white butterfly
on a dandelion –
praying hands
Joanna M. Weston
****************
at the well
between letting the stone go
and splash
Diarmuid Fitzgerald
***************
summer ending
the quiet face of the moon
at sunset
Duro Jaiye
***************
鷹一つ見つけてうれし伊良湖岬 (芭蕉)
To find a hawk
flying at Cape Irago —
my pleasure, deep
……………… (Basho)
On his 1687 Backpack Notes journey, 笈の小文, Basho had composed this haiku for his beloved disciple, Tokoku 杜国 (aka Mangikumaru 万菊丸), who was exiled in Hobi, near the tip of the Atsumi Peninsular (Aichi) for ‘cooking the books’ with his rice-dealing in Nagoya.
July 23: Tito plans to fly his birthday balloon (a personal ritual) from the ferry leaving Cape Irago after a day (with wife, Kazue, and Hailstone friends, David McCullough and Gerald Staggers – aka Duro Jaiye) visiting Tokoku’s grave at Cho’onji Temple (the “tide-listening” temple) in Hobi and then swimming in the Pacific at Koijigahama Beach.
Leave Kyoto/Osaka early for Toba in Mie, from where we sail across the sea to that erstwhile place of exile.
The ferry departs
through a flotilla of jellyfish —
summer clouds
……………… (Tito)
Landing at Cape Irago, walk out to the lighthouse with its views back to the sacred isle of Kamishima.
all along the seafront
stone carved poems
visited by dragonflies
……………… (David)
midday heat …
in their wheelbarrow
the catch of the day
……………… (Duro)
Indulge, as Basho would have done, in huge clams and oysters at Tamagawa’s in Fukue. Then, at the temple itself, we meet the Zen priest, Miyamoto Rikan 利寛, tending his lotuses. Spend a quiet moment at the graveside, remembering how Basho had wept at the House of Fallen Persimmons after dreaming of Tokoku some months after his premature death. Their relationship had been a happy one, with Basho once brushing the ‘shape’ of Tokoku’s snore onto paper… and them having written pledges together on their travel hats on the way to Yoshino. “His good heart reached to the very core of my own. How could I ever forget him?” (from the Saga Nikki)
波音の墓のひそかにも
the sound of the waves
also heard in secret
from his grave
……………… (Santoka, visiting Cho’onji in 1939)
last patch of summer heat —
cat tails flicking
back and forth
……………… (David)
burning heat …
he waters the small plants
in the rock garden
……………… (Duro)
Rikan proves a genial host, showing us a huge rockery he has made himself; also, the “tide-listening” Kannon statue in the pond at the back of the temple; and, finally, driving us back to Koijigahama Beach near the Cape. Body-surfing and beach-combing before boarding the return ferry.
A pink balloon
leaves my hand …
the sun, too, dropping down
into Ise Bay
……………… (Tito)
May 20, 2017 (please see the preceding post, “Spring at the Edge”)
A clear sky …
sprouting green leaves
breathe with us (Akito)
The sound of ice
being dropped into a glass (Tito)
Beside the hot train tracks
the old man mutters
“Don’t hog the shade!’ (Richard)
Three rivers join and flow –
Hideyoshi’s proud pagoda (Eiko)
Only the red roof left,
the museum returning
to nature’s green (Hiroko)
Birdsong carried
by stream ripples (Akira)
At Takara Temple
recalling Soseki –
an early summer breeze (Teruko)
Distilled on Mt. Tenno
“Angel’s Share” (Kyoko)
The girl counts out
twelve visitor cards at reception –
cool interior (Hisashi)
Reflections
in the western window (Kayo)
A black swallowtail
visits the Siberian irises –
afternoon heat (Eiko)
Until the liquid turns amber
long way to go (Noriko)
Enma and his fierce men:
heaped before them
fruits, jellies, just desserts (Eiko)
Slippery on this steep slope
pilgrims’ straw sandals (Noriko)
A mayfly lands
on my handlebars –
the luminous day (Tito)
Ed. by Hisashi Miyazaki and Richard Donovan
Emerging from the region of the Hells, I now came to the beautiful shore of Lake Usori, a large crater lake surrounded by steep mountains, with names such as Mt. Screen and Mt. Overturned Cauldron. The shoreline was one of white sand. They call it Gokurakuhama, the shore of the Land of Bliss. I was told that the name of the lake had derived from the Ainu word meaning ‘peaceful bay’, and that ‘Usori’ had turned into ‘Osore’. I thought this was a very ironic corruption, for ‘Osore’ means ‘fear’. The lake should not be thought of as a perfect paradise, however, for its water is acidic and only a single species of fish can live there. Just looking at it, though, the lake was surely beautiful enough for a gateway to the Land of Bliss.
……… The wind from the hills
……… Carried away from my nose
……… That smell of sulphur.
…………………….. Beyond the white shore,
…………………….. A belt of emerald green
…………………….. Lit by summer sun.
.. After enjoying a bowl of rice topped with tuna for my lunch, I went to Osorezan via the city of Mutsu. This was a roundabout course, but the shortcut along the Ohata River was too narrow for sightseeing buses. The road from Mutsu up to Osorezan was an ancient highway with stone pillars marking distances from the shrine. It was also dotted with stone images of Jizo, the traveller’s guardian. I found the Fountain of Hiyamizu was still alive. Its icy water was coming straight down from the mountains. Here and there I saw pink flowers of valley deutzia, but was told that they were never used as decorations for the house. I wondered why.
.. Crossing the so-called River Styx, we entered the precincts of Osorezan, a Zen temple belonging to the Soto Sect. Soon, the smell of sulphur hit my nose. Watched by six huge statues of Jizo, representing the six phases of existence, I passed through the first gate. On the second gate was displayed a large square plaque of beautiful blue colour, inscribed “Osorezan” in silver characters. The building at the end of the path housed the main Jizo image and a statue of Ennin, the founder of the temple.
.. Up to this point, we had been walking on flat ground, but as we turned to the left, we entered the rocky region of the ”Hells”. Many infernal pools now came into view, with such horrible names as ‘the Pool of Blood’ and ‘the Pool of Grave Sinners’. Each was somewhat different in shape and colour, but they were all pools of sulphurous water that had issued out of the volcanic strata. Huge piles of rocks were seen in places, but what arrested my attention was the piles of smaller stones that had obviously been fashioned by human hands. I was told that they had been made supernaturally by children who had passed away before their parents as an expression of their regret at doing so. I was not persuaded, presuming, rather, that these piles of stones may have been made by the parents to express their own sorrow at the untimely death of their children. My conviction was strengthened by the red stick-windmills often placed on top of the piles. Was it not the parents who had placed them there out of a desire to buy them for the deceased children? The place where I saw the greatest number of windmills was around the statue of the guardian of aborted and miscarried children.
……. An endless rattle…
……. Little windmills spinning round,
……. Calling to the dead.
.
… Glittering crystal beads
… Decorate my body —
… Humid afternoon
… Beads of sweat
… Twinkle on my ears —
… Unlooked-for jewels
