Jing-reed's Musings from Thailand

'U' flowers — 卯の花

The Japanese 'U' flower [Deutzia scabra] is much like the common yellow flowering Deutzia in the Occident, except it is pristine white.  It blooms in May and its green leaves appear to be covered in snow.

It is a a dark, warm, spring night and the poet is visiting a friend at twilight, just as the darkness of night begins. The gate to his cottage cannot be seen, but on both sides of it, flowers of the 'U' are blooming whitely.   They are the only guide to where the gate stands, and where they suddenly leave off the gate must be.  That will be a guide to his destination.

There is a very similar white flowering shrub here in Thailand, known as 'saniat moraa', though the habit of growth is not as pendulous, which I happened to encounter this morning.  It was blooming as profusely as if it had been a cherished, well tended treasure in someone's garden.  And yet it was growing amidst weeds in an empty lot.  I went over to admire its magnificent show of flowers, and also to assure it that its lovely floral display was appreciated.

HOTOTOGISU - 時鳥

Have somehow been remiss in posting any haiku recently.  Not in reading and enjoying them on a near daily basis, but just haven't taken the time to type out the characters, look for an adequate picture and then format the results.  The hototogisu - 時鳥 [Cuculus sp.] is a bird in Japan that somewhat resembles the British cuckoo, but is grey to blackish with white blotches.  In the Japanese countryside it sings, day and night, from early summer until late autumn. 

This haiku was written by Masaoka Shiki [1876-1902], who was from Matsuyama in Shikoku.

In this exquisite poem the moon rises and is seen behind some branches, a gust of wind moves the dry summer grasses below and they begin to rustle lightly, and at that moment the hototogisu begins his melancholy night song.  It is the near perfect combination of sight, movement and sound.  It is complete and nothing more is required, as the moon continues to climb higher and higher into the summer sky.

TREE FROGS — 青蛙

This haiku is by a somewhat obscure poet,  Ishii Rogetsu (1873-1928).  Rogetsu [露月], whose name means 'dew of the moon',  was one of the students closest to the renowned haiku poet master, Masaoka Shiki. He was perhaps best known as the main medical doctor of the small town of Yuwa,  in the northern province of Akita, but it is his poetry that has earned him a place in history.  

The tree frogs are excited by the falling of the shower and begin to sing/chirp more loudly, as if to compete with the falling rain.  Rogetsu has captured the auditory as well as visual moment of frogs, shower and green leaves in a stroke of zen-like transcendence.  

Now that the summer rains have begun here in Chiang Mai, I too am serenaded on a daily basis by the tree frogs as they sing their bird-like songs.  A joy beyond words. . .

MORNING GLORY BLOSSOMS

Haiku poems are about reducing the complex to its most simple form.  And the simple trumpet form of the morning glory is legendary, as is its fragile life - full bloom in early morning and faded to nothingness by midday. 

It is perhaps because of the impermanence of life that in Japanese poetry the morning glory's blossom [朝顔] has been associated with mortality - and its blooming, like our short lives,  a joy to behold.

It blooms with all its might, petals spread proudly to the sky. My first thought today was, “Oh morning glory, don’t you know no one else will see you here!” But immediately I know that the morning glory doesn't care about that or about anything else; it is “doing its thing” totally.  If only I could live like this all day, every day, with no interfering emotions and concepts, with just a total, complete expression of my being.

So, this morning I ate my breakfast in the garden, with morning glory blossoms. 

CICADAS — 蝉

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'Semi' [ 蝉] is the Japanese word for "cicada".

Cicada season in Japan begins in about July, when the hot weather gets underway, and it is then that they begin their constant singing.   Like the Japanese I find their constant droning to be rather pleasant and look forward to hearing/experiencing this special music.   There are several kinds of cicada in Japan and each kind has its own song.  At least three kinds of cicada are most prevalent: kumazemi, minminzemi and higurashi.

Minminzemi [ みんみん蝉] cicadas sing in hot summer days.
Kumazemi [ くま蝉] cicadas sing from morning till noon, in very hot summer.
Higurashi [ 茅蜩] cicadas sing in the early evening before nightfall. Many find the plaintive song of higurashi to be quite sad.

Here in Chiang Mai, our intensly hot period is March and April, also the season for the cicada [in Thai จั๊ก-จั่น -  chakchan] to announce their presence in the landscape.  We have a number of cicada species that sing during the day and different species that find the nighttime more conducive to serenading their lady friends.

I have always considered this poem by Basho to be one of his most Zen-like - how phenomenal to become so involved in your singing that you disappear in the process. [No matter that the cicada is not really dead, but rather has just cast off its old skin.]  But Basho takes the more poetic route, and perceives the extinction of this small creature as a result of its having sung with its very heart and soul to the very point of non-being. 

お花見 - O HANAMI

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The word from friends in Japan is that it is 'o hanami' [ お花見 ], or cherry blossom viewing time once again. 

さまざまの        samazuma no       
事おもひ出す        koto omoidasu
櫻かな            sakura kana

    How many, many things
    they call to mind
    These cherry blossoms.   [Basho  芭蕉]

And with each falling petal, as fall they must, another memory gently wings it way into our personal repository of remembered joys, tears, and days gone by.  And though we may look forward to the next 'o hanami' , this is the one that must be appreciated. 

ALONG THIS ROAD . . .

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My companion, dear friend and adopted 'sister', Betty Jones, ended her journey this week. 
That fast approaching day, the last of all days  - that arrives when we are barely aware of its approach - the inevitable end arrives.

I feel the loneliness of those who remain as we trod this empty road in the evening of life . . .

Many years ago Betty, knowing well of my passion for Japan, gifted me with a small book containing some of the most beautiful of all haiku.  At the time I put a book marker by this poem by Basho.  I remember having shared this haiku with her at the time, and now I share it with her again. . .

AH, THE FRAGRANCE . . .

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I remember having encountered a different translation of this exquisite haiku by the master Basho many years ago.  At the time I was quite fond of it.

The fragrance
of some unknown blossoming tree
Filled all my soul.

Upon reflection I now understand the that the final line, 'filled all my soul', misses the mark of the original Japanese.  That translation was very stilted and somewhat intellectual in nature.  Appeals to the occidental mindset, with the illusion of 'filling the soul'.   

The key to the original is last word, 'kana' [哉], which means 'Ah!'  This small word/concept goes beyond the intellect and expresses an entire state of being.  Apologies for getting a bit verbose about such a small seemingly insignificant thing, but it is this very Zen nature of haiku which oftentimes gets lost in translation.

I currently live in a tropical climate where I am afforded the luxury of having all the windows in my house wide open for about 11 months of the year. Fragrant flowering plants in abundance.  As I drift off to sleep at night, I am often aware of the differing fragrances of flowering trees and shrubs wafted by the balmy night breezes.  They arrive separately, but also often combine to become a new mixture of nighttime perfume.  I have learned to suspend intellectual cogitation about their nature, whether they are from this plant or that one,  and just accept them for what they are.

Ah, the fragrance . . .

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BUTTERFLY DREAM - 夢見る蝶

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Once upon a time the ancient Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi [ 庄子 - c. 300 BC ], dreamt he was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. He was conscious only of his happiness as a butterfly, unaware that he was Zhuangzi. Soon he awakened, and there he was, veritably himself again. Now he did not know whether he had been a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or whether he was now a butterfly, dreaming he was a man . . .

Japanese poets were of course familiar with classical Chinese literature and so it was that Wafuu [和風] in the 17th century made allusions to Zhuangzi's butterfly dream of centuries before.  Of course it is entirely possible that Wafuu had his own butterfly dream.  Haven't we all?

Several years ago I made a fractal design based on Zuangzi's butterfly dream and this butterfly, fashioned completely from mathematics, seems to be frozen in space and time, in that transitional state between reality and fantasy.
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THE DISTANCE OF MOONLIGHT

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Buson, one of the masters of haiku, often uses distance in his poetry.  It is the same sense of limitless space that is evident in much of oriental painting - that momentary capture of infinity.