Yellow Flowers

(Leaf 41) – Reflection

 

This poem could have been titled ‘Spring in Mitake Gorge’, as a companion piece to the poem featured in Leaf 40. But really it is a separate piece entirely, linked only by its location. This poem is about a visit to Mitake-san, a mountain which has a funicular railway that takes you up a steep incline to a Shintō shrine with some lovely views. We visited during Golden Week, when the cooler heights of the mountain meant that cherry blossoms were still in full flower. Lots of people bring their dogs to the shrine because one of them is dedicated to Okuchimagami, a wolf deity. It’s a nice place to enjoy a picnic, although we later found out there are bears in the region, hence why a lot of walkers we saw there had bells tied to their backpacks. At the end of the day, we had dinner in a soba restaurant near Mitake railway station. The poem is striving to do two seemingly contradictory things. On the one hand it is attempting to convey the feeling of being isolated, and far-away, out in the countryside; whilst also subtly hinting at the hushed presence of the long queue of customers, all waiting patiently outside this very popular, rustic gem of a traditional inn. And it certainly is worth the wait. The soba noodles with mountain vegetables are delicious.

 

 

 

Tall yellow flowers crowd

the mossy thatched roof

– the wayside inn, selling soba.

 

Tamagawa-ya, Mitake, Ome (May, 2025).

 

 

 

Photographs by Tim Chamberlain

Autumn in Mitake Gorge

(Leaf 40) – Reflection

 

It only takes an hour or two by train to get from where we live in Tokyo to the upper reaches of the Tama-gawa. The Tama is a river which flows from the hills and mountains to the west of the city between Tokyo and Kanagawa. I like to think of the area as the foothills of Mount Fuji, which can often be seen rising above the skyline in the gaps between the wooded peaks and ridges thereabouts. An escape from the urban environs. It’s a nice place to go walking, especially in the spring and autumn seasons when the weather is cooler.

 

 

 

AUTUMN IN MITAKE GORGE

 

Stopping to chat to a couple

(like us, but older),

coming the other way.

 

Together,

admiring the red maple leaves

along the Tama-gawa.

 

 

All photographs by Tim Chamberlain

 

Columbo

(Leaf 39) – Senryu (or, witty tom-foolery)

 

Peter Falk as Lieutenant Columbo (1971-2003)

The serendipity of life sometimes seems to conform to a cliché, doesn’t it? – It can be uncanny. I can understand how some people might not believe the following poem is based on an actual incident which really happened to my wife and me, but it genuinely did – which made it all the more amusing to us. It was too good not to note down in a poem of some sort. But in terms of structure, this one is a little bit unusual. I suppose it is more of a kyōka perhaps, given its four-line arrangement, despite the fourth line being so short and all – (technically, I suppose it should really be five lines), but in spirit, I think it is certainly more like a senryu. I’m not too fussed about terms. This poem’s layout is focussed more on conveying feeling through the double caesura (long, then short) used in the final reveal, much like the spirit of the TV show itself – the true joy of which lies in enjoying the cliché for what it is, the pure enjoyment of realising the inevitable. Oh, and there’s just one more thing … my wife’s not really a fan of Columbo, but she records the re-runs for me whenever they’re on, because she knows I’m very fond of them. So I guess that maybe adds something extra to the serendipity of this particular poem.

 

 

Just as we begin,

watching an episode of Columbo

– our old TV, suddenly

                                         dies ...

 

 

Photograph credits: IMDb

Tummy Rumbles

(Leaf 38) – Senryu (or, witty tom-foolery)

 

My wife and I recently composed a joint haiku – or rather, a senryu (see, Leaf 33). It was a joking response to one of us suffering from a rumbling tummy the morning after a long night out over-indulging at a ‘yakiniku’ (Japanese barbeque) restaurant, punning upon the famous haiku about the sound of a frog jumping into an old pond, written by Matsuo Bashō (with apologies to Bashō!). We did so purely for our own amusement, and so we composed it under a non-sensical, shared ‘haijin’ name of “Negibu.” It conforms in Japanese to the proper 5-7-5 structure of senryu. I will neither confirm or deny which one of us it refers to.

 

古食堂     食べ過ぎたから     腹の音          葱ぶ

ふるしょくどう     たべ すぎたから     はらのおと          ねぎぶ

Furu shokudō     tabesugita kara     hara no oto          Negibu

 

Literally:

 

Old restaurant      having over-eaten     sound of stomach

 

Which roughly translates as:

 

Having over-eaten

at the old restaurant

– tummy grumbles.

 

* * *

 

 Bashō’ s haiku is: 

古池や　蛙飛び込む　水の音

furu ike ya kawazu tobikomu mizu no oto

The old pond – a frog leaps,  splash!

Photograph credit: Pikrepo.

Criticism

(Leaf 37) – Senryu (or, a witty riposte)

 

CRITICISM

There’s always one, isn’t there. Someone who takes umbrage at other people’s enjoyment. One can’t help wondering why they don’t leave well alone. Horses for courses, etc. However, I suppose they feel they’ve had their toes trodden on, somehow, and so need to retaliate – when in truth, it would simply be better for both parties if they agreed to disagree, parted company, and continued to go about their business, each minding to their own.

 

Back in 1999, still – a journal of short verse was entering its third year of publication. It was a bold and stylish new venture in the world of small-press magazines. Innovatively, it published a poem a page. And very quickly it boasted a global contributor list which balanced big names and new poets alike. The ‘comments’ section in the journal’s back pages reflected the widespread enthusiasm and praise for its appearance, its style, and its ethos. But not everyone shared in this view. The editor very bravely chose to show the journal’s commitment to openness and honesty by including a very derogatory piece of literary criticism which the journal had received (see, still 3 one).

 

I won’t retrospectively dignify his action by reproducing the chap’s name, or quoting him directly – but suffice to say, he deemed the new journal to be onanistic, self-indulgent, self-serving, without meaning and frankly absurd. He knew what real poetry was; he had an honours degree in English literature. He thought much the same of the poets featured in still, he said, as Byron had thought of the poems of Keats: i.e – condescendingly. Amusingly, his dismissal was riddled with spelling mistakes, which certainly didn’t help to reinforce his case. Nevertheless, it was quite a shocking thing to read at the time, and I understand it provoked quite a few angry responses – a couple of which were featured in the next edition (still 3 two). And I’m now somewhat shamefaced to say that it was me who inadvertently led the rebuttals with a somewhat barbed senryu. I’m not ashamed of what I wrote, because it was an honest response which was written at the time. But it does now seem to me to have been a little undignified to have sunk to the level of responding at all. For what it’s worth, this was my response:

 

His mind –

like a small room,

without a lightbulb.

 

In some ways, our erstwhile literary critic’s acid and asinine remarks did get to the nub of the matter. They touched a raw nerve. One of the reasons still was being so applauded was precisely because it had opened up a space to confront such optically-nasal-descending dismissals. It was a forum for accepting and treating short verse with respect and dignity. Its open and honest ethos was genuinely trailblazing. It offered a space in which to share enlightenment without being dogmatic, proscriptive, or overly didactic. Its unflinching stance had clearly rattled some empty-headed birdcages.

 

I am sure many of us writing haiku and short verse at that time in the late 1990s were, like me, riddled with doubts about the validity of the endeavour. I know I felt mildly (or even, acutely) embarrassed by some of my early efforts in this arena. I remember one occasion when a very good friend of mine picked up a copy of still (still 3 one, as it happened) and began leafing through it. After a long while, he looked up and said he didn’t get it. He read out the poem on page 3, the first poem in the magazine, and said “What does it mean?” – I felt myself cringe inwardly. The poem he had just read expressed almost exactly the same sentiment which a poem of mine had expressed in the previous issue (still 2 four, p.73):

 

Leaving,

Her scent

remains.

 

For me, in my case, my poem was quite personal. It reflects a genuine ‘haiku moment’ which had happened to me when laying my head down upon a pillow in the absence of my (then) girlfriend. The other poem, I think, seems somewhat more abstract, given that it occurs in a public space. Mine is perhaps more ambiguous because it is less specific – there’s no hint of it referring to a pillow, a bedroom, a home, or a private space. It could easily be something which could occur anywhere. Anyhow, this friend of mine was then at pains to explain that he understood the words and what they were saying, but to him it “didn’t seem like poetry” – it was just too short. But, horses for courses, etc.

 

I did (and still do) feel some sympathy for this. It’s not unusual for me to read short poems by other poets which simply do not speak to me, or they evoke feelings, images or reflections which I don’t get, or simply don’t enjoy. Not all poetry needs to be enjoyed. There is just as much efficacy in being shocked or discomfited by a poem. But on the whole (and notably, only for me), how I feel I have evolved as a haiku poet since those early days is that I am very much in the traditional, zen-like mould of Matsuo Bashō and his followers. As he taught: poems should strive to be ego-less, although we know this to be impossible. All expression is essentially anchored by (and to) the ego. Therefore, it needs to strive towards something universal in which all our egos share. Hence, why I find it amusing when I hear or see people talking about the ‘Great Haiku Poets’ of our time. Because what does that even mean? – Surely that’s simply contradictory? – Well, it is to me at any rate. But, if it’s your thing: that’s fine. Each to their own, and long may that be the case! – After all, we must learn ‘to live and let live’, if we are to live well, and live well with one another.

 

Big name,

small world

– haiku.

 

 

Photographs of still 3 two [left] & still 3 one [right] by Tim Chamberlain.

Lonely Wing

(Leaf 36) – Reflection

 

Tim Chamberlain - On a Lonely Wing, Engaku-ji, Kamakura (2003)

In 2003, I spent a crisp, cold Christmas Day on my own, idly wandering around the temples at Kamakura. Engaku- ji is a Buddhist temple in Kita-Kamakura which features in several noted works of Japanese literature, such as ‘Mon’ (1910) by Soseki Natsume, and ‘Thousand Cranes’ (1952) by Kawabata Yasunari. I believe Soseki also spent time here on retreat, studying Buddhism and writing haiku.

 

 

On a lonely wing

– the cry of the kite

over Engaku-ji.

 

 

 

White Mist

(Leaf 35) – Reflection

 

Tim Chamberlain - The Tōkaidō, near Hakone (2009) 

I’m not sure if this poem was written about walking the Tōkaidō in the region of Hakone, during the rainy season, or if it was written with walking the coastal path in Cornwall in mind. It could easily be about one or other, or even both.

 

 

White mist hanging,

between moss covered

trunks and boulders.

 

Ieyasu's Tomb

(Leaf 34) – Looking Back

 

Tim Chamberlain - The Steps to Ieyasu's Tomb, Nikko (2003)

Nikko was one of the places I visited on my first trip to Japan in 2003. At that time, I thought it was the trip of a lifetime. I assumed I’d probably never get the chance to return, given that Japan was a place I had long hoped to see one day. At that time though, I had no idea that it was simply the first of many such trips which would culminate some twenty years later in my finally coming to call this country ‘home.’ I’ve since been back to Nikko, where the first of the Tokugawa Shōguns is buried, and it remains just as magical and enchanting a place as it was on that first visit.

 

 

Pausing to let the pilgrims pass

– a nun sweeping the steps

to Ieyasu’s tomb.

Tim Chamberlain - The Steps to Ieyasu's Tomb, Nikko (2003)

The Fly

(Leaf 33) – Senryu (or, witty tom-foolery)

 

Illustration from 'Zen Mind, Beginners Mind' by Shunryu Suzuki (1970)

R.H. Blyth writes: “Senryu originated in the eighteenth century with Karai Hachiemon, 1718-90, whose pen-name was Senryū. They are more cynical and less refined than haiku, but what is more important, they lack the element of interpenetration which is the religious aspect of all haiku. […] It is after all, to some extent, a personal matter. If you emphasize the humour, it is senryu: if you look more at the poetry it is a haiku.”* – I think the fine line distinguishing between haiku and senryu can sometimes be a bit fuzzy, but I’d probably go along with that last sentence as good basis for a definition. If a short poem has a wry, self-aware or knowing quality, or if it provides a purely amusing diversion that awakens a smile, then it could be called a senryu.

 

 

The fly,

rubbing its hands and feet

– a villainous plot?

 

*R.H. Blyth, ‘Haiku, Volume One: Eastern Culture’ (Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1981 [1949]), p. 198.

Old Routemaster Magic

(Leaf 32) – Looking Back

 

The No. 73 (from an old MG advert, c.1960s)

In the late 1990s, I used to live in London’s Stoke Newington, when the old Routemaster buses were still the best and quickest way to get about town. On Friday nights, the Number 73 was always the party bus – where strangers and familiar faces with unknown names used to relax and chat, or even sing-a-long together on their late night, communal ride home. I also used to hop on the Number 38 sometimes, which was always entertaining whenever Duke Bassie was the on-board bus conductor. Those were happy days for sure.

 

 

DUKE BASSIE

 

Hangin’ from the footplate,

harmonica in hand –

remembering:

the old Routemaster magic,

that kept London moving.

 

 

The Singing Conductor (2001)

 

Traffic Weaving

(Leaf 31) – Reflection

 

I’ve visited Taipei in Taiwan many times. It is a fantastic and fascinating city. I always find it mesmerizing to watch the way mopeds seem to flock like birds on the city streets, especially during rush hour.

 

 

TRAFFIC WEAVING

 

High heels –

on the moped

footplate.

 

 

 

Photograph credit: PickPik.

Floating Downriver

(Leaf 30) – Reflection

 

J.M.W. Turner - Brook & Trees (c.1806-1807) Tate Gallery

Life moves in many mysterious ways. And some lives are seeded with potential, simply looking for a foothold – waiting to explode.

 

 

Horse chestnut

still in its shell, floating downriver

– spiked like a sea-mine.

 

 

 

Timpani

(Leaf 29) – Reflection

 

Shibata Zeshin - Mouse (19th Century) British Museum

Sometimes, when you live alone – you’re not as alone as you think.

 

 

Timpani –

a mouse

amongst the empty pans.

 

 

 

Heian Roots

(Leaf 28) – Looking back

 

Sometime around the late summer of 2007, I had dinner in a very warm and friendly, family-run 食堂 ‘shokudō,’  called のびる ‘Nobiru,’ in Midorigaoka in Tokyo’s Meguro-ku. We got chatting with the owner, Mr Yasuda, who told us that some of the house specialty dishes which he served were inspired by recipes that were first written down in the Heian Period (794-1185). When you mention the Heian Period to anyone who is interested in Japanese literature, they will of course first think of Murasaki Shikibu’s famous epic, ‘The Tale of Genji,’ or Sei Shōnagon’s ‘Pillow Book,’ or perhaps even the ‘Sarashina Nikki,’ the ‘Diary of Lady Sarashina.’ I mentioned my interest in Japanese literature to Yasuda-san and told him that I was particularly keen on haiku, especially the work (from the later, Edo era) of the haiku poet, Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694). Whereupon he very delightedly introduced me to another diner, also sitting at the counter, who was a fellow ‘haijin.’ This man very politely introduced himself and said his name was Hideki Ishikura. Ishikura-san is a very distinguished and long-time member of the World Haiku Association (WHA). We had a fascinating conversation and he very kindly gave me a copy of a recently translated work by his friend, Ban’ya Natsuishi, who is the Director of the WHA and also a Professor at Meiji University. Ishikura-san and I later sent each other some poetry publications of our own. But that evening, this unexpected and mutually enthusiastic meeting of two poets greatly amused Yasuda-san and his wife. When I was getting ready to leave, Yasuda-san asked me if I would write a poem for him to hang on the wall of his restaurant. I promised him I would, and so, just in time for the New Year holiday, I sent him the following poem written in black ink on some nice washi paper. The restaurant’s name, のびる ‘Nobiru,’ means ‘to grow.’ 

 

 

Fresh flavours,

rooted in the Heian –

のびる.

 

 

 

Silver Birch

(Leaf 27) – Reflection

 

This poem connects with the sentiments expressed in Leaf 9. I feel there is some sort of affinity akin between my ancient British ancestry and the Shintō veneration for quiet forests and in-land bodies of water, in which earth and sky are mirrored and somehow transitional. The stillness found deep within woodlands is a very special sort of silence, a kind of solitude which can be intensely calm, but can also be tinged with a strangely indefinable sense of foreboding. A low note sounding inaudibly, resonating. Felt in internal fathoms. That strange sensibility that the deep, surrounding forest is alive and breathing, and has unseeable, steely eyes – which are watching you.

 

 

In the still surface

of the water –

the leafless limbs

of a silver birch.

 

 

 

Image credit: Superstencil

Sycamore Seeds

(Leaf 26) – Reflection

 

I’ve always quite liked the notion that there is never anything truly new made by human beings which doesn’t already exist in nature. Everything we do is simply elaborations upon a theme. Echoes of innovation. Hence Leonardo da Vinci’s flying machine attempting to adapt the wings of a bird, or the twirling spiral of his proto-type helicopter. Though they may never have worked, they are still worthy of credit for their ingenuity. But, as was said of Buzz Lightyear: “That’s not flying. That’s just falling with style.”

 

 

Sycamore seeds,

dervishes descending,

in dappled green sunlight.

 

 

 Photograph credit: PickPic.

Hotel, Midnight

(Leaf 25) – Reflection

 

Sedigheh Zoghi - Daily Life, No.158 (2019)

Hotels are curious places. Oddly anonymous way-stations where strangers constantly come and go. A weary traveller arriving alone. The anonymity of individual existence, transitory. People sleeping in close proximity, yet rarely ever interacting. Perhaps an imperceptible nod of the head when emerging from the lift on the way to, or from the breakfast room. Corridors lined with closed doors, like a uniform matrix of wax-sealed hexagons in a honeycomb. Though the place seems empty, it quietly hums. Inside the same, each room’s mirrored contents: a bed, a desk, a chair, a cupboard, a bathroom, a box of tissues, a telephone, a TV, an ersatz painting on the wall. In the morning, a tray by the door with the remnants of last night’s room service. Awaiting the intervention of house-keeping, wiping the slate clean for the next anticipated anonymous arrival. While the one departing wheels a suitcase through the lobby. Leaving in a taxi, never to be seen again?

 

 

 

HOTEL, MIDNIGHT

 

A pair of shoes,

left by the door

– awaiting another shine.

 

 

 Many thanks to Sedigheh Zoghi for very kindly giving me permission to illustrate this poem with her very beautiful artwork. Please take a look at her website.

Evening Guests

(Leaf 24) – Looking Back

 

An old advertisement for キリンビール (Kirin Beer)

In my old job I used to travel overseas often, always in the company of a group of other colleagues. These trips were usually for several weeks at a time, sometimes even a month or more. We always had a tradition that on the last night we’d have a ‘drinking party’ in the room of whoever was on the highest floor of the hotel. I think the idea being they probably had the best view perhaps. On one occasion while staying in Tokyo it was my lot to be the host of such a party. It being the last night of the trip was always a danger. There were a couple of times when I woke up the next morning with a sore head and had to rush like an idiot to check-out of the hotel and get to the airport just in the nick of time. On this occasion though, I was looking forward to staying on in Tokyo over the Christmas and New Year holiday period on my own, so I wasn’t quite so concerned about getting up the next morning after this particular ‘nomikai.’

 

      Evening guests gone 

      – empty sake bottles

      and tobacco smoke,

      I open the window.

The Sofitel - Ueno, Tokyo (2003)

 

Pianissimo

(Leaf 23) – Reflection

 

Vilhelm Hammershøi - Interior with a Young Girl at the Piano (1901)

I have never been any good at learning to play musical instruments. But I like going to concerts and hearing other people play. There is also something especially enchanting in the unexpected pleasure of hearing a piano played through an open window on a warm summer’s evening. All art has the power to touch something deep within us, but music particularly so. Perhaps also poetry too.

 

 

 

Listening,

the Pianist’s hands

– moving.

 

Gabriel Faure plays Pavane, Op. 50, 1913 Welte Mignon recording.

Mejiro

(Leaf 22) – Reflection

 

Mejiro are a very common and very beautiful bird here in Japan. They are quite small, about the size of a sparrow and move in much the same sort of manner with a similarly cheerful, songlike chirp. They have bright green plumage and a distinctive white circle around their eyes. Like goldfinches, you tend to hear them before you see them – and when you do see them, they are quite eye-catching. This poem was written in response to seeing lots of mejiro flocking through a grove of plum trees festooned with sweetly fragrant blossoms at Jindai Botanical Gardens last year.

 

 

 

JINDAI, 2024

 

My eye and ear,

chasing the mejiro

through the plum blossom.

 

 

 

All photographs by Tim Chamberlain at Jindai Botanical Garden, 2024. 

 

Kobe, 1995

(Leaf 21) – Remembrance

 

Tim Chamberlain - Kobe, Japan (15 January 2004)

This poem was written on, or around, the ninth anniversary of the Kobe earthquake. This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of the earthquake which struck on 17 January 1995. The poem is about a section of the harbourfront which has been preserved as a memorial (as seen in the photograph above). Around the time of writing this poem I read Murakami Haruki’s collection of loosely-linked short stories, titled ‘After the Quake’, which is an innovative and interestingly idiosyncratic creative reflection upon the natural disaster. I was in Kobe at the time of the Tohoku earthquake in 2011. I always feel that the tremors we occasionally feel living here in Japan are a constant reminder that nothing we do as humans is built on solid foundations. We like to think it is, but the world is much more fluid than we realise. Most of us try to forget this, however, and not think about it.

 

 

 

KOBE, 1995

 

Lampposts at odd angles

– a reflection

in the water.

 

 

Distant Places

(Leaf 20) – Reflection

 

Tim Chamberlain - Pine Cone on beached wood, Niigata (2004)

My favourite souvenirs are simple ones. An interesting stone. A shell. A pine cone.

 

 

Pine cones

from distant places

line the window ledge.

 

 

 

Wintry Mudbank

(Leaf 19) – Reflection

 

Swan in reeds - Japanese painting on silk (Meiji era)

This poem recalls a sight I saw while passing through Berwick-upon-Tweed, while travelling en route to Edinburgh in 2005. I think I was struck by the fact that swans are usually seen in pairs, but this one was quite alone.

 

 

A white swan,

sitting on a

wintry mudbank.

 

 

 

Liberation

(Leaf 18) – Remembrance

LIBERATION

After all this time

only now –

finding the face

of my grandfather

behind the second

officer’s shoulder.

 

This haiga was first published in dew-on-line: two (2002)

Photograph: Private Collection (Tim Chamberlain).