Beyond the Verse - Japanese Poetry: Delving into Haiku

Episode Date: August 21, 2025

In this week’s episode of “Beyond the Verse,” the official podcast of PoemAnalysis.com and Poetry+, Joe and Maiya kick off Season 3 with a special deep dive into Japanese poetry and the idea of national literature.They trace the roots of Japanese verse from the ancient Man’yōshū to the masters of haiku—Bashō, Buson, and Issa. Along the way, they unpack how haiku developed from collaborative forms like renga, how it captures fleeting moments, and why it continues to speak across time. From frogs and still ponds to moon moths and melting snow, this episode explores how much can be said in just three lines.Get access to exclusive haiku resources and our in-depth Haiku Course with a Poetry+ membership.Tune in and Discover:What makes haiku more than a 5-7-5 poemWhy Bashō’s “old pond” is still one of the most famous haiku ever writtenHow Buson brings a painter’s eye to his verse in “moon moth” and “blown from the west”The tender, funny, and deeply human voice in Issa’s “the snow is melting”What shapes a national literature—and how Japan’s poetic tradition stands apartSend us a textSupport the showAs always, for the ultimate poetry experience, join Poetry+ and explore all things poetry at PoemAnalysis.com.

Welcome to Beyond the Verse, a Poetry podcast brought to you by the team at Permanalysis.com and Poetry Plus. I'm Joe and I'm here with my co-host, Maya, and we are kicking off season three with a really special episode today. Unlike previous episodes of Beyond the Verse, or we've dived into individual poets or maybe poetic movements, we can be starting off by defining the scope of what we mean by Japanese literature discussing some key dates, some key poets, some key poetic forms before we dive into some individual poems in the middle. And we're going to close out today's episode by having a broader discussion about what makes a national literature and how is it distinct from the literature from other countries. But Maya, can you start us off with that overview? What are we talking about in terms of dates and individual moments? Joe is absolutely right. When we talk about a national

literature, we are talking about a huge scope. It's not as simple as just looking at one poem, one poet and analyzing it like we usually do. Not to say it's easy, but there is some much more to get our teeth into here. I'm very, very excited for this episode. So when we talk about timelines, I think what's really important to start with is dates. We have an incredibly long timeline here. The first date that we're looking at is 759 AD when the first collection of Japanese poetry was discovered. This was a series of 4,200 whacker poems. We will go into what a wacker poem is a little bit later. But this travels all the way through some of the poets we're going be talking about today, which are Basho, Busan and Issa. Issa actually died in 1828. So this is the kind

of scale we're talking about here. I do want to flag that obviously a lot of this very early poetry, I'm talking like 759 AD onwards, was really based in the oral tradition. So we're talking about stories passed down through generations. We're talking about folk songs. We're talking about folklore. And it's a really beautiful thing to see that kind of mapped out through history. We have a really specific art form that we begin to pick up on, which I believe is called Emakimono. I do apologise if I'm butchering pronunciation here. But these are effectively long narrative poems and they are written down on scrolls with illustrations. Now, as we move through the 5th and 6th centuries, we start to see an influx of Chinese

lettering and language that begins to filter into Japanese poetry. This kind of starts to form a general poetic practice, but it isn't until the 8th century when Man Yoshu publishes the first Japanese poetic manuscript with primarily Waka poems. Now, Waka poems we now know as Tanka poems. They were the most prolific poetic form in Japan for a very, very long time. We are talking about five line poems that have a syllabic pattern of five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables, followed by a couple of seven syllables. Now, these poems often have a voltaic after the second five syllable line. They are really often love poems, in fact, many of the collections, and the 10,000 leaves collection I

mentioned a moment ago, written in 759 AD, is primarily love poems. We, of course, today are actually going to be talking about primarily haiku, which is a very, very famous Japanese poetic form, a three-line poem based on a similar syllabic pattern, but without the couplet at the end. So it goes 575 in terms of the syllables. These poems more often than not focus on nature. They're a little bit introspective. They bring in spirituality. They bring in the natural landscape. And they are some of the most beautiful poems that we're going to be talking about today. But Joe, do you want to tell us a little bit about Basho, Busan, Issa, the real holy trinity of Japanese poetry? I completely agree. And that was a brilliant overview. So just to kind of center the listener

about where we are in Japan's development here, when we're talking about Basho, who's the first of these great haiku masters, although whether or not that word haiku is the appropriate word to be of Bachel's poetry, which we'll come to in a moment. We're talking about a man born in 1644, so right around the middle of the 17th century. And as Maya mentioned earlier on, by the time we get to Issa's death, we're in 1828, so the early 19th century. So we're covering quite a big span of dates just with these three haiku masters. They were not immediate contemporaries of each other.

There's a small amount of crossover, but we're not talking about people occupying the same physical space at the same physical time. And that's a really important thing. But despite that span of data, I'm now going to contradict myself by reminding listeners of what Maya just said about the overall span of kind of more than a thousand years that we're dealing with here. All three of these poets were alive during what's known as the Edo period in Japan, which ran from 16 and 3 to 1868, sometimes called the Tokugawa Shogunate. Now, this is a period of largely peaceful centuries in Japan. It saw a significant growth of the middle class and other literary development, particularly things like puppet theatre and the emergence of the early Japanese novel, are all occurring in this piece. period and we're going to come back to what that means and how similar that is to other parts of

the world towards the end of today's episode. But yeah, just to give you some key outlines of who we're talking about here. So we've got Matsu Basha, born in 1644 and died in 1694, part of this kind of elevated, refined poetic class. And we're going to talk about the way in which we can almost plot the democratization of the poetic form through these three poets as they go on. Then we follow that with Yosa Bousson, born in 1716 and died in 1784, before we have our final of three. Kobayashi Ita, born in 1763 and died in 1828. So starting with Basho, he is emerging from a pre-existing poet of tradition in which haiku were not independent poems in their own rights. They formed the opening of longer collaborative verse known as Renga. They were the opening three

lines of a longer poem. And the way I want listeners to conceive of this is imagine you're watching a film and you take the opening shot of a movie. It might be a scene set, or something that's going to establish the tone of what follows, but it's not the entire film. Now, what Basho does, and this is kind of the great break and the great development of haiku, is he takes those opening three lines and he lets them stand alone. So again, imagine you're a filmmaker and you could only use the opening shot of your film to establish your entire story, your entire set of ideas and themes that you want to project to the viewer or listener or reader in this case.

Now, this obviously, you know, listeners I'm sure be aware, means that haiku do not lend themselves to narrative poetry. You can't do great sweeping narratives in three lines. It's about feelings. It's about moments. It's about expressions of something happening in two or three seconds, if that at all, it could indeed be a still image. So you've got Basha who emerges from that tradition and breaks off alone. And actually, the reason I say that haiku might not be the most appropriate word to use, even though we're using it in retrospect, is that it wasn't the word that was being used at the time. It wasn't actually coined until after Issa's death by the other great haiku writer and scholar Masuoka Shiki in the late 19th century. So what Basha was writing was known as Hoku at the time. So he breaks a word. from Renga to write these independent Hokus. And Bachel's life is very much defined by this

long journey he took through rural Japan on foot, examining the way that rural life was being led and particularly less interested perhaps in the lives being led by people, but the way in which rural natural life occurred, the cycles of the seasons, the way in which animals change their patterns over the course of a year. He was deeply embedded in rural life. Moving on to Yosa-Buson and Pusan was a very kind of deliberate disciple of Bachel by the time that Bousson was writing, Basha was a major figure after his death and Bousson was really looking to build upon that tradition but has a slightly different take on the form

as we mentioned known as Hoku at the time which is that Bousson was primarily a painter and a lot of his haiku take that painterly eye, their hypervisual poems very very perceptive to a moment in a scene that he is able to draw out something that could have easily gone on to be a painting but he decides to immortalise it in words

rather than on canvas. And then we come to Issa, a rural poet, somebody who came from a small town. And what we have here, as I've said, there's this democratisation of the form. You take someone like Bashar, who is very much rooted in courtly life in very elevated circles. By the time we get to Issa, the greatest haiku writer of his generation, you have the form as something that an ordinary, albeit educated, man can take on and make his own haiku. They're kind of funny at times. There's the slight humour to them that perhaps wasn't there before. And they're much more rooted in ordinary life the every day. less elevated, or perhaps, as we'll discuss, they serve to elevate the previously mundane.

So that's a broad overview. But Maya, let's go back to Basho himself and one of his poems in detail. So which one would you like to start with? I think the one we have to start with is his most famous by far, the old pond. The old pond and many of the other haiku poems that we're going to be talking about today follow the tradition where actually the first line of the poem is the name of the poem. That is how we refer to them. So the old pond goes, old pond. A Frog jumps in, water's sound. Now, of course, Joe and I are going to be exploring these poems in translation. So there is an element where, you know, and I'm sure we'll talk about this later, Joe,

we're not looking at them in the original language. Of course, this changes things like the syllables. But so many of these translators do such a wonderful job of ensuring that the initial message, and I think that's what's important with haiku, is that the message is retained. So, Joe, where would you like to start with this haiku? I mean, I think the image and the moment that we get in this poem is such a simplistic but beautiful one. I completely agree. And I just had to jump off that point you were making actually about translation because it's worth pointing out that there will probably be haiku that we read in today's episode that if listeners have a keen ear, will notice do not exactly fit the 575 syllable count.

Now, this is an interesting comment on the art of translation because if you are translating a haiku or indeed any type of poetry, you have a choice to make. do you value the message, the emotion, the kind of significance of the text, or do you value the form in which it is written? And oftentimes it is a trade-off between those two things. So sometimes a translator will choose to write the poem in such a way that means it doesn't subscribe to the formal requirements of the poem, but nevertheless carries the weight of the poem's initial meaning, which, you know, is the style of translation I tend towards when I'm looking at translated work because I'm more interested in what made the poem distinctive and powerful to begin with in its original language that I am in it subscribing to its formal requirement. But a little disclaimer there. So don't write in and say that one only had four syllables in the first line. Although do, of course, write in and tell us you enjoyed the episode. We always love hearing from you. In terms of this haiku, and like my said, there's so much going on in such a short, condensed moment, the thing I love about it is the contrast between immediacy and longer lasting effects. And this is something we're going to talk about a lot with regard to haiku, is the notion of impermanence, the notion of the immediate

in relation to the kind of broader is something that's always being played with in haiku. So what we have is we have the image of the frog jumping in. As I mentioned, imagine the opening shot of a film. This is a scene that can take place in two seconds. It doesn't need to be an extended period of time. We have the water's sound. And I want you to imagine the sight of that frog jumping in because you have the sound and you also have the rippling effect on the water.

And the thing I love about it is the immediacy of the splash is beautifully contrasted against the kind of lingering nature of the sound. as it echoes through the trees and also the ripples as it moves across the water. And what Basho is doing perhaps better than any other haiku poet is he is contrasting the brevity of one life, the brevity of one moment with the eternity of its repercussions. And we see this so often in haiku, especially with Basho, who's a man, a human man, a mortal man moving through a world

that to him seems restorative and immortal. The seasons come, they go, but they always come and go again. Whereas every time we see a season change, we ourselves are different. Our change is linear, not cyclical. We only grow older. We never grow younger. And I love the way in which this image is able to hold those two things in tandem. The immediate and the lingering longer lasting effects that that immediate thing caused to be. What do you think, what do you like about this poem? I completely agree. I think there's something quite equalizing about this poem that I've always really enjoyed. There is something about the weights that is given to the things that are longer

lasting to the things that are immediate, that really just serve to prove that regardless of time, I mean, it is a timeless poem, but regardless of time, these things don't bear more weight than the other. I actually, in my research for this episode, saw a lot of discussion about that first line. So obviously, we're using the translation that uses old. There are other poets that use in translation the word ancient instead. And exploring those options and your choice of words when it comes to translation is so critical because to me, if I read this as ancient pond, I think there is a bit more kind of gravity with that. There is something about ancient that bears the weight of history that gives a sort of, I don't know, there's something about it that

really just carries much more weight, as I say, but an old pond, a frog jumps in, water's sound. We are looking at, you know, in an English language, something that is very simple. These words are not highly complex. They are equalizing. I think that's the best way I can describe it. There's something so beautiful about the way that Basho manages to create a world in which every single small moment is made beautiful. I think that's such a lovely, lovely image. And obviously here, it is a sensory image. You are left with the impact of those rippling waves after. But you can hear that sound. I hear water sound. I know exactly what he's talking about. This is a poem that really transcends time. And I love the idea that Basho as a haiku master has been able to put into

such a short, constricted form, this very universal feeling of the moment of disruption. We are also talking about stillness and disruption here. But the disruption of the frog jumping into the water is naturalized. It becomes something that you are able to deal with. Those ripples will eventually fade. I just want to jump off a couple of moments because you're right to say that we have a sense of disruption here, but we also have a sense of returning. Because obviously, again, without wishing to go, this is not a biology podcast, but obviously a frog comes from a tadpole, which would have lived in that very same pond in all likelihood. So you also have that sense of, yes, this is a disruptive moment, but it's not an invasive moment. It's not somebody going into a space or an animal entering a space that it doesn't belong to. There is a sense here that actually this is just the latest moment in a cycle that is going to continue long-arm.

after Basho has left the scene and of course long after Basho has left the earth. But the other thing I wanted to touch on is that last line that you mentioned, water's sound, because again, it offers a really interesting insight into what's going on in haiku and any kind of poetic form that is so condensed, so concise. You simply don't have time to describe that sound. You have to trust the reader. You have to kind of offer up to the reader a reflection of experiences that they already know. Because obviously anyone who's studied English at school or perhaps even beyond, you'll have been told if you're doing creative writing, show don't tell. You can't simply say what the sound is. You should describe it. And yet when you're dealing with a poetic form where you only have five syllables per line, for example, in the third line, you simply don't have time to do that. And what I love about it is it trusts the reader. As a poetic form, it's obviously like every poetic form, like every piece of writing. It is some kind of dialogue between the creator and the recipient. The thing I love about haiku is the way the balance.

of power is tipped slightly more towards the reader than it would ordinarily be, because the writer simply can't dictate everything that you should be perceiving in this poem. They have to trust that you can picture the sound of a splash, or later on it might be that you can picture the colour of the moonlight as it casts through the window, whatever it is. And I love the way in which this poem illustrates that delicate connection between recipient and writer of haiku and the trust placed in the reader. I mean, let's talk about perception as well, because of course, we've done so many episodes now on this podcast where we so often talk about poems that have a central figure. They have an eye. They have a presence. This is a poem that, yes, is an observation. Do you really feel

like the poet is there watching this scene? For me, personally, I don't think so. I couldn't agree more. I think the decision to not center the human in the scene, and this is something we're going to talk about a lot, particularly with Bashas poetry, is a really interesting one. And where that comes from, I think is interesting. And maybe we'll talk about that in our what makes a national literature section at the end of this episode about what is it about the Western perhaps impulse to insert the human into space to kind of everything must be interpolated through the eyes and ears of a named in many cases figure, human figure. There is something really refreshing about reading these haiku in which the human, even if their presence is subtly

implied is always out of shot. Again, to use that film example, this is very much somebody behind the camera, not in front of it. Absolutely. And I love that film kind of analysis that you keep bringing in here because it does feel like that. There is something cinematic about it. It feels, as a reader, that you're almost observing this from a third space. You're not looking through the eyes of a poet who is present writing about this specific moment. You are simply somewhere along the journey observing this as you move through life. I think haiku gets a bit of a bad red when you first start learning it in school because it is very short. There's not enough analysis done into kind of the background and the meaning.

But yes, every single one of these three-line poems has such a broad impact and a broad analysis of the state of life at that moment. This is not just a poem about a frog jumping in the water, although on a first glance it may seem so. Yes, in some ways this is a poem that is about a frog jumping in the water and it can be rendered beautiful just for that simple feeling. fact, but it speaks to so much more than just that singular moment. As we said in the intro to this, it speaks to a huge capacity to bring in time and permanence and change and disruption and how

we as people can be inspired by the natural landscape to deal with those consequences of change. But Joe, let's move on to another basho poem because I'm conscious we have so much to cover in this episode. I want to talk about in Kyoto. Now, can you tell us a little bit about this haiku? Yeah, I'd love to. So let me just read the haiku to start off with. So the haiku reads, in Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo, I long for Kyoto. And that was translated by Jane Hirshfield, in case anybody is interested. So thank you, Jane.

I really, really like this one. I think there's some really fascinating things going on. And the first thing I'd like to point out is the repeated word Kyoto. Now, again, remember the brevity of the form we're dealing with it. Every word is valuable. So why an earth would you repeat the same word? but it seems like such a waste of the finite resources that you have. And yet this strikes upon the brilliance of what this haiku is doing.

And it's very different to a lot of basha's haikus, because obviously this is an urban space. We are in a city. And what we have effectively handed to us is a seemingly a paradox. How can you be somewhere and yet long for it? And the thing I think that is so powerful about this, and this might seem like a strange use of word, given we're talking about Japanese purpose.

You're going to bring in a Welsh word, which is this word hir-aith and effectively hir-aith refers, it doesn't have a little translation in English,

it refers to a feeling of wishing to return to a space that no longer exists, not because it has been physically destroyed

necessarily, but because maybe it only exists in your memory. And actually the thing I love about this, haiku,

is over the course of these three lines, we have geographical certainty, but kind of experiential uncertainty, the experience of

Kyoto, that Basho or Basho's speaker is wishing to exhibit is so different from the one they're actually standing in. And again, we can all picture this in our own lives. You can go back to the place where you grew up. You can go back to where you went to university or wherever it is, but it won't feel the same, not because the buildings are necessarily different or because the weather is different, but because you have changed. And again, you have this brilliant about the way in which time is rendered in haiku, because normally

we are kind of anthropocentric, if you will, which means kind of human-centered in our view of the world. We view the world through our own eyes. And sometimes when we are reminded that the world exists beyond our perception of it, it feels jarring. And actually what you have brilliantly done in this haiku, I think, is time is pulled through the speaker rather than through their environment. And suddenly they realize that they have changed. And the thing they are longing for is not the place, because the place is the same. The thing they are longing for is the person they were when they experienced Kyoto in the first place. And to have that level of complex, in three lines is, for me, it's utterly phenomenal. But what do you think about this poem?

I think that's a really beautiful analysis. It's funny because obviously we were talking about this poem specifically before the episode. And I was saying it's one of those that doesn't speak to me as much. But hearing that from you, that's how I feel about no one travels by Basho as well, because no one travels has that absolute same ability to really pull time through the speaker. And I think that's a really great way to put it. So the reason I feel this way about no one travels is this haiku has this really wonderful ability to create a feeling of loneliness but not in a negative way. So the haiku goes, no one travels along this way but I this autumn evening. And it's what you were saying, Joe, you have this moment of geographical certainty. You know it is autumn. You

know they are walking on a path. You know they are going somewhere. However, you also have this really introspective uncertainty. No one travels along this way, but I. There is a feeling that the path that this person, this poet is taking, is absolutely their own. And it speaks to everyone's journey. You know, you are the only person experiencing your life. You are the only person who is making choices that lead you to the next decision. Your path is absolutely yours alone. And yes, you can be accompanied. Yes, you could pass people on the way. Ultimately, this poem speaks to this ability of absolute self-determination for your own future. And I think, you know, the way that you feel about calling back to a moment where you were your own person in a specific place,

and yet you feel that the place has changed around you because you've changed, I feel like you can flip it the opposite way for this, where this is a person who has an absolute sense that they know who they are, and yet the journey is folding in around them to make them feel uncertain about that fact. Both the presence and the lack of presence in this poem, I think it's such a beautiful juxtaposition between the fact that you have this idea of opening on no one. You are immediately isolated, but towards the end you have this beautiful autumn evening that brings you peace. I think that's brilliant. And I think the thing I would focus in on is that word this actually, which feels like such a kind of nebulous word in most cases. But the brilliance of

this poem is that when I picture it, the natural thing to picture is an isolated figure walking alone. And yet, because of that word this, the emphasis I'm placing on it, it could actually work equally if there were a thousand people walking the same route and he was surrounded. Because what he means is my perception of this evening is that this autumn, my view of it, is only held by me. Other people might be walking millimeters, centimetres, metres away from me, but they are not me. And therefore, their projection, the way in which they are experiencing the falling of the sun in the evening, the cold as it comes in before it gets dark, the sound of their fellow travelers moving. I can't speak to that experience because I'm not experiencing

it through their eyes and ears. And it's that brilliance of being able to identify what our perception of reality is, which is, by its very nature, a dialogue between objective things happening around us and our subjective rendering of them in our own minds. And that is unique. Whether you are physically alone or whether you're surrounded by others, your perception of your own involvement in the world, your participation in reality, shapes the reality that you hold. Absolutely. And it's the exact same in Kyoto, as you say, that specific place, that specific moment, the call of that cuckoo is the only thing that that person can experience at that specific moment. You and I could hear the same bird call and have a completely different reaction.

There is really something that I'm sure we'll talk about later when we go on to discuss what a national poetry really means. But there are real moments. in so many of Basho's haiku where I think you are made aware as a reader that these moments are distinct and they are special. And I think that speaks so much to any haiku poet's ability to really capture that singular moment. There is something that is so absolutely individual about every single one of these poems.

And I think that's why they've stood the test of time to a point. They've inspired so many other writers because of their real candid ability to capture a second, a moment, a breath. I think it's just the most wonderful thing. We hope you're enjoying this episode of Beyond the Verse all about Japanese poetry. And if it's really sparking an interest in the form that Maya and I have been talking about the haiku, then I have the course for you. If you go to Permanalysis.com right now, you can buy our deep dive course all about haiku.

It's history, its development, its formal requirement, and its continuing legacy into the 21st century. We also have many other courses available, and that list is always growing. And if that's not enough, if you sign up for a Poetry Plus subscription today, you get 50% off not only that haiku course, but every other course we are creating. So one of many member benefits for our Poetry Plus members. So before the break, we were talking about the wonderful haiku of Basho. But Joe, I know one of the poets you really wanted to discuss today was Busan, and particularly the poem Blown from the West. Could you give us a reading of this poem and give us an overview of really what this poem means? Yeah, I'd love to.

So the poem reads, blown from the West, fallen leaves gather in the east. And even in a form that we've been talking about, it's very condensed, very concise, this really is stripped back. I mean, there's virtually no description at all. And again, I think to go back to that film example, you can really picture this as the opening shot of a fact. film, what kind of film, it very much depends on the framing of that shot. But the thing I really, really enjoy about it is the way in which it's playing with notions of Eastern West and our interpretation of those things, because Maya and I are going to get on to this later on about how national literature is different from one country to another, shaped by issues such as

language, history, religion, etc. And yet, obviously, there are things that are shared across culture, right? The understanding of the sun's patterns in the sky being one of them, Eastern West. and Maya and I really enjoy discussions of kind of lunar and solar cycles and the way in which they can shape symbolism and poetry. And this is no different because obviously the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and all the things that are normally associated with those things. East therefore associated with the rising sun, with new life, with hope, the falling sun in the west, normally associated with the end of life, with death, with perhaps the oncoming darkness. And what we have here, though, is the movement of the wind is in the other direction. So what I think is fascinating here is it's so non-committal about that, what that means. means. On the one hand, it means nothing at all. It's simply the direction the wind was blowing.

At the moment, the Bousson was looking out his window and decided, I'm going to write a haiku about that. But we don't have to do that. With the brilliant thing about analyzing poetry is, who cares what he meant? We can dive in and we can look as closely as we want. And if we decide it means something and we can make a case for it, we can hold that opinion. And I want to just offer up a couple of different things about what this west to east motion could mean. One that I suppose would be very much in the haiku tradition is that this is about regeneration. Obviously, when the sunset, we know, because we understand the sun cycles, as it continues on its journey around the other side of the earth, and you simply don't see it again until morning.

What the blowing of the wind serves to do is mirror that trajectory, the idea that it's a reminder that because the sun is gone in the immediate, it is going to rise again in the east, and therefore the direction of travel, the rest of the natural world, the wind, re-centers us back on that east because it's about regeneration. However, the other thing we could look at it, a slightly more cynical interpretation, perhaps, would be that this is about going against progress. If we generally view east to west as the natural cycle of things, the kind of cycle that we're all familiar with and therefore feels akin to our perception of the world, this wind blowing in the opposite direction could be Busan in some way challenging the status quo, challenging this notion of order. And I think

there's something interesting there about the specific mention of the gathered leaves. Because what we have there is a seasonal anchor. And this is something that happens brilliantly across lots of high it's called Kigo. And a Kigo in the original haiku basically was a word that functioned as a seasonal anchor. It could literally be the name of a season like autumn or it could be the name of a particular bird that only sings in a certain month of the year or it could be cherry blossom or anything. But a word or a couple of words in haiku that send to you, that tell you where we are or when we are and it can be a seasonal anchor in terms of the year or kind of a daily anchor in terms of the time of day. Twilight would be another anchor for example. And these Kigo, on the one hand,

go back to that thing I was talking about earlier on, which is that you have to be incredibly economical with language in haiku and having individual words that do a lot of the work for you as a haiku writer. If you can use a word and you know immediately that the reader is going to have a image in their head, brilliant, because you don't have lots of words to deal with, so it's very efficient. But the other thing that's going on here is obviously we have autumn in mind because that's when leaves gather on the ground. Autumn, we could have talked about this in the last poem as well, but we didn't. It has connotations again of roaring towards the end of days. Every day grows shorter in autumn, not longer. The days grow,

colder. Obviously, the imagery of autumn is very beautiful, but it's also one of beauty as related to death. The leaves are falling and decaying. And I think to have a seasonal anchor in the season of autumn, alongside a poem that is about pushing back or going in the opposite direction to these natural cycles, this could easily be a poem about somebody tussling with the idea of their own mortality and looking to turn back the clock, to go back to east, to go back to the direction of youth and vitality. And of course, there is an irony there because just because the wind is learning in a certain direction, doesn't change the pattern or the projection of time. Just because you want to go back and you look to change the trajectory of your own life

doesn't mean that you can. And once again, we have the kind of daily image of the sun cycles, coupled with the seasonal image of the leaves falling as a kind of a reference to the four seasons. And those things are experienced through a human life that doesn't have those cycles, that only works in a linear direction. We don't get to repeat childhood in the way that the day gets to repeat morning in 24 hours or the seasons get to repeat themselves again in 12 months. Everything around us is a cycle, but we are a straight line.

And it's that contrast in haiku that I think is being so wonderfully expressed in this poem by Bousson. What a wonderful analysis, Joe. I think you did an excellent job of really getting to the core of what this poem is. And the one thing that really stood out for me was the concept of memory. You're right, because human lives are linear. I love the idea that, you know, in this poem, we're talking about memory. Blown from the West, you're at the end of your life, you're approaching the end of your life. And all of those memories come flooding in and those maybe are the leaves that gather in the east.

They are behind you, but they are still so vivid and clear that they are almost tactile. I think it's a really gorgeous poem that explores the importance of time and the importance of that movement. As you said, we love an analysis of a solar system. I think it's a really interesting poem, particularly in the way that it handles that kind of slightly reactive notion, as you say, we're looking at actually pushing back against a very natural cycle. And although we do that, it doesn't feel aggressive. It still manages to feel natural. It doesn't feel like that pushback is something that's being resisted against. Yes, the leaves gather, but there is a cyclical idea that the leaves gathering actually managed to create a sort of home, a hub, a centre upon which you can finally work those things out.

So I think you did an excellent job, but it's so wonderful to see poems like these haiku evolve over time, because of course we were talking about Basho, who is excellent in observing those singular moments, but this has, I think, a very different scope. I think this starts to become more introspective and slightly less concerned with not being present in the moment or not being an observer,

because I feel like there's a stronger sense of observation in this poem. for sure. And I think you see that throughout Bousson's poetry. Another one is on the one-ton temple bell a moon moth folded into sleep sits still. I mean the language that we're using here and the translation somehow manages to capture

this real sense of magic. And I don't think that is something that is necessarily reflected in Bajo all that often. There's not necessarily a sense of kind of curated magic to the natural world. It is simply something that exists around you and you recognize the beauty in it. Whereas we see in Bousson

on this development of slightly more human touch. And I think that's the painter's eye that we were talking about earlier, right? He has this ability to capture much larger moments, landscapes, and almost infiltrate a slightly human perspective in that. And I think that's where the magic comes from. But I'd love to know what you think about this poem because I find it something that, again,

speaks to that sort of end of life, the stillness of the sleep of the moth in the moon moth. This is again representing all of those kind of later moments, of life. We are talking about the night. We are talking about drifting into sleep for us potentially as a human lens here, a permanent sleep. And I think there's a piece that is brought about by this very condensed form. There is something very final about that moment of stillness. The last word we end on here is still. I mean, it's a great choice in your mind. It's a beautiful, beautiful poem. And there is something magic about it. There is something ephemeral about this

poem. And again, it's worth noting, and we've said this in previous episodes, but this is the best episode ever to make this point, which is that we are blessed as loves of literature to have such wonderful translators working. I mean, the ability to take something, and we'll talk a little bit later about how complex the translation can actually be at times. And to render it so beautifully in another language is such a skill. So a huge shout out to all the translators who've ever lived and many who are working today. But the thing I think that I would like to focus in on this poem is, again, that contrast between the natural and the human kind of perceptions of the world. And I love that use of the word moon and moon moth. It's a really interesting detail, isn't it? Because again, the moon is a way

of measuring the passage of time, both daily. We know when the moon comes. That means it's night. But also, of course, over the lunar month and when it waxes and wanes, we have an ability to measure time, but it's a natural one. It's an imperfect one. It's one that we don't have massive influence over. And it's one, of course, that predates us and will no doubt exist after we are all gone. the contrast between that and the bell, which obviously is another way of measuring time. Again, you have bells that ring to mark certain occasions, to mark certain hours of the day, which is a very man-made. It's a very kind of inelegant way of measuring time by comparison.

It might seem antiquated to us in the 21st century. But remember that the ringing of a bell can feel quite invasive, can feel quite disruptive. It's a loud noise to noise that for a long time required people to pull heavy ropes. It's a manual thing. It's an invasive thing. And the contrast between this heavy, cumbersome way of imposing man-made time upon the world, arbitrary time upon the world, is contrasted against the moon moth, which represents because of that word moon, the natural cycles of time, which is so much more subtle, so much more beautiful, and so much calmer and more still.

And that's referenced, of course, by the way in which this animal is asleep. And the other thing about moon moth that really, for me, illustrates that idea of permanence and natural cycles. And there are some great scholars on the significance of animals in literature. We've spoken about this in the previous episode about how we depersonalize animals. We think of ourselves as being individuals as a very finite and each individual is unique. What we have a tendency to do with animals is to project a kind of uniform identity on all of them. Every moth is the same as every other moth, which of course isn't the case. But what that means is that even though this particular moth may only live for days or weeks,

as soon as we see one in a month's time, we will project upon it the same things we project. it onto this one. So each animal is able to embody permanence in a way that no human ever can. And I think all of that is contained within these three lines from Bousson. It's a brilliant poem. I think you're right. Permanence is absolutely key in this poem. Because of course, as you've mentioned, so often the one-ton bell, this heavy and imposing structure, can really herald the end. The tolling of the bell is something that reminds you of your finite time on Earth. And yet what's important here is that the moon moth is sleeping on the bell. Yes, that bell may ring, it may be moved. But right now, in this moment, the moment that has been immortalised is one in which the moth is sleeping, is undisturbed. So I think, again, this adds to that layer that, of course, as humans, we have a finite end.

There is not necessarily a sense of permanence for us past things like legacy or memory. But what's important is preserving those moments. And that's what this is. It's a preservation of a single moment in which, for that moment, that moth is infinite. It doesn't matter what's going to happen two seconds after, an hour after, a month after. It's about that individual moment in which he is observing a sleeping moth. And I just think that is the most beautiful sentiment. Now, Joe, we're running low on time for this episode and I really don't want to miss out on the final poet that I wanted to talk about today, which is Issa.

I would love to start with the snow is melting. I think it's a wonderful poem and I know you have a lot to say on it. But one thing I think is really interesting with this poem is, at least in this episode, is the first time we see human life. observed. And as Joe mentioned at the start of this episode, Issa is actually a poet that starts to bring in observations of working class life, of people, of natural everyday movement. And I think this is a perfect example of that. So please, tell us all about this poem. I would love to. And I think the first thing to say is if you want to bring this episode to a close quickly, giving me the snow is melting is not a good idea because I would love to talk about this for hours

and hours. And in fact, I did a long segment on it in the haiku course I mentioned earlier on. So I'll give a couple of highlights here. But if anyone wants to learn more about this poem, I do suggest you go and have a look at that haiku course available now on Pomeanalysis.com. So the poem reads, the snow is melting and the village is flooded with children. There is just so much going on here. I can't talk about all of it, but let me give some highlights. There is a real kind of subversion of expectation here. The snow is melting and the village is flooded. All appears to be a very literal description of floodwater, snow water, etc. But by subverting the reader's expectations and instead having children be the thing that is

rushing into this village, the entire tone of the the perm is flipped. Okay, we have very negative associations of flooding. We have very positive associations of the sites of hundreds or dozens of children running into a space. So it's really plays with your expectations and the ability to subvert anything over three lines is quite impressive. Because in just three lines, you have to both establish an expectation and subvert it. It's incredibly concise. But the other thing I think is really interesting is the more you look at this term, the more you find. So obviously we have melting snow, which again functions as that Kigo, that seasonal anchor. This is clearly late winter, early spring and everything

associated with that. Now, of course, humans, but also, you know, mostly we think of this as animals in the natural world. Spring is the time where you give birth to children, you new young is born, we're associated with Easter and all of those things in the West. The image of flooding children out of this wintry scene is a really echoic callback to human life over the millennia. Winter is beautiful time, yes, but also literally the hardest time to stay alive, to heat your home, to find enough food, to keep your children safe, to stave off illness. What we have here is the image of these children rushing into the village as the promise that tomorrow will be easier. Not only because children represent hope anyway, because we all hope for better lives

for children than the ones that their parents or grandparents had, but also because the very literal sense that now that spring has arrived, these children are going to be safer. They are less likely to get ill. They are more likely to have enough to eat. And again, to our modern eyes, that image might seem slightly counterintuitive because, you know, fortunately, many of us live in a kind of almost post-seasonal world in many respects, especially people who live in urban spaces in affluent countries whereby that kind of seasonal struggle for certain foods or for food in general to heat your home is less of a immediate concern and it was for the vast majority of humans who have ever lived. And so what I love about this poem is it re-anchors us in

the experience of the human past. There is concern, there is fear, there is apprehension, all contained within that image of the snow and the cold and the flooding water. And then there is that release, that sense of hope, that sense of regenerative cycles that comes in the form of the children entering the village or flooding into the village, that sense of kind of childish exuberance. And the final thing I want to touch upon is the way in which the poem can also be interpreted as a preemptive nostalgia, that the last days of snow are something beautiful but something finite and you almost don't appreciate it until it's gone. It's the same with childhood.

The children are flooding. They're exuberant, they're energetic, they're rushing into this space. They don't realize that these days are fragile and they, will soon be gone and it will soon simply be a memory like the memory of last year's snow. The experience of childhood is so fleeting just like those last few days of snow before warmth of spring melts it. And I just think it's by far my favourite haiku and I absolutely love this poem. I absolutely share that sentiment. I really, really do love this body of work. And I think that fragility is something that carries through so many of the poems that we're

going to talk about. You know, I'm looking at everything I touch. This is a haiku that goes, Everything I touch with tenderness, alas, pricks like a bramble. I'm looking at another really famous poem from Issa, which is O Snail. And it says, oh, snail, climb Mount Fuji, but slowly, slowly. Issa has this fantastic conceptualisation of what I think is fragile time. We're really exploring this idea that as you move through life, as Joe mentioned, moments are fragile. You know, there are so many things that you will get to experience once, and they will pass you by in the blink of an eye. And I think that's how I feel when I read poems like

everything I touch. Everything I touch with tenderness ricks like a bramble. I mean, there is this idea that memories or moments can incite something a little bit sharp in you. They're not comfortable to sit with because you recognize that those moments are gone. And I think that's a really deeply humanizing feeling because you are someone that experiences, as we've said with so many of these haiku, you are an individual experiencing your own life. Nobody else can live those moments for you. So ultimately, they are your own. And when they're gone, they're gone.

So this idea that we need to approach life slowly, the snail needs to climb this giant mountain slowly, is, you know, so different to, I think, the way that a lot of Western poets approach, poetry specifically, we're kind of driving towards time. We're exploring it. We're looking at this kind of, I think in a lot of poems, maybe a more colonial perspective where we're looking at expansion.

This instead is looking at making yourself smaller, making yourself slower, taking each moment so incredibly deliberately. And I think the way that Issa does this is just phenomenal. I think that's absolutely spot on. And I think in particular, the image of the snail, climb Mount Fuji, but slowly, slowly. What I love about that is it's the illusion of choice. Snails don't move slowly because they're particularly one with nature. They move so because they can't move any faster.

And yet the way in which Issa portrays this snail is as though that slowness, that Deliberacy is a conscious decision. And there's a real kind of quiet heroism about that. Suddenly, the snail is not a creature that lacks something. It's a creature that has gained some kind of wisdom of the world around it. And the ability to find something heroic and something admirable in creature like a snail, I mean, it's incredible. It's a really phenomenal thing that Issa is able to do. And I love that. I love the illusion of choice that he's given to the snail. It's such a wonderful poem. And I think what I really love, and I'm so glad we've been able to do this, this episode specifically, is actually tracking through the differences between those three poets

because, of course, as we mentioned, there's small crossovers between them, but really they are following the legacy of each person. So as we explore, Basho, of course, we're talking about really the foundation of haiku as a form. And then ultimately, we're moving on very swiftly to this beautiful interpolation of landscape and painting and memory. And then we're left with this really beautiful expression of what it is like to be your everyday person. You move from nobility to the working class. There is just such a lovely journey, I think, with these poems. And as I said at the start of this episode, you track through time.

These are expansive. And yet the moments that they capture are absolutely timeless. I guess it leads us on to that final discussion, really, which is what makes a national poetry, what makes a national literature, What makes Japanese poetry so time-specific, so geographically specific? What can we argue, really, is the foundation for Japanese poetry? And what makes it that? Well, it's a huge question and a fascinating one, one that could have its own podcasts,

and maybe in future will expand these kind of national episodes. And, you know, again, listeners, if you've enjoyed this discussion, a little bit different to what we've done in the past, do let us know. And are there any other countries that you'd like us to kind of explore in this way? And for me, you have to really zoom out when you answer these kind of questions. So many of the listeners will know that my master's was in Irish literature over in Dublin. And on that course, which was obviously a national literature, we spoke at length about what this means. And is this a useful lens to consider a literary canon?

Actually, it can be quite reductive at times. But when we're thinking about what shapes a national literature, it's important to remember that A, these things are symbiotic. It's not a case that the nation is something fixed and agreed upon. And out of that comes a literature. Literature shapes the perception of the nation. and what a nation is is constantly contested. Think about every time there's an election in a democratic country. That is effectively a contest for what the nation ought to look like.

And nations are constantly evolving as language changes, religious changes occur. Obviously in the modern world, as global warming physically changes the way in which communities are able to exist in certain spaces. So this conversation is constantly evolving. But to give some kind of overviews, when we're thinking about a nation like Japan, we have to think in terms of language. and Maya mentioned earlier on, the kind of arrival of Chinese lettering into the language changes the language, changes what the language is able to do, therefore. We have to think about geography, of course. Japan is a country that has lots of natural disasters, lots of earthquakes, lots of tsunamis.

Again, what does that show us? Is there a sense to which Japanese literature is interested in the notion of permanence and impermanence because things like earthquakes are a reminder, of course, that things are not permanent, things that seem solid and reliable are often actually able to be done away with in a moment. So is that part of it? Obviously, Maya and I are talking having grown up in the UK in the Judeo-Christian tradition. In the West, you know, our legal system, our code of ethics is all shaped by our Judeo-Christian past. In Japan, obviously, the kind of major religion is Buddhism and it's also showing the influences

of Shinto, which is the kind of pre-Buddhist faith, which was very much about the idea of individual elements of the natural world having spirits and having kind of autonomy in a sense. And again, is it a coincidence that out of a tradition that engages with nature in that way is a kind of a semi-conscious thing, that we have a poetry like haiku that is so interested in paying tribute to nature and almost holding nature on par with human characters. So whenever we're talking about national literature, and I'd love to talk about this with you, Myr, and I'd love to get your thoughts. But we have to remember that it is 20,000 different things in dialogue with one another. And at one moment, religion might have a greater say in the way in which a nation

perceives of itself. The next moment it might be geography, the moment after that it might be politics. And it's a conversation that's constantly evolving. Japan is obviously a country that has such a rich geography and such a distinct kind of religious and linguistic tradition compared to the West that we do have to rely upon great translators to try and give us a glimpse into that world. But what do you think? I mean, is there anything I fail to mention about the importance of different characteristics in forming a national literature? No, I think you did an excellent job of summarizing really. I think it's a really interesting and as you say a very complex question because of course there are going to be outliers, right? You're not necessarily, not every single Japanese

poet is going to come out of this singular tradition. However, I think, you know, especially as we approach modern literature, no, I think you did an excellent summary of everything. And I think what's interesting and as you say, it's a very, very complex question is that of course we're not sitting here and saying that every single Japanese poet is going to be part of the Japanese poet. tradition, because of course there's always going to be outliers, there's going to be Japanese poets that might actually be better classified in an American tradition, in an Irish tradition, because as we grow more and more and we have access to more and more literature, and we read more and we consume more media, influence absolutely grows. You are able as a poet

as a person to interpolate things from all over the world. You think about, you know, me as a consumer, I'm watching movies from all over the world. I'm reading literature from all over the world. So naturally, if I start to mimic some of those things in the poetry that I write, in the way that I talk, in the art I create, you are going to start to see small details that potentially take you out of what you might have generally been classified as. So yes, we're talking about the Japanese poetic tradition, but we're not sitting here and saying that every single person will fall into that category. I think that's a very important distinction to make. But as we said, we are exploring, you know, Basho, Busan, Issa, they have a very

very linear track. And I think when we look at poets like that, who have this huge, huge influence, they are quite literally known as the Holy Trinity of haiku poets. You are exploring a tradition in which you take something that has been created by one of those people. Let's take Busan, for example, who was absolutely inspired by Basho, but continues to build and develop on those haiku, on those forms, on the words and the things that you can bring into the poem, on the motifs that you're using, on the way that you even just explore the natural world, I think you see, and at least in this case very clearly, you start to see a development,

you start to see a building on of what the original intention was. And I think what's a really interesting question and one that I don't think I know the answer to is how far do you have to stray from that intention to no longer be classified as that? Because, you know, if you look at a haiku, there are certain rhymes and rules and things that you have to follow

and generally they don't rhyme, but if you rhyme in a haiku, does that make it no longer a haiku anymore? If you add one extra syllable but you capture the intention correctly, does that change it? And this is exactly the conversation we're having about translation. Because of course, if we look at, I'll bring back the Old Pond as an example. Old Pond, the first line of that in an English translation is two syllables. But we've been talking about it because of the intention that it brings. So is it less or more worthy if you follow the tradition to an absolute piece of I wrote a haiku? It doesn't necessarily become part of the Japanese poetic canon, but it does belong in part to it.

And I think it's a really beautiful sentiment that now, especially as we move towards writing modern poetry, we've lost a lot of leaning towards rhyme, free verse is very, very dominant at the moment. Of course, our modern day really is dominated by the use of free verse. And rhyme has fallen out of fashion a little bit, not to say that people, don't write with rhyme, but it's just not necessarily in our kind of the forefront of our minds. It's really interesting, at least for me, to look back at, you know, poetic forms like haiku, tanker. Renga is a great one. That was a collaborative practice. That was three, four, five poets, all deciding to take a manuscript and write it together as a practice. That is something

that I think we absolutely don't do enough now and perhaps a skill we've lost. So even if I were to decide to bring together five poets I knew and work in a Renga style, that shows just how impactful all of these like national poetic movement are. Because of course, if you are able to classify something as such, yes, it may be reductive, but it offers you a very broad skill set of things that you can pick up and you can say, okay, yes, I recognize what this is, I know where it comes from, I know the history and it's an education piece as well. But what do you think? I mean, there's so much to discuss, isn't there. And I think it's really interesting you're talking about the modern world. And I think, obviously, it's not to say for one second, the issues of nationalism, especially kind of political nationalism and not very much at the forefront of our modern conversation. But if we think about the nation or the idea of the nation or the idea of the nation, or the idea of the nation, or the idea of the nation, or the idea of the nation, or the idea of the nation state is not something inherent. It's not something that has always existed. You know, the Treaty of Westphalia, and the mid-17th century, in fact, ironically, right around the time of Basho, is kind of the thing

that establishes what it means to be a nation with sovereign borders. But we can go back further than that, and I would argue that literature is a key component of defining the parameters of the nation. And so often it's about that trickling down of culture and of access to culture. We could go right back to Italy and look at Dante Alighieri, whose decision to write the Divine Comedy, not in Latin, but in more colloquial language, was a key factor that then went on to influence the likes of Jeffrey Schorcer in the UK to write his works in more accessible languages rather than Latin. And what you have, therefore, is a literature that more ordinary people, not to suggest every ordinary person. Of course, literacy rates were still comparatively low, but more people can then access that culture.

And they then begin to identify with it. And suddenly you have a group that becomes the Italians or the English. And what I want to really stress here is the fact that both of these things are in flux. What makes Japanese literature is in flux, because what makes Japan, Pan is also contested and constantly rewritten. You know, we could look forward to, obviously, the haiku masters that we've been discussing here, the way in which their poetry is gradually trickling down in terms of access over the course of those three writers that we mentioned from the kind of upper class, the very refined,

very exclusive, courtly type poetry that was being written, right down to Issa, who is very much in ordinary spaces with ordinary people writing about ordinary people in their lives. the ability for a population to buy into that compared to hundreds of years earlier where this kind of art was only experienced and produced by a very small number of people is fascinating to me. And the other thing I think I would look to finish on is that there are elements to which these things are not specific to any individual nation. And some of those things are about natural cycles, like I mentioned. A writer in France is writing about the sun and moon in the same way that a writer in Japan is writing about the sun and moon, even long before people in France and Japan knew each other existed. So some things are the same in that sense, but there are also some quite almost unpoetic financial economic realities that shape the production of literature and shape the kind of conception of the nation. If we think about the emergence of a middle class, that one of the things that really kicks off the eddo period we were talking about where these three writers lived and wrote is the growth of the middle class.

And if we compare that to somewhere like the UK, for example, because obviously it's where Maya and I grew up and where many of our listeners are based. And you think about the development of grammar schools, for example, that notion that education can cease to, only for something that only the very wealthy could access, that's where you get someone like Shakespeare, someone who was not a member of the aristocracy, not a member of the upper classes, middle class, a growing middle class, who get access to classical literature, to classical texts, to the ability to write and read. And that's where the greatest literature of all time is produced. And obviously, in our more modern world, that has gone down even further. And we need to go much further in many countries about making sure that every sect of society has access to

an education because ultimately society itself is richer for it. The more people who have access to great works of literature in the past or great works of art, the more great literature and great art is going to be produced in the future. And like I've said, art does not exist in a vacuum from the nation. Art is pivotal to shaping what the nation is and crucially, very crucially in this century where things seem very uncertain, what the nation is going to look like in the future. Absolutely. And, you know, we need art as well. We need art to intellectually stimulate, you know, whether you talk about politics or the state of the world or the state of the environment, every single thing is reflected in the work that you create. So I, you know,

I hope even out of this episode, I hope some people go and write haiku. We'd love to see it, send it to us. We'd love to read it. But unfortunately, that is all we have time for. Thank you for such a wonderful discussion today, Joe. I think this episode has been so lovely and I'm so grateful that we get to cover such fantastic work. I think next time we are talking about my last Dutchess by Robert Browning. But for now, it's goodbye from me. And goodbye from me and the whole team at Permanalysis.com and Purchy Plus.