Thursday, 7 August 2025

The Skylark’s Song: Bashō’s Haiku on Spring’s Fleeting Beauty

The skylark’s song, like spring itself, feels both joyful and fleeting. Bashō caught that tension in this haiku — one that’s easy to read, but harder to forget.

永き日も囀り足らぬひばり哉
nagaki hi mo saezuri taranu hibari kana[1]

all the long day—
but still not tired of singing,
the skylark
—Bashō[2]

Skylark Above the Blossoming Peach by Shoson Ohara
“Skylark Above the Blossoming Peach” by Shoson Ohara

This is a seemingly simple haiku, but one that contains a bit more if we dive beneath the surface.

It can help to explore multiple translations to get a better feel for what’s going on. A more literal rendering might put the middle line as something like “not yet tired of singing”, making the full poem:

all the long day—
not yet tired of singing,
the skylark

I kind of like the image of the bird as full of boundless energy, joyfully singing on even as the long spring day draws to a close. That’s the feeling I aimed for in my first version. But the Japanese taranu (足らぬ) has a slightly different nuance: it means “not enough”, suggesting that as long as the day may be, it’s insufficient for all the skylark wants to sing. This adds a subtle sadness, a longing. The bird feels even this long spring day isn’t long enough.

It’s not quite the sadness of aging or death, but more the melancholy of spring’s fleeting beauty. Spring in Japanese poetry is often tied to youth, joy, and carefreeness, so its end feels like the fading of something precious. This may be universal as even English connects these images, for example referring to our youth as the springtime of our life.

Some commentators have suggested that the skylark might be a metaphor for Bashō himself. If so, he may have drawn inspiration from an 8th-century waka by Ōtomo no Yakamochi published in the 8th century Man’yōshů.

うらうらに照れる春日にひばり上がり心悲しも獨し思へば

uraura ni tereru haruhi ni hibari agari
kokoro kanashi mo hitori shi omoeba

In the soft radiance
of a shining springtime sun,
a skylark soars—
and sorrow fills my heart
as I sit and think alone.

So which is it — happy or sad? A little of both I think. That tension between joy and sorrow is what gives the poem its power. If you want the brighter reading, look at my first version. If you want the more Buddhist, more existential reading, consider the second.

There are two kigo (season words),[3] by the way. nagaki hi, “long day”, and habari, skylark — both kigo for all spring.

  1. See: Pronunciation of Japanese  ↩

  2. See: a note on translations  ↩

  3. 1  ↩

Tuesday, 5 August 2025

Haiku Fart Jokes

Last night I revised this old post.

學問は尻からぬけるほたる哉
gakumon wa shiri kara nukeru hotaru kana

great learning
quick to vanish
like the light of a firefly
—Buson

I clarified some parts of the haiku explanation and added a little more about Buson.

If you missed the post the first time around, go give it a read. There is an interesting joke involved with the haiku.

LINK: The Art of Getting Things Done (Haiku-Style): Buson, fireflies, and the fleeting light of learning

Thursday, 31 July 2025

What’s in a Pen Name?

In the haiku world, poets traditionally choose pen names. That is, a nom de plume — in other words, a pseudonym. There are many reasons for doing so: to stand out with something more unique than an ordinary name, or to choose something that better reflects one’s philosophy or personal circumstances.

Most classic Japanese haikuists you know, you know by their pen names — not their birth names. Bashō’s real name was Kinsaku, later Munefusa (it was common to change names a few times during one’s life back in his day). He picked Bashō, which means “banana tree”, because his rustic hut, built by his students, had a banana tree planted next to it.

Issa, the pen name of Nobuyuki, means “one cup of tea”. I’ve never seen a reason given for this name, but it reflects his personality: warm and simple. Both Issa and Bashō used other pen names over their lives, but the ones we remember them by were their final ones.

One of my favorite poets, Santōka, used just a single pen name, chosen from a Chinese system of elemental divination. His real name was Shōichi. Santōka means “mountain fire”, though scholars often interpret it as Cremation-ground Fire — a reference, perhaps, to his lifelong trauma from witnessing his mother’s suicide.

I’ve long been searching for a pen name of my own. One of my favorite haiku translators and commentators, Robin D. Gill, uses the name Keigu (敬愚), which humorously means “Yours foolishly” — a pun on the standard closing 敬具 (keigu), meaning “Yours truly”. It’s the perfect pen name for him. In addition to haiku, he dives deeply into comedic senryū and the cruder bareku.[1]

Using the same Chinese elemental naming system that Santōka drew from, I plugged in my own birth year and got the name 天上火 (Tenjōka) — “Fire in the Heavens”.

Santōka didn’t use the name assigned to his birth year. That would have been 楊柳木 (Yōryūboku) — “Willow Tree Wood”, suggesting flexible, swaying strength. Humble, gentle, and poetic. He instead chose Santōka, for reasons of his own.

In terms of meaning, I prefer Yōryūboku. But in sound? Not so much. It’s okay in Japanese, but nearly unpronounceable for most English speakers unless they’ve heard it spoken aloud first. Even then, that ryū part would be very hard for them.

Tenjōka has the opposite problem: the meaning is a little too dramatic for a humble poet, but the sound rolls easily off the tongue. English speakers would probably read it correctly on first try, guessing that it is something like “ten-joe-kah”. And the meaning — “fire in the heavens” — does have a nice sound to it.

It reminds me of a photo I once took:

That day, a typhoon had just passed. The main rains had ended not long before sunset. It was still sprinkling, still gray, but I grabbed my camera and headed to an open field. I knew from experience: post-typhoon sunsets are often spectacular. I was gambling that the clouds would break just enough in time.

And they did. Not completely — but enough. The sky flared open briefly, and it was breathtaking.

I titled that photo The Fires of Heaven. It’s always been one of my favorite shots.

The phrase might evoke biblical images for some Western readers — but that wasn’t my intent. I was thinking of the title of a Wheel of Time book. Book five, I think. The Fires of Heaven. I don’t remember what happened in the book, but I’ve always liked the title. For me, it suggests those moments of radiant, otherworldly sky: twilight, sunset, sunrise. The red glow of possibility or of reflection.

That in mind, the Chinese horoscope showing me the name Tenjōka for my birthday is kind of serendipity — or as Bob Ross always put it, a “happy accident”. Jung might have had something to say about this synchronicity.

Still, Tenjōka suggests radiance, maybe even prominence. A fire in the sky is hard to ignore. And I don’t feel much of a connection to that. A haiku poet should be humble. Quiet. Not showy.

So I don’t know. I like the name. I also don’t.

But for now, I might try it out. I may sign some of my original haiku with it and see how it sits. Maybe it will grow into itself. Or maybe I’ll find something that fits better later.

  1. Senryū are, more or less, haiku without a seasonal or nature focus, aiming instead for humor. As Blyth put it, they’re about human folly instead of nature. Bareku (“lewd verse”) are a subgenre of senryū, veering into what we might call toilet humor.  ↩

Thursday, 10 July 2025

Santōka’s Haiku at Yobuko Port: A Journey, a Nail, a Moment

In 1932, Santōka was on the move again, in another of his long journeys across Japan on foot. While on his travel, he paused to write this haiku.

いつまで旅することの爪をきる
itsu made tabi suru koto no tsume o kiru[1]

how much longer
my traveling?
cutting my nails
—Santōka[2]

Santōka Looking Cool
Santōka Looking Cool

Santōka wrote this haiku at Yobuko Port, one of the many stops on his lifelong wandering. Yobuko is a small fishing port in Saga Prefecture, on the northwestern coast of Kyushu, famous for its squid and isolated seaside beauty.

He composed the poem near the end of an especially difficult period, set off by his dismissal as jūshoku (head priest) of Hōon-ji temple in Kumamoto due to his excessive drinking. That loss of stability deepened his guilt, and with it, his depression and alcoholism. He had almost no income, survived by begging, and often slept in roadside huts that cost just a sen or two[3] — or simply under trees and in abandoned ruins. At one point during this stretch, he described lying drunk in a graveyard, soaked by rain.

Yet despite the suffering, this era became a kind of artistic and spiritual peak, producing work of raw honesty and minimalist power. Perhaps that’s why he included this poem in his major 1932 collection 『草木塔』 (Sōmoku-tō, “Grass and Tree Cairn”).

Blyth, in his commentary on this haiku, read it through a Buddhist lens. He suggested Santōka was making a statement about the solitary journey of life, how even in the midst of that journey, we must still pause for mundane things like cutting our toenails. While Santōka may have agreed with that sentiment, he was likely writing more simply, more specifically, about his own current travel.

That was very much his style: open with something that feels profound — how much longer must I travel? — then pivot to something grounded — I cut my nails.

Of course there is Zen in that, even if not quite the Zen Blyth was looking for. Many Zen tales and kōan include these same pivots. The logic breaks down, sometimes even becoming nonsensical, as a way of knocking us out of our thoughts and pointing us more toward seeing Reality directly. The stereotypical satori (enlightenment) moment.

It’s doubtful Santōka was trying for that, at least not consciously. But the pattern is there. And perhaps that’s the secret of his best work: he never tries to be profound, yet often is.

Born in 1882 in Yamaguchi Prefecture, Santōka began writing haiku in his youth but struggled with personal hardships, including family tragedy and alcoholism. Initially influenced by traditional haiku, he later broke from convention under the guidance of Ogiwara Seisensui, embracing free-form haiku and Zen-infused wandering. Ordained as a Zen priest in 1925, Santōka spent his later years traveling on foot across Japan, composing deeply introspective poems rooted in daily experience. His raw, minimalist style gained posthumous acclaim, and he remains one of the most beloved modern haiku poets in Japan. He died in 1940 in Matsuyama.

  1. See: Pronunciation of Japanese  ↩

  2. See: a note on translations  ↩

  3. The sen was 1/100 of a yen, and at the time, roughly equivalent in value to a US cent. In the same era, you could also find rundown flophouses in the US for just a few cents a night, so this was not uniquely Japanese.  ↩

Saturday, 21 June 2025

The Death of Oda Nobunaga

On this day in 1582, one of Japan’s most feared and transformative warlords was betrayed and killed in a Kyoto temple. Oda Nobunaga, known equally for his ruthlessness and his revolutionary vision, died by seppuku in the burning halls of Honnō-ji, a temple that should have been his sanctuary.

His story didn’t end there — it never really does with Nobunaga. He’s been cast as a demon, a genius, a proto-modernist, even a tragic hero. But to understand his death, we have to understand what he was trying to build and why so many wanted to stop him.

A Brief Life of Fire

Oda Nobunaga was born in 1534, the second son of a minor warlord in Owari Province. The Sengoku period (the “Warring States” era) was chaos incarnate, a time of fractured authority, endless battles, and shifting alliances.

From a young age, Nobunaga stood out for his erratic, almost anarchic energy. He wore eccentric clothes, disrespected social norms, and acted like a fool. He was, in fact, nicknamed “The Fool of Owari” (尾張の大うつけ).

But then he stopped being the fool. He took control of Owari and his ambition grew. He rose through cunning, brutality, and luck, conquering one rival after another and showing little mercy to those who defied him. His most infamous act was the near-total annihilation of the warrior-monk stronghold at Mount Hiei in 1571, where he slaughtered thousands of Buddhist monks, women, and children. Many saw it as mass murder. Nobunaga saw it as clearing the path.

He once said, “The strong eat, the weak are meat.” This was not metaphor.

It is mainly because of that Mount Hiei episode but also other acts of ruthlessness that his nickname became “The Demon of Owari” (尾張の大魔王) and “The Demon King” (魔王), and above all else he is remembered to this day as a bloodthirsty tyrant.[1]

Breaking the Old World

But the reality is, Nobunaga was not merely a brute or a savage hellbent on slaughter. He was also a visionary. He:

  • Broke the power of Buddhist institutions that had long meddled in politics.
  • Embraced firearms and reorganized his armies around them — decades ahead of his European counterparts.
  • Encouraged trade and welcomed Jesuit missionaries, not necessarily out of piety but as a counterbalance to domestic powers.
  • Sought to unify all of Japan under a single military authority — his own.

And he might have done it, had it not been for Akechi Mitsuhide.

Honnō-ji: The Betrayal

On June 21, 1582, Nobunaga was staying at Honnō-ji temple in Kyoto. He was unguarded — just a few dozen retainers, no full army. He was preparing to join Toyotomi Hideyoshi in a campaign against the Mōri clan.

But one of his own generals, Akechi Mitsuhide, had other plans.

Why Mitsuhide betrayed him is still debated. Some say it was a personal grudge — Nobunaga had humiliated him repeatedly. Others suggest political motives, or perhaps a fear that Nobunaga’s dominance would soon consume even his allies.

Whatever the reason, Mitsuhide struck. His troops surrounded the temple at dawn.

Outnumbered and outflanked, Nobunaga knew he had no escape. He fought briefly, then retreated to the inner quarters and performed seppuku — ritual suicide — setting the temple ablaze around him. His last words, if any, are lost to history. His body was never found.

His heir, Nobutada, was also attacked and killed the same day.

A Legacy That Refused to Burn

Nobunaga’s death should have ended his dream of unifying Japan. But it didn’t. Mitsuhide ruled for just thirteen days before he was hunted down and killed by Hideyoshi, one of Nobunaga’s most loyal generals. In the power vacuum that followed, Hideyoshi rose, and then Tokugawa Ieyasu after him. Together they completed what Nobunaga began.

It wasn’t quite that simple, of course. Things never are. For one, Ieyasu wasn’t at all friendly with Hideyoshi and moved against him before being advised (in part by Nobukatsu, another of Nobunaga’s sons) to bend the knee and bide his time. But the end result was a direct legacy from Nobunaga to Hideyoshi and then to Ieyasu.

In that sense, Nobunaga was both the destroyer of the old world and the architect of the new. He didn’t live to see Japan unified, but it couldn’t have happened without him.

On this anniversary, we remember the fire — both literal and metaphorical — that consumed Oda Nobunaga. A tyrant, a trailblazer, a man far ahead of his time. His death marked the end of one era and the beginning of another.

What do you think? Was he a monster or a modernizer? Or both?

  1. These demon titles or nicknames seem to come from a letter Nobunaga sent to Takeda Shingen, which he signed as 第六天魔王 — “Nobunaga, Demon King of the Sixth Heaven.” In Buddhist cosmology, the sixth heaven is the highest of the desire realms, inhabited by powerful deities. By adopting this title, Nobunaga was likely trying to intimidate Takeda, implying that his power transcended human limits and that he was unstoppable by any mortal man.  ↩

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