In the West we have a vague sense that poetry is good for our souls and makes us sensitive and wiser, yet we don't always know how this should work. Poetry has a hard time finding its way into our lives in any practical sense. In the East however, some poets, like the 17th century Buddhist monk and poet Matsu Bashō, knew precisely what effect their poetry was meant to produce. It was a medium designed to guide us to wisdom and calm as the terms are defined in Zen buddhist philosophy.
As a child Bashō was taught how to compose poems in the haiku style. Traditionally, haikus contain three parts: two images and a concluding line which helps juxtapose them. Until his death in 1694, Bashō alternated between traveling widely on foot and living in a small hut on the outskirts of the city. He didn't believe in the modern idea of art for art's sake, instead he hoped that his poetry would bring his readers into special mental states valued in Zen Buddhism.
His poetry reflects two of the most important Zen ideals: Wabi-Sabi. Wabi means satisfaction with simplicity and austerity while Sabi means an appreciation of the imperfect. It was nature more than anything else that was thought to foster Wabi and Sabi and it's therefore unsurprisingly one of Bashō's most frequent topics (...the cherry blossoms ya'll).
Bashō's poetry is of an enormous shocking simplicity at the level of theme. There are no analyses of politics or love triangles or family dramas. The point is to remind readers that what really matters is to be able to be content with our own company, to appreciate the moment we're in and to be attuned to the very simplest things life has to offer like the chaning of the seasons and the little surprises we encounter each day.
Bashō also used natural scenes to remind his readers that flowers, weather and other natural elements are like our own lives ever-changing and fleeting. This transience of life may sometimes be heartbreaking but it's also what makes every moment valuable.
In literature Bashō valued Karumi – lightness. He wanted it to seem as if children had written it. He abhorred pretension and elaboration. As he told his disciples: 'In my view a good poem is in which the form of the verse, and the joining of its two parts, seem light as a shallow river flowing over its sandy bed.' The ultimate goal of this lightness was to allow readers to escape from the burdens of the self. Bashō believed that poetry at its best would allow one to feel a brief sensation of merging with the natural world, leading one to an enlightened state of mind – Muga, the loss of awareness of one's self.
In a world of social media profiles and crafted resumes it might seem odd to want to escape our individuality. After all, we carefully groom ourselves to stand out from the rest of the world. Bashō reminds us that self-forgetting is valuable because it allows us to break free from the incessant sensation of desire and incompleteness, and the need of validation.
His poetry constantly reminds us to appreciate what we have and to see how infinitesimal and unimportant our personal difficulties are in the vast scheme of the universe. They remind both the writer and the reader that contentment relies on knowing how to derive pleasure from simplicity and how to escape, even if only for a while, the tyranny of being ourselves.
Personally, I found more pleasure in researching Bashō and his worldview than in the poetry itself. Granted, reading them on the train with the obtrusive smell of bear and the soundscape of crying children might have dampened the the atmosphere. ;) Nonetheless, most haikus seemed a bit too random for me and I didn't take much from them. But the point still stands: Bashō was a badass and more people should know about him!