Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

Two hundred years have now passed since Bashō first opened the realm of haiku, and in that time emerged no small number of haiku poets. Some expounded upon Bashō’s teachings, others advocated the Danrin school, while still others carved out entirely new paths.
Yet when it came to revering this Bashō, it was as if all voices cried out as one; even those belonging to divergent schools like Danrin did not spurn him, but rather took his verses to include in their personal haiku collections.
Thus did Bashō come to be acknowledged as a peerless and incomparable haiku poet—one for whom they could find no equal.
Does Bashō truly lack a rival?
I say: He does not.

Bashō's creative achievements in the history of haikai deserve special mention and await no debate.
In this respect, how many could truly surpass him?
In terms of its abundant variation, vigorousness, and refined elegance, Bashō’s haiku deserves to be considered first-rate within the haiku world.
This haiku received supreme praise, augmented by the honor earned from its pioneering achievements, yet from my perspective, I cannot help but recognize that such praise exceeded what the haiku's true value merited.
While there were haiku poets who annotated Bashō’s verses—verses scarcely worth reciting—with undue reverence, and laypeople who carved unrelated lines onto stones they called “Bashō monuments” to venerate them—so thoroughly did the name “Bashō” signify reverence that even amidst this existed one whose every cough formed pearls and whose every verse deserved chanting—yet the world knew him not; haiku masters esteemed him not; for a hundred years he lay buried among rubble, unable to shine—and this man was Buson.
Buson’s haiku—though they rivaled or even surpassed Bashō’s—failed to gain recognition primarily because his verses lacked popular appeal and because all haiku poets after Buson were uneducated and ignorant.
That his works received no commensurate reward might seem lamentable for Buson, yet remaining unknown to the ignorant masses was perhaps precisely what he would have desired.
When we observe how he transcended worldly conventions with unbridled freedom, we find there was much in Buson’s character and conduct worthy of reverence.
And yet the world did not accept this.

Buson’s name was not unknown to the general public; however, the Buson known to the public was not Buson the haiku poet, but Buson the painter.
When examining books published after Buson’s death, it is said that during his lifetime his renown as a painter failed to spread because it had been overshadowed by the height of his reputation as a haiku poet.
According to this, one might think that during his lifetime his haiku reputation had overshadowed his painting reputation; however, it remains an undeniable fact that from his death until today, his painting reputation has instead overshadowed his haiku reputation.
When we studied haiku and saw Buson’s verses scattered throughout anthologies of similar themes, we came to somewhat recognize their extraordinary quality and deeply revered them.
At a small gathering one day, Mr. Meisetsu declared he would award a prize to anyone who could obtain a copy of Buson’s collection.
Though this was originally nothing more than a jest made in passing, this jest sprang from an earnest desire to obtain it, and beneath its surface lay something not entirely frivolous.
Indeed, this jest led Mr. Meisetsu to obtain Buson’s collection of verses, and we, having borrowed and examined it, made significant discoveries.
The analogy of buying a dead horse’s bones for five hundred gold pieces came to mind, striking us as amusing.
This was indeed something that happened several years ago—in Meiji 26 [1893], perhaps.
And once this discussion spread through the world, Buson as a haiku poet was welcomed with some measure of honor, and we too came to be regarded as the Buson school.
Now, his haiku reputation stands poised to overshadow his painting fame once more.

Thus, Buson—who gained recognition only a century later—was completely misunderstood in his haiku. Many considered Buson’s use of Chinese-derived vocabulary his sole distinguishing feature; yet they failed to grasp why even this single trait deserved reverence, and with few aware of his numerous other qualities beyond such diction, one struggles to fathom why they venerated him at all. It is here that I shall present my humble views and elucidate precisely where Buson rivals Bashō.

Positive Beauty

In beauty there exist both positive and negative aspects.
Positive beauty refers to conceptions grand in design, vigorous, robust, resplendent, lively, and striking; negative beauty refers to conceptions antique and refined in design, profound and mysterious, tragic, serene, and unadorned.
Generally speaking, Eastern art and literature inclined toward Negative Beauty, while Western art and literature inclined toward Positive Beauty.
If considered by era, regardless of East or West, ancient times contained much Negative Beauty while later ages contained much Positive Beauty.
(Though where grandeur and vigor are concerned, we in fact find more in ancient times.) Thus Bashō—who attained enlightenment through Tang dynasty literature—frequently employed negative designs in his haiku, and consequently those later called the Bashō school largely followed this approach.
Whether speaking of its austere solitude, refined elegance, mysterious profundity, or delicate subtlety—all that constitutes beauty’s pinnacle belongs wholly to Negative Beauty.
(Though Bashō did compose grand and vigorous verses, these ceased entirely in later generations.) Therefore those who study haiku revere Negative Beauty as beauty’s sole form; whenever they encounter resplendent elements, lively elements, or striking elements, they immediately denounce these as heretical and vulgar.
It resembles how those intoxicated by Eastern art disparage all Western art as crude.
That resplendent, lively, striking elements tend toward crudeness is of course true.
Yet discarding what is not crude simply because it risks becoming so stems from lack of discernment.
Moreover, the harm of Negative Beauty—with its antique profundity—breeds a certain distastefulness; when we observe how today’s vulgar haiku masters’ verses have sunk to such baseness as to induce nausea, we find them no whit superior to works that sought resplendence only to lapse into vulgarity.

Comparing Positive Beauty and Negative Beauty to determine their superiority or inferiority was ultimately impossible.
However, that both were elements of beauty needed no debate.
Speaking in terms of proportion, Negative Beauty constituted one half of beauty, and Positive Beauty constituted the other half.
To consider Negative Beauty as constituting the whole of beauty was nothing but a fallacy arising from narrow perspectives.
Japanese literature after the Genpei era had fallen to the ground and did not rise again; at the very brink of near-complete extinction, it was Bashō who manifested beauty in haiku and unveiled its negative aspect—this alone sufficed to attest to his extraordinary talent.
And yet, even his extraordinary talent had passed away without ever unveiling the other half of Positive Beauty.
Perhaps heaven did not allow the glory of haikai to be monopolized by Bashō alone and waited for another great man.
Kyorai and Jōsō were not that person either.
Kikaku and Ransetsu were not that person either.
The Goshikizumi group naturally did not know this.
At the time of Shin Kyōkuritsu, they sought to seize someone but found no one.

As a hundred years drew near after Bashō’s death, Buson appeared for the first time.
He took his place on the haikai stage, bearing a divine mandate.
However, the world did not recognize that he was the second Bashō.
He did not chase fame and profit, sought no renown, and though he had attained mastery in positive beauty, he remained content to share it only with his disciples.

Of the four seasons, spring and summer are positive, while autumn and winter are negative.
Buson loved summer most; summer verses are his most numerous.
His fine verses are also numerous in the two seasons of spring and summer.
This already reveals how he differs from others.
Now, by attempting to contrast Buson’s verses with Bashō’s, let us see how positively active Buson is.

Of the four seasons, summer is the most positive.
Therefore, among summer themes, there are many positive elements.
Peonies are the most resplendent of flowers.
In Bashō’s collected works, those that compose on peonies do not exceed one or two verses.
Those verses, moreover,

When descending from Owari to Tōbu

A bee pushes deep into the peony’s stamens—lingering traces. Bashō

Peach Neighbor: New Residence, Self-Painted and Self-Praised

Dew not cold— / the peony’s nectar. Buson

The former merely employed peonies as a seasonal motif, while the latter composed about peonies in an extremely clumsy manner.
When Buson composed about peonies, it was not through sheer exertion of effort; yet following his hand’s lead, he produced masterful verses.
The number of verses also reached as many as twenty.
If I were to cite several of them:

Peony petals scatter and fall,

Having cut peonies, my spirit has waned—this evening.

The festival cart’s rumble reverberates—

In Nikko’s soil too are peonies etched—ah!

In Takuma’s garden where Fudō is painted—ah, the peonies!

For a hundred-league radius, rain clouds do not gather—the peonies!

On the golden screen, blazing radiantly—the peonies!

Anthill

The peony opens—vermilion gates of the ant king’s palace!

Waves churn—from the tongue’s root, a crimson lotus blooms.

King Enma’s mouth—about to spew forth peonies!

That verse itself now vied with peonies in resplendence.

Young leaves too were a subject of Positive Beauty. Bashō’s compositions on this subject amounted to merely one or two verses...

Tōshōdai-ji

With young leaves— / were I to wipe the tears / from noble eyes... Bashō

Nikkō

Ah, sacred— / green leaves, young leaves / in the sun’s radiance. Bashō

Such as these merely applied them as seasonal motifs. In Buson’s case there were over ten verses that directly composed young leaves. All fully exhibited the charm of young leaves.

Examples:

Along the mountain, a small boat rows—young leaves, ah!

Emerging from the mosquito net, departing Nara—young leaves, ah!

Leaving one Fuji buried—young leaves, ah!

Window light climbs to the treetops—young leaves, ah!

Castle at the summit—imposing young leaves, ah!

Cutting through a snake to cross—young leaves in the valley, ah!

Here and there, hearing waterfalls—young leaves, ah!

When comparing verses on cloud peaks,

Fluttering, the fan waves—cloud peaks. Bashō

Cloud peaks—how many crumble into Moon Mountain? Bashō

Yūryokutei

Lake— / begrudging the heat / cloud peaks. Bashō

The Moon Mountain verse possessed some vigor, yet still could not compare to Buson’s.
Though Buson’s verses were not numerous,

Yōshū’s harbor comes faintly into view—cloud peaks

Cloud peaks—
since the waters of four valleys dried up

*Travel Sentiment*

Twenty days on the road—cloud peaks rise at journey’s crest.

Such as these—all possess ample power, I perceived.
The early summer rains—even Bashō

Early summer rains—blow down the clouds, Oi River! Bashō

Early summer rains—gathering all their force—the swift Mogami River! Bashō

Such as this—there was something majestic.
Buson’s verses proved no less than this.

The early summer rains have crossed the Ōi—how awe-inspiring!

Early summer rains—before the great river, two houses.

Early summer rains—the moat’s imposing fortress, ah!

Evening shower haiku—Bashō composed none.
Buson too crafted but two or three verses on this theme, yet they carried an imposing momentum beyond compare.

Evening shower—the crowd at Monwaki-dono.

Evening shower—
grasping grass leaves,
village sparrows.

Sōrin-ji Solo Composition of a Thousand Verses

Evening shower— / brush never drying / a thousand words

Though Bashō had many verses on the hototogisu—

Hototogisu— / its voice spreads sideways / over water Bashō

—there remained only one such verse of majesty.
Among Buson’s verses,

Hototogisu grasps the bier from between the clouds
Hototogisu cuts diagonally through Heian-kyo
Tomokirimaru’s scabbard flashes—hototogisu!
There were those that pushed things to extremes.
Cherry blossom verses were more numerous in Bashō than in Buson.
Moreover, those that had captured the beautiful essence of cherry blossoms were

From all directions flowers blown into Lake Nio—Bashō
Under the tree—soup and sashimi too—cherry blossoms, ah!
For a while, above the blossoms—moonlit night, ah!
Nara’s seven-tiered—seven-halled temple complex—double-flowered cherries.
They were merely such as these.
When it came to Buson,

Akogusō’s ceremonial robe sways—ah, the scattering blossoms!

Without dancing among the flowers—how I detest this departure, white-clothed dancer.

Through the flower curtain—a woman peers at Kenkō.

Such as this—there were those that attained the pinnacle of bewitching beauty.
In addition, it was Buson who composed spring themes such as the spring moon, spring waters, and late spring with sensuous beauty.

For example:

Pungent aloeswood—
someone dozes beneath
the hazy moon.

Women gathered to worship
the Imperial Palace—hazy moon.

A woman stealing medicine—
there under the hazy moon.

Kawachi Road—
the east wind blows through
the shrine maiden’s sleeves

In Katamachi—chintz
being dyed by the spring wind

Spring waters—under Shijō
and Gojō bridges

Plum blossoms scatter—mother-of-pearl spills across the tabletop.

A camellia blooms—beside the beauty, ah!

Pear blossoms—under the moon, a woman reads a book.

Closed screen’s brocade hangs down—spring evening.

On a bent nail—an eboshi hangs—spring inn.

When someone asked him for a poem—
Blue-robed lady, no reply comes—
A koto’s heart woos the beauty

At my sister’s fence—three-stringed grass flowers have bloomed.

No matter the subject, when compared to the haiku of Bashō or his school, Buson’s positive beauty was something that anyone who perused his collection would surely recognize.
I shall not elaborate on each and every one here.

Objective Beauty

Just as Positive Beauty and Negative Beauty stand in opposition, Objective Beauty and Subjective Beauty also oppose each other to form elements of beauty.
Examining this through literary history reveals that ancient literature predominantly exhibited Subjective Beauty, while each successive era penetrated deeper into Objective Beauty.
When ancient people directly narrated their own emotions stirred by objectivity, it likely became necessary both to console themselves and to make contemporaries—still immature in literature—understand.
This constituted the reason for Subjective Beauty’s prevalence.
Moreover, their depictions of objectivity remained exceedingly crude and unrefined.
It was as though they merely sketched a painting’s outlines and entrusted the whole to viewers’ imaginations.
Attempting to present completeness through partial depiction originated from authorial subjectivity.
Depicting fragments to evoke wholeness appealed to observers’ subjectivity.
Though later-period literature showed no difference from antiquity in portraying objectivity-stirred emotions, by omitting direct narration of resultant feelings and depicting only causal phenomena alone compelled audiences’ emotional responses—as if actual objectivity itself moved them.
This marked how later-period literature renewed its character.
In essence, Subjective Beauty resided not in exhaustive depiction but in entrusting objectivity to imaginative engagement.

Whether Objective or Subjective Beauty holds greater merit was ultimately impossible to determine.
Just as Positive and Negative Beauty should coexist, this too had to stand side by side, with each revealing its own merits.
There were those that might be expressed subjectively, and those that might not.
There were those that might be depicted objectively, and those that might not.
Those that could be expressed needed to be expressed; those that could not be expressed must not be expressed.
And in time, both would each reveal themselves.

Bashō’s haiku, when compared to classical waka, frequently exhibited objective beauty.
And yet they still did not attain Buson’s objective beauty.
Extreme objective beauty is the same as painting.
Not a few of Buson’s verses could be directly transformed into paintings.
If one were to gather all truly objective elements within Bashō’s collection, they would not exceed forty to fifty verses; and if one were to select from these those capable of being transformed into paintings—

Bush warbler— / behind the willow / in front of the thicket Bashō

Plum blossom fragrance— / suddenly the sun rises / on the mountain path Bashō

An old temple’s peach tree— / a man treads rice beneath it, ah! Bashō

Cuckoo— / moonlight filters through / the great bamboo thicket Bashō

A sasare crab climbs up—clear water, ah! Bashō

Rough sea— / across Sado stretches / the Milky Way Bashō

Wild boar too is blown—autumn tempest, ah! Bashō

On the saddle pommel—a young monk rides / pulling daikon radishes Bashō

Salted sea bream’s gums too chill—the fish shop (Bashō)

—one would not find even twenty such verses.

When examining what the monk of Uda had presented as Bashō’s theory,

Spring breeze—through the barley fields flows the sound of water, Kidō.

The Master’s teachings stated: “To treat scenic verses lightly is utterly unthinkable.”
It was a matter of great importance.
In renga, what they called “scenic compositions”—the master poets of old had deeply restrained themselves, never exceeding one or two such verses in a lifetime.
Because beginners found scenic verses easy to imitate, they were strictly warned against them.
Haikai did not go as far as renga.
On the whole, all scenic verses were antiquated.
Because a haiku could not be composed without artistic intricacy, they had strongly emphasized this point.
Kidō’s spring landscape composition was the first verse.
Deeming it worthy to serve as a model for posterity, they sent as commendation a waki verse: “Kagerō hisamu hana no itoguchi” (Mayflies swarm—the budding flowers’ first threads).
The standard verse followed suit.
In poetry, scenic compositions belonged to the observational style, as Lord Teika stated.
Jakuren’s “Sudden Rain” and Lord Sadayori’s “Uji’s Fish Weir”—these were observational-style poems.

So it was written.
What are called scenic verses, scenic compositions, and observational style—all these are what I term objective.
From this, it became clear that Bashō had considered objective description difficult.
Though Kidō’s verse was not a bad one, Bashō’s discernment in regarding this single verse as supreme proved exceedingly low and utterly immature.
Although many of Bashō’s disciples created more objective verses than Bashō himself, since their depiction of objectivity remained incomplete, they still fell short of transforming these directly into paintings.

The painterly aspects of Buson’s verses were too numerous to list exhaustively; if I were to cite over ten examples:

Beneath the quince tree’s shade—pheasants huddle with faces hidden.

On the temple bell alights and sleeps—a butterfly.

Servants' day off—receiving tooth-blackening beneath an umbrella.

Oharame women—all five gathered in lined robes, ah!

Omi Hachiman—shining and rustling, ah!

Beneath the leaves aglow—white flowers on Hikushi visible.

Sushi on the table—eyes chilled at Kangyotei.

Evening breeze—water lashes the blue heron’s shins.

Four or five people—the moon begins to descend upon their dance, ah!

The sun—on Shakanya’s spear a dragonfly alights, ah!

Willows shedding leaves—clear water dries up, stones scattered about.

Khaigane—over spikes of smartweed a salt cart passes

Pot in hand—crossing Yodo’s little bridge, a figure in the snow

Glinting on stones—the sun shines upon the withered field, ah!

In the withered field—wild sparrows pecking—ah!

Waterbirds—a woman washing greens in a boat

Such are his verses.
In that quality of becoming a painting without adding a single stroke to depict each thing, Buson’s verses are more objective than those preceding him.

Human Affairs Beauty

Nature was simple.
Human affairs were complex.
Nature remained silent; human affairs teemed with activity.
To seek beauty in simplicity proved easy; complexity defied such efforts.
Silent things yielded readily to depiction; active ones resisted capture.
In antiquity's age of singular human thought and emotion, those who succeeded in rendering nature likely began with what came easily.
That haiku had manifested natural beauty from its inception was no accident of history.
Yet were one to study even slightly these complex and active matters, their portrayal need not prove entirely insurmountable.
The mere recording of lone mountains, solitary streams, individual plants or trees within haiku's seventeen-syllable cosmos had strained poets to their limits; to compress within those same bounds even a fragment of humanity's ceaselessly shifting, perpetually dynamic existence ranked among literature's supreme challenges.
This constituted the reason so few haiku gave voice to Human Affairs Beauty.
Bashō and Kyorai had weighted their scales toward nature; Kikaku and Ransetsu, straining to portray human matters, tumbled into labored obscurities that left readers wrestling for meaning.
Thus while all others turned toward what they deemed arduous, Buson alone advanced unburdened, striding through difficulties as though they were open fields.
Modern observers beholding this feat likely mistook its apparent ease for actual simplicity.
Yet not even in Buson's wake had any arisen to master this art.

Many of Bashō’s verses addressed human affairs, yet they merely depicted his own circumstances.

On the saddle pommel—a young acolyte sits / amidst daikon pulling.

As in [the example], those existing beyond his own circumstances that even partially incorporated Human Affairs Beauty were exceedingly few.

Buson’s verses—

Departing spring—the poet resents the selector

From the Lady-in-waiting, botamochi presented—oh, equinox day!

Short night—oh, constables washing hands in the river.

A boy pressing about arrow counts—the master’s solemn demeanor, ah!

Water-mist—the revered mistress, a widow of wise stewardship.

Airing day—a nephew monk visits Tōdai-ji.

Gion Festival—a monk comes visiting at Kajikamoto

The girl who wouldn’t eat miso soup—summer writing, ah!

Sushi prepared—soon departed, the fishmonger, ah!

Loincloth—a fan stuck in it, the master of the house, ah!

Green plums—eyebrows drawn together on a beauty, ah!

Traveling players—at barley ears’ base stands a mirror.

How it pierces—treading on my dead wife’s comb in the bedchamber!

At the gate—an old woman greedily gathers firewood in the autumn storm!

Amida Buddha by Eshin—adorned with chestnuts!

Secretary and Rector stroll through the old garden—winter solstice!

Novice monk and Vinaya Master—tumbling over and over into quilts!

Whispers—donning a hood over his haori!

To dutiful children—one quilt each.

Such examples were too numerous to count; though these works did not necessarily require exertion, all vividly exhibited Buson’s distinctive qualities—not a single verse could be mistaken for another’s work.
Though we call it natural talent, it must have been the fruit of seasoned maturity.

The preponderance of spatial elements within natural beauty holds particularly true for haiku. This stems from haiku's brevity leaving no room to encompass time. Thus even when versifying human affairs, that one renders space while omitting temporal dimensions—which ought to characterize such subjects—arises from haiku's intrinsic nature dictating this focus. Though occasional temporal depictions exist, these merely extend present circumstances into past or future continuities. Here stand two of Buson's verses that merit exception.

The couple destined for ritual suicide change into summer robes.

Having concluded their Buddhist debate, they depart together—ah, summer fields!

The former depicts human affairs of the past; the latter portrays human affairs of the future.
That one verse anchors itself in past human affairs while another roots itself in future human affairs makes them kindred works; that their central human affairs represent complexity within the realm of human experience further unites them.
Such creations stand without equal throughout all ages.

Idealized Beauty

The beauty of haiku may be understood as dividing into two types: experimental and ideal.
The distinction between the experimental and the ideal is already inherent in the nature of haiku.
This type of ideal consists in composing about things that humans could never experience or that could never actually exist.
Moreover, there are cases where the distinction between experimental and ideal lies not in the nature of haiku but in the circumstances of its authors.
This type of ideal consists in contemporary people composing about ancient things, depicting the scenery and customs of lands yet unvisited, and portraying the conditions of societies never before seen.
Here, what we call "ideal" stands in contrast to "experimental," while encompassing both.

That literature must rely on experimentation is just as painting must rely on sketching from life.
However, just as painting must not rely solely on sketching from life, literature too must not depend only on experimentation.
If one relies solely on sketching from life, painting will ultimately fail to manifest subtle aesthetic sensibilities; if one relies solely on experimentation, even literature by authors with ordinary life experiences will never escape conventional patterns.
Literature is neither biography nor factual record; while the literary artist’s mind leans on an old desk in a four-and-a-half tatami mat room, their ideals roam freely through the eight directions of heaven and earth, seeking aesthetic pleasure without hindrance.
Without wings, one should soar the skies; without fins, one should plumb the seas.
Without sound, one should hear music; without color, one should perceive hues.
Works attained in this manner invariably possess novelty and ingenuity sufficient to astonish.

Within the haiku world, when seeking this personage, one found Buson alone. Turning to Bashō, examining his work revealed haiku simple yet refined—eschewing ostentation, shunning novelty—each rooted entirely in the actual experiences of his own life. These two poets had truly occupied opposite extremes, sharing not the slightest resemblance—how could this not stand as yet another hallmark of Buson?

Even Bashō initially—

"Irises bloom— / beneath the eaves, a sardine’s skull."

—had composed such ideal verses. Yet once establishing his foothold with "the old pond" poem, he created haiku through unrelenting adherence to factual depiction. Moreover, this factual self sought verses not from all witnessed phenomena but discarded purely objective matters divorced from itself, limiting composition solely to actualities tethered to this self. Viewed through modern eyes, the paucity of that discernment proves truly laughable. Not that Bashō failed emotionally to grasp idealized beauty entire—rather he must have logically concluded ideals held no beauty and decisively rejected them. His circumstances—living unrecognized through perpetual adversity yet disciplined through iron will—likely compelled him to banish literary idealism as incompatible with even momentary falsehood; further observing how Du Fu’s cherished poetry teemed with factual works, he may have naturally deemed haiku should follow suit. Though Bashō’s disciples were legion, none matched his factual rigor; nor do we hear of him disparaging non-factual approaches. While in linked verse he’d seemed intent on encompassing cosmos and overturning eras, in haiku he remained utterly timorous.

To appreciate Buson’s ideals, one need only look at his verses; yet his own account of having once instructed Shōha reveals Buson himself with striking clarity.
He wrote:

[Excerpt] He sought Saikaku, visited Ransetsu, invited Sodō, and accompanied Onitsura—meeting daily with these four elders to briefly escape the realm of urban fame and profit, roaming gardens and mountain streams, drinking wine at waterside banquets while conversing and composing verses that prized spontaneity above all. After many such days, he met the elders again; their refined appreciation remained unchanged. Closing his eyes to labor over a verse and opening them once it was found—in that instant, the four elders vanished. Unknowing where they had transformed into immortals and departed, he stood alone in bewilderment as flower-scented winds harmonized and moonlight floated upon water: this was haikai’s true homeland. [Excerpt]

Buson demonstrated to Shōha how to unearth idealized beauty.
The ineffable subtleties of an ideal—unfathomable through brush or speech, ultimately unteachable as Wheelwright Bian’s woodcraft—nevertheless found no lack of methods to induce sudden enlightenment beneath a single strike.
Buson explained this ideal matter in an ideal manner.
And whether such writings were explanatory or literary, when it came to texts expounding ideals of this nature, throughout two thousand years I had seen nothing like them.
What a remarkable composition!

If one were to list examples of Buson’s haiku that appear to embody his ideals:

Ah, the inn where kappa love beneath the summer moon!

Ah, returning Fuji to the lake—early summer rain.

Ah, the harvest moon— / rabbits crossing Lake Suwa.

The south-pointing chariot retreats to barbarian lands—ah, the haze!

At the waterfall’s edge, voices calling for a lamp—spring rain.

White plum blossoms— / ink’s fragrance at Kōrokan.

To Sōkan, kudzu waters bestow—ah, the minister!

Sanekata’s long chest passes through—ah, the summer field!

Asahina visits Soga—ah, the first bonito!

Yukinobu swats a fly—ah, the inkstone!

Wriggling larvae water—Chōsa’s back-alley tenements.

Had a disciple shave the highway robber—autumn journey.

Onitsura—

To Toba Palace—five or six horsemen hasten through the autumn tempest!

Shin’emon invited superfluity—ah, the winter solstice!

Cold moon—after the monks’ heated debates have passed.

Mount Kōya

Living in hiding—Sanada chants to the blossoms, ah!

Those who could manifest ancients within seventeen syllables by borrowing from history—these sufficed to reveal his technical mastery.

Complex Beauty

In eras when thought was simple, it was natural that tastes in art and literature favored simplicity.
When one observes how simple our nation’s waka poetry remained for over a thousand years, the stagnant state of people’s intellectual development becomes transparently clear.
Amidst this, haiku—despite their formally simple structure—sought to manifest designs more intricate than waka poetry by borrowing Chinese-derived vocabulary and even employing awkwardly literal syntax; yet this remained but a transient phenomenon, while the old pond verse ultimately ascended to be revered as haiku’s central icon.
Though the old pond verse could not even be compared to the simplicity of the poem "the mountain pheasant’s tail dragging through the foothills," it still ranked among the simplest within haiku.
Bashō took this as his own attainment and never composed complex verses for the rest of his life.
The disciples did not necessarily learn Bashō’s simplicity; yet they remained far from attaining the pinnacle of complexity.

Bashō said, “A haiku is most refined when it flows smoothly from beginning to end,” and instructed his disciple Shadō: “A haiku is not something like you do—gathering two or three things together—but should be like hammered gold stretched thin.”
As for Shadō’s verses that gather two or three things—

Pigeons cooing—ah, Shibugakihara’s buckwheat field.

Stubble— / above the rice paddy / autumn clouds.

Likely being of this type, Shadō also appears to have frequently favored employing this poetic method.
However, these verses of Shadō’s not only cast a unique brilliance among Genroku-era haiku but also, in terms of their quality, haiku like *Pigeon Cooing* and *Stubble* are by no means inferior to Bashō.
When we observe that Bashō did not praise these unique aspects but rather sought to reject them, he appears akin to one who failed to comprehend complex beauty.

Bashō did not proclaim any fixed truth but instead made it his custom to impart teachings that varied according to the times and the individual. When Bashō instructed Shadō, it was not to reject these excellent works but rather to caution against their excessive use. When Kyoroku stated, “Haiku are compositions of combined elements,” and Bashō countered with “Do people not realize there exists something as splendid as this?,” we see that he did not categorically reject combination. However, the combination discussed here refers to a combination of two elements, not three as in Shadō’s case—a fact made clear by examining Bashō’s and Kyoroku’s verses. Bashō also said to Bonchō, “Haikai is indeed part of waka; one should compose each verse with a *shiori* (poetic pivot).” There is something to be understood here regarding this matter. Bonchō’s verses are not so complex as to warrant such a description; yet like Shadō and others, their poems are rich in material, greatly differing from the Bashō school’s approach of mediating through function words. Bashō, in response to this, urged that a touch of waka’s essence be added—indeed, Bashō was one who concluded that haiku must not lack simplicity, thereby delimiting the scope of beauty himself. Such was already Bashō’s way. After Bashō came nothing worthy of mention.

Buson arose.
The gentleness of waka, worn thin through endless repetition and overfamiliarity, had reached the extreme of decay in its chaotic stench.
Though haiku—having arisen to replace waka while incorporating some of its essence—flourished during the Genroku era, after Shiba they gradually decayed until there remained no path to salvation.
There, Buson seized upon complex beauty and bestowed new life upon haiku.
He rejected the simplicity of waka and borrowed the complexity of Tang poetry.
He grew weary of our language’s flexibility and verbosity, supplementing its deficiencies with concise, vigorous Chinese-derived vocabulary.
The undertaking that Kikaku’s faction had toiled over only to end in failure was effortlessly accomplished by Buson.
Heedless of public attacks and casting aside the age-old standard that beauty must be simple, Buson’s achievement in brilliantly realizing complex beauty must not be forgotten.

Bashō's verses were all simple.
If one were to insist on seeking complexity within them,

Bush warbler—

Azaleas arranged—in their shade, a woman tears dried cod.

Hideaway—

would have amounted to no more than a handful of verses.
The complexity of Buson’s haiku holds true throughout their entirety.

From among them, if I present a few verses:

Grass in haze—
Swallows cry—
Pear blossoms—under the moon, a woman reads.
Moon after rain—who goes there? Pale shins returning through night.
Pressing sushi—I brew sake; next door, a neighbor.
May rain—
Steaming grass—a sign stands: "People die."
Autumn wind—
A deer—
Snipe distant—urging on the hoe, water’s undulation.
Willows scattering—clear water dries up, stones here and there.
Water parched here and there—is that smartweed? Or not? Buckwheat? Or not?

Detesting me—the neighbor clangs a pot in the cold night.

The marvel of having intricately woven phrases like "grass in haze," "moon after rain," "striking snakes at night," and "treading coins in water" within five or seven syllables of a single verse ultimately defied comprehension by those who championed verses "flowing smoothly from the beginning." What those people could not comprehend—and indeed, what even Shadō and Bonchō never glimpsed in their wildest dreams—was precisely this. Objective verses tended toward complexity. The complexity of subjective verses...

To my drifting self—

When it came to such verses, there existed nothing comparable in Buson's collected works; had Bashō been shown these, he would surely have stood bewildered and at a loss for words.

Detailed beauty

What is broad in scope we term complex; what is meticulous in detail we term detailed.
The marvel of detailed beauty lies in rendering impressions distinct.
Though the coarseness in Bashō’s descriptive narratives that nonetheless excelled in poetic elegance was something he deliberately cultivated, this stemmed partly from his unawareness of detailed beauty.
When seeking instances of detailed beauty within Bashō’s collected works—

Holding a rice dumpling in one hand—forelock caught between fingers.

Early summer rain—traces of peeled-off color paper on the wall.

—one finds only what might be considered such by relative measure.
If we seek examples of this in Buson’s collected works,

Bush warbler sings—its tiny beak agape

Ah, dreary—camellias fallen and heaped in the southeast garden

On gaunt shins' hairs—a faint breeze; changing robes

Facing the moon—to you, the spray of a casting net

Crossing summer's stream—joy of straw sandals clutched in hand!

Offering sweetfish—passing by unstopped at midnight's gate

Evening breeze—water strikes blue heron's shins

Dripping water strikes—snail withdraws into shell

Mosquitoes hum—honeysuckle flowers scatter each time

Green plums—a beauty gathers brows in furrows

Peonies scatter—two-three petals pile layered

Karakusa pattern—peonies glorious on futon

Pulling hood over—ears made poignant

Midoriko's hood—deep-browed compassion

Properly tied tabi—how unseemly the server!
Teeth bared—gnawing ice from the brush this night!

Tea flowers—winding around stones to choose the path.

Equal—so many there were.

In the southeast garden, the fallen camellias—anyone could have conceived of that scene. One cannot truly call it "burying." Had a poet strained to depict burial, it would have descended into vulgarity. That Buson employed syllable surplus with "ochi-utsu to" yet handled "utsu" with lightness—this demonstrated his poetic mastery. Though not an exceptional verse, that he described it as "burying" without succumbing to vulgarity arose from his understanding of detailed beauty. Buson keenly recognized how meticulous verses risk banality; those later haiku poets who pursued detail only to grow more vulgar surely failed to grasp this refined beauty. A master's genius reveals itself in their very plainness and seeming artlessness. To critique Tang poetry through the Tang Poetry Anthology or judge painters through exhibitions—this requires little insight. Those who fixate solely on Buson's finest verses do not truly perceive Buson.

"If one were to clumsily extend even something like 'straw sandals in hand,' it would become dreary." What could be stated briefly he expressed at length as "the joy"; what could be elaborated he condensed into "straw sandals in hand"—was this not where the master artisan's painstaking effort lay?

As for the verse "Offering sweetfish," such conception had never existed since ancient times; even had there been attempts, one could not have achieved "passing by without stopping." Were an ordinary person to compose this, they would have made the sweetfish offering itself the central element. That was ordinary. Passing by without stopping—depicting scenes, capturing emotions, rendering time—he added a measure of elegant charm.

Even if one were to contort their face or crease their forehead, such efforts would fail to clarify the impression; though describing the same phenomenon, the single phrase “furrowed brows” conjured the beauty before us as vividly as if she stood there.

It was the ancients who composed verses about enduring the cold of night vigils by pulling up futons, but it was Buson who first described the futon itself in a single verse.

“The seven characters ‘hood-deep eyebrows’—were someone to contort them, laughter would ring out.”

Properly tied tabi socks—who would think to make even this a subject for haiku?
I had studied this verse thoroughly—and yet even then I could not help but marvel at how this matter came to be grasped.

Teeth bared—

The cold that pierces the teeth—one should fully grasp it.

Terminology

The beauty of design in Buson’s haiku had already been discussed.
The beauty of design was the foundation of literature, and the power to move people also largely resided there.
However, unless the beauty of diction and poetic structure accompanied this [beauty of design], not only would the fresh beauty of design fail to be activated, but one might even feel that very design had taken on a kind of detestable vulgarity.
Buson’s terminology and poetic structure were those most suited to manifesting his designs, and moreover, many belonged to his own creative style.
To outline its terminology:

(1) Chinese-derived vocabulary was something Buson gladly employed, and there were even those who had come to mistakenly regard its frequent use as Buson’s sole distinguishing feature. One must recognize how greatly this single matter attracted people’s attention. Though Buson’s use of Chinese-derived vocabulary stemmed from various advantages, it was primarily because these terms were more concise than native ones; to encapsulate complex designs within seventeen or eighteen characters, such brevity became indispensable. Moreover, there was the benefit that if one used concise terms, narrative description could be rendered with precision.

The compass chariot taken to barbarian lands—ah, the haze.

Sitting in the pavilion—distant frogs heard this night, ah.

Gion—a mirror—a beard; fallen petals twisted there.

Sushi tub brought here—under the tree, a camp stool.

Mii-dera—the sun approaches noon; young maple leaves.

Yuzu flowers—inside the fence, a fine sake brewery brews.

Eyes, ears, lungs, intestines—here jade-rolled at Bashō-an.

Gathering water shield—the rustic man of Hikone sings, ah.

Onitsura—dwelling in poverty amidst new sake.

The moon at zenith—passing through an impoverished town.

Autumn wind—at the tavern singing poems, fishermen and woodcutters.

Wild geese cry—on Lake Biwa, fish grilled on a boat.

Such were these examples.
However, if one were to indiscriminately use Chinese-derived vocabulary merely because it was necessary, and thereby disrupt a verse’s harmony, such a verse could not be called a good one.
As for a term like “barbarian lands”—too archaic for ordinary use—it was because “compass chariot” appeared above and a Sinicized expression like “taken away” lay below that the verse achieved harmony.
The term “fallen petals” resonated harmoniously with “Gion” and “mirror,” and were the term “Bashō-an” absent, one could not have positioned “eyes, ears, lungs, and intestines.”
The term “Gathering water shield” could not have been expressed without Chinese-derived vocabulary; yet this term alone did not harmonize with native language.
Therefore, he deliberately employed the term “rustic man.”

The second [reason] was not that it could not be expressed in the national language, but rather that there were cases where using Chinese-derived vocabulary better manifested its design. Verses that had intensified their force through the use of Chinese-derived vocabulary:

May rain—before the great river, two houses.

Evening shower—the brush not yet dry, a thousand words.

Hototogisu—along Heian-kyō’s crisscrossing paths.

Summit castle—reassuring young leaves, ah.

Across a hundred ri—rain clouds shun the peonies, ah.

“If one says ‘Ōkawa’ [great river], the water’s flow feels lukewarm; if one says ‘Taika’ [mighty river], the water’s flow feels swift; if one says ‘itadaki’ [summit], the mountain does not seem steep; if one says ‘zetchō’ [peak], the mountain’s steepness is felt.”

Verses made stately through the use of Chinese-derived vocabulary

Mosquito-repelling incense offered at the monk’s seat, ah.

Master Diviner beneath the trees' gloom—a visited countenance

The term “at one’s seat” conveyed a degree of respect toward the monk, while “Master Diviner” sounded more dignified than “fortune-teller” and resonated well with “a visited countenance.”

Silently, in the lull between guests—peonies, ah.

Desolate—the sun sets on stones in the withered field, ah.

In cases like ‘Desolate—’ [using] ‘silently’...
“Loneliness” and similar terms would have made little difference in effect, yet Chinese-derived vocabulary remained more fitting.

The third category consisted of those employing Chinese idioms—cases where using such idioms created interest or where they could not be employed except in their original form.
Cases where Chinese personal and place names were used and ancient events and landscapes of China were depicted went without saying; there were also not a few cases where references to our country’s matters were made.
Those verses:

Going, going—here I go on through the summer field, ah

Morning mist—the sound of stakes being driven clang clang.

The biwa’s flow—silk tearing—autumn’s voice.

The hauled-up sea bass's gaping mouth—spits out a jewel, ah.

Three garden paths end in ten steps—smartweed flowers.

Winter seclusion—under the lamp, "I write" is inscribed.

From Wabi Zenji—carving the Hoary Head verse onto salmon.

Autumn wind—the people of Wu would not know of pufferfish soup.

In addition to the three types above,

Spring waters—under Shijō and Gojō bridges

In this verse, though it could have been rendered as "haru no mizu" (spring water), such phrasing would clash discordantly with "under the bridges," so he likely opted for "shunsui" (spring waters). However, had there been no terms like Shijō and Gojō employing kan’on (Chinese-derived readings), he would not have used “spring waters.”

Hanging the mosquito net—within the house, perhaps crafting verdant hues.

Particularly, "suimi" (verdant hues) was a pun where the character "sui" (翠) played on the color of the mosquito net.

Fragrant breeze—lanterns refuse to stay lit at Itsukushima.

"The phrase 'kaze kaoru' ('wind perfuming') was commonly used in haiku, but if one simply stated it as such, the sense of 'perfuming' became too pronounced, making the verse difficult to compose."
Since it was used merely to convey the sense of 'summer wind,' nothing surpassed combining them into the name *kūfū*—a distinct type of wind.
It must have been Buson’s keen insight that noticed this early on.

(2) Archaic language was also something Buson favored using.

Chinese-derived vocabulary—which the Kikaku faction had overused during the Enpō and Tenna eras without ever achieving harmony—even Kikaku himself ceased employing it thereafter—was only successfully realized with Buson.
Archaic language—which in the Genroku era the Bashō faction had attempted to harmonize with common speech and achieved full success—had now been advanced yet another step through Buson.

Swimming time—the frog’s helpless state, ah.

From the Lady-in-Waiting—botamochi offered for the equinox, ah.

The Mother of the Wardrobe—ah, she was of the Fujiwara clan.

Pure white rice—one shō measure and sushi’s meal, ah.

Shaking the backpack—earth-trembling summer field, ah.

Evening faces—there might be some blooming yellow.

Chilled by the night, the young courtier lies down—north-facing pillow.

The high lantern is about to go out—countless times.

Migratory birds—at clouds’ edge, a brocade, ah.

May the Lord acknowledge Ōtaka’s this year’s rice harvest.

Among the archaic terms employed by Buson were those from the Fujiwara period, those from the Hōjō-Ashikaga periods, and indeed many that had been used in translating Chinese texts—archaic terms thus Sinicized.
In any case, it was through Buson’s efforts that archaic language previously absent from the haiku world had been extracted with mastery.
Those who merely employ Chinese-derived vocabulary and idly craft contrived phrases, claiming thereby to have grasped Buson’s essence, have not yet comprehended the other half of his genius.

(3) It was also Buson who first began employing the most colloquial of colloquial language.
In the Genroku era, haiku had balanced archaic and colloquial language; however, after Kyōhō, when they fell into the hands of uneducated dilettantes to be trifled with, archaic language gradually vanished while colloquial terms proliferated—coupled with vulgar composition, they became purely crude haiku. Yet even this colloquial language was not necessarily employed by choice; rather, being ignorant of archaic terms, they unwittingly descended into baseness. Hence, the colloquialisms they used seem to have been selected from those closest to antiquity within colloquial speech; as for the most vulgar everyday utterances—not only were these originally unused, but they even rejected them as too vulgar.
Even authors of the Danrin school, despite their comically exaggerated compositional techniques, did not employ this most vulgar of colloquial language.
The skill of Buson—who took the most extreme colloquial language that even the Bashō school, Danrin school, Arashi faction, and Shibaku faction found difficult to employ and calmly inserted it into haiku—was truly beyond measure.
And when one sees how this colloquial language, far from being vulgar, instead vibrates with life—transforming decaying grass into fireflies and drawing lotuses from muddy waters—who could fail to marvel at such alchemy?

Trying to hammer the protruding stake—ah, the willow.

The housewife at the sake-brewing house—a bit smitten.

The painted uchiwa—even that for Seijūrō—O-Natsu, ah.

Inside the mosquito net—releasing fireflies—Ah, joy!

Japanese irises spread out flatly—the black kite’s tail hung down.

The medicine-taking neighbor’s master—bringing chopsticks.

A temple that lends umbrellas—winter drizzle, ah.

Might not Issa’s use of colloquial language in later generations have originated from these very verses?
The “Medicine-Taking” verse ranks as the most vulgar in Buson’s collection—unbearable at first glance—yet one cannot deny that Issa likely found inspiration precisely here.
To be sure, Issa’s works are not without masterful moments; yet when viewed holistically regarding poetic structure, they lack the disciplined compression of Buson’s verses like “Brewing Sake”...
[Works] such as “Painted Fan” want tautness; in compositional design, they lack the refined sensibility seen in “Irises” and “Winter Drizzle.”
Buson wielded both Chinese-derived vocabulary and archaic language to their limits.
Even Chinese terms prone to stiffness avoided awkwardness under his hand.
Archaic expressions inclined toward verbosity escaped prolixity through his craft.
Colloquialisms tending toward crudeness shed vulgarity through his artistry.
Apart from Issa in colloquial usage, he had no rival in either Chinese diction or antique phrasing.
In diction alone, Buson stands unrivaled in haiku’s realm.

Poetic structure/composition

Poetic structure refers to the connection of language. The poetic structure of haiku became established during the Jōkyō and Genroku eras and remained entirely unchanged through the Kyōhō and Hōreki periods. Rather than evolving during Genroku, it even lost what changes it had made—leaving only hollow phrases like "What..." "What..." It became an utterly monotonous expanse, with only occasional instances of the Danrin faction and Onitsura's circle dabbling in eccentricities. At this juncture, Buson attempted various innovations in poetic structure, creating numerous works in either Chinese poetic or classical Japanese styles that predecessors had never before composed.

Spring rain—the wavering moon at mid-sea.

Spring breeze—the embankment stretches long and the house lies distant.

Pheasant shot—on the homeward path the sun hangs high.

In the Tamagawa—Takano’s flowers flow away.

Gion and Kagami—twisting fallen blossoms into beards.

Cherry-blossom viewing—the beauty’s stomach grows empty.

I meant to depart—yet stayed on at the plum inn.

Rapeseed blossoms—the moon in the east, the sun in the west.

At the temple’s back gate—mugwort encountered.

Echo—southward, whither? Spring’s end.

Facing the moon—to you casting a net’s water-spray.

Kakeko incense—the mute girl's character forms
To inscribe a poem on the stone pressing sushi
Summer mountain—a heron flies across all Kyoto
Asakawa—young leaves spreading west and east
At the mountain’s foot—my buckwheat stands—typhoon winds
Orchid evening—burning the kyara incense given by a fox
The fisherman's house cold—burning snow on the head with sake

Two hoods—one I will offer to someone.

I too shall die and lie by a monument—withered pampas grass (Bashō’s Monument)

The likes of these were poetic structures derived from Chinese texts.
Buson most frequently employed this type of poetic structure.

Dawn—fish escaped from cormorants lie shallow.

When the sushi tub is washed—fish lie shallow, ah.

An old well—

The use of pithy expressions such as “fish lie shallow” and “sounds grow dim” had been derived from Chinese poetry.
Traditional Japanese literature had yet to employ this kind of ingenuity.

Heat haze— / a nameless insect flies white.

No bridge—spring water as dusk approaches.

Poppy flowers—the crooked fence cannot possibly be.

The likes of these were structures derived from classical texts,

Spring water—in the back garden I think to create a rice field.

White lotus—the monk’s figure intent on cutting

This "tozo omou" was something taken from waka.
In addition,

Robes changed—on the field path, people faintly white.

Mosquitoes whine—each time the honeysuckle flowers scatter.

Water drying bit by bit—is that smartweed or not? Buckwheat or not?

There were those like these.

Since the Genroku era, descriptive adjectives had been scarcely used in haiku except when absolutely necessary.
They merely served to needlessly occupy space, such that their presence or absence made little difference in meaning—this was likely the intention.
However, descriptive adjectives prove highly effective when used to invigorate verses and clarify impressions.
Buson skillfully employed these, excelling particularly in using simple descriptive terms within the middle seven syllables.

Water’s spray—the master’s astute widow—noble lady.

Nunnery—a well-wrought mosquito net hangs in the moonlit eve.

Yuzu blossoms—

Holding a hand-candle—fetching out a good futon in night’s chill.

Midoriko’s hood—deep-browed pathos.

Properly tied tabi socks—how graceless the service!

Returning to lodgings—the kotatsu’s welcoming nook

Those who used postpositive adjectives often introduced slackness into a verse’s momentum, rendering it defective instead.
They fell far short of matching Buson’s conciseness and precision.

Buson’s verses were tightly composed and unshakable—this constituted their distinguishing trait.
Thus they contained few intangible terms and many concrete ones.
Terse expressions predominated; prolix ones were rare.
Yet he possessed one idiosyncrasy: regarding certain adjectives, he showed no aversion to their length and frequently positioned them at a verse’s conclusion.

Azaleas blooming—the stone shifted, oh the joy!

Robes changed— / the villagers of Yase, oh the longing!

A pale-faced child’s joy—oh! Pillow mosquito net

Early summer rains—having crossed Ōi, oh the wisdom!
Summer river crossed—oh the joy! Straw sandals in hand.
The sound of small birds coming—oh the joy! Plank eaves.
The sound of a saw—oh the meagerness! Midwinter midnight.
Such as these are.
If, when ordinarily feeling happy, one were to simply say “happy,” the haiku would become insipid—let alone prolonging it to “oh the joy”; that would be all the more so.
Buson’s verses employing “oh the joy” only when unable to express emotion without it—these never casually placed this phrase.
What was even more surprising was that Buson employed the particle "ni" at the conclusion of a verse.

For example:

Returning geese—the moon over each rice field on a cloudy night.

Rapeseed flowers—the moon in the east, the sun in the west.

Spring night—in the midst of evening-dawn.

Plowing fields—
Cuckoo—slantwise across Heian-kyō
Mosquitoes whine—each time honeysuckle flowers scatter
Peonies in the spacious garden—in one corner of sky
Moon at the hermitage—when you ask for the master, he's out digging potatoes
Fox fires—on a night when rain pools in a skull

Should an ordinary person attempt to emulate this poetic method, they would surely meet with failure; that one can command a verse through particles at the end is precisely what makes Buson Buson.

Buson favored placing expressions like "-like manner," "-prone," "-face," and "-heart" in a verse’s final five syllables.

Three bowls of zōni eaten—such a wealthy air!

The boy pressing about arrow counts—the expert’s bearing.

The bush warbler flits here and there—a scattering of humble dwellings.

Red beans sold—the small house’s plum tree heavy with buds.

Plowing—the master’s face amid five koku of millet.

Swallow—in the rice paddy wind / a wind-buffeted face

River fishing—
the person on the upper floor's recognizing face

Fortune-telling—
in the shade under the trees
the visitor's face

Departing spring—
the weighty biwa's embracing heart

Evening-face flower—
a cat chewing on blossoms, distracted heart

Desolation and daytime—the sushi's seasoned adjustment

Moreover, there were also instances where such terms were employed in the middle seven syllables.
The many later vulgar haiku poets who composed verses with "something-heart," "something-manner," and such terms were vulgar and deserved contempt.

Over-matured sushi—the master's lingering resentment

Peonies at the temple—having passed them by, lingering resentment

Having obtained kudzu—distant from Kiyomizu, lingering resentment.

The phrase “lingering resentment” (恨かな), too, likely derived from Chinese poetry.

Verse Rhythm

Haiku before Buson often had both their form segmented into 5-7-5 breaks and their meaning divided accordingly. Even those that should occasionally be seen as exceptions still—

Departing spring—birds sing, fish’s eyes are tears. Bashō.

Pine wind—whether fallen leaves or the water’s sound—coolness.

Pines and cedars praised—the sound of fragrant wind. Bashō.

Such verses mostly contained cutting words like "ya" or "ka," and even when they did not, one observed that their seven-syllable phrases invariably split into 4-3 or 3-4 segments.

In Buson’s verses,

Evening breeze—the water’s blue heron strikes its shins.

Pressing sushi—I brew sake; a neighbor exists.

Miyagino’s bush clover or Sarashina’s soba—which?

there were those split into two and five,

With young leaves—the water white, the barley yellowing.

Willows scattering—clear water dried up, stones here and there.

Spring rain—people dwelled as smoke seeped through walls.

there were also those split into five-two or five-three segments.
This was likely something created by Buson, and it was perhaps vigorously employed by Kyōtai and Ransō.

The rhythmic structure not only followed the 5-7-5 pattern but occasionally formed longer phrases or adopted different rhythms; the 6-7-5 rhythm was frequently employed next to the 5-7-5 pattern.

Flowers trampled—straw sandals visible in morning slumber!

At my sister’s fence—three-stringed grass flowers bloom.

Uzuki eighth day—dies and is reborn: the child becomes Buddha.

A cuckoo calls faintly—a white bird takes flight.

Persimmon flowers ravaged by insects fall.

Love in all its forms—even prayer threads whiter than...

The moon at mid-heaven—through a poor town passes.

Winged ants flying—from the small house on Fuji’s foothills

There were verses in 7-7-5, 8-7-5, and 9-7-5 rhythms.

Dokko’s sickle-head—in the water dispute debate, a frog!

Fortune-telling Master—in the tree’s shadow, a visitor’s face

Flowers scatter, the moon falls—here lies a letter; how wondrous!

Having departed one ri—on my brow, autumn peaks’ cold

At the gate—an old woman gathers firewood; autumn storm!

Exiting the night peach grove—dawn in Saga; cherry blossom people

There existed verses in 5-8-5, 5-9-5, and 5-10-5 rhythms.

At swimming time—the helpless posture of a frog!

Vestiges too—piled earthenware cups at the year-end market

Autumn rain—treading through water-bottom grasses.

The Poria lies concealed; the pine dew fails to emerge.

Wabi Zenji etches verses of white-haired lament into dried salmon.

[Verses] in 5-7-6, 5-8-6, 6-7-6, and 6-8-6 meters, among others, with a concluding six-syllable phrase—

Evening shower—the brush never dried through a thousand words.

Gourds—the silver cat, the golden butterfly.

Tokoroten inverted—the Milky Way three thousand shaku.

Dangobōshi peered through the brazier’s hole.

Such arrangements were not without precedent from ancient times.
The use of a concluding six-syllable phrase in 3-3 rhythm might well have been Buson’s creative innovation.
Examples of this:

The one returning to Saga—where among flowers did they spend the evening?

A line of wild geese—imprinting moon on marginal mountains.

Morning glories—bemoaning indigo at the towel’s edge.

Water dried up—smartweed or not? Soba or not?

Willows scattering—clear water dries up, stones here and there.

Detesting me—the neighbor clangs pots on a cold night.

Frost spans a hundred leagues—in the boat I claim the moon.

There were others with rhythms that differed greatly.

Plums near and far—south they should go, north they should go

Kankodō-ji comes into view—the temple they call Bakurin-ji in the wheat fields.

The hermit is human—the cuckoo, truly a bird.

The wardrobe-attendant mother—ah, she was of the Fujiwara clan.

The most astonishing was

Thud-thud, thud-thud—the sound of the fulling block.

The verse contained sixteen characters yet could be chanted in the 5-7-5 meter.

Grammar

I had previously addressed matters of Chinese-derived vocabulary, colloquial language, and elegant diction. In verbs, auxiliary verbs, and adjectives too, there existed words uniquely characteristic of Buson alone.

To inscribe verse upon the stone weighting sushi

Midoriko’s hood—eyebrows shadowed deep with compassion

Ōyazu the bowyer and his child too had arrived

The cuckoo calls—a courtesan’s song drifts through

Cut the hemp!—the slanting evening sun

Not using “tari” or “nari” but “taru” and “naru,” not “beshi” but “beku,” not “itohoshi” but “itohoshimi”—these appeared to be deliberately employed by Buson. Though predecessors’ verses were not devoid of such terms, they seemed to have used them chiefly as terminal forms. In Buson’s case, one might say he intentionally adopted non-terminal expressions to extend the lingering resonance.

The temple the child longs for—ah, the ginkgo!

I did not know whether there existed any example that used the verb “natsukashimu.” I wondered—could this verb have been Buson’s creation, derived by transforming the adjective “natsukashi”? If this was indeed the case, then Buson must be said to have committed an act of brazen audacity. However, even if those who adopted this term continued to emerge a hundred years later to this day, it remained difficult to predict whether Buson’s coined words would finally secure a corner in the lexicon. In the deeds of great figures, there are moments such as these.

Buson likely knew nothing of classical grammar—or even if he did know it, paid it no heed—producing verses that defied grammatical norms.

"The wardrobe-attendant mother—ah, she was of the Fujiwara clan."

There are such examples.

"How might one draw clear water to my dwelling?"

As seen in these examples, there were many cases outside of Buson where interrogative particles like "how" and "what" were concluded with "kana."

"The Daimonji fires—even Ōmi's sky grows extraordinary."

As for examples like the "ne" [in this verse], they were not without precedent; did Buson use this as a terminal form, or was it a deliberately residual expression, as with the previously cited "taru" and "naru"?

Even if it were the latter case, should grammarians be made to speak on it, they would declare it violated grammatical norms; but did it truly violate them? Must the grammar of poetry be made identical to that of prose? This was a problem demanding thorough investigation.

I remained one who harbored many doubts regarding grammatical theory; nevertheless, I opposed the doctrine that would reject all these haiku for violating grammar.

Moreover, even in ordinary circumstances, examples employing concluding phrases like "narame" existed as early as the Manyoshu.

Loving the differing paces in two plum trees—ah,

At the mountain's foot, my buckwheat persists—ah, the autumn storm!

the "loves—ah"
such as the succession of "persists—autumn storm"

Summer mountain— / a lone heron traverses Kyoto in flight.

such as the succession of “traverses Kyoto in flight”

Orchid evening—the kyara incense given by a fox shall burn.

The succession of phrases like “orchid evening” in [Buson’s work]—derived from Chinese texts—employed poetic structures previously unseen in our language.
These were, of course, deliberately crafted new poetic structures—and many of those that opened fresh frontiers in the Meiji-era haiku world also emerged from these very innovations.

Poetic Materials/Themes

Did Buson believe foxes and raccoon dogs performed supernatural acts? Even if he did not, he clearly delighted in such tales—the manuscript Shin Hanatsumi contained numerous ghost stories in his own hand, and his verses featuring these creatures were far from few.

Before nobles—a fox transformed / spring evening

A fox stealing rice—the sound of pursuit in autumn wheat fields

Fox fires—where in Kawachi’s wheat fields?

Barley harvest—the small farmer who doesn’t drive the fox away

Autumn dusk—a raccoon dog transforms into Buddha—ah!

A raccoon dog knocking at the door—lamented autumn’s passing

Stone-striking—a fox guards the night’s fulling block—ah!

Orchid evening—the kyara incense given by a fox shall burn.

Little fox—choked by what? In the small bush clover field.

Little fox—a hidden face among wild chrysanthemums—ah!

Fox-fires burn nearly to ashes—dried pampas plumes.

Withered grass—the fox’s courier passed by.

Narcissus—a fox plays beneath the evening moon.

Of those who composed works on supernatural themes,

"A temple lends an umbrella that seems transformed— / the winter shower—ah!"

In Nishi no Kyō, there had been a house long inhabited by shape-shifting creatures until their activities ceased; now it stood abandoned.

"Spring rain— / smoke seeps through walls where people dwell—ah!"

He composed verses about animals that, while not foxes or raccoon dogs themselves, might still evoke uncanny associations—

"Water where otters dwell gets channeled to fields / young rice shoots—ah!"

"Otters driven off— / even the old man gets invited / to rice planting—ah!"

"At the inn where a kappa loves— / summer moon—ah!"

"A viper’s snore joins chorus / in silk tree shade—ah!"

"Barley harvest— / a weasel wails at the overseer’s hut—ah!"

"Dusk falls— / bush clover and weasel / at Kōdaiji—ah!"

"A flying squirrel devours songbirds / withered field—ah!"

There were many other verses about dogs, rats, and such. Though these did not qualify as supernatural phenomena, his fondness for employing such animals as poetic material remained one of his distinctive traits.

He frequently employed broad geographical names such as provinces and countries. Though a trivial matter, one wonders if such examples had been scarce before Buson.

Kawachi Road— / the east wind blows through / a shrine maiden’s sleeves.

Pheasant calls—Musashi's grassy fields—Yahata clan.

In Mikawa—Yatsuhashi too near—rice planting—ah!

Yōshū's port begins to emerge—cloud peaks.

Summer mountains—Wakasa people well-accustomed.

Fox fires—where in Kawachi's wheat fields?

Dawn—dew clinging to Ōmi's hemp fields.

First tide—within morning sun—Izu and Sagami.

Daimonji—Ōmi's sky too—no ordinary thing.

Lightning casts a single net—Ise's sea.

Along Kiji Road—a lone wild goose journeys nightlong without alighting.

Insects shrill—a small lantern commuting through Kawachi.

The one who made frequent use of feces, urine, farts, and such was Kikaku. Kikaku’s verses seemed to somewhat pursue peculiarity and appear deliberately contrived. Buson skillfully employed these elements, not only preventing such impure things from becoming dreary but also managing to imbue them with a multitude of desolate and austere sensibilities.

The great man’s excrement lies—the withered field.

The inflated futon sun-dried—Suma village.

A single turd—the mouse spills it on the quilt.

Irises lie flattened—the kite’s tail droops low.

Buson took up materials like excrement while simultaneously depicting upper-class society’s refined beauty with equal skill.

Guarding the august imperial palace through spring nights—

Summoned to lament spring’s end at the abbot’s linked verse.

From the court lady—botamochi delivered for higan.

Voices calling for lamps at the waterfall’s base—spring rain.

A humble cottage shelters nobility beneath the hazy moon.

The young noble emerged to scold flower-viewers.

Short night—the court dancer is granted leave—

Kuzusui—when one pays homage at the palace in the inlet

Lord Inaba’s night of tea service—a hototogisu—

Hototogisu—amber jewels trilling onward—

Beneath the hunting robe’s sleeve—a firefly crawls—ah!

In the wide-brimmed hat—a caterpillar concealed—venerable ones of old—ah!

Harvest moon— / Lord Akizuki's moored boat—ah!

Since no verse of Buson’s lacked novelty, appraising them solely through their novelty fell short of achieving the completeness found in surveying his entire anthology. Though many verses cited from various examples since the outset possessed novelty—thereby obviating any need for special enumeration here—I deemed it necessary to briefly note some previously unmentioned verses among those employing novel materials.

A monk in field-trousers journeys—spring wind.

Heat haze—a person piling soil into bamboo baskets.

Nara Road—an Angelica field’s single tree in bloom.

Field plowing—beneath the placard of Three Articles.

Mikomachi—

Seasonal robes—two acolytes go to buy an inrō—

Cooling on the veranda—hat donned—the linked verse resumes—ah!

Autumn begins—fragrant hot water at Seyakuin.

Autumn begins—what startles the onmyōji?

The Kōga-shū's covert wager—midnight autumn.

Come forth then—I shall present chrysanthemums to the arrow-throwing game.

At Yishui—the deep-rooted flows—Ah, the cold!

In the Hida Mountains—the pawnshop has closed / midnight winter

Dried salmon—Tatewaki-dono’s kitchen.

Not only were these materials scarce in verses before Buson, but even after Buson they could not be employed.

Associative Words and Metaphors/Similes

Though it might seem questionable that Buson composed haiku prioritizing associative words and other lexical play, these verses' ingenuity—leaving no trace of artifice while avoiding vulgar Danrin or Shiba-style works devoid of taste—nonetheless suffices to reveal his technical mastery.
Verses using associative words:

Spring rain—a hood worn against the falling drops—ah!

Grasping at the heart's darkness—a firefly—ah!

Half a day's leisure—the enoki tree and cicadas' drone—ah!

Dedeshiya—spring rain falls steadily on old wicker baskets—ah!

Taking the shortcut—joyous field of azaleas—ah!

Matsugaoka—grumbling fools brew their amazake
Snail—Kikaku’s characters smudged in writing
Wild orange—twilight at the old hall
Wild orange—a lined garment like a basket—ah!

Ichi-hachi— / resembling his father Shaga— / Shaga’s flower—ah!

Summer mountain—

Waterweed blossoms— / the moon, split from a fragment, / clears as well—ah!

Don’t forget—the hour when porters meet the hototogisu!

Angular characters—come now, the moon too—Ushi Matsuri.

Another lie—under the moonlit night, a kettle’s drizzle—ah!

Kudzu leaves—their resentful faces in the fine drizzle—ah!

Hood drawn tight—the muffled voice of the Hatsuse monk.

The thirty-third memorial service of Jinshi

Grinding miso in the suribachi—patrolling eyes—the temple's frost.

Or:

On Shirakawa

Kurotani’s neighbor whitens—buckwheat flowers.

There were also instances of wordplay on proper nouns such as these.
Or:

Short night—the eight-voiced bird cries eight times.

Poria hides; pine dew remains unexposed—

Thinking of the ancients who moved bamboo—

Kyorai departs; the transplanted bamboo shifts—how many autumns?

There were also instances of layered characters as in...

Those who employed metaphors in haiku—though such verses might find favor among the unrefined—often descended into specious logic and forfeited aesthetic sensibility. While Buson's verses did at times employ metaphors, his were unconventional yet retained an air of refinement. Moreover, this was something beyond even the wildest imaginings of the Shōha school and their ilk.

Dokko—a sickle-headed frog in endless water debate—ah!

Rice beds—a frog plays on dyed paper—ah!

Tokoroten overturned—the Milky Way spans three thousand shaku.

Evening faces—is that a skull or Hachitataki?

Snail's abandoned dwelling—an empty shell.

On a golden fan—deutzia flowers painted—
Silver deutzia flowers also bloom—ah! Ide no Sato.
Mandarin ducks—the National Teacher’s clogs too of brocade leather—ah!
Covered head to toe in futon—ah, a sea cucumber!
Narcissus—on the shrike’s grass stem a flower has bloomed—ah!

At the dwelling of a certain hermit

Old garden—camellias bloomed as tea whisks—ah!

Since Gandō had long ceased to send word—

What seemed to exist—the fan’s reverse illustration remained uncertain—

Waves churn; from tongue's root crimson lotuses spew.

Yamaō's mouth—peonies poised to erupt!

Anthill

The peony unseals vermilion gates—Ant King's palace!

When [Buson], as Naniwa's former lord, convened haiku masters from across the land for Maruyama's banquet...

Gathering duckweed through puffed cheeks—oh floral feast!

In Sodō's manner

Dried salmon—an axe rings against koto strings.

Era

Yosa Buson was born in the first year of Kyōhō [1716] and died in the third year of Tenmei [1783]. Having maintained a long life of sixty-eight years, he must have experienced various circumstances during that time; yet broadly speaking, he was born during literature and art's decline and passed away as they approached their flourishing. By Kyōhō's era, most talented members of Bashō's school had died, while those like Shikō and Otsuyu who sustained its fading influence only sank it deeper into vulgarity. After Meiwa, haiku—like withered willows putting forth new shoots finally stirred by spring winds—reached its zenith in Tenmei. The haiku world recognizes Genroku and Tenmei as twin golden ages across two centuries. Genroku's prosperity centered around Bashō; though Buson's role in Tenmei differed from Bashō's in Genroku, it was Buson who most powerfully brought about Tenmei's glory. Tenmei's momentum gradually waned through Kansei and Bunka eras, leaving no trace after Bunsei.

Waka poetry had declined further with each successive era since the *Man'yōshū* and *Shin Kokinshū* periods; it was Mabuchi who emerged to barely reverse this decline.
Mabuchi died when Buson was fifty-four—their lifespans having roughly coincided—and Buson likely did not hesitate to appropriate from waka whatever elements could be taken.
Yet that Buson’s verses show no trace of waka’s influence must surely derive from how waka—mired in conventional cadences and devoid of refreshing originality—ultimately proved incapable of enriching haiku.

The Japanese prose of that era largely consisted of pseudo-classical imitations with little merit; yet this very act of imitation may have compelled Buson to employ archaic language and depict ancient scenes. And it seems Buson drew this material from old tales and such.

The aspect in which Buson was most influenced by his era was Chinese studies—specifically Chinese poetry. Moreover, Chinese studies had reached their zenith during Buson’s youth when the Sorai school arose. Buson fully utilized Sorai’s theories, through which he breathed new life into decaying haiku forms. Though Buson did not subscribe to the rhetorical school’s extreme views—as championed by Sorai and others—that demanded prose surpassing the Han and poetry surpassing the Tang, there can be no doubt he regarded poetry transcending even Tang works as refinement’s purest essence. In the preface Buson wrote for *Spring Mud Collection*, he states:

[...] “Neither they nor I know—does any shortcut exist to naturally transform and transcend vulgarity?” To this came the reply: “One must speak of poetry. You already master poetry; seek nothing beyond.” A skeptical voice ventured: “But poetry and haikai differ slightly in their ultimate aims—is it not circuitous to abandon haikai and discuss poetry?” The response countered: “[...] Even purging vulgarity from painting demands laying down brushes to study texts—how much less should poetry and haikai be deemed distant?” [...]

[...] “There is no disputing the reverence for Li [Bai] and Du [Fu] in poetry—yet do not abandon Yuan [Zhen] and Bai [Juyi” [...]

If one reads this passage, it becomes evident that Buson transplanted his appreciation for Chinese poetry into haiku—that he revered Li and Du while disdaining Yuan and Bai.
The Chinese classics were his cherished reading; he grasped their poetic essence with profound depth—a stark contrast to Bashō’s nebulous understanding of Du Fu’s artistry.

Even viewed through the lens of painting, Buson was born at civilization’s nadir and died as its renaissance dawned.
He produced numerous paintings himself and stands alongside Taiga as a master of Nanga painting.
Though Buson contributed modestly to painting’s sudden post-Tenmei flourishing—an efflorescence that inaugurated art history’s new epoch—his influence here proved trifling compared to his seismic impact on haiku.

The Tenmei era was a time when comic poetry flourished and yellow-cover books finally gained momentum.
However, these activities had no direct relation to haiku.
That this era achieved a comprehensive flourishing of literature and art was driven by a grand current destined to invigorate literary fortunes—a current which itself likely arose in no small part from the mutual influences exerted among various forms of literature and art.

The haiku poets with whom Buson associated were Taigi, Ryōta, Kyōtai, and others; among these, Kyōtai appears to have emulated Buson, and while Ryōta may at times have secretly studied Buson’s style, as for Taigi—whether he guided Buson or was guided by him—we cannot now determine.
In any case, I believe there may well have been some part where Buson was guided by Taigi.
However, that he did not receive much from his teacher Hajin can be understood by observing that he achieved success in his later years.

Biography, Character, and Related Matters

Yosa Buson spent his childhood on the outskirts of Keimatō, near Settsu Naniwa, as seen in his Spring Breeze at Horse Embankment. In a letter he presented to a certain individual, he wrote about this poem: "Batei is Keimatō—that is, my hometown." When he grew somewhat older, he journeyed to the Eastern Capital and entered Hajin’s school to study haikai. Yahan-tei inherited the name of his teacher. It was likely during the Hōreki era that he returned to Kyoto and finally attained mastery in haikai. Yosa Buson fundamentally disdained fame and profit and did not seek renown; however, as a haiku poet, his reputation gradually came to be celebrated among cultured people from all quarters. He passed away on the night of the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month in the third year of Tenmei [1783], and his remains were interred at Kinkoku-ji Temple in eastern Kyoto. He was sixty-eight years old at the time of his death.

Yosa Buson traveled through regions such as Sōjō, Ryōmō, and Ōu, yet he produced no travelogues.
Moreover, there were not many haiku related to those regions.
After returning west, he stayed in Tango for three years, and therefore changed his name from Taniguchi to Yosa.
He may have traveled to Sanuki Province as well—such instances appeared in haiku collections.
When one examines the haiku about Itsukushima, they capture the locale’s charm most exquisitely—it is beyond what mere imagination could achieve.
Could Yosa Buson have also traveled there?
Yosa Buson had a fondness for reading and gathered Japanese and Chinese books indiscriminately, yet he did not fixate on individual words; it was as though he found satisfaction in savoring their overall aesthetic.
The use of archaic language and classical references in haiku finds no parallel example as abundant as in the Buson Collection.

The fact that he did not concern himself with minutiae of wording was evident in his disregard for classical grammar and lack of attention to kana usage, yet there seem to have been many other reasons beyond this. To give one example: in his handwritten *Shin Hanatsumi*,

"Blackberry lilies doing something and whispering—Ōmi! Watakana?"

it reads. While *射干* refers to a type of flower or plant called *hiōgi* or *karasuōgi*, here it was likely an error for *照射して* [illuminating]. There was no reason to think Buson would be unaware of the distinction between "illumination" and "blackberry lily," but given his indifferent nature toward such matters, he likely failed to notice it. Should *Ōmi* too have been written as *daishin*? Even the memory of Hideyoshi writing *Dai-shu* for Ōshū evokes nostalgia—Buson’s free-spirited disregard for poetic conventions belonged to this same category. He disdained even haiku poets publishing personal collections. His character was noble and unsullied; one could see from this that he possessed not a trace of vulgarity. However, while I respect the open-hearted and noble Buson, I cannot help but lament the Buson who was not cautious enough and suppressed his desire for fame too much. Had Yosa Buson possessed even a modicum of ambition to elevate his name in the literary world and leave a reputation for a hundred generations, his undertakings would assuredly not have ceased here. He was likely not content to remain merely a haiku poet. When one observes the overflowing richness of poetic thought and lingering sentiment in *Spring Breeze at Horse Embankment*, it becomes clear that he was no literary scholar to be confined within seventeen syllables. He attempted painting with that momentum but did not achieve great success. If he had been allowed to develop his efforts in haiga, he could have opened a new frontier in Japanese painting—yet even that which might have prevented Ōkyo and his school from monopolizing fame, he did not achieve. I lament for Japanese art and literature.

*Spring Breeze at Horse Embankment* was Buson’s lengthy work—a jumbled amalgam of haiku, Chinese poetry, and sundry forms—that stood as an invaluable key to comprehending him. Among Yosa Buson’s literary works beyond haiku, this alone merited consideration. The sole work that manifested his passion was this alone. *Spring Breeze at Horse Embankment* imitated a Chinese song title, and the reason it had been given this name was detailed in Buson’s letters. The letters stated:

*Spring Breeze at Horse Embankment* (Batei being Keimatō—that is to say, my hometown).

In my childhood, on days when spring’s hues were clear and mild, I would always climb this embankment with friends to play. Below flowed boats traveling upstream and down; upon the embankment passed travelers coming and going. Among them were country girls serving in Naniwa households—girls who cleverly imitated the fashionable hairstyles of Naniwa’s courtesan houses, envying the tragic renown of Denshige Dayū’s love suicides while feeling ashamed of their rustic siblings back home. Yet even they, overcome by nostalgia for their birthplace, would occasionally return to their families—transient figures journeying from Naniwa to their hometowns. To Yahan-tei, manager of the Kyōgen troupe with its trailing props, I beg you to laugh—but in truth, this is but an old man’s helpless groan wrung from irrepressible longing for the past.

In the eighteen poems of *Spring Breeze at Horse Embankment* entitled *Dai Jo Jutsui (A Maidservant’s Declaration)*, it states:

*Servants' Holiday*—departing Naniwa for Nagare River.

Spring breeze—the embankment lengthens endlessly as home recedes into distance.

Beneath the embankment, plucking fragrant herbs;

Thorns and brambles—how heartless! They tear my skirt and wound my thigh.

Mountain stream rocks dotting;

Many thanks to the stones on the water; they taught me not to wet my skirt.

The willow of a lone tea shop has aged.

The old woman at the tea shop，upon seeing me，courteously congratulated me on my well-being and admired my spring garments.

In the shop were two guests；they comprehended Jiangnan speech.

They threw three strings of coins for wine，welcomed me，yielded their seats，and departed.

Old station—three houses；a kitten calls for its wife—the wife does not come.

A hen calls her chicks beyond the fence；beyond the fence，grass blankets the earth.

Chicks flutter，seeking to cross the fence；

Amidst the three-pronged spring grass path，a shortcut greets me.

Dandelions bloom，scattered in threes and fives；the fives are yellow，the threes are white；I recall last year passing this path.

I pity the dandelions—stems short，moistened with milk.

I remember again and again the kindness of my loving mother；in her bosom lies a spring apart.

Spring exists and matures in Naniwa; the plum stands white by Naniwa Bridge at the wealthy family's house—spring sentiments mastered through Naniwa's refinement.

Leaving my hometown while carrying my younger brother through three springs; forgetting roots to take the scion—the grafted plum.

In my homeland where spring deepens, onward I walk and walk again—the willow-lined long embankment path slowly darkens.

Looking up for the first time at my old garden's twilight home—by the door leans a white-haired figure holding my brother, waiting through spring after spring.

Have you not seen the ancient poet Taigi's verse?

On servants' holiday—do they sleep beside a single parent?

Furthermore, there are three *Yodogawa Songs*.
These may be regarded as travelogue-style verse or as mixed-genre lyric poetry.
Alas, Buson was unable to fashion these into a single long poem and pioneer new-style poetry.
Even the accomplishments of Buson—who stands among haiku’s foremost masters—cannot help but astonish with their modest scope when considered as literary works of broader significance.

In the colophon of *Onitsura Kushū*, Buson designated Kikaku, Ransetsu, Sodō, Kyorai, and Onitsura as the Five Masters; in *Shundeishū*’s preface, he honored Kikaku, Ransetsu, Sodō, and Onitsura as the Four Elders.
Among these figures, Buson appears to have held Kikaku in particular esteem, declaring: “Kikaku was hailed as haiku’s Li Qinglian [Li Bai],” and adding: “Each reading leaves me unsated—this marks the very essence of Kikaku’s supremacy.”
Yet he catalogued their flaws as well: “Perusing this collection yields mostly inscrutable verses—those deemed worthy being vanishingly rare,” appraising that “Among hundreds of thousands of lines, fewer than twenty merit acclaim.”
That he judged even Kikaku—the sole haiku master he venerated—to produce fewer than twenty exemplary poems reveals how no ancients commanded reverence in Buson’s eyes.
These titles—Five Masters and Four Elders—were inherently relative accolades; even Bashō’s haiku would likely have drawn from him no more than a derisive chuckle.
With such exacting discernment did Buson survey his predecessors—a vision matched by his technical prowess.
Thus was wrought revolution within the haiku world.

A certain person had what they claimed was an ornamental nail cover from Xianyang Palace, and Buson criticized them, saying: "Had you not called it a Xianyang Palace nail cover, it would have been commendable—how regrettable this seems." One should recognize that Buson was no ordinary man. There was an occasion when Buson received what was called a Goryeo tea bowl passed down from Ōtaka Gengo, but deeming it akin to those Xianyang Palace nail covers, he gave it to someone else. On another occasion at Matsushima, he obtained a petrified wooden plank weighing about ten kin and managed to carry it out to Shiraishi Station, but being unable to endure the fatigue of the long journey, he left it at a traveler’s lodge and returned home, or so it is told. When gathering and reflecting upon these stories, the figure of Buson emerges vividly before one’s eyes.

The name “Buson” likely derived from “the village of Tennōji turnips”—a sobriquet imbued with Japanese essence, yet its written form possessed such elegance that it could not be dismissed as anything less than a Chinese-derived term. In haikai he employed the refined names *Buson* or *Yahan-tei*, but in painting he used various pseudonyms such as *Tora*, *Shunsei*, *Chōkō*, *Sanka*, *Saichō*, *Hekundō*, and *Shikōan*, or so it was said. There existed those referred to as Xie Buson, Xie Yin, Xie Changgeng, and Xie Chunxing; among his disciples were figures like Gao Jidong and Ruan Daoli—this single fact alone made evident that they had received influence from the Sorai school. It went without saying that they had contracted two-character surnames into one; even when looking at the written form, it carried the stench of the rhetorical school.

I have never seen Buson’s paintings; therefore, though it remains difficult to critique them, I have managed to glean some understanding of their designs through secondary accounts.
(Regarding technical aspects like brushwork—these might be sufficiently inferred from examining Buson’s calligraphy and haiga.) It appears Buson devised methods to first immerse himself in the Southern School [Nanzong] tradition before striving to transcend its constraints.
He likely studied Nanzong out of admiration for its abundant elegance.
His efforts to break free from Nanzong probably arose from that school’s coarse brush techniques and limited compositional scope—features inadequate for expressing his own aesthetic visions.
In painting, he manifested the same refined sensibility cultivated through haiku; needless to say, he refrained from copying ancient model sketches or plagiarizing existing designs.
At times he captured rural vistas and mountain village scenery—subjects drawn from personal observation (and absent from traditional painting themes)—thereby attempting to pioneer new frontiers within a painting world mired in Sinocentric fantasy.
At other times he labored to capture temporal essence or apply distinctive color treatments.
(To cite chromatic examples: differentiating spring bud hues by tree species as though separately dyed; depicting trees illuminated by nocturnal lantern light.) His painterly discernment proved extraordinarily refined—utterly beyond the reach of Ōkyo, Goshun, or their ilk.
Yet Buson died without achieving full success, instead clearing space for lesser talents to make their names.

Many who praise Buson’s paintings refer to them as haiga.
Haiga was what Buson pioneered—a form possessing an inimitable elegance.
Yet haiga remains akin to calligraphy in essence, ultimately not true painting; those unversed in painting might mistake it for such, but it is not recognized as such.
Buson’s calligraphy emerged from Chinese calligraphic traditions while bearing a Japanese sensibility.
Unrestrained in all directions yet unfettered by conventions, it shared haiga’s complete freedom from vulgarity.

Buson’s prose flowed with fluency and grace.
Like water seeking lower ground, it coursed without stagnation.
The regret remains that he never produced a single work of pure belles-lettres.

Buson’s haiku that remain today number over 1,400 poems; poets who have left a thousand haiku would not exceed four or five.
Buson was comparatively prolific.
However, a lifetime’s output of a thousand seventeen-syllable verses was not something to be considered rare for a literary figure.
Did not Hōō create over a thousand poems by blending classical and modern styles?
What was truly astonishing was that every single one of Buson’s thousand verses was a masterpiece.
One might suppose that while Buson paid no heed to errors or irregularities, in honing his haiku he comported himself with painstaking care, as though not a single character could be carelessly placed. Observing the works of literary figures of old, we find their output largely a jumble of gems and pebbles—the more prolific they were, the greater grew the tally of both masterpieces and mediocrities.
This was like the Du Gongbu Collection.
Though Buson’s scope was not as grand as Du Fu’s, when it came to all thousand of his haiku being masterful, there was truly no other example to be found.
Was it that Buson’s genius turned every cough and spit into pearls? Did he possess a certain fastidiousness that kept him from uttering any verse that failed to satisfy his heart? Or was it simply that inferior verses were buried, leaving only masterpieces to remain?
I believe all three factors shared a portion of the causes.
Buson’s skill in haiku transcended the haiku world, ultimately beyond the reach of Bashō and Kikaku.
As for linked verse as well, Buson applied his Buson-style and renewed its form.
However, he did not extend his efforts there with the same fervor Bashō had devoted to linked verse.

Those who studied Buson’s haikai—Getsuoi, Gekkei, Shōha, Kikei, Ikoma, and others—all learned their master’s style, but only Jidō ascended to that hall; he inherited the master’s title and became known as the Third Yahan-tei.
How regrettable—he passed away not many years after Buson’s death, and the Buson school of haikai there came to a complete end.

Meiji 29 Draft

Meiji 32 Revision