LaSpina.org — Haiku, Japan, and the misunderstood

Sunday, 3 December 2023

Today in Japan, Dec 3 – The Drunken Haiku Poet

And here is your daily almanac for Sunday, the third of December 2023.

Today, in 1882, Taneda Santōka was born, one of the most beloved Japanese haiku poets, famous for his free-verse haiku, his wanderings across the Japanese countryside, and his love of sake. His haiku are celebrated for their simplicity and profundity, capturing the essence of the moment in a few brief words, often even fewer words than traditional haiku.

Santōka’s life was marked by hardship and spiritual seeking. Tragedy entered his life early when his mother committed suicide by throwing herself into the family well when he was only eleven. He was present when they raised her lifeless body from the well. This incident would haunt him his entire life. He turned to alcohol early to help cope. He was very bright and was accepted into the illustrious Waseda University but was forced to drop out due to his drunkenness. His father, who had once been fairly well-off, was nearly broke by this time, furthering the stress on Santōka.

Despite the troubles with alcohol and depression, he discovered haiku while a student and soon became a disciple of Seisensui, the leading haiku reformist who sought to break from the traditional 5–7–5 syllable requirement and establish a free-form modern haiku format. Santōka embraced this modern idea and became one of Seisensui’s leading disciples.

Financial and mental troubles kept following him, however, and in 1924 at age 42, he attempted to kill himself by jumping in front of a train. He survived and was taken to a nearby Soto Zen temple to recover. At the temple he thrived and soon was ordained. Not long after, he started what he would do for the rest of his life: wandering all over Japan, drinking sake, and writing haiku.

He wandered across Japan, living a life of simplicity and humility. His poetry often reflects these experiences, eschewing traditional haiku structure to express his unencumbered, free-spirited approach to both life and art.

He is my favorite haiku poet and is slowly becoming Japan’s favorite haiku poet as well. There is something about his tragic life and his amazing haiku that makes this drunken wandering Zen haiku poet very likable.

Today’s rokuyō is shakkō (赤口), considered a less auspicious day, especially in the morning. According to belief, it’s a day when extra caution is advised in the early hours. (Read more about the rokuyō here)[1]

On the old calendar, today would have been the twenty-first day of the tenth month. We are in the midst of Shōsetsu (小雪), the time of early snow, and the microseason Tachibana hajime te kibamu (橘始黄), when tachibana (Japanese bitter oranges) begin to turn yellow. This is a time when nature slowly shifts its colors, reminding us of the cycle of life and the impermanence that Santōka so beautifully captured in his haiku.

Here’s a haiku from Santōka:

また見ることもない山が遠ざかる
mata miru koto mo nai yama ga tōzakaru[2]

mountains I’ll never see again
fading away behind me[3]
—Santōka

Bridge and Mountains by Kikuchi Keigetsu

There is a lovely acceptance here. He knows or guesses that he’ll never make this same journey again and will never again see these particular mountains. I think this haiku sums up Santōka well, showing his ability to find meaning in every step and to see the profound in the ordinary. As the mountains fade, so too do moments in our lives, leaving behind a trail of memories and experiences that shape who we are.

Santōka’s life, filled with both hardship and beauty, resonates in these words. His recognition of the impermanence of life and the constant change inherent in existence is a theme that is deeply rooted in Buddhist philosophy and is vividly expressed in his poetry.

As we remember Santōka and his journey, this haiku invites us to embrace the fleeting nature of our experiences, to appreciate the beauty of the present, and to acknowledge the constant ebb and flow of life.

As we experience the early signs of winter and observe the changing hues of nature, let us reflect on Santōka’s journey and find our own paths through his words. Let’s appreciate the moment, the journey, and the simple beauty around us. Be well, do good work, and stay in touch.

Like many things on this site, I haven’t restored the version I made for this website yet and this is a lesser version I wrote for my Hive blog sometime ago. I will try to remember to update this whenever I repost the article on this site. ↩
See: Pronunciation of Japanese ↩
See: a note on translations ↩

Friday, 1 December 2023

Haiku Poets Lost for Words as Climate Crisis Disrupts Seasons

This is a great look at how climate change is affecting haiku.

Hirose:

Take koharubiyori, a kigo of late autumn to early winter used to express a day of warm, mild, sunny, almost springlike weather in the midst of harshly cold days, associated with a sense of soothing and comfort. Nowadays, more days are warm at that time of year, so you can’t really empathise with that kigo, that season and emotion.

We can especially see this when we look through the Japanese almanac, the 24 Sekki, which details the expected weather for every mini-season and microseason, the latter of which changes every five days, and saijiki the encyclopedia of kigo (season words) that haiku use, which is based on the records and predictions from the 24 Sekki. These no longer matches up with what we see.

In my own haiku translations and posts on this site, you may have noticed that I often mention these discrepancies between the kigo for now and what the actual weather is like now. This works well when there is room to write about the haiku, as on this blog, but when the haiku is printed by itself with no background information, this could lead to problems in understanding.

LINK: Haiku Poets Lost for Words as Climate Crisis Disrupts Seasons

Thursday, 30 November 2023

The Legend of the Tokugawa Gold: A Treasure Lost in Time

The fall of the Tokugawa Shogunate in 1868 marked a significant shift in Japan’s history, transitioning from the feudal Edo period to the modern Meiji era. The Tokugawa clan had ruled Japan since 1603 but their time was now over, as world events moved against them. Amidst this historical upheaval, a legend was born: the legend of the Tokugawa gold. Rumored to be six chests full of gold hidden in the mountains of Gunma, this tale has captivated treasure hunters and history enthusiasts alike. But what is the truth behind this legend? Let’s delve into the mystery.

Senryō-bako (千両箱) Thousand ryō box used for transporting 1,000 koban — *Senryō-bako* (千両箱) “Thousand ryō box” used for transporting 1,000 koban

The Legend of the Lost Gold of the Shogun

According to popular lore, as the Tokugawa Shogunate was nearing its end, loyalists fearing the loss of their power and wealth decided to hide their treasures. It’s said that six chests filled with gold were secretly transported and concealed in the dense forests of Gunma Prefecture, a region known for its rugged terrain and natural hot springs. The exact location, however, remained a secret known only to a few. As with the best treasure stories, everyone involved with helping transport and bury the gold was killed, limiting the secret of the gold’s location to only a few men.

Years later, a mysterious document was sent to the grandson of one of the men involved in the operation. The document contained the story of the treasure and also contained detailed directions as to the location, supposedly at Mount Akagi.

The Emperor and the Shogun

When you think of Japan, you probably have an image of the emperor having extreme power prior to WWII. Despite that image, the emperor of Japan has rarely held any power for much of the country’s history. Prior to 1185, powerful families such as the Fujiwara controlled the Imperial family and the emperor from the shadows. Then after that date, the military took over in a secession of military governments, or shogunates. During this time, the emperor was a virtual prisoner of Kyoto. He wasn’t even allowed very much freedom in that city and was required to inform the shogunate and get their permission if he even wanted to leave the imperial palace.

The Tokugawa Shogunate came to power in 1603 when Tokugawa Ieyasu won control of the country at the Battle of Sekigahara. They ruling for over 250 years, accumulated immense wealth. Things were stable and peaceful and despite grumbling from some emperors every now and again, there was no threat to their power. Things changed suddenly, however, In 1852, when US Commodore Matthew Perry sailed into Edo Bay and demanded Japan open ports, both for trade and to allow the US whaling ships to refuel there. This set off a series of shocks that resulted in the enemies of the Tokugawa uniting and using the emperor as a means to overthrow the Shogunate.

Foreseeing the possibility of their fall from power, that is when the chests of gold were supposedly hidden.

Is it possible? As the political climate changed, it’s certainly plausible that some sought to safeguard their assets. However, historical records about the actual movement or hiding of such wealth are scant, leaving much to speculation.

Tokugawa Gold

As far as I know, the exact details of the gold were never recorded. It’s likely, however, that a large portion of it is in koban (小判). If you’ve ever watched an samurai dramas or period pieces, you may have seen this.

This ovoid shaped gold piece was one ryō of gold, which was the highest unit of currency at the time. See my posts here and here about the currency system in use at the time.[1] There were few standards for minting coins at the time, so the size and weight of a koban varied, sometimes significantly, but in the Edo era it averaged about 1 to 1.5 monme, which is about 3.75 to 5.63 grams. That is around $245 – $397 of value using today’s gold price.

You can imagine how much money six chests full of koban coins would be! In 1941 a story in the New York Times estimated that the treasure would have been worth ¥2,300,000,000. Now I have no idea how to convert that to 2023 dollars, so I asked ChatGPT. It gave me the value $12.25 billion.

You can see why the idea of this treasure has inspired thousands of treasure hunters in the years since.

Searching for the Treasure

The legend has spurred numerous treasure hunts throughout the years. Adventurers and enthusiasts have scoured Gunma’s landscape, looking for any sign of the lost gold. Yet, despite these efforts, nothing conclusive has been found. The lack of evidence raises questions about the veracity of the tale, but it does little to dampen the enthusiasm of those who continue the search.

The grandson I mentioned immediately went to search for the treasure upon receiving the note telling of it. He searched all his life. In 1934 he claimed to have reached a depth in one location of 220 feet, finding bones and a sword bearing his family crest. This suggested to him and others that the story was true.

Slowly enthusiasm for the search did start to decrease, but then in the 1990s a TV show reintroduced the legend to a new generation when they went in search of the gold. That sparked a boom in treasure hunters searching for it, a boom that hasn’t yet died down.

Cultural Impact

The tale of the Tokugawa gold has become a part of Japanese folklore, inspiring books, movies, and has even appeared in video games. It represents a tantalizing piece of Japan’s rich history, blending facts with fiction. The story is more than just a treasure hunt: it’s a symbol of the intrigue and mystery surrounding the end of a powerful dynasty.

The legend of the Tokugawa gold remains one of Japan’s most intriguing mysteries. Whether fact or fiction, it continues to capture the imagination of people around the world. While the truth behind the legend may never be fully uncovered, it serves as a fascinating window into a pivotal moment in Japanese history and the enduring allure of lost treasures.

Those two posts haven’t been republished to this site yet. But rest assured that blog those links take you to is mine. I’ll be updating this post when I republish those posts here. ↩

Wednesday, 29 November 2023

Echoes of Absence: Bashō’s Autumn Reflection

In the poignant silence of early winter, Matsuo Bashō, a master of haiku, crafts a verse that resonates with the essence of absence and seasonal change:

留主のまにあれたる神の落葉哉　芭蕉
rusu no ma ni aretaru kami no ochiba kana[1]

while the god is gone
the shrine is blanketed
with dead leaves
—Bashō[2]

In this haiku, Bashō captures a moment of profound stillness. This isn’t just the normal stillness of winter, but one augmented by the physical desolation of the shrine and a deeper spiritual void left by the absent god. Winter inherently suggests a hush, a gradual retreat of the world into silence. The cease of autumn’s nightly insect choruses and nature’s gradual withering deepen this quiet. The belief that the gods have left most shrines to gather elsewhere only intensifies this sense of abandonment and stillness.

This idea that the gods have left is an interesting one. It is said that during the tenth month, gods from across Japan gather at Izumo Grand Shrine in Shimane Prefecture. During their absence from the rest of Japan, other shrines feel stark and forlorn. The tenth month on the old calendar is around November on the modern one, so it’s likely Bashō was writing this haiku around this same time, 332 years ago, in 1691.

He was writing during an extended absence from Edo and from his disciples, as a new hermitage was being constructed for him. This haiku may well be a contemplation of his own absence, mirroring the gods’ departure.

This is a lovely reflection on the nature of absence, not only in the physical sense but also in the spiritual and emotional realms. As the leaves fall and the gods withdraw, we are reminded of the ever-changing cycle of life, the fleeting moments of presence, and the profound silence that follows.

There are two kigo (season words) here. Absence of the gods and fallen leaves, both kigo for early winter.

Wednesday, 22 November 2023

Zen in Motion – Mount Fuji and the Broom

In the realm of Zen and the essence of simplicity, this haiku offers a profound yet understated glimpse into the spirit of Japanese Zen Buddhism:

達磨忌や箒で書し不二の山
daruma ki ya hōki de kakishi fuji no yama[1]

daruma memoriał day
with my broom I draw
mount fuji
—Issa[2]

^{“The Moon Through a Crumbling Window” by Yoshitoshi, illustrating a famous story of Bodhidharma meditating for so long that the building crumbled around him.}

Dharma, or Bodhidharma, is a revered figure in Zen Buddhism, credited with bringing the teachings of Ch’an (Zen) Buddhism from India to China. His influence spread to Japan, shaping the unique contours of Japanese Zen. There are many great stories about him which have worked their way into both Japanese legend and the culture. One of the most common ways he’s worked into Japanese culture is the Daruma dolls, considered good luck and used for setting goals (or wishes).

Daruma historically is thought to have died on the fifth day of the tenth month on the old calendar, which is sometime in November on the current calendar, so that is when we celebrate his memorial day (daruma ki). It functions as a kigo (season word) for early winter. This day is not just a memorial but a celebration of the profound impact of Dharma’s teachings.

^{A Daruma Doll – via Wikipedia}

Mount Fuji itself is a symbol of Japan, its beauty and majesty. But here, in this haiku, it’s more than just a mountain; it’s a canvas for expression, a metaphor for Zen’s simplicity and profundity. The broom, an everyday object, becomes a tool for artistic and spiritual expression, emphasizing that enlightenment and beauty can be found in the most ordinary of activities.

Issa followed Pure Land Buddhism, not Zen, but he would have been more than aware of Zen ideals. The act of drawing Mount Fuji with a broom is a beautiful metaphor for the Zen approach to life and art: simplicity, spontaneity, and the beauty of the moment. Here he is inviting us to see beyond the obvious, to find depth in simplicity, and to appreciate the spontaneous moments of beauty that life offers.

There is more in the archives