The Heart of Haiku Read Online Free PDF Page B

running after the thief with a last pot in his hand: “Thief, stop! You forgot this!”

    A few more poems from this time:

    New Year’s Eve cleaning—
    the carpenter hangs a shelf
    in his own house.

    susuhaki wa ono ga tana tsuru daiku kana          

spring rain—
roof leak drizzling
through a hanging wasps’ nest

harusameya hachi no su tsutao yane no mori
               

cool, cool:
noon-napping,
    feet on a wall
               
hiyahiya to kabe wo fumaete hirune kana

               
morning glory:
a day-flowering lock
bolts my gate              
asagaoya hiru wa jō orosu mon no kaki         

    in morning dew
    smudged, cool,
    a muddy melon

asatsuyuni yogore te suzushi uri no tsuchi

    lightning—
    a night heron’s cry
    flies into darkness

inazumaya yami no kata yuku goi no koe

    In February, 1694, Bashō wrote a friend that he felt his end was near, but he nonetheless made plans for another journey. Illness prevented his leaving until June, and even then he was able to travel only because accompanied by one of Jutei’s sons and by Sora, an old road-companion and friend. Carried by litter, he arrived at Ueno too weak to see visitors or to teach. While he was there, Jutei died, and he sent her son home. He and Sora continued on to both The Unreal Hut and The Villa of Fallen Persimmons, places of refuge familiar from earlier trips. In late August, Bashō returned to his family home, where his students built him a small grass hut behind his brother’s. This visit, he was stronger. He continued attempting to communicate his new ideas to students, whom he worried were not comprehending well his encouragement to see and write “the way a clear, shallow river runs over a sandy bed.” In October he went on to Osaka, continuing to teach and participate in renga gatherings despite headaches, fever, and chills.
    The haiku from the time of these travels show Bashō fully aware of the seriousness of his condition. Yet they maintain his renewed aesthetic of transparence and lightness:

this autumn,
why do I grow old?
a bird entering clouds

konoaki wa nande toshi yoru kumo ni tori

white chrysanthemum:
not one speck of dust
meets the eye
                                       
shiragiku no me ni tate te miru chiri mo nashi
               

clear moon,
a boy afraid of foxes
walked home by his lover

tsukisumu ya kitsune kowagaru chigo no tomo

    deep autumn—
my neighbor,
what is he doing?

akifukaki tonari wa nani wo suru hito zo

    Bashō spoke of the need to turn his thoughts from the life of this world to Buddhist teachings, but said he could not—poems continued to come. His final haiku was written November 25th, a few days before his death:

on a journey, ill,
dreams scouring on
    through exhausted fields
    tabini yande yume wa kareno wo kake meguru

    Having written it, he immediately composed another poem describing the wanderings of his dreaming mind, and called in Shikō, one of his students, asking which he preferred. Shikō failed to catch the first line and, too embarrassed to ask, simply said he thought the earlier one unsurpassable. Bashō answered, “I know I shouldn’t be writing haiku now, so close to my death. But poetry is all I’ve thought of for over fifty years. When I sleep, I dream about hurrying down a road under morning clouds or evening mist. When I awaken I’m captivated by the mountain stream’s interesting sounds or the calls of wild birds. Buddha called such attachment wrong, and of this I am guilty. But I cannot forget the haiku that have filled my life.”
    On November 26th, Bashō wrote letters, including one in which he apologized to his older brother for dying first. The next day, he asked the students who had gathered around him to compose poems, but added that he wouldn’t comment on them: “You must understand, your teacher no longer exists.” He mostly slept after that, but on the