Tree Spirits Grass Spirits

by Hiromi Itō, Jon L. Pitt (Translator)

A collected series of intertwined poetic essays written by acclaimed Japanese poet Hiromi Ito―part nature writing, part travelogue, part existential philosophy. Written between April 2012 and November 2013, Tree Spirits Grass Spirits adopts a non-linear narrative flow that mimics the growth of plants, and can be read as a companion piece to Ito’s beloved poem "Wild Grass on the Riverbank". Rather than the vertiginously violent poetics of the latter, Tree Spirits Grass Spirits serves as what we might call a a recounting of one’s life through the logic of flora. Ito’s graciously potent and philosophical prose examines immigration, language, gender, care work, and death, all through her close (indeed, at times obsessive) attention to plant life.

Genres: Japan, Poetry, Essays, Nonfiction

192 pages, Paperback

Published October 3, 2023

About the author

Hiromi Itō is one of the most prominent woman writers of contemporary Japan, with more than a dozen collections of poetry, several works of prose, numerous books of essays, and several major literary prizes to her name.

Reviews

[Ramya Raviram · Rating 4 out of 5]

As someone who is not well versed in botony or plant classification I found some parts of the book difficult to get through yet the writing kept me hooked. As she struggled to identify certain plants associated with each memory or story it was almost as if she was also trying to understand the meaning behind certain events in her life and wished there was a way to classify them. The classification of plants is messy and often changing and was a beautiful allegory for experiences and events throughout life.

I am also grateful that I now know what pampas grass is.

[Jack · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read Tree Spirits Grass Spirits slowly over the last three to four weeks. The chapters were originally published in the periodical Tosho so I didn’t feel the need to rush through the chapters as a story.
I want a personal Itō Hiromi works month, sharing time with her writings.

[Cheryl · Rating 2 out of 5]

In Japanese, plant names are usually in katakana. Akinokirinsō, seitaka-awadachisō, miyakowasure, yōshuyamagobō, seitaka-daiō—all of these are faithfully written in katakana. And it is because these plants all have names written in katakana that they are able to live in a plant-like way, and therefore we can have peace of mind and treat them as plants. But for some reason, succulents (and succulents only) are allowed to have names written in strange kanji characters. Too strange—names like those of yōkai monsters in comics for young boys. Like tekkōmaru (written as “iron helmet”) and daiginryū (written as “big silver dragon”), both of the Agavaceae family. Or ryūkaku (“dragon horn”), gyūkaku (“cow horn”), and amanojaku (“mischievous demon”), all of the Asclepiadaceae family. Kumadōji (“bear child”) and tsukitoji (“moon-rabbit ears”), both of the Crassulaceae family.

There might be the lost in translation issue, but I did not find much poetry, spirituality or deep insights into the experience of a poet dividing her time between Japan and Southern California. I love the quote about the linguistics of naming things in different languages, and it is a new way of thinking of a plant or a tree, like how many names do you have, aster or daisy or mahogany tree? I am always on the lookout for indigenous names of places and beings on my travels, and am more inspired to find all the names I can find.

In my neighborhood there is a park called Cottonwood Creek Park, where a small river they call a “creek” runs through it, and where many trees called “cottonwoods” (which resemble “nekoyanagi” or “rose-gold pussy willow” trees) grow wild along the edge of the creek. In the back of the park stand tall and robust eucalyptus trees, magnificent with red flowers. They are too tall for us to see their flowers when in bloom, but the ground around the trees is covered in flowers that fall. I went thinking it might be the flowering season, but nothing had fallen to the ground. What in the world? Since long ago I had thought this plant called eucalyptus was somehow an unpredictable plant. For starters, the flowering season is random, like I said. It seems to vary by type, or by individual tree. And the leaf shape is also random. It differs between young and established trees, and even the same type of tree differs by location, like with trees that have been grafted. You might think everything is this way, but that’s not so. There are things that remain consistent. What’s more, the bark of the tree peels off to an excessive degree. Of course, there are ones that don’t shed their bark at all. The bark that doesn’t peel off piles up in a scraggily, unrefined way, as if it has a slow metabolism. The trees that do shed bark shed too much and get dull-looking and slippery.

Aboriginal artists from Australia came to make drawings in their characteristic dotted style. One of them said, “Fill it in from the edges. White people will make an island of dots and then make another one in another spot, and then start filling in the space in-between. But it takes too much effort that way.” They continued, “You gain strength by continually making the dots. Strength steadily builds if you start from the edges, and you can reach the whole circumference.”

Trees that were several hundreds of years old appeared one after another along the roadside, and just when we thought we had passed them by, more would appear. They continued on and on forever. It was a real shame to just pass them by, so we pulled over to the side of the road many times to get closer to the trees. The plants growing around the large trees (which were small by comparison) were full of leaves and blooming flowers. Each one embraced the sunlight and blew in the wind, glistening. The large trees accompanied innumerable small trees. In other words, in this case, the several-hundred-year-old trees were all female. I too was female. Tomé, who I had taken along with me, was a young woman—she too was female. The young sprouts which were the trees’ offspring were shorter than we were. The fresh green of these young trees, which seemed as if they were holding out their tiny hands, told me, with a determined expression that resembled the clenching of tiny teeth, that they planned to live for several hundreds of years to come.

[Kathryn Hemmann · Rating 5 out of 5]

Tree Spirits Grass Spirits collects twenty-one autobiographical stories about plants by the celebrated Japanese-American poet Hiromi Ito. Ito divides her time between the cities of Encinitas in southern California and Kumamoto on the southern island of Kyushu in Japan. Each region has a unique climate and ecosystem, and Ito is fascinated by the plants that grow in each environment, from yucca and agave to camelia and hydrangeas to grass and mold.

Ito’s stories touch on botany and natural history, but their focus is on primarily humans, especially the humans in her own family. What I admire about Ito’s stories is that, despite their poetic beauty, her meditations often progress in strange and unexpected directions without forcing symbolism or allegory onto the natural world. Ito observes her environment closely and looks inward as she describes what she sees, but the mycelial networks between her associations expand unseen below the surface of her writing.

Each of the stand-alone stories in Tree Spirits Grass Spirits is gentle and thoughtful, and the collection as a whole is a breath of fresh summer air filled with the sweet taste of green and growing leaves. Almost all of the stories are less than ten pages long, and it’s a pleasure to dip into the collection whenever you’re in the mood to open your eyes and shift your viewpoint to a slightly less anthropocentric frame of reference.

[mik · Rating 3 out of 5]

tender and contemplative ephemeral essays. i had been struggling with the terms “invasive” and “non-native” and “naturalized” to describe plants and Hiromi Ito was, too! loved how she puts “weed” in quotation marks; what IS a weed anyway?? i learned a lot from these essays: geraniums are protocarnivorous, the giant sequoia tree known as “General Sherman” is the largest (by volume) single-stem tree on Earth, and so much more! i’ll end with one of my favorite quotes:

“…all I thought about were plants. When I stepped outdoors, plants were the only thing that I noticed…I haven’t been able to find my way back to reality. I had a strong feeling that I might actually be made of grass. More grass than human. Or that maybe I was a tree. Or a vine.” p162

[Noah Thomas · Rating 3 out of 5]

I’m no stranger to the ponderous nature of writing from a Japanese frame of mind. I have read my share of early and recent Japanese literature, and nature and travel writing. And where the love and interest in plants comes through from Ito-sama, the feeling emerges while reading her kind meditation on the plants in her environment, that she did not have interest in her book to read through it once with a reasonably sharp editorial gaze. Some wonderful words, stories, and intriguing details, but so much else, which ends up falling down as contrived or listless. I really enjoyed reading this book, no matter how difficult it was to read it.

[Colette Celeste · Rating 1 out of 5]

I wanted to like this, I really did. A semi-poetic collection of essays about how beautiful Southern California horticulture is sounded like a dream. The beauty must have gotten lost in translation as there’s simply way too much Latin and plant vocabulary for me to be able to visualize it. A one star from me doesn’t mean it’s the worst book ever, this is a decent beach read, but I just couldn’t mesh with its placid rhythm.

[Moranda Bromberg · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.75 stars. A short philosophical exploration of plants, their qualities, and their reliance on decay and death. A unique structure with some really compelling chapters and some less so. I enjoyed her gentle questioning and curiosity about the natural world. A philosophy of life inspired by plants for certain.

[E.C. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very beautiful book. Explores themes of identity and soul. I devoured the first three quarters, but hit a point where it felt slower. Overall a lovely book. A passage about the felling of a tree made me cry.