Chuang Tzu, ancient Chinese Taoist, once experienced a dream in which he was a butterfly fluttering to & fro. In the dream he had no awareness of his individuality as a person; he was simply a butterfly. Suddenly, he awoke and found that once again he was a human laying in bed. But then he thought to himself, “Was I before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?”
Basho
Basho’s best - some of the best Haikus from the Master . Hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do ! Take these in one by one - it’s like tasting fine wine… How very noble! Breakfast enjoyed Traveling this high A solitary This first fallen snow Whore and monk, we sleep At the ancient pond Now I see her face, Nothing in the cry How reluctantly The farmer’s roadside How wild the sea is, Seen in plain daylight Delight, then sorrow, Exhausted, I sought Among moon gazers A cuckoo cries, This hot day swept away All along this road Heard, not seen, The banana tree With plum blossom scent, Lead my pony Wrapping dumplings in With a warbler for This dark autumn The morning glories From every direction Long conversations On Buddha’s birthday On Buddha’s deathday, Behind Ise Shrine, This ruined temple Autumn full moon, Crossing half the sky, Gray hairs being plucked, Searching storehouse eaves, Polished and polished Along my journey Through frozen rice fields, The warbler sings A lovely spring night Come out to view Autumn approaches Winter showers, A weathered skeleton Chilling autumn rains With dewdrops dripping, Seas slowly darken Water-drawing rites, That great blue oak The clouds come and go, Kannon’s* tiled temple *Bodhisattva of Compassion This bright harvest moon Awakened at midnight
One who finds no satori
in the lightning-flash
in the fine company of
morning glories
mountain trail, delighted
by violets
crow on a bare branch-
autumn evening
is barely enough to bend
the jonquil leaves
under one roof together,
moon in a field of clover
a frog plunges into
the sound of water
the old woman, abandoned,
the moon her only companion
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die
the bee emerges from the deep
within the peony
hedge provided lunch for
my tired horse
and over Sado Island,
the River of Heaven
the firefly’s nothing but
an insect
aboard the cormorant
fishing boat
a country inn, but found
wisteria in bloom
at the ancient temple grounds
not one beautiful face
and through a thicket of bamboo
the late moon shines
into the sea by the
Mogami River
not a single soul ' only
autumn evening comes
the camellia poured rainwater
when it leaned
blown by winds pours raindrops
into the bucket
this sudden sun emerges
along a mountain trail
across this wide moor to where
the cuckoo sings
bamboo leaves, with one finger
she tidies her hair
a soul, it sleeps peacefully,
this mountain willow
old age settles down on me
like heavy clouds or birds
bloom, securing the gate
in the old fence
cherry blossom petals blow
into Lake Biwa
beside blooming irises '
joys of life on the road
a spotted fawn is born '
just like that
wrinkled tough old hands pray '
the prayer beads’ sound
unseen, hidden by the fence,
Buddha enters nirvana
should have its sad tale told only
by a clam digger
the tides slosh and foam
coming in
on my way to the capital,
big clouds promise snow
and from below my pillow
a cricket singing
rapt in plum blossom smells,
the mosquito hums
clean, in the holy mirror
snow flowers bloom
through this transitory world,
new year’s housecleaning
moving slowly on horseback,
my shadow creeps by
among new shoots of bamboo
of coming old age
suddenly vanished while we
viewed cherry blossoms
the truth of flowers blooming
in poverty
and the heart begins to dream
of four-tatami rooms
even the monkey searches
for a raincoat
in windy fields of memory,
piercing like a knife
curtain Mount Fuji, then make it
more beautiful to see
I wish somehow I could wash
this perishing world
and the wild duck’s plaintive cry
grows faintly white
icy sound of monks’ getas
echo long and cold
indifferent to all blossoms
appears more noble
providing a rest for all
the moon viewers
roof floats far away in clouds
of cherry blossoms
keeps me walking all night long
around the little pond
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice
Posted in Writing.
– July 4, 2007
A beautiful beginning for my blog
Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning |
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird. “Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone. “Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?” “Not really.” “Your favorite type, then?” “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.” “Strange.” “Yeah. Strange.” “So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?” “Nah. Just passed her on the street.” She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I’d really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say? “Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?” Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman. “Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?” No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.” No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about. We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had. I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd. Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?” Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. “This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.” “And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.” They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle. As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?” “Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.” And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank. They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: She is the 100% perfect girl for me. He is the 100% perfect boy for me. But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever. A sad story, don’t you think? Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her. |
Posted in Writing.
– July 3, 2007
