Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Masaoka Shiki

There was a guest.

I knocked on my thatched hut and discussed haikai.
The guest asked:

“Old pond / A frog leaps in / Water’s sound” — Bashō

“This verse has been celebrated as a timeless masterpiece; even horse grooms and foot soldiers know it by heart,” said the guest. “Yet if one inquires about its meaning, there is not a single person who can explain it. Can I now hear an explanation of this?”

I answered: “The meaning of the Old Pond verse lies solely in what manifests upon its surface; no other meaning exists whatsoever. When common masters pretend this verse contains profound significance—further pretending such profundity lies beyond ordinary comprehension while never explaining it—their motives are twofold: first, to make their idol appear mysteriously profound and thereby deceive the masses; second, arising purely from their ignorance of this verse’s historical context.”

The Old Pond verse became widely celebrated because Bashō himself deemed it the inaugural work of his new style, establishing it as the boundary marking haiku’s first evolutionary phase—prompting later generations to recite it in unison. Yet as eras changed, this commemorative haiku had its original significance forgotten, becoming misunderstood instead as Bashō’s finest verse. This bred countless baseless theories and bizarre interpretations that misled ordinary people.

Therefore, to grasp this verse’s true worth requires understanding preexisting haikai history; its meaning permits nothing beyond stating that one heard a frog splash into an old pond. Add even a hair’s breadth more, and it ceases to be the Old Pond verse’s essence.

Crystal clear—hiding nothing, obscuring nothing, employing no artifice, crafting no verbal twists—this constitutes the verse’s defining trait.

How could there be any other?

The guest nodded slightly, as though he still hadn’t fully grasped it.
Shifting my approach, I declared: “I shall now elucidate the historical context of the Old Pond verse for you.”
“First, you must purge from your mind every haiku verse lodged in your memory—listen to my words with an emptied heart and unclouded mind.”
“Even the Old Pond verse itself must be forgotten.”
“All other haiku verses—whether by Bashō or Buson, ancient or modern, others’ compositions or your own—must be utterly expunged.”
“People today observe the Old Pond verse through the lens of haiku’s matured state—hence their confusion arises.”
“If you now situate yourself in antiquity, when haiku had not yet developed, and heed my words, you will assuredly dissolve your doubts.”
The guest replied, “As you say.”

“To discuss haikai’s history is not my present intent,” I said.
“Yet without expounding this history, you cannot comprehend the Old Pond verse.
Therefore, I shall recount old haikai’s history only to the degree necessary for understanding that verse.
This history—dry as chewing wax—will surely provoke your yawns, but precisely through provoking them shall we draw forth the Old Pond verse’s essence. For now, listen in silence.”

To discuss the history of haikai, one must first discuss renga.
Renga typically consists of alternating seventeen- and fourteen-syllable verses linked together to form a hundred-stanza sequence. Within this structure exist regulations such as fixed positions for moon and flowers, uchikoshi, and sarikirai—though generations of renga masters devoted their efforts to these rules, I shall not speak of them as they are unnecessary for my discussion. Here, it suffices to discuss only the hokku of renga.
The hokku of renga and the hokku of haikai are nearly identical; they do not differ for any compelling reason that they must be different.
However, in its development—since renga originated from waka—it bound itself by using waka's conventional linguistic materials without broadening its scope or enriching its content.
Therefore, the hokku of renga could not ultimately escape banality and ordinariness.
"Imitating the ancients, reusing old phrases, shamelessly committing plagiarism by juxtaposing identical motifs and expressions—even repeating the same motifs and language within their own anthologies as if achieving originality—when viewed from later ages, one cannot help but doubt where they perceived even a modicum of poetic beauty."
The Ashikaga period, when renga flourished, was the era when waka most declined.
The reason for waka’s severest decline lay primarily in its veneration of antiquated forms—rigid adherence to school traditions left practitioners utterly incapable of expressing genuine intent.
After the *Shin Kokinshū* era, school factions clashed fiercely—debating form while neglecting substance, dictating *this* way to compose of flowers and *that* way to compose of moons, restricting plovers to specific locales, confining certain words to certain contexts—until waka became mired in regulations, leaving not an iota of space for further development.
The hokku of renga—born from waka that had thoroughly decayed—not only rotted alongside waka but also saw their decay intensify all the more due to their narrowed scope from the poetic form’s smallness.
When viewed from one perspective, hokku with new poetic forms did produce some slightly novel verses compared to waka’s verbosity; however, these were exceedingly few—for the most part amounting to heaps of banal and ordinary words.
"I shall present examples below to illustrate a fragment [of this]."

Unheard sound—rain knows the flowers' dewdrops. Shinkei

After rain clears, flowers take on color in the evening—Sōgi

Rains and winds too invited the springtime of blossoms—Sōsai

Therefore, O storm! O rain! The time of flowers—Shinkei

If only yesterday's flowers were in the spring rain's garden—Sōgi

How it surges! The fields light green—rain of flowers—Sōyō

If one looks at flowers—an evening rain without people. Sōgi

O heart! The flower's journey sleeps in spring rain—Sōboku

In the rain, yet unforgotten—flowers' abode.—Sōgi

Spring rain—wilted flowers' lingering remnants. Shinkei
In this morning's rain, tomorrow's buds too shall bloom in splendor—Sōchō
How many springs could there be? Not so many—the rain of flowers—Sōyō
Pour down! If only it clears—the spring rain upon flowers—Shōshitsu
In winter rains too—unseen flowers' thousand-dyed hues—Shinkei
When viewing flowers in the rain—not a branch remains bare—Sōchō
Dye forth the flower tree's buds in spring rain—Sōgi

Do the flowers know? Unwet by rain—the tree’s shade.—Same

An evening without rain too—the shade of flowering trees.—Jōha

The hues of flowers—do they deepen through the night? The drizzling spring rain.—Same

Crimson! Blossoms begin to bloom in the spring rain.—Shōshitsu

"Blossom!" it nearly cries—the rain’s voice.—Anonymous

"Blossom!" it urges—the rain’s voice heard.—Jōha

In the rain again—no shade to shelter the flowers.—Anonymous

Mountains! Flower-hued rain in a hazy sky — Shōkyū
Flowers blooming in the rain—an evening of foam snow. — Jōha

The above were verses combining flowers and rain that I had enumerated.
"In general, how similar their conceptions were and how trivial those conceptions must be—how could any reader fail to recognize this immediately upon reading them?"
Among these, the two verses beginning 'Blossom!' were completely identical in conception.
As for verses like Shinkei's 'Therefore, O storm! O rain!'—what else could they be but bats ruling a birdless village?
"I am afraid that even with the single theme of flowers, I have not yet exhausted all examples."
Furthermore, I presented verses about the moon to demonstrate how little they varied.

The rain alone does not think of the moon tonight—ah. Anonymous

Even star names gained renown for a night—the autumn moon. Senshun

Even clouds and mist shroud the moon tonight—ah. Kensai

In showers—even clouds gain renown Sōsai

The moon tonight—only dust remains, not a cloud in sight — Sōchō

On the moon—not a speck of cloud or dust clings tonight—ah. Sōseki

All behold! The famed moon—not a cloud in sight — Sōyō

The clouds’ envy of the moon knows no end tonight—ah. — Sōin

Tonight clears—even clouds gain renown under the autumn moon. Sōgi

Heap up fame! The moon too—one night’s Milky Way — Jōha

The moon—is it not? Tonight buried under a thousandfold snow — Shinkei

On the sun-waiting night’s renowned moon—

Even sunlight awaits the emerging moon’s glow — Jōha

Both grass and trees await the moon—an evening of dew, ah. — Sōgi

The one who dwells on the moon—finds no sky tonight. — Shinkei
Flowers mean cherry blossoms—ah, the moon belongs solely to tonight’s sky. — Sōyō

Spring: flowers; autumn: the moon—tonight as well. — Shōkyū

The moon tonight—the ancient capital’s sky too is gone. — Jōha
A splendid moonlit night—the very heart of autumn’s sky through the ages — Senshun
Light fills even the heavens—a moonlit night—ah. — Shōa
Autumn indeed—the night I saw it? The moon in tonight’s sky — Sōgi
The light that proclaims the moon’s name in the cloud realms — Same
In all directions spills forth its fame—the moon’s cloud realms — Sōseki
Tonight—ah! The same cloud realms’ autumn moon — Shōkyū
The sky—is it not? Tonight’s luminous autumn moon — Shōshitsu

Renowned in name—ah! Tonight’s moon and the capital plover — Moritaka

Not a ripple—ah! The moon at water’s midst—autumn. Anonymous

The moon lingers—one night’s midst amidst pine trees—ah. Anonymous

If asked its name—laurel trees, two trees—the autumn moon—ah. Anonymous

Renowned in name—the moon would break the laurel—ah. Sōgi

A single branch of laurel—ah! Tonight’s autumn moon — Jōha

The moon still shines clear between the trees tonight—ah. — Sōmoku

Fame and fragrance! The moon’s blooming plants—ah. — Jōha

Amidst the water plants—autumn’s moon shines clear. — Genkō

The moon tonight—let us gather jewels too on the shore—ah. — Sōseki

Does the moon know? Tonight has cleared at Mount Ogura — Sōgi

The moon’s name exchanged—Mount Ogura too is gone — Sōmoku

The moon needs no name change—Mount Ogura suffices — Shōshitsu

The monotonous uniformity of renga’s hokku could be largely inferred from these examples alone.
When we considered that the last three verses cited all employed the same related wordplay between “Mount Ogura” and “dimness,” one could not help but be astonished at their complete lack of variation.
However, since many of the verses cited above combined the moon with other tangible objects, they might still be felt to possess some degree of variation.
However,

Fame and radiance—no moon exists solely for tonight — Sōhai

The moon—is it not? Tonight has no equal—ah. — Same

Tonight obscures the year’s moons—ah. (?)

The year’s shadow—ah! The moon that belongs to tonight. — Sōgi

Autumn moon—tonight’s radiance spans a thousand generations—ah! — Same

Do not cloud—your name shall not be renowned, O autumn moon — Same

Famed tonight—the autumn moon’s clarity undimmed — Same

Autumn moon—its very fame needs no explanation, this radiant light — Same

Without mindful intent—moon viewing belongs to autumn’s tonight—ah. — Same

The moon—autumn in its fullest measure—tonight, ah. — Sōchō
The moon tonight—its light shines afar—ah! — Same
Even the line’s end—tonight! How many generations’ autumn moon — Same

The moon tonight—its fame takes precedence—ah! — Same
The moon tonight—its fame has endured through generations of autumn. — Same
The moon tonight—truly there it shines, this radiant light—ah! — Sōseki
The moon’s widespread renown—tonight, ah! — Same
To gain renown—in this way indeed is the autumn moon — Same
Tonight too—how many nights of my life’s autumn moon — Same
The moon’s light awaits a night unexpected today—ah. — Sōmoku
The heart’s essence—clearer than the moon—tonight, ah. — Same

Having passed yet unattained—the moon’s light—ah.—Same

Renowned fame—ah! Still lingering till the last—the midnight moon.—Jōha

Even entering traces—does fame conceal itself? The autumn moon — Same

"Do not lament—even when tonight dawns—the autumn moon — Same

The moon tonight—a light with nothing to ponder—ah. — Same

The moon tonight—when pondered, its light alters—ah. — Same

When we reached this point—where verses so closely resembled one another that one could scarcely distinguish upon first reading whether they were duplicates or separate compositions—it became evident not only that renga’s hokku collectively lacked variation, but also how utterly deficient each poet’s individual verses proved in ingenuity.

The example verses cited above needless to say did not even amount to one percent [of the total], yet there could be none who viewed them without growing weary of their monotony.
If one were to present the massive Great Renga Hokku Anthology and demonstrate how this entire volume had been filled with verses of this sort, who would not have been astonished at its absurdity?"

The renga masters devoted their efforts primarily to commonplace themes such as mist, snow, the moon, flowers, autumn leaves, and cuckoos, while verses on other subjects were found to be exceedingly few. When attempting to discuss the Old Pond verse now, if one seeks frog verses within two hundred years of renga, only...

"A frog croaking in the bush warbler’s chorus—ah!" — Jōha

...there existed only this single verse. How much more so this verse—it did not express the essence of a frog at all, being nothing more than a banal trope cribbed from the preface to the Kokinshu. The extent to which their taste had been immature could thereby be seen.

Such was the monotony of renga.
However foolish the literati of the Ashikaga period may have been, could there truly have been not even one person dissatisfied with this?
The Bunmei and Meiō eras—which might be called renga's golden age—had scarcely passed like yesterday when, even as their lingering momentum showed no decline during the Eishō and Tenmon periods, they already saw signs of a turning point beginning to stir.

Yamazaki Sōkan and Yamada Moritake both emerged during the Eishō and Tenmon periods as those dissatisfied with renga, and together they opened new frontiers in haikai.
Although we cannot specifically hear Sōkan’s views on renga, the fact that he alone engaged in haikai amidst renga’s popularity suggested he perceived haikai’s novelty as somewhat surpassing renga’s staleness—as evidenced by what remains of his verse:

How noisy! Pass through this village, cuckoo—the capital’s fools must be waiting.

In this verse too, it became evident that he was no ordinary literatus who simply parroted conventional patterns. Having rigidly defined flowers as subjects requiring joyful treatment regardless of circumstance, and cuckoos as subjects demanding indiscriminate auditory praise, this critic of contemporary poets and renga masters—who derided their utter inability to comprehend natural aesthetics as "capital fools"—must have found renga's lifeless rigidity profoundly exasperating. When Moritake sought to create a solo thousand-verse sequence, his vacillation between following renga conventions or composing haikai stemmed from renga's established precedents offering safe but uninspired composition versus haikai's enticing novelty hampered by lack of tradition. Being unable to resolve this dilemma himself, he reportedly consulted a divine oracle which mandated haikai composition—thus giving birth to the solo thousand-verse haikai form. Prior to this development, renga masters had occasionally composed haikai hokku. For instance:

As one crossed Marikogawa River again,

"Marikogawa River—crossing its ford again—retracing steps" — Michikuni

Such were the examples.
These were inherently throwaway verses—and even those were scarcely found in any significant number.
When it came to Sōkan, he not only employed haikai in hokku but applied it to renku as well, ultimately compiling them into the single volume *Inu Tsukubashū*.
However, those who organized poems into fifty- or hundred-verse sequences appeared not to have created these; such compilations began with Moritake.
Renku served no purpose here.
I would now examine their haikai hokku in somewhat greater detail.

The haikai initiated by Sōkan and Moritake did not create a new poetic form distinct from renga; they merely employed colloquial language and Chinese-derived terms within the same poetic structure and expressed humorous elements previously absent in verse.
Haikai added novel elements to stale renga, broadened the rigid confines of renga, and imparted humorous devices to solemn renga.
However, haikai could not impart aesthetic interest to insipid renga, nor could it teach realism to formulaic renga.
They merely grasped one aspect of humor—no, only a base fragment within humor—and in terms of dignity and aesthetic taste in verse, they created a form far inferior even to renga; as literary figures, they were woefully ignorant.
As haikai poets, they were far too vulgar.
However, their merit in agitating the sedimented and decayed renga to provide an opportunity for its future renewal holds particular value worthy of being recorded in haikai history; consequently, their rustic verses too must not go unread.

Their haikai—that is, excluding the humor—roughly fell into three categories.
The first type employed personification or metaphor; the second belonged to linguistic play; the third consisted of applications or adaptations of old tales, archaic language, rustic proverbs, and the like—these were the categories.
Those who employed personification:

A frog prostrating itself to humbly present a song — Sōkan

Ill-omened child born and left behind—cuckoo — Same

A storm steals the flowers’ fragrance and dashes off—ah! — Same

The blue willow’s eyebrows conceal—the bank’s forehead—ah. — Moritake

If you are the bush warbler’s abandoned child—then cry, cuckoo! — Moritake

Proclaiming their names—all beneath tonight’s autumn moon — Moritake

Wild pinks— / in the summer field’s expanse / fallen seeds — Moritake

These were of the same type.
In addition to those who employed personification, there were those who used metaphors:

If one were to attach a handle to the moon—what a splendid fan it would make! — Sōkan

If it had no voice—the heron would be but a twist of snow — Sōkan

Falling blossoms returning to their branch—when looked upon, a butterfly! — Moritake

Umbrella— / fold the mirror / this morning’s snow — Moritake

These were of the same type.

Those belonging to linguistic play included:

Throughout the world, what people pound is tomorrow’s edible greens—ah! — Sōkan

Though perfectly round it emerges—ah, this long spring day — Same

A cold spring year

How bitterly long will this storm keep blowing? — Sōkan

A scent residing not in flowers—but in the nose—ah! — Moritake

A voice exists yet unseen—ah! In the forest, a lesser cuckoo — Moritake

These were of the same type.
Those who employed set phrases included:

At times when one dwells on flowers—red azaleas — Sōkan

Who said “Dumplings over flowers”? Azaleas! — Same

These are of the same type.
(There were also those who employed various techniques simultaneously.) Their superficiality and vulgarity were self-evident, requiring no expenditure of critique.

The haikai initiated by those two had been merely something they created for their own amusement—it possessed no disciples, and for some time after their deaths, no one appeared in the world who could inherit their legacy.
The renga deeply connected to the Ashikaga clan declined alongside the clan’s waning power, and when the Toyotomi rose to prominence, Jōha emerged to barely sustain its vitality; yet with the Taikō’s death, Jōha’s passing, and the swift downfall of the Toyotomi, by the time the Tokugawa assumed governance in Edo, renga retained but a hollow semblance of its former self, while Matsunaga Teitoku’s haikai school gradually began to spread throughout society.
Teitoku’s haikai arose during the Kan’ei era.
It was precisely when the Tokugawa clan’s foundations had at last solidified, warfare had barely subsided, and the populace largely yearned for peace that even innocent humor and rustic haikai—perfectly aligned with contemporary tastes—came to be fervently celebrated by society, until finally their influence swelled to dozens of disciples extending their reach across Kyoto and Edo.
Just as the development of the printing industry had brought remarkable progress to general scholarship, haikai too, through this, spread to urban and rural regions alike, swiftly attaining unprecedented prosperity.
When compared to Sōkan and Moritake composing by themselves, listening by themselves—creating alone and delighting alone—the transformation of circumstances and the vicissitudes of fortune differed not merely by a small margin but as vastly as heaven and earth.
However, when comparing the Teimon school’s haikai to Kanbu’s haikai, not only had there been no progress—not even a single step or half-step—they instead produced haikai that grew even more vulgar and even more insipid.
Teitoku could be said to be one who, in attempting to expound upon Kanbu, had merely tasted the dregs thereof.

The haikai of his school—beginning with *Inu Tsukubashū*, *Taka Tsukuba*, and *Keibukusō*—were published across numerous volumes, their wretched verses piled mountain-high without end; though even contemplating them induces nausea, I must tediously list these foul compositions to demonstrate how such dregs once dominated the literary world—for unless this is shown, one cannot fully appreciate Bashō’s aesthetic brilliance when we finally reach him.
The guest had to suppress a yawn and listen.

The types of humor were nearly identical to those previously explained.
Those employing personification included:

Butterflies come to the flowers—the Dance of Returning Joy — Anonymous

Belated flowers—does the rain show partiality? — Eiji

What falls is the cowardly wind—ah! The flower army — Anonymous

Ōhara holds a child—moon or princess pine? — Anonymous

To tread upon the moon’s face is beyond consideration—the cloud’s legs — Chikashige

Show your face— / the moon too removes its hat / in radiant light — Anonymous

Leading the way—perhaps the snow woman of the north—Shigeyori

Snow too now busies itself—ah!—Rinpo

Those belonging to metaphor included:

Pines on distant mountains—just like the heart of a flower—Kōka

Henjō’s flower—is it a hat? Kechōzan—Nichinō

The family crest in the river rapids—is it a flower raft?—Masanobu

The cloud swallows a snake—the moon returns—ah!—Teitoku

Clouds caught by the moon-bow—wrinkled skin—Anonymous

The moon-white forelocks of the Milky Way—Bōichi

What are called flowers—are they snow buds or jeweled hailstones? — Masanobu

The batting between heaven and earth—ah! The snow of Fuji — Shōei

Those belonging to linguistic play

Today—a bud until flowers bloom—ah! — Nariyasu

Flowers on the mountain path lure people—ah! The great tengu — Chikashige

Flowers not scattering—ah! The hearts of people — Kōei

Does everyone hold autumn’s shadow—ah!—within their chest? Moonlit night — Tokumoto

A cloudy night—ah! The shadow would speak—Friend of the moon — Anonymous

Shadow, I beseech you—mercy descends from above—ah! The moon — Shigeyori

Not yellow—ah! A snow-white morning—ah! — Tokumoto

In spring’s bloom—a hundred early plums amidst snow — Nichinō

Those belonging to classical allusion applications

For flowers’ sake—the spring wind bears evil deeds a thousand leagues — Kei’u

A hazy moonlit night immersed in floral revelry — Nagatsugu

Merit achieved and fame won—the blossom’s heart scatters — Morinaga

Night vision, distant gaze—beneath the hat’s rim lies / the moon’s visage — Anonymous

Aki’s moon reigns supreme in Chūgoku on fifteenth night — Kōei

Musashino—let today never dawn / autumn moon — Shigutomo

Not Fuji alone—a snow-capped peak born overnight — Teitoku

Snowflakes too return to tree roots as drops—ah! — Kōei

Among these verses, there were not a few that intermingled multiple types.
Though exceptions beyond these were not wholly absent, their number proved so exceedingly small as to render specific listing unnecessary.

That these verses possessed even less artistic taste than renga and were more devoid of vitality than Kanbu would have been evident to any reader at first glance.
"You," I cautioned, "having seen these verses, must not misconstrue me as one who deliberately presented particularly inferior examples."
"I did not select verses from the outset," I clarified, "but merely extracted them haphazardly as they came to hand."
"Were one to demand a hundred verses, I would present a hundred verses."
"Were one to demand a thousand verses, I would present a thousand verses."
"Yet this," I added, "would serve only to multiply futility."
"Should one declare that tens of thousands of verses all belong to this very type, then—and only then—would the matter be settled."

Even in the slumbering world of Ashikaga, there were those who grew weary of renga’s monotony and pioneered haikai; yet when the Tokugawa regime was fully established and literary arts flourished daily, how long could the Teimon school’s haikai—inferior even to wood scraps and bamboo fragments—continue to delight people’s hearts? By the Kanbun era, haikai—poised for transformation yet unchanged—began to shift slightly upon reaching Enpō. Nishiyama Sōin rose up and advocated the Danrin school. With this, the immature haikai of the Teitoku era vanished entirely. The Danrin school’s haikai, too, being unable to transcend the realm of humor, resembled the Teimon school. When compared to the Teimon school, one sees that it achieved a degree of progress in having somewhat increased in taste and in having brought vitality to the structure of individual verses.

Personification was a conventional technique of Teimon school haikai, but in Danrin it had nearly vanished. Occasionally,

Leaf-tea jar—unaware of its existence passes by; storm — Sōin
The heavens seem drunk—ah! Itami’s great lantern — Sōin
White dew—placed without thought — Sōin
Serpent willow—hearts in disarray; Asuka wind — Tsuyukusa

Though there were such examples as these, that they already contained some degree of taste could not compare to Teimon school’s aridity. Metaphorical verses:

On pine trees—the wisteria climbs octopus-like up the trunks—there's such a sight — Sōin
Melts away in the hand—rock candy?—Fuji’s snow — Sōin
Brocade ware—ah, Imari’s mountains in pale crimson leaves — Sōin
Duck’s legs—the current can’t even carry them, autumn leaves—ah! — Sōin
Hōrai—ah! New fields at the foothills drying sardines — Eisei
Black bamboo—grated daikon under the eaves’ snow — Kokoro Iro
This is yet another fu seller capturing the water moon — Miki

Such as these—among them there were novel ones and lighthearted ones. Compared to the Renga school—which invariably compared flowers to clouds whenever mentioning them, and the Teitoku school—which invariably likened snow to cotton whenever speaking of it—they had indeed advanced one step deeper into literature.

Those who made linguistic play their focus—

Taking Edo as the mirror—barrels upon flowers — Sōin

Swift paper streamers shifting onward — Sōin

How dare I speak of its solemnity—the dance here! — Sōin

Uji Bridge’s deity—tea flowers bloom—ah! Princess — Sōin

Flowers—ah! Ueno Totsuhata to Moto’s dwellings — Nishiharu

Such as these.
The use of ancient matters and classical language was the lifeblood of the Danrin school, and half of their composed verses belonged to this category.

Examples of this:

In mustard vinegar trembles—tears? Cherry sea bream — Sōin

O world—cease your endless repetitions, be it thus or otherwise — Sōin

An ancient poem says: A thousand years it seems—the mirror rice cake — Sōin
Ariake's oil remains—oh! Hototogisu — Sōin
Cool breeze—if it lingers, Koishikawa — Sōin
When looked ahead—there! A firefly retreats — Sōin
If in heaven—a chick's feather becomes the star's bride — Sōin
Wild geese cry—does the proprietor of Kikuya cross now? — Sōin
Now, having said 'konton'—wild goose cuisine, I wonder — Sōin
Winter preparations—first at Tahara-ya: charcoal bales — Sōin
When lost in thought—the wall too becomes snow's hue — Sōin

Ah! What manner of person are you—this passing shower? — Sōin

Fuji’s smoke vanishes into the ear—hototogisu — Nyobei

Crimson leaves— / a village without flowers in the second and third months — Anshō

Cuckoo—expected tonight—the headache sufferer’s pallor remains.

Leather tabi—in days of yore, treading through autumn leaves — Ittetsu

In contrast to the Teimon school’s fondness for using proverbs and colloquial language, this school favored using waka and Noh chants.
This is precisely why the Danrin school surpassed the Teimon school in dignity.

Approximately eighty years after Moritake's death, Teitoku arose, and about thirty years after Teitoku arose, the Danrin school emerged.
The progress of the times suddenly accelerated—now ten years equivalent to a hundred of yore, an age where three days' absence required fresh scrutiny—yet could the Danrin school, which had advanced one step each in taste, dignity, and verse technique, possibly require thirty years to advance another? Barely a decade after its rise, the Danrin school already declined. People competed fiercely for novelty and strangeness to the extreme; with day-by-day and month-by-month strides, the momentum for literary revival gradually ripened. By the late Enpō era, even in verse contests crafted by Kikaku and Sōpu—though still unable to abandon humor—we saw humor rooted in linguistic play swiftly withdraw its traces, shifting dominance to humor of taste.
This is a higher form within humor.

Green willows—bats cling as evening glories bloom — Kikaku

By the mosquito-repellent fire, white evening faces in rows— — Kikaku
Skeletons turned dream dance—the reeds' sound — Kikaku
Become winter wind—the snail's abandoned shell — Kikaku
Modest array—chiyorogi herbs and chopped greens — Sugiyama
Evening—ah! Rain—cuckoo—zazen beans — Sugiyama
Rows upon rows—mandarins and kumquats laughingly declare — Sugiyama
Dawn—frost-clad kabuna, how poignant — Sugiyama

Among those listed above, there were even some that had departed from humor—yet the entirety did not necessarily follow suit. These were comparatively excellent verses that had been selected. When three years had passed and the *Kogarashi Collection* (compiled by Kikaku) was published in the third year of Tenna [1683], it seemed that haikai verses in general had completely departed from humor, retaining only a trace of elegance.

Haikai had at last turned toward the proper path.
Yet their designs remained crude and complex—lacking unity; their phrases convoluted and discordant—devoid of harmony. They had not yet achieved even a single step forward.

Example Verses

A visitor knocks at the gate; ferns darken as flowers glow brightly — Genkyo

On an umbrella—perhaps a roost? Ah! A wet swallow — Kikaku

The mountain echo and the cuckoo’s cry—an axe that cuts through dreams — Sodō

Fresh green— / from grass mochi’s ear / it emerges, perhaps — Bashō

Would that I might become the Heavenly Emperor’s son-in-law, intimate with the moon — Saimaru

Chestnut burrs—the dust jar becomes autumn’s destination, ah! — Senpū

Chitter-chitter—the mouse finished crying in its nest — Ranestsu

Pine grove—the courier so small in snow’s dusk — Ikki

Among these, there were verses that approached completeness.
Furthermore, though their phrasing remained awkwardly convoluted, some conceptions came remarkably close to capturing haikai’s very marrow.

At this time, the haikai world resembled dawn's first light barely risen, when all things first become discernible.
Yet when these haikai poets composed fine verses, they did not do so through conscious effort—no, nor had they failed in their attempts at composition.
If what we today judge as excellent verses had indeed been recognized as such in their era, there should have been many more of this kind—yet seeing how reality defies this expectation through the prevalence of numerous awkward and convoluted verses, we cannot doubt that those very strained phrases were generally praised.
The sprout of the true style was poised to emerge yet had not broken through.
The occasional excellent verse was but half-accidental.

In the first year of Jōkyō [1684], the compilation *Winter Days* appeared.
Bashō’s *The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton* appeared.
Examining the verses from *The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton* was now most essential.

Weather-exposed—

Ten autumns passed—yet Edo points me homeward — Bashō

Mist showers—days when Fuji remains unseen prove most delightful — Bashō

One who hears monkeys—abandoned child—how fares the autumn wind? — Bashō

By the roadside—a hibiscus was eaten by a horse — Bashō

Sleeping on a horse—remnant dreams—the moon distant—tea’s smoke — Bashō

Thirtieth-day moonless—a millennium cedar embraced by storm — Bashō
A woman washing yams—were she Saigyō, she’d compose a poem — Bashō
Having planted ivy—four or five bamboos in the storm’s grip — Bashō
Autumn wind—through thicket and field to Fuwa Barrier — Bashō

These verses had advanced yet another step beyond the *Kogarashi Collection*.
Not crude like the *Kogarashi Collection*, nor convoluted like the *Kogarashi Collection*.
However, the verses still bore traces of contrivance and had yet to reach the realm of natural perfection.
At this time, Bashō had not yet awakened to what we call nature.
Because he had not yet awakened to what we call nature, he could not avoid artifice in his verses.
The ivy verse was somewhat natural, but the phrase "having planted" still retained an unnatural quality. The Fuwa verse was complete as a verse, yet this nostalgic composition could still belong to *waka*.
Bashō had not yet come to know that haikai could possess its own unique subtleties.
It remained beyond reach by a mere inch.

In the third year of Jōkyō [1686], two years later, Bashō obtained an unprecedented verse.

Old pond—a frog leaps in, water's sound.

This was it.
At this moment, Bashō himself seemed to have experienced a great enlightenment regarding haikai.
Those who until then had believed one must first speak of solemn matters and devise novel things before finally obtaining excellent verses now discovered that ordinary, everyday matters could directly become verses.
The extreme sentiment that a wretched traveler’s final rest might be as a weather-exposed skeleton; the extreme sorrow of an abandoned child crying in autumn winds—to have believed such extremities must be voiced to achieve interest had been yesterday’s misunderstanding. Now he found himself astonished that it had coalesced into a verse about this commonplace matter: a frog leaping into a pond.
Having forcibly crammed horses, lingering dreams, the moon, and tea smoke into a single verse; having combined thirtieth-day darkness, a thousand-year cedar, and the night wind blowing through them—pouring these until they overflowed the seventeen-syllable mold—he who had finally deemed this worthwhile now realized, upon his sudden awakening, that these labored verses paled before the simplicity and tastefulness of “A frog leaps in / Water’s sound.”
Bashō had finally awakened to nature’s wonder and cast aside contrived artifice.
What he called “undiscriminating mind” was in truth nothing but nature itself.
I urge you to review the many verses from renga onward that I previously enumerated and see whether any exist as natural as this Old Pond verse.
There cannot be even one verse resembling it.
If none even approach it, then Bashō clearly grasped something previously unknown.
That nature forms literature and art’s foundation to some degree requires no argument.
That literature ungrounded in nature’s foundation fails as literature becomes evident through renga and Kanbu Teisō’s haikai—their very insipidness proves it.
Even were nature not the sole principle, what Bashō felt regarding the Old Pond verse resided precisely in this nature.
His subsequent principles all advanced toward nature.

Moreover，you must not overlook that this verse’s subject resides primarily in what had been largely forgotten by society—the frog．Frogs，though occasionally appearing in waka，were exceedingly rare．(The “kawazu” mentioned in *Man’yōshū* does not correspond to what we now call frogs．) Their scarcity in renga had already been noted earlier．While there were some such verses among Teimon school works，since they failed to capture frogs’ essence，they could not qualify as genuine frog verses．That frog verse should be recognized as inaugurating—with ‘Old Pond’—the true beginning．By enumerating frog verses from renga up through ‘Old Pond’，I shall demonstrate how perceptions of frogs evolved over time．

Frogs bowing low, earnestly offering their songs—ah! — Sōkan
Frogs sing in the bush warbler’s full voice—ah! — Jōha
Struggling to compose—they cry out: the frog’s song-sack—ah! — Anonymous
Standing apart—frogs cry out in song contest: ah! — Anonymous

Rice nurseries contended for—frogs’ battle: ah! — Miman

In waka—masterless bush warblers and frogs: ah! — Teitoku

Bush warblers and frogs—their voices in song contest — Oishige

Irrigation water—frogs clamorously croaking — Sōshun

From the great field emerging—do not lay bare the field’s face—sweet potatoes upturning — Morichika

In the river—does the frog recite sermons? — Shigeyori

When rain falls they croak—the frogs’ song, a verse composed in downpour — Kanki

Even keelback snakes softened through song—croaking frogs — Hironaga

At the water inlet—might a snake be glimpsed? / Croaking frogs — Mitsushige

Aged rice field—the frogs' song slithers slickly — Sadatoki

Battlefield cries—could it be? Croaking frogs — Nobuai

Frogs croaking long—their song—syllables overflow — Eiji

Song-battle frogs of twin paths—pen and sword—ah! — Masamune

A curse song? / Frog croaks at seeing snake — Ujiyoshi

Forgive me snake—just for today I croak—Kakei

Don’t get swallowed—in the eaves’ coiled snake—The frog leaps once more —Ichiwa
Composing songs at Tanzaku Well—the frog—ah! —Issetsu
Is it a Buddhist hymn? At the temple well croaks the frog —Kansetsu
Resoundingly croaking—the frogs of Ishiki’s Abyss—ah! —Toshinao
At Tamanoi Well—the frogs’ voices too sing—ah! —Hidetatsu

Singing songs ceaselessly—the frogs of Takura Field—ah! — Masakazu

The fee for linked verse—could it be one’s own frog coins? — Sukenaka

Frogs marshaling for battle—preparations of Inkan-gyō—ah! — Hasen

Frogs of Jigokudani—Asura’s battle: ah! — Yukinari

Life and death return to Jambudvīpa—a battle: ah! — Naoyasu

Sally forth, frogs—to battle at Teppōtsu! — Issetsu

Riverside battle—by Shijō’s banks: frogs—ah! — Issetsu

Red frogs—entrust your battle to Heike crabs! — Issetsu

Tatsuta River—crimson leaves decaying / Red frogs—ah! — Saimaro

Even songs have withered—dried frog—ah! — Nigi

Chinese songs mellowed in Kaga—ah, frogs! — Kaedeoki

Old pond—a frog leaps in / Water’s sound — Bashō

The above are those recorded roughly in chronological order, and most of the verses have been exhaustively listed.
Bad verses after bad verses, forced puns after forced puns—upon reading through them to reach the Old Pond verse, one cannot help but feel it belongs to an entirely different category.
What Bashō himself perceived lies here.
At the very least, Bashō opened his perceptive eye upon the frog as a single animal.
However, do not misunderstand that Bashō considered frogs to be particularly elegant creatures worthy of affection.
Frogs are not creatures to be cherished like bush warblers, nor nostalgic like cuckoos, nor pitiable like wild geese, nor lonesome like autumn-crying insects; thus, even poets of old did not compose about frogs as frequently as they did about bush warblers, cuckoos, wild geese, or insects.
Would one claim that Bashō alone cherished frogs above countless birds and insects?
On the contrary, even that frog—neither particularly beautiful nor cute—still possessed some charm; he must have felt it could serve as material for haiku.
If frogs already possess elegance, then need we even mention bush warblers, cuckoos, wild geese, and insects? Would not all things in existence be endowed with charm?
Bashō’s opening of his perceptive eye upon frogs was none other than his opening of that eye upon nature.
That the first verse composed when he opened his perceptive eye upon nature happened to be the frog verse belongs to the realm of coincidence.
When vulgar masters explicate this verse, their placing particular emphasis on the frog is nothing but an utterly baseless misconception from the start.

That the Old Pond verse stands as a rare work in haikai’s history can be understood through the example verses previously cited.
Therefore, Bashō’s haikai underwent a complete transformation with this verse as its demarcation line.
Consequently, the haikai world of that time also pivoted around this verse as its central axis.
Even if the facts were otherwise, Bashō perceived it as such.

Therefore, when Bashō’s disciples inquired about his death poem as he neared his end, Bashō responded:

"Yesterday’s hokku is today’s death poem; today’s hokku is tomorrow’s death poem. Among all the verses I cast off in my lifetime, not a single one fails to be a death poem.
If someone should ask about my death poem, please declare that any of the verses I have cast off in recent years shall serve as my death poem.
All phenomena have since antiquity ever shown the form of nirvana; this constitutes Shakyamuni Buddha’s death poem, and the entirety of Buddhism lies within these two phrases beyond which there is nothing.
Old pond—a frog leaps in, water’s sound. From the moment I established my unique style with this verse, it became a death poem.
After that, among the hundreds of thousands of verses I produced, not a single one deviated from this intent.
It is with this that I humbly declare there is not a single verse of mine that does not serve as a death poem."

He said.

“After that, among the hundreds of thousands of verses I produced, not a single one deviated from this intent” meant he had created haiku throughout his life based on the natural sensibility perceived alongside the Old Pond verse.
Though Bashō himself explicitly declared the Old Pond verse as the boundary marker of the Shōfū style, he never proclaimed it the foremost work in his collected poems; not only did Bashō refrain from such claims, but his disciples likewise avoided them—Kyorai, who had received Bashō’s deepest teachings, said nothing whatsoever about the Old Pond verse.
Even those like Shikō who deified Bashō and inflated their own theories—save for examples cited in *Ten Discourses*—offered no critique of the Old Pond verse.
Yet from some indeterminate time, people began hailing this verse as the supreme masterpiece, until finally those espousing incomprehensible interpretations joined in, making it widely known yet universally misunderstood.
Bashō himself had even boasted that every verse after Old Pond should be transmitted as my verses; had he heard later generations exalting solely this one poem, he would surely have been displeased.
We too do not regard Old Pond as Bashō’s finest work—no, we maintain there exist many excellent verses beyond it.
The guest nodded and departed.

(October–November 1898 (Meiji 31))