeping the house and didn’t have time to undress and bathe until late at night. In many traditional houses, it is still this way.

Ultimately, the beauty of haiku lies in its openness to interpretation. Both readings of this poem provide rich imagery and emotional depth, allowing the reader to engage with the text based on their own perspectives, truly marking this as a masterful haiku.

Thoughts About Icicles

It’s cold and we actually got some snow recetly in this area, where we usually don’t. And you know what snow usually brings? Icicles!

何故に長みじかある氷柱ぞや
nani yue ni naga mijika aru tsurara zo ya[1]

why
are some icicles long,
others short?
—Onitsura[2]

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There was a Budweiser beer commercial I remember from the 1990s advertising their short lived flavor Bud Dry. It went: Why ask why; drink Bud Dry!

That’s a surprisingly Zen message for a beer commercial! Indeed, Zen often points out the silliness of asking why. This isn’t to say that curiosity isn’t a good thing. Of course it is. Most of human knowledge depends on curiosity. At the same time, sometimes we need to sit back and simply experience things as they are, without the need for explanations. Haiku, like Onitsura’s reflection on icicles, embodies this mindset—inviting us to appreciate the world’s natural patterns without questioning their purpose. In the case of the icicles, their varying lengths aren’t a puzzle to solve, but a reminder of the inherent randomness and beauty of nature.

Zen teaches us that not everything requires an answer, and perhaps more importantly, not everything has an answer. Just as the icicles grow long or short without intention, much of life unfolds in ways beyond our control. Embracing this uncertainty can lead to a deeper sense of peace and appreciation for the present moment.

So while the Bud Dry slogan may have been a clever marketing ploy, it also carries a grain of truth—sometimes, asking why only distracts us from enjoying what’s right in front of us.


Uejima Onitsura (1661–1738) was a pioneering haiku poet from Itami, Hyōgo Prefecture, known for his emphasis on makoto (sincerity) in poetry. Influenced by the Danrin school, he sought to strip haiku of puns and literary references, focusing instead on pure, natural expression. Though a contemporary of Bashō, he remained independent, and his haiku are celebrated for their simplicity, clarity, and deep connection to nature. Later in life, he turned to Zen, leaving haikai behind to pursue spiritual practice.

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