Japanese haiku (haiku) poems: poetry of the past and present

“May rains! A frog swam... Into the house through the threshold.” No, this is not a report from the Ministry of Emergency Situations from the flood zone. And not an extreme tour of a petting zoo. This is a genre of traditional Japanese poetry, haiku, also known as haiku. This genre represents a way of thinking that is different from that accepted in Western culture. Not even everyone can immediately understand it, which, however, does not apply to graduates of our Cognitive Science training program, who master a variety of thinking techniques in a few weeks. Intrigued? Then now we’ll tell you more about haiku!

From the history of haiku

This genre of Japanese poetry originated back in the 14th century within another genre, waka, which was widespread in Japan at that time, which can be translated as “Japanese song.” Waka, in turn, was divided into such types as short and long poetic messages (tanka - short, teka - long).

The new genre became a continuation and development, so to speak, of the “short song” and was originally called “haiku”. A huge contribution to the development of the genre was made by the Japanese poet and theorist Matsuo Basho (1644-1694, surname read as “Basyo”), who gave the poetic forms precision and elegance:

He literally blew up the world of Japanese poetry by writing in 1681 a tercist, unusual by the standards of the 17th century :

On a dead branch

The raven turns black...

Autumn evening…

As Professor Elena Dyakonova, candidate of philological sciences and specialist in Japanese literature, notes, this is only one of the options for how to translate this Basho haiku into Russian [E. Dyakonova, 2019]. This literary translation, proposed by the Russian poet and translator Konstantin Balmont, in any case, does not coincide with the literal one, because literally this Basho haiku translates as “A raven sits on a dry branch... Autumn twilight.” As you can see, it’s not impressive, but in the Japanese poetic tradition, it’s customary to not describe a lot of things, but to imply them so that readers can guess it themselves.

One way or another, the canons of haiku proposed by Matsuo Basho remained unshakable until the end of the 19th century. By the end of the 19th century, there was a need to update the genre and traditional poetry in general. On the wave of renewal that was raised in the poetry community by the Japanese poet and literary critic Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902), a new name for the genre “haiku” appeared, which he also proposed. The name “haiku” has stuck and is used to this day, and the poet who gave preference to this genre is called haijin:

What changes have befallen the genre, besides changing the name? Masaoka Shiki brought it closer to realism by introducing into poetry the literary method he developed, shasei, which can be translated as “sketches from life.” In haiku, it is more common to describe rather than imply, which has made the genre less mysterious, but more understandable to the mass reader, including Western ones. An example is the following Shiki tercet:

My front garden...

Bloomed here for the first time today

Peony flower...

Like Matsuo Basho, Shiki also loved to write about nature, but, as we can see, there is no intrigue. Which, however, does not detract from the beauty of the tercet. Since the beginning of the 20th century, updated Japanese haiku began to be actively translated into various European languages, thanks to which Japanese poetry became better known outside the country and turned haiku into poetry for the general public.

By the way, the three-line recording format appeared precisely after Japanese haiku poems began to be translated into European languages. In the traditional version, haiku is written in hieroglyphs in a column from top to bottom. Today in Japan, a modern version of writing horizontally in one line is also common.

In Western culture, attempts have also been made to borrow the Japanese tradition of writing haiku in one line. Thus, Hiroaki Sato, who translated haiku into English, considered it logical to write the translation in one line, like the original poems. The idea did not catch on, and Sato himself is better known not as a translator or literary theorist, but as the author of the work “Samurai. True stories and legends" [H. Sato, 2019].

The Canadian poet and theorist Clarence Matsuo-Allard went even further in his ideas, believing that the original haiku in English should be written in one line. This idea also turned out to be too radical for English-language authors and was not developed.

It is significant that in the Russian literary tradition haiku were always written in three lines, and there were no special attempts to change the established tradition. This is despite the fact that for a Russian person, monoshits without division into lines are quite familiar. Suffice it to recall the poet Vladimir Vishnevsky and his one-liner “I wish I could get dressed once and for all,”

“It’s becoming less and less common to say, “That’s great,” “There’s no time for slow dancing,” and others.

We will return to the topic of haiku later, but for now let’s talk about the literary features of the genre.

(Buson)

In the evening, not far from my house, I met a girl dressed in a light kimono. In the light of the moon, she tries to read the poems of her favorite poet. And I compare it with the white pear flower that is blooming at this time in my garden...

なし【梨】 (nashi) pear;

ふまえる 【踏まえる】 (fumaeru) to stand on smth.;

よむ【読む】 (yomu) read;

おんな【女】 (onna) woman

3.=========================

Literary Features of Haiku

So what is so wonderful, besides the intuitive unusualness, that this genre conceals? Japanese haiku poems, or, as they sometimes say in common parlance, haiku, are constructed according to certain laws. It is understood that a traditional tercet should have 17 syllables. When a haiku is translated into Russian, the number of syllables in each line of the tercet is distributed in the ratio “5:7:5”. In other words, the first line usually has 5 syllables, the second line has 7 syllables, and the third line has 5 syllables.

A distinctive feature of the style is the obligatory presence of kireji, the so-called “cutting word”, which “cuts” the tercet on the 5th or 12th syllable. Guitarists will easily remember this pattern: a string clamped at the 5th fret repeats the note of an open string located a level lower, and at the 12th fret the same note sounds as the open string, but an octave higher. Everyone else can take our Mnemonics course and develop their own methods for easily and quickly memorizing any information.

Returning to the verses, let us draw your attention to the fact that the placement of the kireji on the 5th or 12th syllable makes a logical pause in the tercet either at the end of the first line or at the end of the second. Both options are about equally common.

As we could see above, Matsuo Basho, in his fateful poem for the haiku genre, placed the kireji on the 12th syllable, i.e. at the end of the second line. Thus, after the lines “On a dead branch” and “The raven turns black,” a logical pause was formed, after which the final third line “Autumn evening” followed.

Masaoka Shiki, in the tercet we cited earlier, placed kireji on the 5th syllable at the end of the first line of “My front garden.” And only then he developed the thought with the second and third lines “Bloomed here for the first time today” and “Peony flower.”

However, the “17 syllables” rule or the “5:7:5” rule is not always observed. Even the style theorist Matsuo Basho can see examples of deviations from the rules in haiku. Let's take this verse:

There's such a moon in the sky,

It’s like a tree has been cut down to the roots...

The fresh cut turns white.

A short calculation suggests that not only the rule of arrangement of syllables “5:7:5” is violated here, but also the number of syllables itself is greater than 17. Thus, the 24 syllables of the tercet are distributed line by line in the ratio “7:11:6”. Thus, the principle of “syllable balance” of the first and third lines is also violated.

The most vigilant readers are probably already ready to assume that this may have something to do with the translation into Russian. Of course, translation often distorts the original structure of haiku. However, you can believe, if not us, then the literary critic Richard Medhurst, that in the original haiku there are also deviations from the rules, and quite often [R. Medhurst, 2015].

It is significant that deviations from the rules became so widespread that over time they became the source of a new rule. Thus, it has become a rule to call an excess of syllables the term “jiamari,” and a number of syllables less than 17 is designated the term “jitarazu.” When translated into English, jitarazu occurs more often, i.e. in the translated version fewer syllables remain [R. Medhurst, 2015]. And when translated into Russian, there are usually more syllables than in the original.

Why, then, do we need structure and rules for constructing haiku? Then, the rule “5:7:5” in original Japanese poetry is observed more often than not. And it is in this construction, taking into account the peculiarities of the Japanese language, that it is easiest to place kireji (“cutting word”). Actually, this gives the tercets, which are unusual to our ears, brightness, sonority and attractiveness, which makes us read these wonderful lines again and again.

Haiku also attracts themes as eternal as the world, which are touched upon by authors from the Middle Ages to the present day.

Examples

One of the most beautiful tercets, reflecting the passage of time in three lines, is a work by Yoko:

How many people

in the autumn rain

crossed the Bridge of Set!

Buson’s lines that clearly convey feelings are charming:

Autumn, evening,

all my thoughts

only about my parents.

Admiration for virtue is seen in Basho's rhymes:

I'm walking along the path up the mountain.

ABOUT! How wonderful!

Violet!

No less enchanting are the lines of the same Basho:

He is worthy of admiration

who doesn’t think: “Life is fleeting,”

at the sight of a flash.

Basho is the most famous author of tercets

Japanese poets. haiku, haiku

Haiku (Japanese: 俳句) is a genre of traditional Japanese lyric poetry.

This genre comes from haiku - the opening poems for rengi. Over time, haiku became an independent genre, free from ordinary requirements, and received its modern name - haiku. Haiku and haiku are often used interchangeably.

A poet who writes in the haiku genre is called haijin (Japanese: 俳人).

Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

Matsuo Basho (松尾芭蕉; 1644 - 1694) is considered one of the most famous Japanese poets. He was the greatest theorist of verse and played a huge role in the formation of the poetic genre of haiku. Thanks to his work, haiku has become a sophisticated art.

According to Basho’s theory, before writing poetic lines, it is necessary to penetrate into the “soul” of the subject and then convey the “internal state” in a laconic poetic form.

The work of Matsuo Basho is known far beyond Japan, his poems have been translated into many languages, and in his homeland poetry adorns monuments.

Grove on the mountainside. It's as if the mountain is intercepted by the Sword Belt. It's time for the May rains. As if the sea is glowing with lights, the night watchmen's lanterns. Frost covered him, The wind made his bed. An abandoned child. What is stupider than darkness! I wanted to catch a firefly - and ran into a thorn. Today I want to season my rice with the “grass of oblivion” as I bid farewell to the Old Year. There is such a moon in the sky, It’s like a tree cut down at the roots: The fresh cut is white. A yellow leaf floats. On which shore, cicada, will you suddenly wake up? Everything was whitened by the morning snow. One sign to notice is the bow arrows in the garden. How the river overflowed! A heron wanders on short legs knee-deep in water. Quiet moonlit night... You can hear a worm gnawing on the kernel in the depths of the chestnut tree. A raven sits alone on a bare branch. Autumn evening. In the darkness of a moonless night, a fox creeps along the ground, sneaking towards a ripe melon. Transparent fry swarm in the sea grass... If you catch them, they will melt without a trace. Willow is bent over and sleeping. And it seems to me that the nightingale on the branch is her soul. In my cramped shack, the Moon illuminated all four corners, looking through the window. Suddenly you will hear “shorkh-shorkh”. Longing stirs in my soul... Bamboo on a frosty night Wandering raven, look! Where is your old nest? Plum trees are in bloom everywhere. The oncoming mountain resident did not open his mouth. The grass reaches his chin. We looked at the moon. Finally we can breathe! - A fleeting cloud. How the autumn wind whistles! Then only you will understand my poems, When you spend the night in the field. And in the fall this butterfly wants to live: it quickly drinks the dew from the chrysanthemum. The flowers have faded. Seeds are pouring and falling, like tears... The impetuous leaf fell into a grove of bamboo and gradually calmed down. They fly to the ground and return to their old roots. Separation of flowers! Old Pond A frog jumped into the water. A splash in silence. Oh, wake up, wake up! Become my comrade. Sleeping moth! Only you, the peddler of winter colza, remained faithful to this grass-covered Hut. The first snow is in the morning. He barely bent down the daffodil leaves. The water is so cold! The seagull cannot sleep, rocking on the wave. The jug burst with a crash: At night the water in it froze. I woke up suddenly. New Year's market in the city. And I would like to visit it at least once! Buy smoking sticks. Hey shepherd boys! Leave some branches to the plum tree, cutting off the vines. The moon or the morning snow... Admiring the beauty, I lived as I wanted. This is how I end the year. Seaweed is lighter... And the old merchant carries a basket of heavy oysters on his shoulder. A bumblebee is dozing in the cup of a flower. Don't touch him, friend Sparrow! Stork nest in the wind. And below it, beyond the storm, Cherry is a calm color. It's a long day and the lark won't get enough to sing in the spring. Above the expanse of fields - The lark is ringing, not tied to the ground by anything. Let's go, friends, let's look at the floating nests of ducks in the flood of May rains! The woodpecker chimes loudly on the pillar of a lonely hut. Today is a clear day. But where do the drops come from? There is a patch of clouds in the sky. Did the wind break off a branch while running through the pines? How cool is the splash of water! Pure spring! A small crab ran up my leg. Next to the blooming bindweed, a thresher is resting in the heat. How sad it is, our world! In the deserted garden of a friend, He grew melons here. And now the old garden has died down... How fast the moon flies! Raindrops hung on motionless branches. For the night, at least for one night, O flowering hagi bushes, Shelter a stray dog! The Heron steps importantly on the fresh stubble. Autumn in the village. The peasant stopped threshing rice for a moment and looked at the moon. Withered sweet potato leaves on a dried out field. The peasants can't wait for the moon to rise. The chrysanthemums are rising from the ground again, fading in the darkness, beaten down by the heavy rain. She completely lay down on the ground, But the sick chrysanthemum will inevitably bloom. The clouds swelled with rain Only over the ridge of the foothills. Fuji is white in the snow. The winter crop sprouts have sprouted. A nice shelter for a hermit - a village among fields. Pray for happy days! Be like a winter plum tree in your heart. Don’t drop a lump of clay into a glass of wine, Swallows. Under the canopy of cherry blossoms I, like the hero of an ancient drama, lay down to sleep at night. The cherries are in full bloom! And the dawn is the same as always, There, above the distant mountain... Here once stood a castle... Let the spring gushing in the old well be the first to tell me about it. How the grass thickens in summer! And only one sheet has one single sheet. Like a fragile youth, Oh flowers forgotten in the fields, You are withering in vain. All bindweeds look the same. What about gourd pumpkins in the fall? No two are alike! Autumn is not far away. A field of ears of corn and the sea of ​​the same green color. Oh no, I won’t find ready-made comparisons for you, Three-day month! A dark cloud hangs motionless in half the sky. Apparently he's waiting for lightning. Oh, how many of them there are in the fields! But everyone blooms in their own way - This is the highest feat of a flower! This wild ivy has wrapped its life around the hanging bridge. A chestnut rolled off a branch. For anyone who has never been to distant mountains, I will take it as a gift. Only some poems! This is all that spring has brought to the Banana Shelter in Porto. The house has run out of rice... I’ll put a flower in a pumpkin from under the “Women’s Beauty” grain. There are still unharvested ears standing here and there like islands. The snipe screams in alarm. Winter days alone. Again I lean my back against the pillar in the middle of the hut. Reeds cut for the roof. Fine snow falls on the forgotten stems. Spring is leaving. The birds are crying. The fish's eyes are full of tears. The sun is setting. And the cobwebs, too, melt in the darkness... The ringing of the evening bell - Even here, in the wilderness, you won’t hear it. Spring twilight. Here it is - my guiding sign! Among the tall meadow grasses, a Man with an armful of hay. The garden and the mountain in the distance tremble, move, enter the open summer house. Driver! Lead your horse over there, across the field! There's a cuckoo singing. May rains The waterfall was buried Filled with water. Islands... Islands... And the Sea of ​​a summer day is crushed into hundreds of fragments. On the old battlefield Summer grasses Where the heroes disappeared Like a dream. What bliss! Cool field of green rice. The water is murmuring... Silence all around. Penetrates into the heart of the rocks The light ringing of cicadas. Three-day month Coolness blows over the Black Wing peak. The heat of a sunny day was carried away by the Mogami River into the depths of the sea. "Tide Gate" The cool sea washes the heron up to its chest. First melon, friends! Shall we divide it into four parts? Shall we cut it into circles? Small perch are drying on willow branches... How cool! Wooden pestle. Was he once a plum? Was it a camellia? Red-red sun In the deserted distance... But the merciless autumn wind freezes. Berries are falling from the branches... A flock of starlings fluttered noisily. Morning wind. The wave receded for a moment. Among the small shells, the petals of fallen hagi turn pink. He will never become a butterfly... In vain the Worm trembles in the autumn wind. I'm alone in the house in the fall. Well, I will pick berries, collect fruits from the branches. Cold rain without end. This is how the chilled monkey looks, as if asking for a straw cloak. How long has it been raining! On the bare field the stubble turned black. Winter night in the garden. A thin thread - and the moon in the sky, And the barely audible ringing of cicadas. Snow hare - as if alive! But one thing remains, children: Let's make him a mustache. Tell me, why, O raven, are you flying to the noisy city from here? There is a thawed patch in the snow, and in it is a light purple Asparagus stalk. Spring rains are pouring. How the Chernobyl plant stretches upward on this dead path! The sparrows above the window squeak, and the mice in the attic respond to them. The bonite seller is coming. Which rich man will they help get drunk with wine today? How tender are the young leaves, even here, on the weeds, near a forgotten house. Camellia petals... Maybe the nightingale dropped the Flower Cap? Spring rain... The eggplant seeds have already released two leaves. Above the old river The willows on the bank swelled with young buds. Ivy leaves... For some reason, their smoky purple speaks of the past. Mossy gravestone. Under it - is it in reality or in a dream? A voice whispers prayers. Everything is destroyed by the dragonfly... It can’t catch on to the stems of flexible grass. Don’t think with contempt: “What small seeds!” It's red pepper. On a high embankment there are pine trees, And between them cherries are visible and a palace In the depths of flowering trees... First he left the grass, Then he left the trees. Lark flight. The bell has fallen silent in the distance, But its echo floats with the scent of evening flowers. The cobwebs tremble a little. Thin threads of saiko grass flutter in the twilight. The spring night has passed. The white dawn turned into a sea of ​​cherry blossoms. The lark sings. The pheasant echoes him with a ringing blow in the thicket. Dropping the petals, Suddenly the Camellia flower spilled a handful of water. The stream is barely noticeable. Petals of camellias float through the thicket of bamboo. What a connoisseur's quirk! A moth descended on a flower without fragrance. The May rain is endless. The mallows are reaching somewhere, looking for the path of the sun. Cold mountain spring. Before I had time to scoop up a handful of water, my teeth were already starting to ache. Falls with a leaf... No, look! Halfway there, the Firefly fluttered up. How brightly the fireflies burn, resting on tree branches! Roadside overnight of flowers! And who could have said that they would not live for so long? The incessant sound of cicadas. In my old house, mosquitoes hardly bite. That's all the treat for a friend! Morning hour Or evening - you don't care, Melons are flowers! Both flowers and fruits! Melon is rich for everyone at once. At its best. White hair fell. Under my headboard the cricket is not silent. A sick goose landed on a field on a cold night. A lonely dream on the way. Transparent autumn night. Far away, to the Seven Stars, the sound of rollers can be heard. "Monkey's robe first!" - Asks the laundresses to knock out the chilled guide with a roller. They scare them and drive them out of the fields! The sparrows will fly up and hide under the protection of the tea bushes. Autumn is already over, But the Green Mandarin believes in future days. Even a wild boar will be whirled and carried away by this winter field whirlwind! I eat my stew alone. It’s as if someone is playing a zither - The hail is knocking on the shutter. The cold set in on the way. Should I ask the scarecrow for a sleeve, or something? This dried mackerel And the poor monk, exhausted, In the cold on a winter day. All long night, It seemed to me that the bamboo was getting cold. The morning arose in the snow. Night. Bottomless darkness. That's right, a sandpiper has lost its nest. A sandpiper is groaning somewhere. Why so lazy all of a sudden? They barely woke me up today. The spring rain is noisy. Sad, make me stronger with sadness, Cuckoo's distant call! May's annoying rain - Scraps of colored paper On a dilapidated wall. Every day, every day, the ears become yellower. The larks are singing. A secluded house in rural silence... Not even a woodpecker knocks on this door! Light river breeze. The tea is good! And the wine is good! And the moonlit night is good! Quails are calling. It must be evening. The hawk's eye went dark. Together with the owner of the house I listen in silence to the evening bells. Willow leaves are falling. White fungus in the forest. Some unfamiliar leaf stuck to his hat. They cook noodles for dinner. How the fire burns under the pot on this cold night! Night silence. Only behind the picture on the wall is a cricket ringing and ringing. Is that right, this cicada Penem is all gone? One shell remains. The leaves have fallen. The whole world is one color. Only the wind hums. Dewdrops sparkle. But they have a taste of sadness, don’t forget! Trees were planted in the garden. Quietly, quietly, to encourage them, the autumn rain whispers. To infuse the cold whirlwind with aroma, the flowers opened again in late autumn. The sprouts are turning green again in the autumn fields. In the morning frost is like flowers. Salty sea bass Hangs with their teeth bared. How cold it is in this fish shop! “There is no peace from children!” For such people, probably, even cherry blossoms are not nice. The cats in love fell silent. The misty moon looks into the bedroom. Invisible spring! On the back of the mirror there is a pattern of blossoming plums. Drops quietly run down from branch to branch... Spring rain. Give all the worries, all the sadness of your troubled heart to the flexible willow tree. As soon as the breeze blows from branch to branch of the willow, the butterfly will flutter. Are you also one of those who are awake, intoxicated by flowers, about mice in the attic? The rain in the mulberry grove is noisy. A sick silkworm is barely moving on the ground. Still on the tip of the ridge, the sun is burning out above the roof. The evening chill blows. The sea shell closed her mouth tightly. Unbearable heat! In the light of the new moon, the Earth is drowning in twilight. White buckwheat fields. In the moonlight the crest of the tide moves towards the very gates. I’ll say the word - my lips turn cold. Autumn whirlwind! You, as before, could remain green... But no! Your time has come, scarlet pepper. The coals turned to ash. The shadow of My interlocutor sways on the wall. Rain comes after rain, And the heart is no longer disturbed by the sprouts in the rice fields. The cuckoo flies into the distance, and the voice trails behind it for a long time on the water. The birds will be amazed if this lute sounds. The petals will dance... Morning bindweed. I locked the gate in the morning, My last friend! First fungus! Still, autumn dew, He didn’t count you. How the chrysanthemums bloomed in the mason's yard among the scattered stones! Cockscombs. They are even redder with the arrival of the cranes. They won't drop a single drop of dew... Ice on chrysanthemums. Everything is sprinkled with rice husks: edge mortars, White chrysanthemums... Acrid radish... And a stern, masculine Conversation with a samurai. Oh, spring rain! Streams run from the roof along wasp nests. Under an open umbrella I make my way through the branches. Willows in the first down. From the sky of their peaks Only the river willows Still shed rain. The green willow drops the ends of its branches into the muddy mud. Evening low tide. I would like to create poems, dissimilar to my old face, Oh, the first cherry blossom! A hillock right next to the road. Replaced by the faded rainbow of Azalea in the light of sunset. Lightning in the darkness of the night. The surface of the lake suddenly flared up with sparks. The waves are running across the lake. Some people regret the heat: Sunset clouds. The voice of a summer nightingale!.. In a grove of young bamboo He cries for his old age. My whole life is on the way! As if digging up a small field, I wander back and forth. What freshness emanates from this melon in drops of dew, with sticky wet soil! Hot summer is in full swing! How the clouds swirl on Thunderstorm Mountain! Old village. The branches are strewn with red persimmons near every house. Deceived by the moonlight, I thought: cherry blossom! No, it's a cotton field. Moon over the mountain. Fog at the foot. The fields are smoking. What do people feed on there? The house nestled to the ground under the autumn willows. A cloud hung in the sun... Migrating birds ran across it. The end of autumn days. Chestnut's shell is already spreading his arms. The buckwheat has not ripened, But they treat a field of flowers to a Guest in a mountain village. They just started drying the Straw of the new harvest... How early it is raining this year! The autumn darkness is broken and driven away by the conversation of friends. Oh, it's a long way! The autumn twilight is thickening, And not a soul is around. You are sad listening to the cry of monkeys! Do you know how a child cries, abandoned in the autumn wind? I fell asleep on the horse. Through my drowsiness I see the distant month. Somewhere there is early smoke. On a forgotten burial mound, “Sadness-grass” has grown... What are you sad about, grass? White peony in winter! Somewhere a sea plover is screaming, This cuckoo of the snows. Hey, listen, merchant! Do you want me to sell you a hat, This hat in the snow? Even if you look at the rider’s horse, the road is so deserted, And the morning is so snowy! Dusk over the sea. Only the cries of wild ducks dimly turn white. The old year is coming to an end, And I’m wearing a traveling hat and sandals on my feet. Spring morning. Above every nameless hill there is a transparent haze. I'm walking along a mountain path. Suddenly I felt at ease for some reason. Violets in the thick grass. The sun of a winter day. My shadow freezes on the horse's back. “Oh, look, look, how dark it is on Starry Cape!” Seagulls moan over the sea. Irakozaki coast. Here, in the deserted distance, I am glad to see Korshun. Well, hurry up, friends! Let's go wander through the first snow until we fall off our feet. She is only nine days old, But both the fields and mountains know: Spring has come again. Let's hit the road! I'll show you how the cherry blossoms bloom in distant Yoshino. My old hat. I barely made it, exhausted, to my lodging for the night... And suddenly - wisteria flowers! Only to a connoisseur of fine wines I will tell you how a waterfall pours in the foam of cherry blossoms. The petals of the mountain roses flew around with a rustle... The distant sound of a waterfall. The first thing I saw was the face of a fisherman in the rays of dawn, and then a blooming poppy. Fishermen scare the crows. Under the aimed tip of the Cuckoo's arrow, an alarming cry. First winter rain. The monkey doesn’t mind wearing a straw raincoat either... How heavy the first snow is! The leaves of the daffodils drooped and drooped sadly... Even the gray crow suits this morning - Look how prettier you are! A familiar cricket sings so selflessly by the fireplace!... On a cold night it will lend me rags, a scarecrow in the field. Oh dragonfly! With what difficulty did you perch on a blade of grass! I planted a banana - And now the sprouts of weeds have become disgusting to me... The first winter rain. The monkey doesn’t mind wearing a straw raincoat either... How heavy the first snow is! The leaves of the daffodils drooped and drooped sadly... Masaoka Shiki (1867 - 1902)

Masaoka Shiki (正岡 子規, 1867 - 1902) was a Japanese poet, writer, literary critic and poetry theorist of the Meiji era. Real name: Masaoka Tsunenori (Japanese: 正岡常規).

It was Shiki who coined the term “haiku,” thereby separating the haiku genre from the poetic form of haiku. Shiki, surrounding himself with like-minded people, founded his own school of haiku, thereby reviving this genre, which had already begun to decline.

He published a series of articles, "Conversations on Basho", in which he criticized the extolled image of Matsuo Basho and called for the revival of traditional forms of Japanese poetry - tanka and haiku.

Shiki believed that haiku should be born from real life experience, and not from imagination. And Yosa Buson, a Japanese poet of the 18th century, was glorified as more “objective” in contrast to the “subjective” Matsuo Basho.

Masaoka Shiki died of tuberculosis at the age of 35, leaving behind a new school of haiku and a new school of tanka.

translation by A. Andreev

I killed a spider, and it became so lonely in the cold of the night. Mountain village - The murmur of water can be heard from under the snowdrifts. Mountains in the spring Look from one another from all sides. Pears are in bloom... And from the house after the battle there are only ruins. Iris flower Almost withered - Spring twilight. In the summer on the river - There is a bridge nearby, but my horse fords. Peeling a pear - Drops of sweet juice crawling along the knife blade. You stay, I leave - two different Autumns for us.

Translation by I. Plekhanov

Evening. Snow is falling on the ducks in the old pond. Spring rain. The boat is covered on all sides with umbrellas. Angry like a beauty! She lost the Shuttlecock Game. So quickly, the Mogami River washes away summer! Saga town. The graves of many beauties are hidden in the summer grass. Young foliage... Ah! Three thousand warriors are hidden in it! The morning glory withered away While I was drawing a picture from it... The thunder died down. In the rays of sunset, a cicada sings on a branch. Transparent pond. At the sight of the kingfisher, Pisces goes to the bottom. It's cold at the gate! A man unfamiliar to me names the stars. Sudden downpour! On the head of the carp He beats out a fraction. High in the clouds, the larks soar, inhale the fog. The cicada sings. But my old father is Deaf... Drought. Pirates enter the village to get water. A peasant came to the city to admire the cherries, and he was robbed! Long day. The boat and the shore are talking to each other. Hot night. Quails can't sleep in a cage. To the ground Telegraph poles - Autumn storm! Morning glory flowers. They are not the same today as they were yesterday. On the boat, on the bridges, At the clothes drying racks, Everywhere they look at the moon! Noon. Rising into the clouds, the larks sing. In his hand is a plum branch. I wish people a Happy New Year. Spring day. Clouds lie on the lap of the Big Buddha. The warbler has become quite an old woman... The voice of the cuckoo. Oh! How the peacock spread its tail in the spring wind! The cicada is dying, But how loud is her voice! Many people lay down on the deck: Summer moon! Summer vacation. While walking, you meet familiar faces everywhere. Summer river. There is a bridge, but the horses walk on water. Winter mountains. We crossed them without meeting the Wolf. The canary flew away... The spring day has come to an end. On a spring night, someone passed by, playing the flute... The snow melted Only on one side of the Big Buddha! The priest who painted the pictures died... The Autumn Temple. Forgetting about all my worries, I admire the Summer moon. What a sad look! Butterflies hang on the web... He looked around - The man who passed by had already disappeared into the fog. We emerged from the fog. What a wide sea lies before us! Pacific Ocean. Swallows fly boldly towards him. Flowers suddenly bloomed in a forgotten pot. Spring day. This dawn was given to me by Travel and Spring! How much trouble it cost me to hang the lamp on a cherry branch! What a sad look! The horseman at the races was left far behind... The people dispersed. After the fireworks it got so dark! When leaving, don’t forget to take the Dull Autumn with you... Paintings with the face of Christ are being trampled in the temple. Peonies are blooming. Milky Way! The enemy camp is visible below. They caught the thief and tied him to a pole. Cold night... Autumn evening. On the other side is the Deaf Ferryman. The cry of the deer died down. A shot rang out shortly after. All at once, their entire “sickle” Mantis cowards Raise up! Pale moon. I suddenly wanted to steal a watermelon. Matsukura Ranran (1647-1693)

Matsukura Ranran is a contemporary of Basho, a samurai by birth; After leaving the service, he settled in Edo and began to study poetry under the guidance of Basho.

Autumn rain in the darkness! No, not to me, to the neighbor. The umbrella rustled. Sugiyama Sampu (1647-1732)

Sugiyama Sampu - a student of Basho, a fishmonger in the city of Edo

The chicks are waiting in the nest. The lark flew too high. May rains! A frog swam into the house through the threshold. Did the snow that fell in the evening turn into rain in the morning? This is the wine of spring! Kobayashi Issa (1763 - 1828)

Kobayashi Issa (Japanese: 小林一茶, 1763 - 1828) - Japanese poet, master of haiku. Also known as Yataro (Japanese: 弥太郎).

In Issa he studied poetry under the guidance of wordsmiths of the Katsushika school, the founder of which, Yamaguchi Sodo, was a follower of Basho.

His poetry is distinguished by childish spontaneity and simplicity. In his poems, the poet often used personal experiences and experiences, using local dialects and dialogue forms.

Issa traveled a lot and only in his declining years was he able to receive his share of the inheritance and live in prosperity.

Kobayashi Issa left a rich poetic legacy; more than 20,000 haiku came from his pen! The most famous published collections of his works are The Diary of My Father's Death and My Spring.

Sparrow friend! Get out of my way! Get out of my way! You see, the horse is coming. The pheasant screams like that, as if he had discovered the first star. The winter snow has melted. Even the faces of the stars lit up with joy. There are no strangers between us! We are all brothers to each other Under the cherry blossoms. Look, the nightingale Sings the same song And in the face of the masters! How the cherries blossomed! They drove the proud prince off his horse. Passing wild goose! Tell me, your wanderings. When did you start? Come again in the spring! Don't forget your home. Swallow, on a long journey! Today is like yesterday... Fog is spreading over the wretched hut. O cicada, don't cry! There is no love without separation Even for the stars in the sky. The snow melted, - And suddenly the whole village was full of noisy children! Hiding under the bridge, Sleeping on a snowy winter night, a homeless child. Oh, don't trample the grass! Fireflies were shining there at night yesterday. The moon came out, and the smallest bush was invited to the holiday. It’s true, in your former life you were my sister, Sad Cuckoo. The tree is ready to be cut... And the birds carefreely build a nest there! Plum branches are in bloom! The moon throws a sheaf of rays: “Steal this one!” Oh, with what longing the bird from the cage looks at the flight of the moth! Oh, if only the autumn whirlwind would bring so many fallen leaves to warm the hearth! Red Moon! Who owns it, children, give me the answer! Quietly, quietly crawl, Snail, along the slope of Fuji Up to the very heights! In the thickets of weeds, Look what beautiful Butterflies were born! The dew disappeared so quickly, As if it had nothing to do in our unclean world. Sad world! Even when the cherry blossoms bloom. Even then... I knew in advance that they were beautiful, these mushrooms that kill people! Cherry flowers seem to have fallen from heaven. So good! Oh yes, I know, it’s for me The evening bell rings, But in the silence I breathe coolness. Oh, don't hit the fly! Her hands are shaking... Her legs are shaking... The deer lazily shook the Butterfly off his back and dozed off again. Don't drive the Gadfly away - he flew in to visit the flowers. Ant trail! Where are you coming to us from? Because of a cloud bank? With all my heart I honor, Resting in the midday heat, People in the fields. Look, snail, Look how your shadow crawls behind you! “That’s how big the peony is on our bush!” - The girl spreads her hands... The baby cries, cries - Asks him to catch a ball of the moon in the sky... What a beauty! Through the holes in the paper wall the Milky Way shines... Autumn night. The traveler clumsily patches a thin dress... It covers the baby on the border from the wind - A scarecrow in the field... A woodpecker knocks - Until sunset, everything is hammering and hammering In the same place... The dog is grumbling, Distinguishing the rustle of dry leaves - The autumn wind... Having seen everything in the world, Eyes mine again returned to the white chrysanthemum. The fallen leaf was caught and gently pressed with its paw by the funny kitten... Winter is coming. The feathers on the kite's chest sparkled under the sun... A peasant in the field And showed me the way With a torn radish... Clear morning - Coal rejoices in the hearth, Crack-crack-crack - purrs. Takai Quito (1741-1789)

Takai Kito is a Japanese poet of the Buson school, born in Kyoto in the family of a famous master of haikai (俳句) - a genre of traditional Japanese lyric poetry. He wrote poetry from childhood and first published his works in 1758.

Takai Kito was a student of Yosa Buson (1716 - 1783) and actively participated in the preparation for the publication of collections of his school, the main of which were “Akegarasu” (“Cry of a Crow at Dawn”) and “Zokuakegarasu” (“Continuation of “Cry of a Crow at Dawn” ). Together with Buson, he stood at the head of the Kyoto haikai poets and was considered his successor.

After the death of his teacher, he was involved in compiling and publishing collections of his works. He died during a friendly feast, composing haiku with a raised glass of wine in his hand.

You walk on the clouds, And suddenly on a mountain path Through the rain - cherry blossoms! I met a messenger on the way. The spring wind, playing, rustles with an open letter. Thunderstorm shower! A horse that has fallen dead comes to life. Kato Gedai (1732-1792)

Kato Gyodai is a famous Japanese poet. By origin, he was a samurai from the Owari clan. He loved to write poetry and after leaving the service he returned to his homeland and created his own haikai school there.

Gyodai promoted the poetic principles and work of Matsuo Basho and advocated a return to his traditions. Approaching the age of forty, he decided to repeat Basho’s journey, following in his footsteps. The feelings from my journey were reflected in the book “Shiorihagi” (“The Drooping Bushes of Hagi”).

In 1774, while in Kyoto, he met Buson, with whom he had been in correspondence for a long time, and became close to his students. He was involved in the publication and reprinting of Basho's works. Published a revised and commented edition of Kyoraisho.

Leaf flies onto leaf, Everyone falls off, and the rain lashes down upon the rain. More from Gedai The winter fly is hovering around me - We are alone in the house... Shiko Kagama (1665 - 1731)

Shiko Kagama is a Japanese poet originally from the Mino province. He was a student of Matsuo Basho and one of the best poets of his school.

At an early age he was left an orphan and became a servant at a Buddhist monastery. At the age of 19, he decided to leave the monastery and return to worldly life.

In 1690, Shiko became a student of Basho and soon his haiku began to appear in the school's collections. He took an active part in the activities of the school and after the death of his teacher, together with some other students, began preparing for the publication of Basho’s legacy.

Shiko was the head of the Basho school in Mino province and taught haikai. He traveled extensively throughout the country, promoting the principles of his school. His essays on poetic craft were very popular in Edo period Japan. Shikō's haiku are typical of the period when haikai became a popular art form, and his numerous theoretical works largely represented the popularization of Basho's principles.

O maple leaves! You burn your wings to flying birds. How I envy you! You will achieve the highest beauty and fall, maple leaf! Mukai Kyorai (1651-1704)

Mukai Kyorai (Japanese: 向井去来) is a Japanese poet. He served at court as a Confucian scholar. Over time, I became interested in poetry and studied classical waka. Later he met Matsuo Basho, joined his school and became a professional poet and haiku teacher. In addition to collections of numerous tercets, he left a poetic treatise “Koraisho” (1702), in which he summarized everything he had ever heard about the art of poetry. This treatise represents a wealth of material for the study of Basho’s poetic principles.

On the death of my younger sister, Alas, in my hand, Weakening imperceptibly, My firefly went out. How cool! Through the falling downpour - the setting sun. How is this, friends? A man looks at the cherry blossoms, And on his belt is a long sword! I’m parting with a friend on a mountain road. Your hands are probably mixed with the tall grass and waving after me from afar. The sparkle in my eyes burns with everything - both trees and stones... It's hot again after the rain! The summer day has faded. Bald peaks in a string of cumulus clouds. The plowman beats with a hoe... And, it seems, he is motionless In the haze of the spring fields. "Yes Yes! I’ll open it now!” I responded, but everyone was knocking... The gate is in deep snow! Hattori Ransetsu (1654-1707)

Hattori Ransetsu (Japanese: 服部嵐雪) is a Japanese poet of the Basho school. In 1675 he joined the school of Matsuo Basho. The teacher considered him one of the best students and included his poems in his anthologies and once wrote about him: “I know of no one equal to Ransetsu in poetic simplicity.” Ransetsu later became a professional poetry teacher, becoming one of the Ten Philosophers - students of Basho, the founders of poetry schools. During his lifetime, the Ransetsu school was called “Setsumon”, and then was renamed “Ransetsu Ryu”. The school published two collections of poetry: “Sono-fukuro” and “Ransetsu bunshu”. In the last years of his life he became a Zen monk. Yosa Buson, who called himself a student of Ransetsu, considered him one of the four best haiku masters of all time.

The autumn moon draws a pine tree with ink in the blue skies. Stretching to the north A string of geese mixed with a string of pilgrims. The old servants were fired. How much separation from them saddens the hearts of children! First day of the year. Sparrows are having a long conversation in the sun. A flower... And another flower... This is how the plum blossoms, This is how the warmth comes. The light of this bright moon Bared, like the crown of a monk, the Sea, the hills and fields. At midnight I looked: The Heavenly River had changed its course. The oncoming wave washes the outgoing wave... How cool it is on the river! Death song Here a leaf has fallen, Here another leaf is flying in an icy whirlwind. Morikawa Kyoroku (1656-1715)

Morikawa Kyoroku is a Japanese poet and artist, a student of Basho. Samurai by origin.

I once spent a night in the prince’s bedchamber... And still I was chilled. Voices are heard there too - Above the white clouds... These are the larks singing. The ringing cry of the ducks surrounded the castle with a ring. The dawn turned white. Drops on the roof are knocking on the fresh straw - The first winter rain... Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707)

Takarai Kikaku (Japanese: 宝井 其角) - a Japanese poet of the Basho school, was one of the most influential poets of his time.
Kikaku's first poems were published in 1679; in 1683 he compiled the anthology “Hollow Chestnuts” (“Minashiguri”), which became an event in the history of haiku. The poet developed his own unique style - Kikaku's poems are brilliantly executed technically, romantic, and permeated with sensuality: in the afterword to Minashiguri, Basho compared him with such authorities as Saigyo, Li Bo and Du Fu, emphasizing the young poet's ability to see beauty in the ordinary. In 1691, Kikaku, along with other students of Basho, took part in the creation of the collection “Sarumino” (“Straw Cloak of the Monkey”). At one time, Kikaku enjoyed enormous popularity - the poet visited almost all corners of Japan and left behind many students. Bright moonlight! A pine tree cast its shadow on the mat. A light swarm of midges flies upward - a floating bridge For my dream. Cherries in spring blossom Not on distant mountain tops Only in our valleys. A beggar is on the way! In summer, all his clothes are Heaven and Earth. At dawn my mother came to me in a dream... Don’t drive her away with your scream, cuckoo! What a stupid nightingale! He mistook the Bamboo Wattle for a shady forest. The rain came in torrents. Whoever is not pleased with the freshness of flowers is a dry pea in a bag. The nightingale sings the first song of spring, hanging upside down on a branch. Fast lightning! Today it will sparkle in the east, Tomorrow in the west... Swinging, swaying On a banana leaf A small frog. The dragonflies are tired of rushing about in a mad dance. Bad month. But these mountains weren’t near Fuji before! Clear autumn evening. Rainfall like a waterfall! With a loud quack, the Ducks rushed around the house. What is this? Just a dream? Or did I really get stabbed? Flea bite mark. Throw a stone at me! I just broke off a branch of a blossoming cherry tree. The disk of the moon is foggy... Two circles flicker in the shadow of the branches: An eagle owl in cloudy glasses. How beautiful your fish are! But if only, old fisherman, you could try them yourself. The one who was sent first gave me the branch of cherries, and then the letter. I am the midnight firefly. The sweetest thing to me is the wormwood near the lonely hut. The first snow is falling. I would pour it on a tray, I would keep looking and looking. Plum aroma! You can’t take your eyes off the beggar’s shack. Listening to the strict reproach, the girl lowered her head, Like a poppy in the evening. This is my own snow! How light it seems on my wicker hat! Middle of the night... Abandoned on the ice, the old boat turns black. What a long complaint! His friend is sad that the cat caught the cricket. Cold winter. In a deserted field there was a scarecrow perch for crows. Everyone hates him, But he lives and lives, Like a winter fly. Autumn cicadas are ringing... But even his sleepy snoring We will never hear again. She paid tribute to the Earth and became silent, like the sea on a summer day. Not a day will pass in the spring without the bell being sold in the city of Edo. With a crash, silks are torn in Echigoya's shop... Summer time has come! The light of the evening dawn! On a quiet street, butterflies flutter. Let's water the garden until the Cicadas and sparrows get wet. Hide like in a nest, Here, under my umbrella, Wet swallow! Heavy gate leaves have been locked for a long time. Moon on a frosty night! On the anniversary of Basho's death, ten years have passed, but it seems like yesterday he passed away. Weeping willow shadow! Baring his white teeth, the Monkey screams hoarsely. The moon rises over the mountain. Morning Star! There is no peace among the cherries for the cloud on the mountain. The autumn skies sailed far up from the mountain cryptomerias.