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sirwaddlesesquire · 7 years

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Sound of Water

The old pond Frog jumps in Sound of Water

- Basho

As he felt is his eyes begin to cross, Dipper Pines let out an agitated groan. Dropping his head into his hands, he scrubbed at his tired eyes, the motion pushing back his hat. He hated this class. Ok, he allowed, he didn’t hate the class. He just didn’t get it. It was his senior year of college and he had still needed his writing requirement in order to graduate. Lit 2030, “World Poetry” had been the only class to fit in his schedule otherwise filled with science and communication media courses. Plus, he had figured that knowing some poetry might come in handy, should he ever meet a special lady. So he had signed up.

And was now thoroughly regretting it. At this point, maybe he had better stick to wooing women with some of Grunkle Stan’s dirty limericks.

Settling his cap back on his head, he turned the page. And paused.

However close I look, Not a speck on White chrysanthemum

- Basho

Something about this haiku stood out to Dipper, though he wasn’t sure what. He flipped to the beginning of the chapter, and reread the introduction. “The Haiku is a traditional Japanese poetry form. It utilizes a short stanza consisting of three lines, with a syllable breakdown of five/seven/five, for a total of seventeen syllables. The goal of a haiku is to display the ephemeral beauty of life, to capture just a snapshot of the world, and attempt to halt, even for a moment, the fleeting nature of everything we experience. While English translations of traditional Japanese haiku rarely maintain the syllable structure, it is important for the student to keep the proper format. The masters of haiku were Basho, Buson, and Issa.”

Scratching at his cheek, Dipper returned to the poem he had left off at. Something stirred in the back of his mind as he read it again.

However close I look, Not a speck on White chrysanthemum

- Basho

Under the poem was a caption. “Basho was the prophet of the masters. He predicted the exuberance and importance of the small things in life, using an everyday object to show what truly mattered.”

This time, he can feel some understanding. The haiku reminded him of … a certain collection of sweaters. Sweaters of every color and type, that he had grown up around, that he had seen nearly every day, that he had come to know and adore. The collection was ever expanding, to a point where, over a decade after it had begun, it nearly boggled the mind. And yet, each new creation was unique, the design fresh and clever, and the pattern perfect. When each sweater was worn, it was flawless. And at the end of the day, even after it was put away for good, the memory still lingered on.

He smiled at the thoughts swirling in his head, and tried writing a poem of his own.

After all these years, Despite a hundred sweaters – No stitch out of place!

He rolled his eyes at his laughable effort and continued with the assignment, moving on to the next page.

Early summer rain Thrusting into the azure sea Muddy river water

- Buson

This too had a caption underneath. “More than any of the masters, Buson sought to write of the four seasons. Here, he attempts to personify summer through describing the heavy rains customary during the season.”

Dipper chuckled to himself. He already had his own personification of summer in mind. It was the many hours of daylight, present in the constant smile and cheerful attitude that never diminished. It was the feeling of warmth and of comfort, present in being made to feel like he was the most important person in the world. It was the sudden rain, present in the deluge of words, expressions, and emotion, seemingly prompted out of the blue. And if that deluge sometimes muddied the waters of his mind with confusing thoughts and feelings, then at the very least it was easy to push aside and out to the proverbial sea.

With that in mind, he penned a second try.

Bright glow of sunshine Summer’s child dances for joy – And all is at peace

He grinned to himself, enjoying the particular poignancy that was his identification of ‘summer’s child’. He kept going.

Sleeping, then waking And giving a great yawn, the cat Goes out love-making

- Issa

The book gave some information on this new poet. “Issa is the most beloved master, most likely because he is the humanist. While the others revel in nature, Issa wallows in the muck that is the human condition.”

Dipper blushed even as he laughed. A cat going ‘love-making’ was a ridiculous notion. And yet… he could almost picture it. He could picture the air of luxury, like a fluffy bathrobe after a long bubble bath. He could picture the pleased yowl, like the singing of a pop-song during the primping and preparation. He could picture the smug prance, like the sultry stride and swirl to show off a flashy new outfit, picked just for the occasion. He could picture the high stepping prowl, like a saunter towards him. And then past him, a slight pause before the front door closed behind with a click.

Frowning at an unfamiliar pang and twist inside him, he wrote once more.

Exulting in pride, The cat sweeps by so quickly Flowing into night

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unformed but clearly impatient emotions inside him, moving to the next example.

The peasant’s child Husking rice, stops And gazes at the moon

- Basho

Basho again, Dipper thought, starting to see now how the poet used simple things to show bigger, important things.

He thought of evenings spent on a small cabin rooftop, sharing the growing twilight in easy companionship. The looming fir trees seemed to hold up the night sky itself. If timed just right, it was possible to witness the sudden appearance of the stars, springing to life like fireflies dancing across the cosmos. His companion would always gasp in delight, giving a little clap with the usual enthusiasm. And when the pale moon cast its soft glow on his companion, it was as if it was illuminating perfection. The feeling would last, filling him to bursting, until the moon disappeared behind the trees.

He chewed on his pen for a moment, more in worry over the small measure of knowledge he was beginning to feel at his own thoughts than in worry over his next poem. He hurriedly scratched something down.

Under a pale moon Summer’s child gasps at beauty Forsaking her own

He quickly advanced, not wanting to pursue the sudden clarity within him any further if he could help it.

The cherry blossoms fallen Through the branches A temple

- Buson

Dipper frowned. This one seemed a bit sad to him. He knew cherry trees lost their blossoms in the fall. And while the poet was expressing their newfound view because of that fact, he didn’t think the revelation was a happy one. He knew the sentiment. He thought of his own recent autumns, and how, for the last few years, the turning of the leaves meant a return to college and a difficult goodbye in a suburban driveway. An oddly strained silence, a halting hesitation, a shuffling of feet: all supposedly resolved by a customary and traditional brand of awkward hug. But he now realized that the crisp breeze, kicking up errant articles in its path, would actually reveal more; if only for a brief instant before the wind moved on.

Gritting his teeth at the pit that had just appeared in his stomach, he wrote a new offering.

Autumn heralds change Through curtains of auburn hair Summer goddess weeps

Wishing now to finish this assignment and forget all about it, Dipper turned to the very last page and haiku.

Insects on a bough Floating down river Still singing

- Issa

With a strangled cry, the weight of everything Dipper had been trying to keep back came crashing down upon him

Of all the poems, this one made the most sense to him. ‘Insects on a bough.’ Insignificance: creatures made small by the vastness around them. For the insects, the world. For him, an emotion deep within. ‘Floating down river.’ Doom: an inescapable fate. For the insects, the crush of the swift water. For him, the crush of harsh reality. ‘Still singing’. Acceptance: joyful participation despite the inevitable outcome. For the insects, they still sang despite their hopeless situation. For him, he still loved, despite the obvious impossibility.

He cleared his throat, blinking back tears, and wrote his final and most truthful haiku of the night.

Pine Tree stands on – yet! Helpless before the sharp axe Come to make him small

#pinecest

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