I don't often read something then immediately start over so that I can go more slowly. I do (far too often) become so enamored of a book that I want to read more books on the topic, which is certainly the case with Goldberg's beautiful record of her experiences with haiku and eventual trip to Japan to visit sites related to Basho, Busin, Issa, and Shiki. While there she also finds out about Chiyo-ni, a female haiku master born in 1703 and not mentioned by The Guys:
I knew when I listened to Ginsburg, so many years ago, that women were involved but not mentioned. I am not a patient person, but in this one way I am -- I listen to the boys and wait with certainty that the women will be revealed.
OK, but it took another 30 years?
The book is so nicely peppered with haiku that it somehow softens it, and reading it becomes a meditative experience.
I found an incident at the end of the book touching: Goldberg joins a haiku group in Santa Fe, but none of her haiku seem to land. Then one does, and as she shares the process I could feel in my bones that the change she makes, following another group participant's suggestion, turns it from a nice, forgettable poem into something that I certainly can't articulate, but responded to with such quiet pleasure that I felt like it was my> second haiku.
My first, in the sense that it reached into me, was by Issa, whose children all died, but he mourned terribly the death of a particular daughter, Sato, and wrote:
In a dream
my daughter lifts a melon
to her soft cheek
Now, Goldberg describes another written after his daughter's death, as "one of his most poignant verses:
The world of dew
is only a world of dew --
and yet
That one did not really reach me. At least not yet.
The quiet little haiku, borne out of connection to nature and of the bittersweet knowledge that life's most permanent quality is that of impermanence, is something I could not have appreciated or really received until now, and Goldberg's book has been an important step in that particular way.