Haiku as we know it today―a rich means of expression and one of Japan’s highest art forms―can be traced to Bashō, a 17th-century haiku master. An example of his work―one of his most well-known haikus―evokes the Zen koan about the sound of one hand clapping:
Old pond―
A frog jumps in
The sound of water
As Stephen Addiss tells it in his 2011 book The Art of Haiku: Its History Through Poems and Paintings by Japanese Masters, early haiku was more akin to limericks, jokes, and puns: “Bolstered by goodly quantities of sake, composing humorous linked verse became a very popular pastime.” A favorite activity was to engage in “poetry marathons.” One early haiku master once wrote “23,500 verses in one day and night, spouting them out faster than a scribe could record them.”
But Bashō helped “turn haiku from a clever and other frivolous form of verse to poetry that could express depth and richness of both observation and spirit.”
So how did Bashō do it? In examining his life, Addiss comes up with several reasons, all of which are relevant today for anyone trying to live a meaningful life:
Bashō was independent:
“By giving up his official position, by frequently moving, and especially by his journeys, he never grew stale or redundant, but could view fresh places, meet new people, and experience multiple aspects of nature. … He studied Zen, shaved his head, and wore a monk’s robe, but never become a monk. In short, Bashō didn’t fit into a category or niche in a society that was very niche conscious.”
Bashō was a careful student of history, but he did not allow himself to be overwhelmed or intimidated by his predecessors:
“Through his deep appreciation of both classical Chinese poets and Japanese masters such as Saiygō and Sōgi, Bashō could use them as exemplars of travel, nonattachment, and profound observation of the world around them. Earlier … poets used the past primarily for parody or to demonstrate their erudition and wit, whereas Bashō had a more personal, and often more poignant response to his predecessors that still retained his own poetic spirit.”
Bashō never stopped learning:
“In a world where humility could often be a pose, he felt it deeply; despite his success, he never stopped searching for greater significance and range of expression. It helped that he seems to have been boundlessly curious and nonjudgmental; he did not find dace-fish guts, or a horse pissing near his pillow to be unworthy of poetry. Bashō’s journeying became a way to always seek the new, rather than resting content with what had gone before.”
Bashō connected disparate ideas that eluded others:
“Bashō was an expert in combining into a single haiku two images or two elements that might not seem to match, but which together become very evocative. Sometimes these involved synesthesia, where two different senses are combined, such as sight and sound.”
Bashō was kind:
“Bashō added a kind of humor to his haiku that did not depend upon puns or esoteric references to earlier literature, although both might occasionally appear in his verses. Instead, he celebrated the humor of daily life, where a small smile or recognition became more valuable than an “I get it” grin or an “Isn’t that clever” smirk.”
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