R. H. Blyth (essay date 1964)
SOURCE: "Santoka," in A History of Haiku, Vol. II , The Hokuseido Press, 1971, pp.173-88.
[In the following essay, which was originally published in 1964, Blyth studies Santoka's haiku poems, especially as they signify the poet's acceptance of more melancholy aspects of life.]
To give a modern poet a whole chapter to himself, albeit a short one, may seem strange, but Santoka belongs to the small group of beggar-like haiku poets; Rotsu is another example, and Basho and Issa are not dissimilar. Santoka, was born in 1882 of a landowner in Yamaguchi Prefecture. After retiring from Waseda University on account of a nervous breakdown in 1904, he married, set up a brewery with his father, whose business had failed, and together with him went bankrupt in 1916. He had begun to write haiku already in 1911, under Seisensui. He separated from his wife in 1920, and tried various jobs, but did not continue in them. From 1926, with a kasa and a begging bowl, he wandered all over Japan for eight years, and then made a hermitage in 1932 back in Yamaguchi Prefecture, and yet another outside Miyukidera Temple. He ended his life of wandering and drinking in 1940.
Here are a few anecdotes of the life of Santoka, taken from Haijin Santoka, by Oyama Sumita. When the author visited Gochuan, the hut-hermitage where Santoka lived in 1938, Santoka asked him if he had had his midday meal. On hearing that he had not, he brought in an iron bowl of rice, and a single pimento, and put it on the tatami. Oyama began to weep, it was so hot. Santoka sat gazing at him, and on being asked, "Why don't you eat too?" told him, "I have only one bowl." Thinking of Ryokan, he finished his rice. Santoka took the bowl, filled it with rice (which was mixed with barley and other things) and ate it together with the remains of the pimento. Santoka washed the bowl in the water the rice was washed in, but did not throw away the water. He used it to wash the floor, and then as manure for his little garden.
One December, the author stayed the night with Santoka. There was only one quilt, so Santoka gave him this, and three magazines of Kaizo or Bungei Shunju for a pillow, and spread on the top of him his own underclothes and summer garments, and then everything that remained in the cupboard. As he was still cold, Santoka put his little desk over him, reminding us of what Thoreau says in The Week on the Concord, Tuesday:
But as it grew colder towards midnight, I at length encased myself completely in boards, managing even to put a board on top of me, with a large stone on it, to keep it down.
At last he went to sleep, and when he woke at dawn he found Santoka still sitting by him doing zazen.
Even though he had no rice, he would buy sake to drink, being unable to keep money in his pocket. Someone gave him a tombi, a kind of coat used in the Meiji Era. He was very pleased, for two or three days, and then gave it to someone else. One autumn Seisensui came to see him, and gave him a piece of calligraphy, Gochu ichinin, referring to his hut-hermitage. Santoka had it framed, and for some time enjoyed it, but then gave it away.
One night Santoka came home at two o'clock in the morning, followed by a dog with a very big rice-cake in its mouth. He received this and roasted it and ate it.
Santoka loved weeds, like Clare, and wrote in his diary for the 19th of August, 1940:
Those who do not know the meaning of weeds do not know the mind of Nature. Weeds grasp their own essence and express its truth.
He wrote many verses on weeds. His view of life is given in another entry in his diary:
I do not believe in a future world. I deny the past. I believe entirely in the present. We must employ our whole body and soul in this eternal moment. I believe in the universal spirit, but the spirit of any particular man I reject. Each creature comes from the Whole, and goes back to it. From this point of view we may say that life is an approaching; death is a returning.
In these anecdotes about Santoka we see the naturalness of his life, his unattachedness to things, and his lack of plan in everything, like God's.
He put every ounce of his spiritual energy into his verses, which were often free as to form and season-word like those of his teacher Seisensui. He recalls to us Pascal, Kierkegaard, Kafka, Kraus, Rilke, and others of the "disinherited mind." The verses are a combination of Zen, Buddhism, and Japaneseness, the last word implying an innate appreciation of the transitoriness of life, the just-so-ness, the thus-ness of things, their existence value.
Ushiro-sugata no shigurete yuku ka
My back view as I go,
Wetted with the winter rain?
We may compare this with Issa's verse on a picture of himself:
Ushiro kara mite mo samuge na atama kana
Even seen from behind,
His head looks
But Santoka's verse is better, I think, because it gives us the picture of himself as viewed by the friends who are seeing him off.
Itsumademo tabi wo suru koto no tsume wo kiru
Up to the very end, it is journeying,
And cutting our (toe-) nails.
We must journey alone through life; and we must cut our toe-nails. These things are so, inevitably.
Furusato wa tokushite ki no me
My native place
The buds on the trees.
When we are young, neither far nor near, youth nor age has any very deep meaning, but when we are old, distance and youth affect us beyond measure.
Tetsubachi no naka e mo arare
Into the iron bowl also,
Democracy is a weak word to express the universal, all-penetrating, indiscriminate, "religious" power of nature.
Kasa e pottori tsubaki datta
Plop on my kasa
The flower of the camellia!
This verse is very good in its onomatopoeia, not merely the pottori, but the datta at the end.
Itadaite tarife nitori no hashi wo oku
I have gratefully received it;
It was enough;
I lay down my chopsticks.
This would make a good death-poem. We have received what we were born to receive. We have had enough. We used our own chopsticks and fed ourselves. We now lay them down. Compare Landor's "I warmed both hands," which is however the verse of a well-off, artistic, and self-satisfied man.
Shizukana michi to nari dokudami no me
The road became quiet and solitary;
(The entire section is 2999 words.)