Many nights on the road
and not dead yet—
     the end of autumn.

 

      The sea darkening—
the wild duck’s call
     is faintly white.

 

     How admirable!
to see lightning and not think
     life is fleeting.

 

     The spring we don’t see—
on the back of a hand mirror
     a plum tree in flower.

—

I am reading a collection of poems by three Japanese poets. These come from Matsuo Basho. Basho lived in the 17th century (1644-1694). Japan was a military dictatorship, ruled by the Tokugawa clan in Edo, today’s Tokyo. Basho lived in Edo as a young man where he became renowned as a working poet, winning literary contests. This is written about Basho’s time in Edo:

In 1683, in a fire that destroyed much of Edo, Basho’s house burned down. From this vantage point, it would appear that the world contrived to serve him with a lesson in nonattachment every decade or so. His father died when he was twelve, his young friend and master when he was twenty-two. …his students took up a collection and built a new house for him, but in 1684 he began his travels –half homeless pilgrim, half literary celebrity — that occupied the rest of his life.