A Winged Pod of Pepper: Haiku in Poland

haiku_ex_machina_poznan_.jpg, default, Haiku ex machina, haiku-writing machine in lobby of Zamek Culture Centre, part of Poets’ Poznań Festival, author of installation: Anna Ilska-Gruchot, , A Winged Pod of Pepper: Haiku in Poland

#language & literature

What does a conversation between the Skamander poets and the avant-garde look like? What does a frog do in Białoszewski’s poetry? Who did Grochowiak want to be? Whom does Krynicki esteem? And what exactly does haiku laugh at? Here is a concise guide to 17-syllable Japanese poems.

Poland, 1937, issue no. 46 of Wiadomości Literackie (Literary News) dedicated to Japanese culture. Somewhere amidst an article on the erotic life of a Japanese man, practical advice on ‘Dziudo i dziudziutsu’ (Judo and Jujitsu), and an advertisement for Mitsubishi, there are references to haiku that inform the reader that they are ‘17-syllable poems’ and that ‘from the initial stanza of renga, another variation later developed, which was called hokku or haikai’.

The Polish Haiku Association was established nearly 80 years later. In the meantime, several volumes of Japanese poems (not necessarily translated from the original) were published, as well as Antologia polskiego haiku (Anthology of the Polish Haiku), in which Ewa Tomaszewska included works inspired – sometimes unconsciously – by the poetry and aesthetics of the Far East. How did the most popular Japanese poetic form come into being, and how has it evolved?

Rhythm: fragrant lady

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Haiku ex machina, haiku-writing machine in lobby of Zamek Culture Centre, part of Poets’ Poznań Festival, author of installation: Anna Ilska-Gruchot, texts: Jarosław Jędraszczyk, 2017, photo: Jędrzej Nowicki / AG

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Japan, the 9th through the 12th centuries, an elite social gathering. At the beginning, there are two of them: the first composes the upper stanza of the poem in a 5 + 7 + 5 syllable rhythm, while the other adds the lower 7 + 7 stanza (31 syllables form a tanka, i.e. a short song). They are joined by others from the 12th to the 17th centuries, who break with convention. According to Agnieszka Żuławska-Umeda, an outstanding translator of Japanese, it may have looked like this:

They sit relaxed in casual poses, ignoring etiquette. They improvise verses that connect in a manner that reflects their train of thought, and the characteristic associations may be an expression of their personalities. Together, they compose a linked song called a renga, or individual verses referred to as haiku. The theme may be determined beforehand or left open, but it must always relate to the season and mood.

Elegant court poetry thus transforms into literary play for the samurai. Fortunately, we can count on masters such as Gusai and Yoshimoto, who set the rules of the game (including eliminating profanity).

Poland also has its courtier and samurai. Between 1917 and 1918, Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz wrote ‘Uty’, which he included in his debut volume, Oktostychy (Octa-Verses), published in 1919. His sophisticated miniatures, inspired by the ancient Japanese form of poetry, read as follows:

2. Bachelor’s buttons,

Mulleins smell of childhood dreams.

Motley (psst!…) childhood.

(Trout in virgin water)

I follow my heritage.

3. A rose has blossomed

It will welcome me back from a journey

Not a pitcher of water.

My hand, satiated with travelling,

Plunges its fingers into the rose.

In the same year, Anatol Stern’s Futuryzje (Futurism) was published, containing three pieces that the poet called ‘hay-kay’ (pronounced ‘high-kigh’, ed.). Compared to Iwaszkiewicz’s works, they are more sensual and bawdy. Although there is no evidence that the futurist was familiar with the works of the Skamander poet, they create an intriguing dialogue. To the scent of mullein and spring flowers, Stern responds as follows:

1. This sleepy maiden

It is called primavera,

This fragrant lady.

2. She came (he was ill),

Spring thickest round the waist

In a floral blouse.

3. The smell of a cowshed:

Is spring grazing cows now?

(He was very ill).

‘Uty’ and ‘hay-kay’ can be viewed as prototypes of Polish haiku, consciously referring to the Japanese form. Even if they do not fulfil all the formal requirements, they adhere to a fixed rhythm. Far Eastern lyrics bear some resemblance to epigrams, sonnets and ballads, but they follow the principles of the Kraków Avant-Garde: a minimum of words, a maximum of content. The poet Andrzej Tchórzewski recalls that Julian Przyboś would sing out Japanese haiku to him from memory, ‘explaining their meaning and symbolism, repeating them in various sound configurations’. Additionally, the Avant-Garde artist named his daughter Uta (‘song, poetry’ in Japanese), though she herself admits that her father used this name to refer to her mother (a diminutive form of Danuta).

Kigo: Cottage under the banana plant

Haiku can also be created solo. This path was chosen by Matsuo Munefusy (1644–1694), who abandoned his career as a teacher of samurai and townspeople in favour of a solitary journey across Japan. He settled in a cottage he called Bashō'an (shelter under the banana plant) – hence the nickname Bashō – and soon became the most popular poet in the Land of the Rising Sun. In 17-syllable verses, he described his travel experiences, extolling the natural world and the unity of man and nature. He developed his own style (shōfū), characterised by simple phrases, evocative words and a contemplative mood. He gathered a large group of students around him, but none of them ever matched their master.

Bashō knew very well that there is no haiku without kigo, a word indicating the season:

Within these plumb blossoms

Even a black bull will learn

To sing a song of spring

Thumbnail — Masaoka Shiki, photo: https://pl.wikipedia.org

Yamoto Dojū, an expert on the genre, argues that kigo is ‘the highest taste, the essence of poetry’. The most famous anthology of Japanese miniatures in Poland, translated by Żuławska-Umeda, is organised into four seasons. In 14th-century Japan, there were several indicators of the seasons, but by the 16th and 17th centuries, their number increased to 599, soon exceeding a thousand. There’s an extensive list of Polish kigo on the website of the Polish Haiku Association: spring is represented, for example, by molehills and hay fever, summer smells of chives and hay carts, the beginning of autumn is heralded by deer rutting and its end by a bent umbrella, while in winter the fur of mammals thickens and brightens, and flies become sluggish.

Numerous references to nature appear in the lyrics of Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska, and the topic of Orientalism in her poems has frequently been discussed by literary scholars. The poet does not restrict herself to a careful observation of nature. She animates and personifies it: in the volume Pocałunki (Kisses), the sky can become angry, and in Surowy jedwab (Raw Silk), the firmament freezes in terror. Comparisons to the masters of the genre are inevitable when reading her works. Take, for example, the frog glorified by Bashō (in Czesław Miłosz’s translation: ‘Stara sadzawka, / Żaba – skok – / Plusk’; in R. H. Blyth’s translation: ‘The old pond / A frog jumps in – The sound of the water’). In Jasnorzewska’s poem it turns into a toad:

The toad emerged from the grass and sat down on the ground,

stretching itself with difficulty over a dried-up stick.

[…]

it sits and dreams. Suddenly, it jumps high into the air

like a witch flattened out on her shovel.

Many imperfections can be pointed out in the poet’s attempts to adapt her lyrics to the Japanese form, but it’s impossible not to appreciate her sensitivity, mood and humour, which the haiku cherishes.

Humour: the rear end of a clamorous frog

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Americans approach it this way: they roll a dozen or so of the 63 cubes used in the Haikubes game (each with a word or phrase inscribed on it) and utilise them to compose haiku verses. This method illustrates two things. First, creating 17-syllable verses is not as easy as it seems, especially if one wishes to convey a logical thought. Second, the very concept of social (or individual) entertainment demonstrates the essence of Japanese poetry, which is ‘full of irony and laughs at the sentimental seriousness of lyricism’, as Żuławska-Umeda aptly puts it. Wordplay, associations and subtle humour are the most reliable weapons of a haijin.

Among haiku animals, the frog has had the greatest success. Let us recall: in Bashō’s verses it jumps, in Issa’s it shouts (‘Evening – Mount Fuji / right next to it, a small rear end / of a clamorous frog’), in Białoszewski’s… it chirps:

The chirping frog

Alone in the ditch

The meditator

A European, after all

The master of Polish linguistic poetry did not limit himself to a simple description of the situation but ventured into a puckish commentary. Thus, we have a meditating – as befits a representative of the Orient – amphibian with bird-like characteristics who turns out to be strongly connected to Western culture. Beata Śniecikowska goes even further in her interpretation: in her book Haiku po polsku (Haiku in Polish), she suggests that chirping may be a manifestation of the linguistic abilities of a snobbish woman travelling the world.

Japanese humour is not infrequently tinged with sadness, which stems from keeping reality at a distance and keenly observed. Let us look at the previously mentioned Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828). The poet is esteemed primarily for his depiction of the plight of peasants and for the sincerity and simplicity of his poems. However, a cheerful note can also be found in his poems, despite the fact that life was hard on him: he was born the son of a farmer and was sent away to another town because he did not get on well with his stepmother; he wandered around Japan and experienced poverty; after finally returning to his native village, he married, but four of his children died, followed by his wife; he divorced his second wife; and finally, his house was consumed by flames. How ambiguous his haiku about ‘fire […] interested in the pot’s rump’ sounds in this context.

Poetics: a snail on top of a lilac

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Ryszard Krynicki, photo: Michał Łepecki / AG

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A lesson in writing Japanese miniatures for beginners could end here. Haiku for advanced learners is more like higher mathematics. Śniecikowska points to the aesthetic categories of Eastern art, which are one of the keys to understanding 17-syllable poems. The three most important are: sabi, which represents loneliness and spiritual isolation; wabi, associated with the tea ceremony, i.e. solitude bringing wisdom, allowing one to see the beauty in things; and karumi, conveying lightness and simplicity of expression. Sabi, in turn, is divided into shiori, the ability to describe ephemeral beauty; hosomi, noticing value in the most ordinary phenomena; and finally kurai, an element that can be combined with the elegance of soft verses. These categories could be multiplied ad infinitum: fuga no mokoto (the sincerity of refined taste), aware (a cry of surprise expressing respect)… It all comes down to empathy while simultaneously controlling emotions and using stylistic devices sparingly. Few metaphors, many nouns, preferably everything in one breath.

Polish authors are particularly taken with Kobayashi Issa’s empathy. This Haijin is frequently mentioned in Ryszard Krynicki’s lyrics: at one moment, the Japanese artist’s work is compared to ‘the world in a dewdrop’, while on another occasion, the reader learns that ‘Kobayashi Issa is already on Facebook’. The poets correspond with each other: one writes about a snail that slowly climbs to the top of Mount Fuji, while the other writes about a snail reaching the highest leaf of a lilac. Krynicki has a genuine talent for a minimalist yet evocative form. While he does not always adhere to compositional frameworks, he can create the right mood and convey the whole through a fragment. In the afterword to Haiku. Haiku mistrzów (Haiku: Haiku of the Masters) – a volume containing translations of 17-syllable poems (or rather paraphrases, as the author does not translate from the original) and his own miniatures – he echoes Miłosz by stating that this collection can be considered his ‘private sketchbook, made available to the reader’.

Imagery: grappling with a rag

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Japanese painter ‘Kanō Tomonobu’ by Emil Orlik, 1901, photo: National Museum in Warsaw

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Haiku is a sketch only seemingly, as it paints vast landscapes with words. Yosa Buson (1716–1783), an outstanding painter in the bunjinga style, emerged as a poetic Japanese colourist. He also wandered around the Land of the Rising Sun, wrote in Chinese and his native language and proclaimed a ‘return to Bashō’. However, unlike his predecessor, who described everyday life, he more frequently drew on his imagination. Man also encroaches upon Buson’s world of nature, as in the series of haiku featuring cicadas. Here is one of them:

A cicada sings

an ascetic walks through the mountains

in the Hour of the Horse

Poland had to wait over 300 years for a creator of Buson’s calibre to emerge. Sensuality, vivid syntax (with verses up to three times longer than the classic 17-syllable form), inspiration from Zen Buddhism and non-obviousness are the hallmarks of Stanisław Grochowiak’s Haiku-images. This book, the first in Poland to feature the name of a Japanese genre in its title, was published two years after the author’s death and was regarded as the most significant event in the short history of haiku in Poland. In the context of this volume, Grochowiak’s statement on painting comes to mind:

The poet may seek the most unique words, but even they were once commonplace, banal and borrowed from others. He wrestles them from history, not nature. […] In truth, I would like to be a painter only. […] To paint all the coldness and roughness of an iron pot, to grapple with some dirty rag – passionately, eagerly, like a dog.

Grochowiak softens images of death (traditional haiku do not show cruelty); yet he does not abandon them. He balances between Japanese taboo and his own style. He occasionally discusses Eastern aesthetics, contrasting them with Slavic culture, as in this poem:

A dragonfly described by Bashō’s student

Is a winged pod of pepper

Here, its eyes are as big as millstones thrown into the reeds

Poetry in a duet with painting creates a haiga, while a trio of prose, poetry and illustrations combined in a single book or scroll is called a haibunga.

Fristajl

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Dariusz Brzóska Brzóskiewicz, photo: Krzysztof Kuczyk / Forum

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Żuławska-Umeda notes that ‘the haiku form has two sides – it has its rules and its freedom.’ Masaoki Shiki (1867–1902), the great reformer of the genre, would have certainly concurred with her. On the 200th anniversary of Bashō’s death, a young poet criticised the master for his lack of dynamic passion and unbridled imagination. He himself displayed a distaste for all rules and valued individuality.

Polish haiku also has an outsider. Dariusz Brzóska Brzóskiewicz is a peculiar artist: he publishes in bruLion (roughDraft) and Przekrój (Cross-Section), presents miniatures on the television programme Brzóska Show, sometimes dressed as a charming Japanese woman; he publishes poetry collections and, among other things, recorded a Polish-Japanese album titled Haiku Fristajl (Haiku Freestyle) with Stanisław Soyka. You can find out what the doe is waiting for in the freezing cold, hear that Adam Mickiewicz ‘did not move the Earth or the Sun’ or try to call ‘James Bąd’ (i.e. Bond). In 2005, the album was presented by the Polish prime minister Marek Belka to the Japanese imperial couple in Tokyo. Haiku made in Poland was reportedly warmly received.

***

At the end (less often in the middle) of a haiku stanza, there is a kireji – a syllable or word that cuts off the flow of thoughts. The rest is silence.

_Literature:

_Haiku_{, trans. Agnieszka Żuławska-Umeda, afterword by Mikołaj Melanowicz (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1983);}

_{Melanowicz, Mikołaj.}_{Historia literatury japońskiej}_{. Warsaw: PWN, 2011;}

_{Śniecikowska, Beata.}_{Haiku po polsku. Genologia w perspektywie transkulturowej}_{. Toruń: UMK, 2016;}

_psh.org.pl

Translated from Polish by Agnieszka Mistur

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