A magpie robin rolls out haikus every morn. Haikus away. Today, the magpie robin seems to have shifted office and home leaving me with The Classic Traditions of Haiku: An Anthology edited by Faubion Bowers and coffee. A omotenashi, a Japanese way of life and hospitality. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) writes: I've turned my back/On Buddha/How cool the moon? Does Shiki prefer moon to Buddha, asks the anthology. And me prefers, 'the tree cut/dawn breaks early/at my little window' to 'Men are disgusting./They argue over/The price of orchids.' When in America, son Ganesh sent a few volumes and me these days go to them again and again. Over time, me has shifted, perhaps forever from Shakespeare and Keats and Yeats and many European others to bhakti, Rumi and haiku poetry --- in English translations; for me Dubeyji is back; he reached me to Kabir, Surdas, Rahim, Tulsidas; and then came English poetry at St. Xavier's College; Pinto with Shakespeare and Prof. Lal with others. Around those years, me bought the first book, owned it and still have it. Shakespeare: Complete Works by the English Language Book Society, a quartercentenary, bound edition, from Deshapriya Book Stores near Deshapriya Park for Rs.10. Read quite a bit with Hamlet the favourite; no surprise matter. But today, me finds it hard to refer back; Shakespeare does not seem to satisfy; tastes change; bhakti, Rumi and haiku are short; read a few lines, carry them as loose change, take them out when the need is felt; they are portable as two or three lines do not weigh much. Reading a haiku is like the Pune-Mumbai passenger train ride, years ago, halting at most stations for vada pavs and bhajjias; the compartment mostly empty and me making the trip curving the ghat section with monkeys on the hills; the trip was not to any time table; or that trip with friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup in a slow train from Thiruananthapuram to Kanya Kumari; he at one window, me at another, the train in no hurry. Yes there is no haste about bhakti, Rumi and haiku. Perhaps they are unfit in 2016 with wars and bloods; they do not spur; they can at best put any on a long, slow walk in the skies. A friend says me am morphing into a Buddhist; hey, that's not so; me go to Vazira Ganesh temple; also the church of Don Bosco School; the church opens at 6 and at 6.10, when me steps in there is an empty, quiet; car honks at the traffic signal sometimes walk over; a piece of haiku poetry. Yosa Buson says: 'Springtime rain; together/intent upon their talking, go/straw-raincoat and umbrella.' Or Masaoka Shiki: Spring rain/browsing under my umbrella/at the picture-book store. Maybe prefer Japanese living styles; yes, they are quiet, silent and have a word - kamorebi, for the way sunlight filters through the leaves of trees. Waiting with Kabir, Tuka and an umbrella to clap in the rains over Marine Drive. Mumbai haiku.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Haiku poetry
A magpie robin rolls out haikus every morn. Haikus away. Today, the magpie robin seems to have shifted office and home leaving me with The Classic Traditions of Haiku: An Anthology edited by Faubion Bowers and coffee. A omotenashi, a Japanese way of life and hospitality. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) writes: I've turned my back/On Buddha/How cool the moon? Does Shiki prefer moon to Buddha, asks the anthology. And me prefers, 'the tree cut/dawn breaks early/at my little window' to 'Men are disgusting./They argue over/The price of orchids.' When in America, son Ganesh sent a few volumes and me these days go to them again and again. Over time, me has shifted, perhaps forever from Shakespeare and Keats and Yeats and many European others to bhakti, Rumi and haiku poetry --- in English translations; for me Dubeyji is back; he reached me to Kabir, Surdas, Rahim, Tulsidas; and then came English poetry at St. Xavier's College; Pinto with Shakespeare and Prof. Lal with others. Around those years, me bought the first book, owned it and still have it. Shakespeare: Complete Works by the English Language Book Society, a quartercentenary, bound edition, from Deshapriya Book Stores near Deshapriya Park for Rs.10. Read quite a bit with Hamlet the favourite; no surprise matter. But today, me finds it hard to refer back; Shakespeare does not seem to satisfy; tastes change; bhakti, Rumi and haiku are short; read a few lines, carry them as loose change, take them out when the need is felt; they are portable as two or three lines do not weigh much. Reading a haiku is like the Pune-Mumbai passenger train ride, years ago, halting at most stations for vada pavs and bhajjias; the compartment mostly empty and me making the trip curving the ghat section with monkeys on the hills; the trip was not to any time table; or that trip with friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup in a slow train from Thiruananthapuram to Kanya Kumari; he at one window, me at another, the train in no hurry. Yes there is no haste about bhakti, Rumi and haiku. Perhaps they are unfit in 2016 with wars and bloods; they do not spur; they can at best put any on a long, slow walk in the skies. A friend says me am morphing into a Buddhist; hey, that's not so; me go to Vazira Ganesh temple; also the church of Don Bosco School; the church opens at 6 and at 6.10, when me steps in there is an empty, quiet; car honks at the traffic signal sometimes walk over; a piece of haiku poetry. Yosa Buson says: 'Springtime rain; together/intent upon their talking, go/straw-raincoat and umbrella.' Or Masaoka Shiki: Spring rain/browsing under my umbrella/at the picture-book store. Maybe prefer Japanese living styles; yes, they are quiet, silent and have a word - kamorebi, for the way sunlight filters through the leaves of trees. Waiting with Kabir, Tuka and an umbrella to clap in the rains over Marine Drive. Mumbai haiku.
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