{"id":168027,"date":"2024-07-11T11:00:09","date_gmt":"2024-07-11T15:00:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=168027"},"modified":"2024-07-11T10:37:54","modified_gmt":"2024-07-11T14:37:54","slug":"the-ringo-starr-of-the-haiku-pantheon","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/07\/11\/the-ringo-starr-of-the-haiku-pantheon\/","title":{"rendered":"The Ringo Starr of the Haiku Pantheon"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/p>\n

If you attended school in the U.S. like I did, the first poem you wrote as a child was, more likely than not, some version of the Japanese haiku. As a grown-up, you may have gone on to read the haiku masters Matsuo Basho, Kobayashi Issa, and Yosa Buson\u2014the Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and George Harrison of Edo-period Japan. But most Western readers have yet to twig on to Masaoka Shiki<\/a>, the Ringo Starr of the haiku pantheon. Born more than two hundred years after Basho, this latecomer to the declining literary form launched a haiku revival in late-nineteenth-century Japan, writing haiku about modern subjects like baseball (\u201cdandelions \/ the baseball rolled \/ through them\u201d) and penning a memorable little essay titled \u201cHaiku on Shit<\/a>.\u201d By the time of his death from tuberculosis at thirty-four, Shiki had written nearly twenty thousand verses and founded a new school of haiku poetry with its own literary magazine, Hototogisu<\/em><\/a>, which continues to publish haiku today.<\/p>\n

In the new Summer issue<\/a> of The Paris<\/em> Review<\/em>, we present a series of ten never-before-published literary sketches by Shiki<\/a>, composed from his sickbed, each one depicting a bowl of live carp. In one poem, Shiki zeroes in on \u201ccarp tails \/ moving in the bowl\u201d; in another, we catch sight of \u201ccarp shoulders \/ brimming in the bowl\u201d; and in another, we watch \u201ccarp blowing \/ bubbles\u201d by the poet\u2019s bedside. Only at the end of this Muybridgean study of animal motion does Shiki\u2019s subject come to rest:<\/p>\n

carp asleep
\nin the shallow bowl
\nwater in spring<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Reading the poet\u2019s variations on a theme feels like scrolling through drafts of a translation in progress\u2014only it’s reality itself that Shiki is translating into haiku form. Should the poem\u2019s last word go to the seasons, the elements, or existence itself? And what\u2019s the difference, if any, between a \u201clarge low bowl\u201d and a \u201cshallow bowl\u201d? As Shiki<\/a> observes in Abby Ryder-Huth\u2019s prismatic translation, the poems \u201caren\u2019t really ten haiku, just trying to put one thought ten ways.\u201d Like Wallace Stevens\u2019s blackbird, Shiki\u2019s still life rarely stays still.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Elsewhere in our Summer issue, Daniel Mendelsohn<\/a> visits Kalypso\u2019s island in a passage from his new translation of The Odyssey<\/em>; you\u2019ll find yourself walking backward \u201cwith a clock hung from your heart\u201d through a nightmarish incantation by the shamanistic Korean poet Kim Hyesoon<\/a>, translated by Cindy Juyoung Ok; the Mexican poet and visual artist Diana Garza Islas<\/a> introduces us, in a translation by Cal Paule, to a strange little place called \u201cEngaland\u201d; and the Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha<\/a> meditates on another kind of still life:<\/p>\n

My books remain on the shelves as I left them last year
\nbut all the words have died.
\nI search for my favorite book,
\nOut of Place.<\/em>
\nI find it lying lonely in a drawer,
\nnext to the photo album and my old Nokia phone.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The final line of Abu Toha\u2019s poem leaves us with a parting glimpse of \u201cthe sea, the sea,\u201d a haunting image that reverberates with the poet\u2019s favorite book, Edward Said\u2019s memoir Out of Place<\/em>. It also makes me think of Iris Murdoch\u2019s novel, whose title might have come from a line in a Paul Val\u00e9ry poem\u2014\u201cLa mer, la mer, toujours recommenc\u00e9e\u201d\u2014or from the retreating Greek soldiers\u2019 exultant cries on sighting the sea that will take them home in Xenophon\u2019s Anabasis<\/em>: \u201cTh\u00e1latta! Th\u00e1latta!\u201d Every great poem is an echo chamber. In Jana Prikryl\u2019s \u201cThe Channel<\/a>\u201d or the ending of Douglas Kearney\u2019s \u201cApology tour.<\/a>,\u201d you\u2019ll hear Shakespeare surging through contemporary verse. Like the sound of the ocean in a seashell, poetry needs you, its attentive listeners, in order to exist. As Patty Nash puts it in her poem \u201cMetropolitan<\/a>\u201d:<\/p>\n

\n
    \n
  1. It all happens on the inside,<\/li>\n
  2. And yet it\u2019s worthless<\/li>\n
  3. If you don\u2019t perceive it.<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

    \n<\/blockquote>\n

    Srikanth Reddy is <\/em>The Paris\u00a0Review‘s<\/em> poetry editor.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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