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Beginning with the transformation at age seven when Basho says the "face becomes clear," till the onset of puberty, kids discover the vastness of "what children do" in this world.
We begin this article with two stanzas both by Basho written in succession, so we see the flow through his own mind:
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Not every haiku must be exactly as seen – as many of Basho’s verses were not – however sketching reality is one way he recommends. The two stanzas – both by Basho -- together say that conceiving a haiku should occur naturally, organically, as one’s face develops. For Basho to see that children’s facial features transform at age seven (the Japanese says yattsu, “eight” because they counted a baby as one year old at birth, so we subtract one from Japanese ages) changing from a baby face to the “clear” features of a child, then to write a poem about this phenomenon, he must have watched the faces of many children, especially his three younger sisters. This is not something only Basho saw. Many students of child development – in particular the Swiss psychologist and epistemologist Jean Piaget known for his pioneering work in child development -- note the onset of a new stage at age seven. Cultures worldwide consider age seven to be the beginning of wisdom and moral understanding – which may lead us to the masterpiece WITH HER NEEDLE that follows
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This woman has enough work sewing before winter comes. She may “make ends meet” in autumn, but has to survive the rest of the year. Into this poor struggling home, Basho introduces a daughter and a koto, or 13-string harp, an instrument of refinement played only by women. Notice the link between the form of needlework and the strings and frets on the harp. Both stanzas convey the diligence and constant effort of the female, the action of her hands producing order, rhythm, and beauty.
The daughter plays her mother’s koto here and now -- and also plays it through the months, years, decades of practice required to master the instrument. Basho praises the young girl in the early stages of her discipline. We imagine the pride the hard-working mother feels hearing her seven-year-old daughter produce such beauty. With utmost subtlety and grace, through the powerful effect music has on the brain, Basho portrays the bond between mother and daughter, the hope for a better future that the growing and learning girl evokes in her mother, hope rising on the lovely notes emerging from her seven-year old fingers on the harp.
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Ryoban shows us little children with no inhibition at all about taking off their clothes when the heat is so oppressive even in the evening. They are waiting for the moon to rise, but this may carry the hidden meaning of “waiting for puberty.” Basho adds euphoric body movement to this portrait of children. He says naked is okay, but how about a bit of restraint? The kids hold thin straw mats about a meter square in front of them as they dash about screaming. Still we see their “moons.” Children still in the paradise of innocence, but feeling the first hints of the shame to emerge when their bodies show sexual traits. One naked child stops running to notice a dog lying nearby. The animal seems fully asleep -- but also holds its tail with attention. Shiba and Akita dogs, the original breeds on these islands, are known for perpetually holding their tails up in a perfect curl, the white fur under the tail curling around to show on top, as round and white as the moon (ahh! the link between the three stanzas).
The poet 300 years ago makes this observation, through the eyes of a child, about Japanese dogs, and we can see the same any evening in a Japanese neighborhood; dogs with tightly curled tails. Somehow the brain signals which produce this tail shape are programmed into Japanese dog genes. I, by good fortune, have a shiba dog whose round tail is a work of art: the curl is so perfect and white. Every time I see this stanza I imagine Suzu, and everytime I see Suzu, I recall this trio.
The child who runs and jumps about in naked joy can also observe the world and wonder about consciousness and brain-muscle control. Each stanza deepens our perception of children’s humanity.
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The newest student at an archery dojo kneels on the floor, feeling small and weak. To this, we add an image of the dojo where tall powerful men strut about with dangerous weapons, making the boy feel the way he does. The boy kneels in hiza-mazuki, hips resting on heels propped up on feet with toes forward – students of Japanese martial arts will recognize this -- a position of alert readiness; so he struggles to keep his skinny back and shoulders straight, with all the resolution he can muster against the intimidation.
The white hair showing in long horizontal gaps between thin bamboo stalks tied in parallel belongs to the boy’s grandfather who hides behind the screen to watch without the boy knowing. He knows that for his grandson to see him would interfere with the boy’s training. How does he know this? (Here I take a step which you may not join.) Granddad is an accomplished archer – in Japanese, a shihan – who has trained in this dojo since he was a child. As the old man watches, he can see himself kneeling there young and helpless 50 years ago. He sees the entire process of little boy becoming aged master.
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A bunch of young boys, who rarely leave their village in the shadow of a mountain, are off on a quest one morning, ready for adventure: this is when they see the cow peeing. An adult samurai carries his sword in an elegantly lacquered sheath which hangs from his waist. These are little boys with short legs and stick-of-wood swords, so the “lacquer” on the bottom of the “sheath” brushes against the dewy grass. The stream of piss from cow to wet ground resembles the “sword” from boy to wet ground.
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“Granddaddy’s ball sack” is the egg sack of the praying mantis, which the mother mantis attaches to brushwood. It has a shriveled appearance which to a child might look like an old man’s testicles so scrawny and miserable that the highly imaginative kids call it bimbou gami the name of that skinny dirty spirit who brings people hardship and misery.
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What?! Kids in Basho’s time played “Ring the doorbell and run” (without door bells) and Basho wrote a poem about this boyish prank occuring in many societies with many names: Ding dong ditch Nocky nine doors Ghost knocking Chicky melly hickenelly Chap door run away Knock, knock, ginger Friend of the family knocking In modern Japan, pin pon dashu
The tradition of “Ring the Doorbell and Run” can be traced back to the traditional Cornish holiday of Nickanan Night, the first Monday after Lent. The anthropologist Basho records it in 17th century Japan. Kyokusui follows with slapstick sarcasm about the woman inside the house upset by the boys’ mischief.
I like the sound-link from knocking to hiccups.
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This monk has modern progressive ideas about children who have difficulty learning; he says they should be praised and supported, rather than criticized and taken down. Basho follows with pity for the learning disabled child: often under an orange tree, as in the garden of an abandoned house, fallen fruit lies in the dew and frost for months, sweet pulp oozing out cracks in the peel, looking altogether wretched – so the child’s brain rots from lack of stimulation. A wooden bath tub never filled with water dries out and cracks. If a section of the brain is hardly ever used, it also leaks. We can go out and buy a new bath tub, but when the brain leaks, all we can do is patch the cracks. So in childhood use it every day with praise, so leaks do not occur.
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The disease smallpox was caused by a virus in the blood vessels of the skin producing a rash with small bumps which became blisters, leaving scars on the face of those who survived. A serious form of the disease killed one third, a milder form about 1%. Paying attention to the children, Basho sees smallpox scars still raw and unhealed by time, indicating that earlier this year there was a local epidemic -- but it is over and the children who survived now go around outside where Basho can see them. The verse, like a photograph in National Geographic, records the life of people on this globe. Another writer would focus on children dying from smallpox; Basho shows us the ones who live through it.
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A temple hall is surrounded by a wide verandah with a rail people can lean on while watching the moon. Compare Chigetsu’s verse:
We appreciate the children’s life force, their excitement at getting a little bit closer to the Moon. Chigetsu, like Basho, pays attention to “what children do.” The glory of the moon merges with the glory of the child. Because it contains more of the children’s action, more of their character, I prefer Chigetsu’s verse.
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The road is dark and in the cold moonlight even familiar things become fearsome shadows. Foxes in Japanese folklore bewitch people and make them do evil. The years have taught Basho that the fox’s howl is only the cry of another being lonely in the night – but how can a child know this? When things get scary, every child needs someone bigger who can be trusted.
In his book Sex and Power, author Leonard Shlain says
“A magical moment occurs in every child’s life when he or she realizes that the moon is the child’s personal companion! As we move through the nighttime landscape, approaching objects glide by and then recede in the distance behind us. Not so the distant moon, which always keeps pace rice alongside us… There is something vaguely comforting, especially to a small child who has a natural fear of the dark, in knowing that the moon is a reliable and faithful companion that will not only light the child’s way but also be a steadfast companion during nighttime excursions.
Records from 8th Century Japan tell of people facing the rising full moon, clapping their hands twice before their faces, to worship the Buddha. By Basho’s time, nono-sama was a child’s name for both Moon and Buddha. Grandmothers taught their little grandchildren to bow and pray to nono-sama as the Moon rose into the sky. The folksong Nono-sama originated within the Pure Land sects whose kindergartens still teach it to small children.
Non-no Nono-sama Buddha
May I be gently hugged to the chest
of Mother I love, O Buddha.
Non-no Nono-sama Buddha
May I be firmly held by the hand
of Father I love, O Buddha
Non-no Nono-sama Buddha
As the holy lantern rises we see
the clear shining halo of Buddha
The song – like Basho poetry – focuses on body parts, physical action, and human affection. Both Mother hugging and Father holding are “attendants” to the child. The Buddha is usually depicted in paintings and sculpture with a halo around his head – and this halo is the Moon. As Basho approaches his own death and merging with the infinite, he offers children an attendant to walk along with on the road to knowledge, an attendant as clear and radiant as the Moon-Buddha.
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During ceremonies at the Ise Shrine, the daughter of a priest or a little girl from the village may serve as “sacred child” and offer food and prayers to the Sun-Goddess.
Almost every Shinto shrine has a number of plum trees, but here at the greatest of them all, the home-shrine of the Sun Goddess, there is only one, and it’s hard to find. My dictionary of seasonal references says of a plum tree in full bloom: “From the sturdy old tree’s crooked and gnarled trunk, the merging of branches rising straight to heaven has an awe inspiring sculptural beauty”. No one ever comes back here behind the Hall where the offerings are prepared, so the tree remains undefiled by contact with ‘the world’. Likewise, the Sacred Child from her purity and innocence can communicate with the Sun Goddess.
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Basho is actually speaking to his followers, telling them to be more like children, overcome inhibitions and fears and preference for comfort, to go out there into the cold freezing weather and live life to the fullest. He wrote another similar haiku:
As adults we may worry that he will be injured; as children, we realize this is all play.
In the hills of Iga, at play with children:
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Rabbits in Japan are a sub-species of the northern European snow-rabbit, so have evolved the enormous snowshoe-like feet and powerful legs they need to run fast and leap through the air on snow.
They are ‘field rabbits’, not burrow-rabbits; adults live singly and do not dig underground for shelter. During the day they rest in the bushes, and at night they search around for grass. Babies are born able to see and move about (whereas newborn burrow-rabbits are blind and helpless). Unlike squirrels who use their paws to bring food to the mouth, rabbits move the mouth to the food. Whiskers on the side of the face enable rabbit to feel more than mouth can reach.
The poet is in his hometown with those 40 years younger; these are the hills where Basho played as a child. Joyful in the year’s first snow, the kids go bounding about like rabbits, so Uncle Basho suggests they find some real rabbits somewhere, pull off some fur, and stick it on their faces between nose and mouth, to complete the picture. Basho’s disciple Kyorai pointed out that we should not be surprised when we notice that the verse “makes no sense” -- it is not supposed to be logical or make sense. It’s a joke shouted by one child to another as they run about in the snow. Adults may not find the joke funny, but if it amuses children, it has achieved its purpose.
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Boys! Leave some
The ox, who has stayed alive all winter on hay, wanders about the farm searching for new green growth so he can put some muscle on those bones and pull the plow through the mud before rice planting.
While their sisters inside the house spin yarn and weave fabric, the little boys do what boys in villages worldwide do: watch after animals (as in Kunta Kinte’s village in Roots). The little rascals—with complete and utter disregard for the thousand years of elegant Chinese and Japanese poems on plum blossoms—have broken off the slender, young branches, covered with buds and blossoms, to swat the ox’s butt to make him go where they want. Weird kids. Basho is concerned that they will take ALL the branches for this purpose so there will be no blossoms to view this year. Weird Basho. There must be hundreds of branches on each tree.
For years I thought this verse “had no point”; it did not fit in with any idea I had of what Basho would think. Finally I realized how completely the verse defies the normal expectations of adults, revealing the freedom of the child to transcend the limitations of the adult mind.
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海士の /子が鯨を告げる / 貝吹いて
Ama no ko no kujira o tsugeru kai fuite
Whalers would spot whales from stations along the shore and launch boats to catch them with harpoons and lances. Doho tells us the Master said that a poem is the experience of the heart which go and returns“... you should know that a poem combines things” Basho’s single stanza -- a half-dozen words and a few particles -- combines the intriguing trio of child, whale, and shell; we start with medium-size child, then move out to enormous whale, and return to tiny shell in boy’s hand, then spread out to fill the area with sound. That sound carries this child’s life force. Still moving, the mind goes to the villagers rushing to their boats to chase the fleeing whale, waves surging, the boy watching excitedly from his post.
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To not-get-tired of children, we need to be one with them, giving up the heavy complications of adulthood, having the playful spirit of a child. Adults who cannot do this, or refuse to try, get no blossoms.
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Grandfather, a devout aging Buddhist of the Pure Land sects, chants the nembutsu prayer, Namu Amida Buttsu, calling for salvation from the bodhisattva Amida, for much of his day; the sects teach that each repetition brings salvation not only to the chanter but to all beings. Another person is hidden in the words: the child who notices. An adult would ignore the old man mumbling same words over and over again through missing teeth, however the child’s sharp ears pick up the irregularities in sound, and his clear open mind recognizes the cause. Granddad is old, and the nembutsu ancient, however the child encompasses them both with fresh astute observation, mischievous humor, and no concern at all for salvation.
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The second and third lines of the Japanese are actually names of three characters in a story a young girl reads in a storybook popular in Basho’s time. (Rather than give you the names which will be utterly meaningless to you, I change to the information which these names gave readers of that time.) She reads beside the open window near a plum tree in bloom, her youth in contrast to the classical elegance of plum blossoms and the romantic tales old centuries before she was born. Unable to go outside and wander as her brothers can, she does her traveling inside books. Tales from long ago inspire her -- as old storybook Little Women inspired the young girls who were Gertrude Stein, Gloria Steinem, Simone de Beauvoir, Ursula Le Guin, Sandra Day O’Connor, Ruth Ginsberg, Hillary Clinton, and J.K. Rowling.
From the 17th century Japanese commoner children went to private schools known as terakoya. Girls studied homemaking skills, arts, and music, and could read and write in the phonetic kana alphabets.
Boys learned to read and write the thousands of Chinese characters used in formal Japanese. Once the basics of writing were mastered, the boys practiced with copybooks such as Tenkin Orai, a series of letters appropriate to each month, giving students a wide range of content to copy, so they would learn all those characters and how to use them effectively.
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On the first day of school after New Year’s break, also the start of Spring, a teacher tells students to take out their copies of Teikin Orai and practice writing New Year’s greetings (similar to the nenga-jo Japanese send out at the end of the year to arrive on New Year’s morning). It would be clearer for the teacher to ask “from whose satchel shall the best penmanship spring?” or even clearer, “who can do the best writing?” But this teacher’s question is more interesting to the children, and they play along with the game, and shout “Me! Me! From my satchel the year shall spring!” So all work hard to get better. Instead of simply telling the students what to do, this teacher adds interest to the learning process.
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This is not an actual priest, but rather a young boy who acts with all the confidence and self-assurance of a Shinto priest. Autumn is the season when many people become sad as winter comes on, but this boy
keeps up his vibrant spirits through the season of beauty and sadness.
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The classical Japanese alphabet poem starting with i-ro-ha has 48 sounds, and most children invariably practice it from the beginning to the end – this child, however, is a deviant; he practices from the middle of the sequence -- like beginning with “l-m-n-o-p” in our song. But now the mischief maker sleeps. Research shows that sleep consolidates what we learn awake. During sleep, the brain puts together all the different bits of learning, so we retain them. Each stanza expresses some aspect of the learning process.
From the 17th century Japanese commoner children went to private schools known as terakoya. Girls studied homemaking skills, arts, and music, and could read and write in the phonetic kana alphabets.
Boys learned to read and write the thousands of Chinese characters used in formal Japanese. Once the basics of writing were mastered, the boys practiced with copybooks such as Tenkin Orai, a series of letters appropriate to each month, giving students a wide range of content to copy, so they would learn all those characters and how to use them effectively.
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The cold rain gets inside the robe because instead of one sleeve there is just a large opening around the shoulder. Why, you ask, is one sleeve missing? Basho provides the answer: the family has five boys and apparently no girls, so no one to help mother make clothing for this zoo. She ran out of fabric while making multiple robes and had no time to spin more yarn or do any weaving – what with all the chaos of five sons. The boy with his young blood will soon get used to his one naked arm – as children today manage in shorts in midwinter. Boy! are they making a lot of noise, the sound of their humanity -- but not the sound of war or insurrection, rather the ordinary hubbub of family life with multiple boys.
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Children scattered about the room, mother at the sunken hearth in the center has to “glare about” – sweeping her eyes strongly all around, to address them all, not that they listen. The stanza abounds with human activity in three lively verbs: “glaring about,” “ordering” and her spoken command “behave!” Along with the mother’s activity is all the activity of the children: crawling, running about, climbing, arguing, fighting, breaking or swallowing things, this winter day in 17th century Japan.
Meanwhile, mother is roasting balls of soy bean paste on skewers to make a side dish for the children to eat. A bit of ash from the fire has gotten on the sticky miso. She lifts the skewer close to her mouth, purses her lips, and puffs a short burst of air at the ash to propel it from the miso. The astonishing delicacy of this action even the fingers of elves could not perform is the polar opposite of her glaring and shouting at her kids – yet both ordering and puffing are her breath, the sounds of her life force, the energy or prana she gives to the food her children will eat.
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For New Year’s Day we get dressed up to visit shrines and friends and people important in our lives – so we adults have a lot to talk about: We drag the kids along with us, but really they do not want to go. We told them to keep their cloths clean, but their socks got smelly and have to be dried in the sunshine where the odor wafts from them. We hide our meaning in a maze of adult words with references to people and things they know not – but how much do the language sponges understand?
Young Prince Genji sees nine-year-old Murasaki for the first time, secretly watching her with her grandmother, a nun, who cares for the child now that her daughter, Murasaki’s mother, has died.
Girls today may appreciate “thick lustrous hair… childlishly back from her forehead… and spreading over her shoulders like a fan… though “she will not comb it” “fly into a tantrum” when someone tries to brush their hair.Genji “adopted” (i.e. kidnapped) the young girl, and kept her in seclusion, training her to be the love of his life when she matured.
A unique moment in world literature, this praise for the sensory-motor intelligence of a young girl not even ten: she plays with dolls but also can listen to a difficult melody one time on one musical instrument and reproduce it on a completely different instrument. Little Miss Mozart.
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A young girl has been sick for many days, forbidden to wet her hair because this might bring on moresickness. Her hair has grown tangled and messy, so passing a comb through it is painful.
In spite of what Murasaki’s nurse says, the girl continues to lavish her affection on dolls – developing her consciousness and skills for taking care of babies. The Japanese says “koto” but, since she holds it on her lap, the term apparently means a smaller stringed instrument such as the zither; the Japanese koto is derived from the Korean zither (gayaceum) which is played this way. From Sukan’s ideal of loveliness, Basho jumps into body sensation; the words he uses – omotaki, heavy in weight; kakaeru, “holds”; hiza, “lap” – all so physical and intimate; the little girl holds the instrument on her lap the way she would a baby or a baby doll. This degree of body consciousness compares to Young Murasaki leaning forward to press a string with her left hand. Because of this reference to the Tale of Genji, Basho’s stanza evokes not only the tactile and muscle-joint sensations but also the beauty of her harp playing.
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The symptoms of tuberculosis are a chronic cough with blood-containing sputum, fever, night sweats, and weight loss. The term "consumption" came about due to the weight loss: the infection consumes the body, although the memories continue in a fading physique. The flow of images -- which is the same in this translation as in the original – make this one of Basho’s most heart-rending verses. He begins with a single word of speech or thought to open the mind without specifying content. The second and third lines portray physical action: taking the doll down from a shelf and looking at the face. The fourth line adds deep and reoccurring emotion, and the fifth provides the sad context for the entire scene: tuberculosis.
A woman dying of tuberculosis remembers the doll she played with long ago; looking at the doll’s face recalls her own young healthy face; she cries for her life ending; she hears and feels herself cough.
Or a mother whose daughter is dying looks at the doll the child played with long ago; the doll’s face reminds her of the child’s face; she weeps for her daughter lingering on, and hears her cough. Or the daughter has died; the bereaved mother lingers on, looking at the doll to recall her healthy child, and remembering that horrible hacking cough.
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Here are three females: the sister speaking, her younger sister, and the mother (or oldest sister) who is too busy to assist one daughter in corralling the younger one – who just wants to play -- to do her fair share of the endless work in this household with so many people.
Shoeki tells us the work she is doing. Nowadays we put uncooked rice and water in an electric cooker, push a button, and wait. Before there were such cookers, the job was done on a steady, smoke-free gas fire. In Basho’s time the wood or charcoal fire had to be maintained in the kamado, or cookstove, just right so the rice would keep on boiling yet not stick to the bottom of the pot. As she kneels before the stove and looks inside to tend the fire, smoke gets into her eyes.
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Between the two stanzas, both by Basho, we travel through his mind.
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The Three Thirds of Basho