Full Moon Is Rising--The Lost Haiku of Matsuo Basho

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Is that temple bell in Ueno or Asakusa? The temple bell stops. But the sound keeps coming out of the flowers. Melon In morning dew, mud-fresh. Wet with morning dew and splotched with mud, the melon looks especially cool The old pond: Frog pond — A leaf falls in Without a sound The old pond; the frog. At the ancient pond a frog plunges into the sound of water Summer moon — Clapping hands, I herald dawn. Mogami River, yanking The burning sky Into the sea. Yellow rose petals Thunder — A waterfall. Cold white azalea — Lone nun Under thatched roof. I felt quite at home, As if it were mine sleeping lazily In this house of fresh air.

June clouds, At ease on Arashiyama Peak. Summer in the world; floating on the waves of the lake. All the rains of June it brings together, and it is swift — the river Morgami. Summer zashiki Make move and enter The mountain and the garden. This hot day swept away into the sea by the Mogami River A lightning gleam: I too am part of the picture! The petals tremble on the yellow mountain rose — roar of the rapids Long conversations beside blooming irises — joys of life on the road The lilies!

The stems, just as they are, the flowers, just as they are. Breakfast enjoyed in the fine company of morning glories The morning glories bloom, securing the gate in the old fence bush-clover flowers — they sway but do not drop their beads of dew Flower under harvest sun — stranger To bird, butterfly. I am lonely too, This autumn evening. In the bitter radish that bites into me, I feel the autumn wind Will you turn toward me? I am lonely, too, this autumn evening. Unknown to birds and butterflies A flower blooms The autumn sky a strange flower for birds and butterflies the autumn sky Autumn approaches and the heart begins to dream of four-tatami rooms Wild boars and all are blown along with it — storm-wind of fall!

A autumn wind More white Than the rocks in the rocky mountain. Cold as it was We felt secure sleeping together In the same room. Chilling autumn rains curtain Mount Fuji, then make it more beautiful to see The winter storm Hid in the bamboo grove And quieted away. Hailstones Glancing off the rocks At Stony Pass. Awake at night, The lamp low, The oil freezing.

Winter rain — The field stubble Has blackened. The winter leeks Have been washed white — How cold it is!

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Winter downpour — even the monkey needs a raincoat. Winter solitude— in a world of one color the sound of wind. This first fallen snow is barely enough to bend the jonquil leaves The first snow the leaves of the daffodil bending together The first snow, Just enough to bend The leaves of the daffodils. Tethered horse; snow in both stirrups. First snow Falling On the half-finished bridge. On the polished surface Of the divine glass, Chaste with flowers of snow.

The crescent lights The misty ground. Though he never wrote a treatise on the subject, there is no doubt that Basho conceived some unique ideas about poetry in his later years. Apparently it was during this journey that he began thinking about poetry n more serious, philosophical terms. Basho spent the next two years visiting his old friends and disciples in Ueno, Kyoto, and towns on the southern coast of Lake Biwa. With one or another of them he often paid a brief visit to other places such as Ise and Nara.

Of numerous houses he stayed at during this period Basho seems to have especially enjoyed two: The Unreal Hut, located in the woods off the southernmost tip of lake Biwa, was a quiet, hidden place where Basho rested from early summer to mid-autumn in He thoroughly enjoyed the idle, secluded life there, and described it in a short but superb piece of prose. Here is one of the passages: In the daytime an old watchman from the local shrine or some villager from the foot of the hill comes along and chats with me about things I rarely hear of, such as a wild boar's looting the rice paddies or a hare's haunting the bean farms.

When the sun sets under the edge of the hill and night falls, I quietly sit and wait for the moon. With the moonrise I begin roaming about, casting my shadow on the ground. When the night deepens, I return to the hut and meditate on right and wrong, gazing at the dim margin of a shadow in the lamplight.

Basho had another chance to live a similarly secluded life later at the House of the Fallen Persimmons in Saga, a northwestern suburb of Kyoto. The house, owned by one of his disciples, Mukai Kyorai , was so called because persimmon trees grew around it.

There were also a number of bamboo groves, which provided the setting for a well-known poem by Basho: The cuckoo - Through the dense bamboo grove, Moonlight seeping. Basho stayed at this house for seventeen days in the summer of All during this period at the two hideaways and elsewhere in the Kyoto-Lake Biwa area, Basho was visited by many people who shared his interest in poetry. Especially close to him were two of his leading disciples, Kyorai and Nozawa Boncho 16? The anthology, entitled The Monkey's Raincoat Sarumino and published in the early summer of represented a peak in haikai of the Basho style.

Basho's idea of sabi and other principles of verse writing that evolved during his journey to the far north were clearly there. Through actual example the new anthology showed that the haikai could be a serious art form capable of embodying mature comments on man and his environment. Basho returned to Edo in the winter of His friends and disciples there, who had not seen him for more than two years, welcomed him warmly.

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In this third Basho Hut, however, he could not enjoy the peaceful life he desired. For one thing, he now had a few people to look after. An invalid nephew had come to live with Basho, who took care of him until his death in the spring of A woman by the name of Jutei, with whom Basho apparently had had some special relationship in his youth, also seems to have come under his care at this time.

She too was in poor health, and had several young children besides. Even apart from these involvements, Basho was becoming extremely busy, no doubt due to his great fame as a poet. Year after year On the monkey's face A monkey's mask. The poem has a touch of bitterness unusual for Basho. He was dissatisfied with the progress that he and possibly some of his students was making. As these responsibilities pressed on him, Basho gradually became somewhat nihilistic.

He had become a poet in order to transcend worldly involvements, but now he found himself deeply involved in worldly affairs precisely because of his poetic fame. The solution was either to renounce being a poet or to stop seeing people altogether. Basho first tried the former, but to no avail.

Such is the magic spell of poetry. Thus he had to resort to the second alternative: This he did in the autumn of , declaring: Whenever people come, there is useless talk. Whenever I go, and visit, I have the unpleasant feeling of interfering with other men's business.

Now I can do nothing better than follow the examples of Sun Ching and Tu Wu-lang,4 who confined themselves within locked doors. Friendlessness will become my friend, and poverty my wealth. A stubborn man at fifty years of age, I thus write to discipline myself. The morning-glory - In the daytime, a bolt is fastened On the frontyard gate. Obviously, Basho wished to admire the beauty of the morning-glory without having to keep a bolt on his gate.

How to manage to do this must have been the subject of many hours of meditation within the locked house. He solved the problem, at least to his own satisfaction, and reopened the gate about a month after closing it. Basho's solution was based on the principle of "lightness," a dialectic transcendence of sabi. Sabi urges man to detach himself from worldly involvements; "lightness" makes it possible for him, after attaining that detachment, to return to the mundane world.

He does not escape the grievances of living; standing apart, he just smiles them away. Basho began writing under this principle and advised his students to emulate him. Characteristic verses in these collections reject sentimentalism and take a calm, carefree attitude to the things of daily life. Having thus restored his mental equilibrium, Basho began thinking about another journey. He may have been anxious to carry his new poetic principle, "lightness," to poets outside of Edo, too. Thus in the summer of he traveled westward on the familiar road along the Pacific coast, taking with him one of Jutei's children, Jirobei.

He rested at Ueno for a while, and then visited his students in Kyoto and in town near the southern coast of Lake Biwa. Jutei, who had been struggling against ill health at the Basho Hut, died at this time and Jirobei temporarily returned to Edo. Much saddened, Basho went back to Ueno in early autumn for about a month's rest. He then left for Osaka with a few friends and relatives including his elder brother's son Mataemon as well as Jirobei.

But Basho's health was rapidly failing, even though he continued to write some excellent verses. One of his haiku in Osaka was: This autumn Why am I aging so? Flying towards the clouds, a bird. The poem indicates Basho's awareness of approaching death. Shortly afterward he took to his bed with a stomach ailment, from which he was not to recover.

Numerous disciples hurried to Osaka and gathered at his bedside. He seems to have remained calm in his last days. He scribbled a deathbed note to his elder brother, which in part read: I hope you will live a happy life under Mataemon's care and reach a ripe old age. There is nothing more I have to say. According to a disciple's record, Basho fully knew that it was time for prayers, not for verse writing, and yet he thought of the latter day and night.

Poetry was now an obsession - "a sinful attachment," as he himself called it. His last poem was: On a journey, ailing - My dreams roam about Over a withered moor. Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops. A green willow, dripping down into the mud, at low tide. By the old temple, peach blossoms; a man treading rice.

With every gust of wind, the butterfly changes its place on the willow. All the day long- yet not long enough for the skylark, singing, singing.

Full Moon Is Rising

Husking rice, a child squints up to view the moon. Cedar umbrellas, off to Mount Yoshimo for the cherry blossoms. Winter downpour - even the monkey needs a raincoat. On this road No one will follow me In the Autumn evening. Summer grass Where warriors dream. The tree from whose flower This perfume comes Is unknowable. Beyond Ishiyama, with its back to Mount Iwama, is a hill called Kokub-uyama-the name I think derives from a kokubunji or government temple of long ago. If you cross the narrow stream that runs at the foot and climb the slope for three turnings of the road, some two hundred paces each, you come to a shrine of the god Hachiman.

The object of worship is a statue of the Buddha Amida.

This is the sort of thing that is greatly abhorred by the Yuiitsu school, though I regard it as admirable that, as the Ryobu assert, the Buddhas should dim their light and mingle with the dust in order to benefit the world. Ordinarily, few worshippers visit the shrine and it's very solemn and still. Beside it is an abandoned hut with a rush door. Brambles and bamboo grass overgrow the eaves, the roof leaks, the plaster has fallen from the walls, and foxes and badgers make their den there.

It is called the Genjuan or Hut of the Phantom Dwelling. The owner was a monk, an uncle of the warrior Suganuma Kyokusui. It has been eight years since he lived there-nothing remains of him now but his name, Elder of the Phantom Dwelling. I too gave up city life some ten years ago, and now I'm approaching fifty. I'm like a bagworm that's lost its bag, a snail without its shell. I've tanned my face in the hot sun of Kisakata in Ou, and bruised my heels on the rough beaches of the northern sea, where tall dunes make walking so hard.

And now this year here I am drifting by the waves of Lake Biwa. The grebe attaches its floating nest to a single strand of reed, counting on the reed to keep it from washing away in the current. With a similar thought, I mended the thatch on the eaves of the hut, patched up the gaps in the fence, and at the beginning of the fourth month, the first month of summer, moved in for what I thought would be no more than a brief stay.

Now, though, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever want to leave. Spring is over, but I can tell it hasn't been gone for long. Azaleas continue in bloom, wild wisteria hangs from the pine trees, and a cuckoo now and then passes by. I even have greetings from the jays, and woodpeckers that peck at things, though I don't really mind-in fact, I rather enjoy them.

I feel as though my spirit had raced off to China to view the scenery in Wu or Chu, or as though I were standing beside the lovely Xiao and Xiang rivers or Lake Dongting. The mountain rises behind me to the southwest and the nearest houses are a good distance away.

Fragrant southern breezes blow down from the mountain tops, and north winds, dampened by the lake, are cool. I have Mount Hie and the tall peak of Hira, and this side of them the pines of Karasaki veiled in mist, as well as a castle, a bridge, and boats fishing on the lake. I hear the voice of the woodsman making his way to Mount Kasatori, and the songs of the seedling planters in the little rice paddies at the foot of the hill. Fireflies weave through the air in the dusk of evening, clapper rails tap out their notes-there's surely no lack of beautiful scenes. Among them is Mikamiyama, which is shaped rather like Mount Fuji and reminds me of my old house in Musashino, while Mount Tanakami sets me to counting all the poets of ancient times who are associated with it.

There's Black Ford village, where the foliage is so dense and dark, and the men who tend their fish weirs, looking exactly as they're described in the Man'yoshu. In order to get a better view all around, I've climbed up on the height behind my hut, rigged a platform among the pines, and furnished it with a round straw mat. I call it the Monkey's Perch.

I'm not in a class with those Chinese eccentrics Xu Quan, who made himself a nest up in a cherry-apple tree where he could do his drinking, or Old Man Wang, who built his retreat on Secretary Peak. I'm just a mountain dweller, sleepy by nature, who has turned his footsteps to the steep slopes and sits here in the empty hills catching lice and smashing them.

Sometimes, when I'm in an energetic mood, I draw clear water from the valley and cook myself a meal. I have only the drip drip of the spring to relieve my loneliness, but with my one little stove, things are anything but cluttered. The man who lived here before was truly lofty in mind and did not bother with any elaborate construction. Outside of the one room where the Buddha image is kept, there is only a little place designed to store bedding.

An eminent monk of Mount Kora in Tsukushi, the son of a certain Kai of the Kamo Shrine, recently journeyed to Kyoto, and I got someone to ask him if he would write a plaque for me. He readily agreed, dipped his brush, and wrote the three characters Gen-ju-an. He sent me the plaque, and I keep it as a memorial of my grass hut. Mountain home, traveler's rest-call it what you will, it's hardly the kind of place where you need any great store of belongings.

A cypress bark hat from Kiso, a sedge rain cape from Koshi-that's all that hang on the post above my pillow. In the daytime, I'm once in a while diverted by people who stop to visit. The old man who takes care of the shrine or the men from the village come and tell me about the wild boar who's been eating the rice plants, the rabbits that are getting at the bean patches, tales of farm matters that are all quite new to me.

And when the sun has begun to sink behind the rim of the hills, I sit quietly in the evening waiting for the moon so I may have my shadow for company, or light a lamp and discuss right and wrong with my silhouette. But when all has been said, I'm not really the kind who is so completely enamored of solitude that he must hide every trace of himself away in the mountains and wilds.

It's just that, troubled by frequent illness and weary of dealing with people, I've come to dislike society. Again and again I think of the mistakes I've made in my clumsiness over the course of the years. There was a time when I envied those who had government offices or impressive domains, and on another occasion I considered entering the precincts of the Buddha and the teaching rooms of the patriarchs.

Instead, I've worn out my body in journeys that are as aimless as the winds and clouds, and expended my feelings on flowers and birds. But somehow I've been able to make a living this way, and so in the end, unskilled and talentless as I am, I give myself wholly to this one concern, poetry.

Bo Juyi worked so hard at it that he almost ruined his five vital organs, and Du Fu grew lean and emaciated because of it. As far as intelligence or the quality of our writings go, I can never compare to such men. And yet we all in the end live, do we not, in a phantom dwelling? But enough of that-I'm off to bed. Among these summer trees, a pasania- something to count on. His father was a samurai who, in an era of peace, had taken to farming.

Looming over the town was Ueno Castle, from which Lord Todo governed the province. It was to this castle that Matsuo was sent, at the age of nine, to serve as a page. He was assigned to a son of Todo, elevenyearold Yoshitada. Together they learned their ideographs—roamed the corridors of the castle— sported in the surrounding hills. Entering adolescence, the boys found themselves drawn more to literary than to martial arts; and a poet named Kigin was brought in from Kyoto to tutor them.

They took to poetry with a passion, dashing off haiku after haiku and even adopting pennames Sobo and Sengin. Kigin was pleased with their efforts, and secured publication— in an anthology issued in Kyoto—of several of their haiku. Until Basho infused it with a new spirit, the form was little more than a vehicle for wordplay and wit.

So Matsuo and Yoshitada grew into manhood together.

Full Moon Is Rising · The Haiku Foundation Digital Library

Even after Yoshitada married, they remained close friends and continued to trade poems. For both the future seemed bright. Yoshitada was to succeed his father as governor of the province; and Matsuo could look forward to a high position under him. Yet each spring, as the cherry blossoms made their brief appearance in the courtyard, the friends may have mused that human life and its blessings were no less ephemeral. Indeed they could be brief. In his 25th year Yoshitada died suddenly of an illness; and Matsuo was plunged into grief.

More adversity was to follow. He found the relationship uncongenial, and asked to be released from fealty to the family. His request was denied. In desperation he resigned his position and ran off to Kyoto—in effect, renouncing his status as a samurai. A new life was about to begin for the unhappy young man, in the imperial capital. For several decades Japan had been governed from Edo presentday Tokyo , where the Shogun—the military ruler—had established his headquarters.

But the Emperor and court remained in Kyoto; and their patronage had given rise to a concentration of artists and scholars. The result was a lively and stimulating milieu—a cultural scene. Seeking to assuage his grief, Matsuo gravitated to this scene. He looked up Kigin—who was living in a temple in Kyoto—and became his student again. Under Kigin, Matsuo studied the literary classics of Japan. He also sought out instruction in calligraphy and Chinese literature.

And he wrote poetry, gaining a measure of recognition. His haiku of this period are elegant and witty. They are also pedantic. Showing off his learning, he loaded them with allusions to the classics, court poetry, and Noh drama. In he published his first book, The Seashell Game. It is a compilation of haiku by other poets, with a witty commentary by Matsuo. His own work, meanwhile, was appearing regularly in anthologies under the name Sobo. Yet he probably had no intention of becoming a fulltime poet.

It was simply an absorbing pastime—one that could be either intellectual and solitary, or, in the case of renku, highspirited and sociable. A group of poets get together in pleasant surroundings. They wine and dine themselves. Then they set out to compose a lengthy poem. The leader begins by writing a haiku.

He hands it to the poet beside him, who adds two lines—creating a stanza. This stanza is given to the next poet, who copies only those two added lines. Using them as his opening lines, and taking off in some new direction, he composes the second stanza. And the game continues. Each poet contributes a stanza—its opening lines always the closing lines of the previous stanza. This goes on until 36 or more stanzas have been completed.

Each is independent—a kind of minipoem— yet linked to the others. It can move abruptly from mountain to city, from the sublime to the ridiculous. Anything goes—though certain rules must be observed. For example, at designated points a reference must be made to the moon or to cherry blossoms. The stanzas are read aloud as they are written—to sighs of appreciation, laughter, and calls for more wine. For five years Matsuo resided in Kyoto returning now and again to Ueno. Little is known of the details of his life during this period; but his artistic and scholarly pursuits would seem to have been coupled with a bohemian existence.

A woman named Jutei is believed to have been his mistress for a time. Then Kigin—having found employment with the Shogun— moved to Edo; and Matsuo decided to follow him there. On the eve of his departure he knelt at his table and wrote a haiku: Kumo to hedatsu Tomo ka ya kari no Ikiwakare. Like wild geese that vanish in the sky I leave forever. My treasured friends, goodbye! Edo was a bustling, growing city—the seat of government and a commercial center. Matsuo was nearly 30 when he arrived, with little money and no prospects. He supported himself at first by taking odd jobs, including a stint as a scribe.

Eventually, he found parttime employment with the Municipal Waterworks—a position he would hold onto for four years. In his free time he devoted himself to poetry. Rival circles of poets had sprung up in Edo; and Matsuo joined one that advocated a wider choice of subject matter—an embrace of everyday life. Still using the name Sobo, he participated in renku sessions; judged haiku contests; and appeared frequently in anthologies.

It was not long before he had acquired a solid reputation. During his third year in the city, he was able to capitalize on that reputation—by opening a writing school. The composition of haiku and renku had become a popular pastime for the middle class; and his pupils were prosperous merchants and their children.

Matsuo taught the basics of composition, and did correcting for a fee. According to reports, he was an inspiring teacher as well as a warm and likeable individual. Artistically, this was a transitional period for Matsuo. He was both absorbing the latest trends in poetry, and beginning to develop a style of his own.

Puns, witticisms, and classical allusions still appeared in his poems though the allusions tended now to be mocking. But increasingly he was writing about everyday things, and using colloquial language in a vigorous way. A downtoearth humor had found its way into his work. Take, for example, this haiku written while moonviewing from a boat: Bobbing on the waves, sipping wine And gazing—tipsy—at the moon divine. Some of his poems were altogether humorous. After consuming a bowl of fugu soup fugu, or puffer fish, is poisonous if not prepared properly , he wrote: Fugu soup a day ago I drank— Yet still alive!

My lucky star to thank! On the other hand, serious overtones had begun to appear. Consider the following poem: The autumn wind, in whose sigh you sway. The spider, waiting in its web, is jokingly compared to a musical cricket. Yet a melancholy note is struck with the reference to autumn wind. Matsuo was a successful poet by now—a luminary on the literary scene. Tosei, or Green Peach, was the new penname he had adopted.

Indeed, so devoted to their master were these students that one of them—a fish wholesaler named Sampu—magnanimously bought him a house. Actually it was only a hut, in the swampy, undeveloped Fukagawa district. Its thatched roof was picturesque; its surroundings were rustic. Matsuo who had been living in rented rooms downtown brought over his few possessions and moved in. The hut came with a yard, overgrown with reeds. Students stopped by to tidy up the yard. And one of them brought a sapling and planted it by the door.

It was a basho, or banana tree. The plant thrived; and Matsuo soon had an exotic tree to sit under. In so temperate a climate it would not bear fruit. But the large leaves provided shade; and there was an aesthetic attraction: A banana tree need not fear the ax, for it is useless as construction wood. But its uselessness is precisely what I love about my banana tree. And they were soon attaching a moniker to the poet himself: He liked the sound of that, and decided to adopt it as his penname.

So he dropped Tosei and began to sign his poems and letters Basho. Friends and students started calling him that. Since moving to the hut, Master Basho had closed his poetry school and ceased to give formal lessons or to correct for a fee. But he was still a teacher, with students who looked to him for guidance.

They would hike out to the Fukagawa district and drop in on him. Tea would be sipped, poetry discussed. Basho welcomed the company; for though enjoying the isolation of his new home, he was no recluse. From time to time he even gave parties: Or he would walk into town, to visit Kigin or some other friend. Yet the hut was essentially a retreat—a secluded location for writing, reading, and pondering. Part of its attraction for Basho was its resemblance to a mountain hermitage, the traditional dwelling place of poets and sages.

Humble and outoftheway, the Banana Hut was a cozy hideaway. Even the leaking roof was part of its charm: His stay in the hut was a milestone for Basho. On the one hand, he had distanced himself from the literary scene in Edo. On the other, he found his stride, making the transition to a mature and individual style.

A poem published in has been seen as inaugurating that style: Perched upon the withered branch, a crow. In the west, a glow. The poem is startling in its simplicity. Wholly descriptive, it offers no commentary, wordplay, or wit. It captures a moment in nature—and that is all. No meaning is intended. Yet how suggestive an image—how fraught with overtones— how rich in wabi and sabi!

Henceforth, Basho would leave behind his old concerns and techniques. His haiku would focus on daily life, his own feelings, and the small miracles of nature. And they would have a consistent goal: He had reinvented the haiku. What had been a vehicle for wit and pedantry was endowed with a seriousness of purpose. The form would appeal to the most profound sensibilities, and become a mainstay of literary expression. Meanwhile, life went on for Basho: I live alone in a dilapidated hut by the river. I sit and admire the view of distant Fuji and of passing boats.

In the morning I watch boats sail out of the harbor. At night I sit in the moonlight, listening to the wind in the reeds and lamenting the emptiness of my cask. Even in bed I lament—the thinness of my blankets! Basho was successful now. He had literary fame, follow ers, and a livelihood of sorts. Students would leave rice in a gourd by the door and sake in a cask. It was a life of genteel poverty that suited his temperament. Yet a dissatisfaction was gnawing at him. He had moved to the Fukagawa district to escape the literary scene, with its vanities, and to simplify his life. But nameless ills had pursued him even here.

And he began to experience an uneasiness—a melancholy—a malaise. The wind is brisk, the hour late. Dead leaves swirl against my flimsy gate. The sound of an oar Makes me weep. Chills me to the core. In an attempt to overcome these feelings, he had immersed himself in his work. But something more was needed. Staying nearby was a priest named Buccho. The head of a Zen temple in Hitachi province, he had come to Edo to settle a lawsuit. Basho became acquainted with him, and began to study Zen under his guidance.

The poet meditated, grappled with koans. He pondered the transitory nature of existence—the emptiness of ambition— the possibility of enlightenment. As if to impress these teachings upon him, in the winter of a major fire struck Edo; and the Banana Hut was among the dwellings destroyed. It was a harrowing experience for Basho. Under a sky black with smoke, he had taken refuge in the river, submerging his body and covering his head with a mat. Soon after his return to Edo, he received word that his mother had died. Those withered leaves were swirling. His students took up a collection for Basho.

They found him a new abode in Fukagawa, furnished it, planted a banana tree in the yard. Upon moving into this resurrected Banana Hut, he knelt at his desk and wrote: The same old oak am I—useless, aloof. Hail pounding on a brandnew roof. For a while life went on as before.

He published an anthology called Shriveled Chestnuts. It was acclaimed; and his fame grew. But that dissatisfaction did not go away. So Basho did what any Japanese—spiritually restless—might have done. He embarked upon a pilgrimage. His destination was Ise, with its shrine to Amaterasu. But after paying his respects to the goddess, Basho intended to keep traveling. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Full Moon Is Rising: Offers a sampling of the seventeenth-century Japanese poet's works in the haiku. Hardcover , 94 pages. Published December 1st by Branden Books first published October To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.

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