# Anthology of Japanese Literature/Conversations with Kyorai

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​Conversations with Kyorai
[Kyoraishō] by Mukai Kyorai
The brevity and apparent simplicity of the seventeen-syllabled haiku led to its wide popularity in Japan, where only a very inarticulate person remained incapable of an extemporary verse. However, in the hands of its masters, the haiku, far from representing an impromptu reaction to the sights of nature, was usually a highly conscious form of verse, demanding compliance with exacting aesthetic principles. Bashō (1644–94) was famous not only as the supreme haiku poet, but as the foremost interpreter of its theories. His conversations with his pupil Kyorai (1651–1704) contain a fair sample of his views. Some of them are translated below.
The method employed by Kyorai in demonstrating various facets of “the Master’s” opinions was to give a verse, either a haiku or a fourteen-syllabled “second verse” (waki), and then report what the Master said about it. The notes in brackets are intended to help elucidate special points.
[One of the ideals of the haiku was to have each word indispensable and inalterable, no doubt a product of the brevity of the form. In the following conversation a critic suggests that the wording of a poem by Bashō might have been changed.]
| Yuku haru wo Ōmi no hito to Oshimikeru | The departing spring With the men of Ōmi Have I lamented. |
Bashō
The Master said, “Shōhaku criticized this poem on the grounds that I might just as well have said “Tamba” instead of “Ōmi,” or ​“departing year” instead of “departing spring.” How does this criticism strike you?” Kyorai replied, “Shōhaku’s criticism completely misses the mark. What could be more natural than to regret the passing of the spring, when the waters of the Lake of Ōmi are veiled so enchantingly in mist? Besides, it is especially fitting in a poem written by one like yourself who is living by the lake.” The Master said, “Yes, the poets of old loved spring in this province almost as much as in Kyoto.” Kyorai, deeply struck by these words, continued, “If you were in Ōmi at the close of the year, why should you regret its passing? Or, if you were in Tamba at the end of spring, you would not be likely to have such feelings. What truth there is in the poetry of a man who has been genuinely stirred by some sight of nature!” The Master said, “Kyorai, you are a person with whom I can talk about poetry.” He was very pleased.
| Kiyotaki ya Nami ni chiri naki Natsu no tsuki | Clear cascades! In the waves immaculate, The summer moon. |
Bashō
One day when the Master was lying on his sickbed in Osaka, he called me to him and said, “This verse resembles one I composed not long ago at Sonome’s house:
| Shiragiku no Me ni tatete miru Chiri mo nashi | The white chrysanthemum Even when lifted to the eye Remains immaculate. |
I have therefore changed the ‘Clear cascades’ verse to:
| Kiyotaki ya Nami ni chirikomu Aomtasuba | Clear cascades! Into the waves scatter Blue pine needles. |
The rough draft of the original version must be in Yamei’s house. Please destroy it.” But it was too late—the poem had already appeared in several collections.
[“The Monkey’s Cloak” (Sarumino) was a collection of verse by Bashō and members of his school, published in 1691. In the following, Bashō is struck by the words “skylark of Akashi” because of the graceful allusion to another poem.]
| Omokaji ya Akashi no tomari Hototogisu | Port the helm! There, by Akashi harbor, A skylark! |
Kakei
This poem was being considered for inclusion in “The Monkey’s Cloak.” Kyorai said, “It’s just like the Master’s
| No wo yoko ni Uma hikimuke yo Hototogisu | Across the fields Turn the horse’s head— A skylark! |
It should not be included.” The Master said, “The ‘skylark of Akashi’ is not a bad image.” Kyorai replied, “I don’t know about the ‘skylark of Akashi,’ but the poem merely substitutes a boat for a horse. It shows no originality.” The Master commented, “He hasn’t made any advance in the conception of the verse, but you may include it or not as you please on the basis of the Akashi skylark.” We finally did not include it.
[The art of making a haiku from a trifling incident.]
| Kiraretaru Yume wa makoto ka Nomi no ato | Stabbed to death! Was my dream true? The marks of a flea. |
Kikaku
Kyorai said, “Kikaku is really a clever writer. Who else would ever have thought of writing a poem merely about being bitten by a flea?” The Master said, “You’re quite right. He deals with trifling matters in a most eloquent way.” This criticism seemed to me to describe Kikaku’s art completely.
[Bashō likens himself to a wild duck stricken while in flight; a fisherman’s hearth has not only crickets but shrimps.]
| Yamu kari no Yosamu ni ochite Tabine ka na | A sick wild duck Falling in the evening cold— These traveler’s lodgings! |
Bashō
| Ama no ya wa Kochi ni majiru Itodo ka na | The fisherman’s hut— Mixed with little shrimps Some crickets! |
Bashō
When we were compiling “The Monkey’s Cloak” we were asked to choose one of these two poems for inclusion. Bonchō said, “The verse about the sick wild duck is good, but the other about the crickets mixing with the little shrimps has a freshness which makes it truly outstanding.” Kyorai answered, “The verse about the shrimps is unusual, but had I noticed the scene in the fisherman’s hut I could have written it myself. The one about the wild duck, on the other hand, is so noble in tone, so subtly perceptive, that I wonder how anyone could have conceived it.” After some discussion we finally asked permission to include both verses. The Master later said, laughing, “You seem to have argued yourselves into thinking that a sick duck and a little shrimp have about equal value.”
[In the attempt to make the haiku as suggestive as possible, deliberately ambiguous language was often used. Here, however, Bashō discovers a meaning in Kyorai’s poem which the author did not think of.]
| Iwahana ya Koko ni mo hitori Tsuki no kyaku | The tips of the crags— Here too is someone, Guest of the moon. |
Kyorai
​Kyorai said, “Shadō thinks that the last line should be ‘monkey of the moon,’ but I think that ‘guest’ is better.” The Master said, “How can he suggest such a word as ‘monkey’? What had you in mind when you wrote the poem?” Kyorai answered, “One night, when I was walking in the mountains by the light of the harvest moon, composing poetry as I went along, I noticed another poet standing by the crags.” The Master said, “How much more interesting a poem it would be if by the lines ‘Here too is someone, guest of the moon’ you meant yourself. You must be the subject of the verse.”
[Shimokyō was a very quiet district of Kyoto.]
| Shimokyō ya Yuki tsumu ue no Yo no ame | Shimokyō! On the piled-up snow The night rain. |
Bonchō
This verse at first lacked an opening line, and everyone from the Master downward tried to think of one. At length the Master settled on the above line. Bonchō said “yes” to it, but still didn’t seem satisfied. The Master said, “Bonchō, why don’t you think of a better opening line? If you do, I’ll never write another haiku.” Kyorai said, “Anyone can see how good a line it is, but it’s not so easy to appreciate that no other line would do. If members of some other school heard what you said, they would think that you were ridiculously pleased with yourself, and they would make up any number of opening lines. But the ones which they considered to be good would seem laughably bad to us.”
[The difference in subjects suited to the classical waka and the haiku.]
| Inoshishi no Ne ni yuku kata ya Ake no tsuki | Is that the path The wild boar travels to his lair? The moon at dawning. |
Kyorai
​When I asked the Mater what he thought of this verse, he pondered for a long time without saying whether it was good or bad. I mistakenly thought that, master though he was, he didn’t know how hunters wait at night for a boar to return to his lair at dawn, and I explained it all to him in great detail. Then he remarked, “The interest of that sight was familiar even to the poets of former times. That is why we have the waka:
| Akenu to te Nobe yori yama ni Iru shika no Ato fukiokuru Hagi no uwakaze | Now that it has dawned A wind from the clover Wafts away the spoor Of the deer returning From the fields to their mountains. |
When a subject can be treated even within the elegant framework of the waka, there does not seem to be much point in giving so prosy a description within the freer compass of the haiku. The reason why I stopped to think for a while was that the verse seemed somehow interesting, and I was wondering if something couldn’t be done with it. But I fear it’s hopeless.”
[Kyorai takes Bashō too literally.]
| Yūsuzumi Senki okoshite Kaerikeri | The evening cool— I got lumbago, And went back home. |
Kyorai
When I was first studying haiku I asked the Master how to write an opening verse. He replied, “It must be written firmly and clearly.” As a test of my abilities I composed the above verse. When I asked his opinion of it, he gave a great laugh and said, “You still haven’t got the idea!”
[Bashō’s technique in linked-verse demonstrated: by evoking the excitement caused by the blossoming of the cherry tree he gives a most dramatic picture of the arrival of spring in a dark wood.]
| Kuromite takaki Kashi no ki no mori | Somber and tall The forest of oaks |
| Saku hana ni Chiisaki mon wo Detsu iritsu | In and out Through the little gate To the cherry blossoms. |
Bashō
When the former verse was given, I thought how difficult it would be to add a verse about cherry blossoms without destroying the image of the forest of oaks. When I asked the Master to add such a verse, this was how he did it.
Translated by Donald Keene