PART THREE, ECCENTRIC ZEN-HAIKU MASTER.

ECCENTRIC ZEN-HAIKU MASTER, PART THREE.

by Gabriel Rosenstock

New versions (or transcreations) of Santōka’s  outstanding haiku, in Irish & English; a little commentary now and then. Also, Dutch versions by Geert Verbeke.

OK, let’s hit the road again with Santōka, eccentric Zen-Haiku Master. Do we know where we’re going? Probably not. Is that a good thing? Let’s see!

dripping with morning dew –

here we go again

let’s try this route

 

drúcht na maidine ag sileadh díom –

seo linn arís

cad faoin treo seo

 

druppelen met ochtenddauw –

daar gaan we weer

laat ons deze weg proberen

 

the sun rises

the sun sets

not a crumb has passed my lips

 

éirí na gréine

luí na gréine

faic curtha i mo bhéal agam

 

de zon komt op

de zon gaat onder

geen kruimel over mijn lippen

 

tip of the reed

the winds seek it out . . .

the tip of the reed

 

barr na giolcaí . . .

gaotha sa tóir

ar bharr na giolcaí

 

tip van het riet

de winden zoeken het uit

tip van het riet

 

hands and feet

left behind in China –

returning soldiers

 

lámha is cosa

fágtha ina ndiaidh sa tSín –

saighdiúirí ag filleadh

 

handen en voeten

achtergelaten in China –

terugkerende soldaten

 

Many anti-nationalist, anti-imperialist haiku poets were arrested and imprisoned in Japan. Santōka’s anti-war haiku are impressive:

 

will there be fireworks

for returned heroes –

their bones

 

an mbeidh tinte ealaíne

ann do na laochra –

a gcnámha

 

zal er vuurwerk zijn

voor teruggekeerde helden –

hun beenderen

His are some of the great anti-war haiku of our age. We send soldiers off in glory – such rot! – but we don’t like to see them coming back in flag-draped coffins and body bags, do we?

troops marching . . .

on ground they’ll never stomp

again

 

trúpaí ag máirseáil . . .

talamh nach satlóidh siad arís air

go brách

 

marcherende troepen . . .

op grond waarop ze nooit meer

zullen stampen

 

Well, let the world engage in its age-old madness and delusions. There are things to be done – such as clipping one’s nails!

a new year dawns –

I suppose I’d better

clip my nails

 

Lá Caille –

tá sé chomh maith agam

mo chuid ingne a bhearradh

 

een nieuw jaar vangt aan –

ik veronderstel dat ik beter

mijn nagels had geknipt

 

grasses withered

I wander on –

a rolling stone

 

féara feoite

is mé ar fán –

gan treoir

 

grassen verbleken

ik zwerf maar –

een zwerfkei

 

ahead of me

behind me:

who are all these pilgrims?

 

os mo chomhair

is i mo dhiaidh:

cé hiad na hoilithrigh seo go léir?

 

voor mij

achter mij:

wie zijn al deze pelgrims?

 

glistening

in their freshness –

thistles after a morning shower

 

lonraíonn

a n-úire –

feochadáin tar éis chith maidine

 

glinsterend

in hun versheid –

distels na een ochtendbui

 

grey buildings

and in the spaces between . . .

mountain greenness!

 

foirgnimh liatha

sna spásanna eatarthu . . .

glaise sléibhe!

 

groene gebouwen

in de ruimte ertussen…

berggroen!

 

soaked to the skin –

the scolded horse

ploughs on

 

ina líbín báite

treabhann an capall ar aghaidh –

ainneoin na maslaí

 

zwetend tot op zijn huid –

het uitgekafferde paard

ploegt verder

 

wearing rags . . .

coolness touches my skin

as I walk alone

 

balcaisí orm . . .

braitheann mo chneas fionnuaire

mé ag siúl liom féin

 

vodden dragend . . .

raakt kilte mijn huid

terwijl ik alleen wandel

 

just like that

that’s the way they fall –

tea blossoms

 

díreach mar sin

is mar sin a thiteann siad –

bláthanna tae

 

zomaar

dat is hun wijze van vallen –

theebloesems

 

sadness along the road

a few words spoken –

in father’s voice

 

uaigneas ar an mbóthar –

labhrann guth

i nglór m’athar

 

verdriet langs de weg

enkele woorden gesproken –

met vaders stem

 

what is it

comes riding now on the wind –

forlorn butterfly

 

cad seo

ag marcaíocht ar an ngaoth –

féileacán dearóil

 

wat is het

dat nu komt rijden op de wind –

wanhopige vlinder

 

none enquires of me . . .

cayenne peppers

a burning red

 

níl éinne ag cur mo thuairisce . . .

is lasta dearg iad

na piobair

 

niemand verlangt van mij . . .

cayenne pepers

een brandende rode

 

In such juxtapositions – which defy the logic of the WASP – we find the spiritual power of haiku, the deep eloquence of its suggestibility, its subtle painting of emotion, its immersion in newness/nowness.

 

haven’t met a sinner today . . .

long and bumpy

the road

 

níor casadh duine ná deoraí inniu orm . . .

bóthar fada

garbh

 

geen zondaar ontmoet vandaag…

lang en hobbelig

de weg

 

a crow squawks . . .

somewhere deep

inside my skull

 

préachán ag grágaíl . . .

áit éigin go domhain

im’ bhlaosc

 

een kraai krast…

ergens diep

in mijn schedel

 

snug as a bug!

some fellow creature

has covered me with straw matting

 

deas teolaí!

leath neach éigin

mataí tuí orm

 

behaaglijk al een insect!

een medemens

bedekte mij met een stromat

 

no choice in the matter –

must go on

and on

 

níl rogha agam –

ní mór dom dul ar aghaidh

is ar aghaidh

 

geen andere keuze –

doorgaan

en doorgaan

 

This could be another one of his haiku:

You must go on.

I can’t go on.

I’ll go on.

 

In fact, it’s the end of a novel by Samuel Beckett, The Unnameable (1953), originally published in French as L’Innommable.

He was of Anglo-Irish or WASP pedigree, yet much of his work seems to push WASP consciousness to its limits, exposing the limitations of WASP culture and, as with Santōka, asserting vagabond consciousness as an antidote to Pharisaic doctrines and rituals, bomb-blessing chaplains and the divil alone knows what else constitutes the WASPs’ Chamber of Horrors.

 

what is there to do?

this way and that

blown by the wind

 

cad atá le déanamh?

séidte ag an ngaoth

soir is siar

 

wat is er te doen?

deze weg en deze

verwaaid door de wind

 

Since Bashō’s day, or centuries before him – since the time of Saigyō (1118-1190) and earlier still – Japanese poets have embraced the cold wind and faced the reality of impermanence and isolation.

This attitude to life was also a part of the psychic landscape of early monastic Ireland. Saigyō, Bashō, Santōka, all would have found inspiration in places such as Sceilig Mhíchíl (Skellig Michael) where monks were absorbed in wabizumai, a life of simplicity, contemplation and isolation.

 

begging limbs –

a tree in winter

 

géaga impíocha –

crann sa gheimhreadh

 

bedelende ledematen –

een boom in de winter

 

insomniac owl

insomniac me

me-owl

 

ulchabhán gan suan

mise gan srann

im’ smulcachán

 

slapeloze uil

slapeloze ik

ik-uil

 

 

down the road I go –

never turning

to look back

 

síos an bóthar liom

ní chasaim riamh

chun féachaint siar

 

ik ga verder op de weg –

mij nooit omdraaiend

om te kijken

 

buckets of rain

I get a wetting –

and struggle on

 

clagarnach báistí

mé im’ líbín báite –

ar aghaidh liom

 

emmers vol regen

ik word drijfnat –

en zet door

 

this village –

everyone’s speaking

my native dialect

 

an sráidbhaile seo –

mo chanúint dhúchais

i mbéal chách

 

dit dorp –

iedereen spreekt

mijn moederdialect

 

unremitting wind –

crossing a bridge

I’ll never again set eyes on

 

gaoth gan stad –

ag dul thar dhroichead

nach bhfeicfead arís choíche

 

aflatende wind –

een brug oversteken

ik zal dit nooit meer weerzien

 

out of nowhere

images of my son –

the cry of a shrike

 

mar a bheadh splanc ann

íomhánna dem’ mhac –

éamh scréacháin

 

uit het niets

beelden van mijn zoon –
de schreeuw van een klauwier

 

Juxtapositions, as we have noted, give haiku their strange power – the image of his son, Ken, spliced to the cry of a bird. One could say about this and many other haiku that there is cutting and connection at the same time. The cut is indicated, above, by a dash.

The cut, or kire, is essential to Japanese aesthetics; how flowers are cut, for instance, in Ikebana. Even a Noh actor will cut his words in a distinct way and the choreography is also of a cutting kind – toes are slowly lowered to the stage floor – cut! – only to give rise to the next step.

We see the Grim Reaper with his scythe as the one who comes to cut the body from the soul. Can we make the cut while still in the land of the living? Gentle reader, continue! All will be revealed.

 

waking up suddenly

tears streaming down my cheeks

 

dúisím go tobann

deora liom go fras

 

plots ontwaken

tranen biggelen van mijn wangen

 

water in the bucket

reveals a hungover face

 

uisce sa bhuicéad

nochtar neach ann is póit air

 

water in de emmer

onthult een katergezicht

 

 

                     Sometimes I’m lucid, sometimes muddy, but whether lucid or muddy it is without  question a shinjin datsuraku (“falling  away of body and mind”) each time I write a haiku.

                                                 Santōka

Cut!

Haiku is a pastime for millions of people but a way of life for only one in a million, a way of life perfectly described above. For many Westerners, shinjin datsuraku is a threat to their false sense of security, to their erroneous WASPish identification with body and mind, with form.     What is the face in the bucket? This is the big question. Yeats says, ‘I am looking for the face I had before the world was made.’

What is this face? Dōgen, who emphasised the centrality of shinjin datsuraku, says we must

‘cease from practice based on intellectual understanding, pursuing words and following after speech, and learn from the backward step that turns your light inwardly to illuminate yourself. Body and mind of themselves will drop away, and  your original face will be manifest.’ (Quoted in The Bodymind Experience in Japanese Buddhism,                  David Shaner, State University of New York Press).

 

the moon is everywhere!

I had hoped for this:

insect viewing

 

an ghealach gach áit!

bhíos ag súil leis seo:

breathnú ar fheithidí

 

de maan is overal !

ik had dit gehoopt:

naar insecten kijken

 

What the great Robert Doisneau says about photography may be applied equally to haiku:

‘You’ve got to struggle against the pollution of intelligence in order to become an animal with very  sharp instincts – a sort of intuitive medium – so  that to photograph becomes a magical act.’

 

spring breeze

nothing else

but a small begging bowl

 

leoithne earraigh

faic eile seachas

babhla beag déirce

 

lentebries

niets anders

dan een kleine bedelkom

END OF PART THREE. MORE TOMORROW (IF YOU’RE GOOD).

Gabriel Rosenstock’s latest haiku volume is Stillness of Crows. His philosophy of haiku can be found on this YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmj54hpqMyo&t=100s

 

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