In a Station of the Metro

Everyone knows what a haiku is, or at least they think they do. It’s got something to do with syllables, maybe it’s supposed to be in Japanese, but mostly many of us have never read a haiku that wasn’t something silly:

            One shark said to the

other when eating a clown

fish: this tastes funny.

I mean, what on earth is that!? Courtesy of “WikiHow: How to Write a Haiku Poem.” But since I’ve been in Japan and I’ve taken the time to dive into Japanese poetry—mostly because why wouldn’t I make an excuse to read poetry instead of working a day job—I’ve come to understand the form and see it’s real beauty. A haiku is not just five syllables followed by seven and followed by five. In fact, like a sonnet or any other form poetry, the form can be broken a million times over and still be a haiku. What a haiku is instead is a poem that intensifies a kind of expression, which in the simplest and most direct way reaches a new association between images. Haikus are very often about nature, or the human impression of nature, and connect two things with a sense of wonder. Reading a good haiku is like having a mini epiphany. It is like stumbling across the best line of a novel, or the most enchanting moment of a song.

Traditionally the form included rules about the inclusion of seasonal clues and hints, a word that would specify the time of year, and pauses at the end of the first or second line. The form was not simply five, seven, five in syllables but more specific to the Japanese language and verse—which we all know can’t be the same as English and English poetic devices. (Actually the sound units counted can get quite complicated. If you’re interested in researching them more, please turn to the internet. I’m not an expert of analysis, just a lover of reading poetry). And on top of all of that it was written in the present tense, as if suddenly illuminated is the world for this moment if you can catch it.

An old pond!

A frog jumps in—

the sound of water.

That haiku, translated from the original Japanese, was written by the first poet to write in the haiku form, Matsuo Basho. So what does all this mean or matter? It just means and matters whatever you want it to, and for me it means giving a little more time to haikus and matters in the way we look for truth in the world. Poetry in general does this, but what I think that haikus do that is special is that they require a cutting away of all the extra crap. Haikus are read in one breath, haikus are moments of enlightenment put into 17 nano-moments, and carved out of words that have to do double or triple duty. I would like to see every poet write a good haiku, to prove to themselves that they can write a successful poem. And if you’re a poet, you’ll understand me. I’ve yet to write a good one. So with that said, I’m not sure I have more to say anyway, here are a few of my favorite haikus.

In a Station of the Metro – Ezra Pound

            The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

            Petals on a wet, black bough.

           

            Masaoka Shiki

            Consider me

            As one who loved poetry

            And persimmons.

            Yosa Buson

            Before the white chrysanthemum

            the scissors hesitate--

            a moment.

*This just in: Japanese kids learn Matsuo Basho’s poem “An old pond!” in school and remember it because everyone should be able to recite at least one poem by heart (so haikus are short, still great). Also I have it from the bilingual opinion of Yuu Kurashima that it’s just not the same when it’s not in Japanese…so there’s that. (And every single website has a different translation of it and I picked what I thought was the best one, but I suppose that's quite subjective.)

**Up Next on Gaijin Kid: Yoyogi Park Short Fiction by me. 

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For the Time Being

“How do you search for lost time, anyway? It’s an interesting question, so I texted it to old Jiko, which is what I always do when I have a philosophical dilemma. And then I had to wait for a really, really long time, but finally my keitai gave a little ping that tells me she’s texted me back. And what she wrote was this:

在る時や

言の葉もちり

おち葉かな

which means something like this:

For the time being,

Words scatter…

Are they fallen leaves?

I’m not very good at poetry, but when I read old Jiko’s poem, I saw an image in my mind of this big old ginkgo tree on the grounds of the temple. The leaves are shaped like little green fans, and in the autumn they turn bright yellow and fall off and cover the ground, painting everything pure golden. And it occurred to me that the big old tree is a time being, and Jiko is a time being, too, and I could imagine myself searching for lost time under the tree, sifting through the fallen leaves that are her scattered golden words.” – From A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki

            I’m sitting curled up with coffee and wondering how I can bring back a blog last updated sometime mid October and all I can think to do is pull towards me Ruth Ozeki’s novel, flip to the first few pages, and write out a passage. And really, this doesn’t surprise me, because I all do these days is read and practice sitting Zazen (literally translated into “seated meditation”) and this particular novel is a gold mine of beautiful thoughts. And, even though this is winter, I can still remember the ginkgo trees in the autumn and the absolutely spiritual level of gold their leaves turned and how I saw it all every day from my balcony. So it doesn’t exactly matter that it’s been awhile since I’ve updated, because I can close my eyes and think I’m still in October. *Photos by Moeko ^^

            October is crazy, and it’s still pretty warm outside so I don’t ever know if I should wear a sweater and jeans or if I’ll be cold or too hot or none of the above but regardless I still don’t really fit in here. And then time passes and its January 2015. I spent my first holiday season away from home. For the first time I did not take a family photo at Thanksgiving by Sherry’s fireplace, and I did not watch my father out of the corner of my eye for balls of wrapping paper to be tossed while the cousins opened colorful toys…or perfume, I guess we’re old enough for that now. And then I spent New Year’s in the middle of Tokyo. I listen to Avril Lavigne’s Hello Kitty for the first time, and after a few play backs I start to hear instead Sk8er Boi so I feel like its ninth grade now.

            I think about old Jiko in the novel, who is a monk, or a nun, who talks a lot about moments of time and I start to realize this is what happens when you randomly decide to devote yourself to Zazen. It makes you kooky and weird about time—which I think comes off as lazy—and you write novels about time traveling Victorian lit professors instead of  novels that are going to get published…or instead of anything at all. But I guess that’s just a side effect, because what Zazen does actually accomplish is a wholly real sense of self made up of all the ninth grades, all the Thanksgiving family photos, all the Octobers and the moment that is now; how quickly that moment slips past, how if I reach out to grasp it I let go of the juzu beads and lose count of my breathing.

            And maybe none of that makes sense, because I think I have to think on it a little longer to really understand it myself, but what I’m getting at is starting a new year really isn’t possible without thinking of the old one. Moving into a new year in a faraway place, especially when you are wrapped up in the philosophies of Buddhism at the current moment, made me hyper aware of the past and the familiar and of everyone and thing I miss back home. But I’m not sad, not like I was sad when I wrote my first post, because I have a new year ahead of me. In my short time in Japan, and my even shorter time thinking about these time sensitive subjects, my experience with Zazen has been wonderfully eye-opening and calming. So if you’re looking for a New Year’s resolution still, and one unlike any other, I give you the basic instructions of how to practice Zazen. Try it once, and maybe you’ll better understand my ramblings.

*Taken from Ozeki’s novel & Wikihow (Really, it’s that simple).

            Sit, either on the floor with a zafu (cushion) or on a chair if you need extra back support, and keep good posture. If you’re sitting on the floor, cross your legs. “The Burmese Position: This is the simplest position in which the legs are crossed with both knees resting flat on the floor. One ankle is in front of the other, not over. The Half Lotus Position (Hankafuza). This is done by placing the left foot onto the right thigh and tucking the right leg under your left thigh.The Full Lotus Position (Kekkafuza). This is by far the most stable of all positions. It is done by placing each foot onto the opposite thigh. This might be slightly painful at first but keep trying and the muscles in your legs will loosen up.” Now place your hands in your lap and stack them so that the back of your left hand is on the balm of your right hand and your thumbs meet on top to make a relaxed circle.

            Then relax and focus on your breathing. There are several kinds of Zazen, some that require you to focus on a particular idea of Buddhism and others that are simpler. You can try Shikantaza which is literally translated into “nothing but precisely sitting.” Count your breathing, inhale…exhale…one, inhale…exhale…two, up to ten. When you’ve reached ten, start over. If a rogue thought interrupts you, acknowledge it, and return to “nothing but precisely sitting.” And that’s that, that’s Zazen.

            “Jiko also says that to do zazen is to enter time completely. I really like that. Here’s what old Zen Master Dogen has to say about it:

Think not thinking.

How do you think not-thinking?

Nonthinking. This is the essential art of zazen.

I guess it doesn't make a whole lot of sense unless you just sit down and do it. I’m not saying you have to. I’m just telling you what I think.” –A Tale for the Time Being.

**Up Next on Gaijin Kid: Haikus

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