Basho

“Sitting quietly, doing nothing,
Spring comes,
and the grass grows, by itself.”
― Basho

I am time and again touched by the extraordinary poetry of Basho and here I discover for the first time his calligraphy too and a portrait of the mystic by the great Japanese painter Hokusai.

 

 

About Basho

The 17th-century Japanese haiku master Basho was born Matsuo Kinsaku near Kyoto, Japan, to a minor samurai and his wife. Soon after the poet’s birth, Japan closed its borders, beginning a seclusion that allowed its native culture to flourish. It is believed that Basho’s siblings became farmers, while Basho, at Ueno Castle in the service of the local lord’s son, grew interested in literature. After the young lord’s early death, Basho left the castle and moved to Kyoto, where he studied with Kigin, a distinguished local poet. During these early years Basho studied Chinese poetry and Taoism, and soon began writing haikai no renga, a form of linked verses composed in collaboration.

The opening verse of a renga, known as hokku, is structured as three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables. In Basho’s time, poets were beginning to take the hokku’s form as a template for composing small standalone poems engaging natural imagery, a form that eventually became known as haiku. Basho was a master of the form. He published his haiku under several names, including Tosei, or “Green Peach,” out of respect for the Chinese poet Li Po, whose name translates to “White Plum.” Basho’s haiku were published in numerous anthologies, and he edited Kai Oi, or Seashell Game (1672), and Minashiguri, or Shriveled Chestnuts (1683), anthologies that also included a selection of his own work.

In his late 20s Basho moved to Edo (now a sector of Tokyo), where he joined a rapidly growing literary community. After a gift of basho trees from one student in 1680, the poet began to write under the name Basho. His work, rooted in observation of the natural world as well as in historical and literary concerns, engages themes of stillness and movement in a voice that is by turns self-questioning, wry, and oracular.

Soon after Basho began to study Zen Buddhism, a fire that destroyed much of his city also took his house. Around 1682, Basho began the months-long journeys on foot that would become the material for a new poetic form he created, called haibun. Haibun is a hybrid form alternating fragments of prose and haiku to trace a journey. Haibun imagery follows two paths: the external images observed en route, and the internal images that move through the traveler’s mind during the journey. Basho composed several extended haibun sequences starting in 1684, including Nozarashi Kiko, or Travelogue of Weather-Beaten Bones (1685); Oi no Kobumi, or The Knapsack Notebook (1688); and Sarashina Kiko, or Sarashina Travelogue (1688).

His most well-known haibun, Oku no Hosomichi, or Narrow Road to the Interior, recounts the last long walk Basho completed with his disciple Sora—1,200 miles covered over five months beginning in May 1689. While their days were spent walking, in the evenings they often socialized and wrote with students and friends who lived along their route. The route was also planned to include views that had previously been described by other poets; Basho alludes to these earlier poems in his own descriptions, weaving fragments of literary and historical conversation into his solitary journey. Basho revised his final haibun until shortly before his death in 1694. It was first published in 1702, and hundreds of editions have since been published in several languages.

Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/basho

Other links:

Matsuo Basho

https://hokku.wordpress.com/tag/difference-between-hokku-and-haiku/

As I write
I am with time
As I breathe
I am with life
In between these two states
A verse divine
As mysterious as time
As eternal as life

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“He Who Taught by the Pen” ~ Arabic calligraphy by Greta Khoury

The Pomegranate

Adorned with a crown of majesty
Pregnant with a hundred seeds of divinity
And the secret to mortality and eternity
Throughout the ages, the symbol of fertility
From Eden to the hands of Persephone
A potent blood and heart remedy

On the myth of Persephone

A story of love and abduction, in Ancient Greek mythology, has Persephone, daughter of Demeter, Goddess of harvest and agriculture, kidnapped by Hades, God of the underworld, who fell in love with her at first sight and carried her off to his kingdom, the underworld.

Demeter, mad with sorrow, hunted everywhere for Persephone, going as far as to disguise herself as an old lady with a lighted torch in her hands. Demeter, roamed the Earth for ninety days looking for her daughter Persephone. Finally, the sun God Helios, took pity on Demeter, and told her that Hades had carried Persephone off to his underworld. Demeter found Hades and they struck a bargain, Persephone would live four months on Earth, with the living, and eight months in the underworld. (The number of months spent in each place differs, depending on which story is read).

Before being set free from the underworld, Persephone was persuaded to eat six pomegranate seeds (In ancient mythology, to eat the fruit of one’s captor meant that one would have to return to that captor), to make sure she returned to the underworld when her time on Earth was up, that’s Hades hedging his bets!

This myth of Persephone, one of disappearing and reappearing, was the origin of  festivals in ancient Greece, among them the Eleusinian rites, whose secrets were so closely guarded that little is known about them today. One festival that we do know a bit about, is that, in ancient Greece, after the harvest, a three day feast occurred, devoted to the Goddess Demeter, mother of Persephone, the third day was devoted to women, where pomegranate seeds were eaten to guarantee many children and much prosperity. Even today, young brides in certain Greek villages, throw pomegranates through the door of their new house, with such a force, that the pomegranate bursts open, scattering the seeds. This ritual is said to ensure a happy marriage and the birth of many children.

From greekerthanthegreeks.com

 

Among pine trees

Breathing in
The fragrances of the forest fill my chest
The cool air of the mountain 
Breathing out
Wind whistles and bird songs fill my ears
The symphony of spring
I sit on a rock eyes closed and breathe, in out
In the field
A flower stands, a mushroom grows, a scarab runs
I walk with my breath among the pines
And listen to the tale of spring

 

Deir el Moukhallis, Joun, South Lebanon

Roumieh, O Roumieh

Childhood memories surface like a radio song
I tune into a channel of familiar voices and sensations
I can still walk the path from the water spring
I can still hear the call of the rooster at sunrise
The chirping of caged birds
I can still smell the scent of roses at sunset
The fragrance of freshly washed, ironed and cold bed sheets at night
The intricate flavours from the cooking pot on the stove
The early morning wake up
Then the green door opening onto the orchard on the glorious morning of an August Sunday
Grandma’s fresh eggs from the henhouse
We would step outside as if into wonderland
Where vines decorate the sky above our heads
Shrubs, fuchsia, petunia, lantana
Vegetables, tomatoes, cucumbers, courgettes
The almond tree is still flowering in my mind
The Carob tree is still bearing fruit in my heart
The oud is continuously sending messages of eternal hope and harmonious living
The harshest of storms are undoubtedly followed by a budding season
My grandfather always in a white shirt gently playing music on the sofa outside
My grandmother always in a very simple dress ever so busy in silent essential activity
Here perhaps we grew up
Here perhaps we remained children
Trees have fallen, buildings have risen
We might have grown but we will remain ever so little in the eye of the limitless sea ahead
Ever so childlike in the eyes of this earth we walk upon
Like passing clouds in the sky of Roumieh

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Offering

Can I say anything to thee
My mind is silenced with needless thoughts
Can I not say anything to thee
My heart is pounding with careless thoughts
Between the words of silence
And the silence of words
I am but a desperate one
Like a flower ever so meticulously formed by creation’s magic
Ever so delicately held by the creator’s love
Awaiting to be offered to eternity

~ A sudden flow of words from the heart…

Oaks and clovers

Under the winter sun of this auspicious month welcoming the new year
Faces glow, greens grow
The majestic valley stretches far and wide
The white mount of Sannine cleanses our eyes and hearts
Any four leaf clovers for my sister?
Perhaps not right in front of our eyes but marvels in all four directions!
A tiny snail rests on a leaf
Rain water rests in ancient stones
A golden cat rests under an oak tree
Here our beings rest for a moment in awe and joy then dance away in celebration of life

A poem for my sister:

Sisters united
Just like two mountains always embrace a valley
So we have embraced together this day of sun at Beit Mery
Just like we and our reflection met at the edge of still water
So we have been united by our mother and father
Together in a magical bond
As ancient as these mountains
Ever as new as today’s rain water resting in this ancient altar!

Photos by Vinod Aravind Muganthan

The copper forest

Oh Great Mother
What a privilege it was
To visit one of your elder children
A thousand year old Ezer tree
Overlooking the mountains of Akkar
Surviving the wrath of human civilization
It still guards the remains of a magical oak forest
Painted in copper red by autumn
A breathtaking sight of earth carpeted with golden leaves
Ancient rocks, living temples
Gigantic roots, living beings
I ask my mother: Can I take a photo of you in this place?
She replies: Look here, take a photo of the sun between the branches of this tree instead
Oh Mother of mine
May the elements in this mystical forest
Bring you and all of humanity thousands of oak years
In health, love and beauty
And may we learn from you
To listen to the symphony of the wild
And bow down to the utter magnificiance of this creation

 

 

Trekking with HighKings in Qammouah, Sunday 2 Dec 2018

All in silence, all in tune

We follow the path of sky-reaching cypresses and moss-covered barks
At the symphony of the winds
A light shower of golden leaves
Bright orange vineyards welcome the advent of winter
A still emerald lake surrounded by dancing branches and flying birds
A horse glances from a distance then gallops away
In silence, all in tune

Visiting the Taanayel Monastery and natural grounds, Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

 

Eshmun

Today at the site of ‘Bustan el Sheikh’
Walking among silent stones, still snails and growing grass
We penetrate a time capsule
A few millennia later
Remains from Babylonian and Phoenician times
Still carry fragments of history untold
Ancient civilisations overlap and suddenly coexist in a present
A few centuries later
Remains from Roman and Byzantine times
Build an incomplete mosaic of events
Where columns stand tall then fall
Buildings are erected than resurrected
Then our footsteps lead us to a peculiar and powerful space
A temple dedicated to the Phoenician god of healing
Eshmun
In its centre a throne guarded by winged lions and once a pool of water
Today the water is replaced by moss
And so we cross
To reach the seat of Astarte
Goddess of love