Warm Ochre Tones

Loose Leaves – Looking Back

 

This is a somewhat hybrid, art inspired poem, written in response to a visual #dailyimageprompt – a painting, originally posted on Bluesky, by the artist: Mike, @po3try.bsky.social. Seeing its warm ochre tones evoked a kind of alliterative synaesthesia, reminding me of a certain singer whom I have always been quite fond of …

 

 

Mellowed by time –

her rust red hair

and velvet voice.

 

 

 

Belinda Carlisle

Image Credits: Mike (top) & Nik Spanos (bottom)

Akutagawa & Autumn at Sankeien

Loose Leaves – Essays on Haiku

 

Akutagawa Ryūnosoke (1892-1927)

Last December, during a visit to Sankeien, near Yokohama, I came across a haiku written by a famous Japanese writer, Akutagawa Ryūnosoke (1892-1927). The haiku was about a visit he made to these lovely gardens in the autumn of 1915. Akutagawa included the poem in a letter he wrote to the son of the garden’s founder shortly after his visit:

 

ひとはかり浮く香煎（こうせん）や白湯（さゆ）の秋

ひとはかり | うくこうせんや | さゆのあき

Hito wa kari | uku kousen ya | sayu no aki

-        Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, 1915. 三溪園 (さんけいえん)

 

I found the haiku reproduced on an information board about the Hatsunejaya (初音茶屋), a small hexagonal wooden teahouse in Sankeien, where a black iron pot used to hang from the ceiling, heated by a fire. Here, Akutagawa notes in his letter, tea was served during his visit by a woman, as shown in the accompanying postcard:

 

Hatsunejaya (初音茶屋)

The information board provides a translation of his haiku in English:

 

A spoonful of tea / herbal tea and hot water / float through autumn air

 

However, this is an inelegant, and somewhat tautological, translation of what I think is a very deftly and densely-layered haiku. I asked my wife, who is Japanese, what she thought of this translation. She agreed, there’s a lot more going on in the original Japanese. But, how to capture all of the elements of Akutagawa’s haiku in English?

 

Hatsunejaya (初音茶屋) Information Panel

Modern English haiku, as it is represented in most of the leading contemporary English language haiku magazines and journals, tends to eschew the 5-7-5 syllable structure as “too wordy” and cumbersome when compared to Japanese haiku. But here, as I soon discovered, we have a haiku in Japanese which is so tightly and compactly layered it is supremely difficult to render it into English and do the original poem justice. Consequently, it posed a challenge to me which I simply could not let go. Over the course of the next week or so, I kept coming back to the haiku and tinkering with it – trying to see if I could come up with a better English version.

 

Yoshida Hiroshi - Sankeien (1935)

Checking the website of Sankeien, I found there the original poem was given again. When I clicked on the automatic translation function of my web browser my computer rendered the haiku into the following English version, which was a slight improvement on the one printed on the information board:

 

Autumn of floating incense and white-hot water

 

This prompted me to try using Google Translate, which perhaps fared slightly better still, giving me:

 

A delicate incense floats, and plain hot water — autumn

 

These two computer translations succeed in giving the haiku a more poetic tone, perhaps – but they are still too literal. In essence, neither of them is poetry. So clearly, we need to start afresh. And the best way to do this is to begin with a genuine literal translation:

 

one small-scoop/measure | floating kousen | hot (white) water of autumn

 

Two points to note here are as follows: 1. 香煎茶 kousencha is tea made from powdered green tea or roasted barley flour, with spices and herbs (such as kelp, red shiso, and dried plum), and 2. ひとすくい [一掬い] hitosukui is a small ornamental spoon​ (usually written using kana alone). These two elements each convey a wealth of input to the original haiku. One implies a small measure [a spoonful] of something [tea] which expands out into something far larger and more diffuse, hence the poem speaks of ‘floating’ – which is perhaps why the automatic translations appear to default to the term ‘incense’ even though the word incense is not actually used in the poem. My wife thought this aspect of the poem referred more to the very small grains of powdered tea which were ‘suspended’ in the ‘sayu’ or ‘white-hot’ water, perhaps suggesting both fresh, pure water and white steam at the same time. Consequently, reading this haiku in Japanese, we get a double suggestion of the fragrance of the tea as well as the visual of watching the tea slowly dissolving into both the hot water and the air, most likely in the form of the rising steam and smoke from the fire boiling the water in its iron pot. As such, the tea and the open-sided wooden teahouse become the essence of autumn itself as it is experienced by the senses of sight and smell. In this manner, the haiku makes us feel autumn.

 

But that makes for a lot of separate elements to cram into an English translation of this haiku! – Breaking the haiku down, we need to include the following: 1. The smallness of a measured spoonful; 2. The spiced tea powder (kousencha); 3. The expansive notion of floating or suspension; 4. The white-hotness of water; 5. The association of the water (and all these separate elements) with autumn (kigo). Given the quantity and complexity of these components, I found it very hard to distil everything down into a suitably brief and spare, free-form haiku. But, wanting to avoid excessive “wordiness”, I decided it was best to add the limitation of crafting the translation into a 5-7-5 structure. In doing so, I thought that this would give the poem some sort of order as well as limiting its length within the somewhat traditional confines of a 5-7-5 haiku. Within those confines, of course, as always with haiku there are further divisions which need to be employed for greater expressive effect, such as splitting the haiku either into units of two (using a kiregi), or three (the standard three lines of 5-7-5), or, ideally a combination of both. Working five elements into such expressive divisions is the real challenge in translating this particular haiku. In the end, I went through more than 33 iterations before I settled on a version which I thought worked reasonably well. This took me from my first spare and impressionistic (free-form) rendering of:

 

Scent and sediment / suspended – / autumn’s hot water.

 

To my final, 5-7-5 rendering of:

 

Infused with white steam – / a pinch of spiced tea gently / drifts into Autumn.

 

I’ve anguished a lot over whether nor not ‘drifts’ should be ‘floats’ – and it could easily be either; but, in the end, I felt that ‘drifts’ better serves as a bridge between the parallel inference of both the water-soluble and the airborne aspects of the poem’s central allusion. To my mind, ‘floats’ works well for the air, but otherwise it rather implies something simply borne on the surface of the water, rather than something equally suffused or suspended within the water and the air. Hence, recalling that old nostrum of earth and heaven: “As above, so below,” –  to my mind, in both eye and ear – ‘drifts’ successfully carries both connotations; as well as perhaps also a third, which is that sensual experience of the two combined in a feeling, as I described it earlier on, when I first broke down the essential elements of the original poem, i.e. – its autumnal essence.

 

Hatsunejaya (初音茶屋)

In his letter to his friend, Akutagawa described this haiku as being ‘commonplace,’ meaning he thought it too conventional or unoriginal.  Nevertheless, 110 years after it was first written, I think his poem is actually a very subtle and deft work of art. It is an exemplary haiku. It manages to do what the most challenging haiku strive to achieve, which is to embody and express a multitude (of images, ideas, and/or sensations through associations, suggestions, and allusion) in the simplest and sparest of forms.

 

Yoshida Hiroshi - Teahouse (1938)

In concluding his pioneering four-volume survey of Japanese haiku, the scholar, R.H. Blyth, observed: “The three-line translation [of haiku] obscures something fundamental in the originals, something that belongs to the Japanese mind, the Japanese language and the literature it produced and which produced it. We see it in linked poems, in the puns of the language of Nō[h], in the empty spaces of pictures, the absence of things in rooms, the silences of conversation. This ‘something’ is a certain continuity, a lack of division, a feeling of the whole when dealing with the parts.”* – I think this reflection sums up very well the challenge of translating Akutagawa’s haiku about a simple little wooden tea house at Sankeien into English in a way which attempts to do justice to the dense complexity, and yet also the light and buoyant subtlety, of his original poem.

 

ひとはかり浮く香煎（こうせん）や白湯（さゆ）の秋

Infused with white steam –

a pinch of spiced tea gently

drifts into Autumn.

 

Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, 1915. 三溪園 (さんけいえん)

translated by Tim Chamberlain, 2025. 三溪園 (さんけいえん)

 

 

*R.H. Blyth, Haiku: Volume 4, Autumn-Winter (Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1982 [1952]), pp. 1008-1009.

The Hush

Leaf 381 – Reflections

 

Janis Goodman - Heronry (2022)

Whenever I watch a heron, I can’t help feeling that they are creatures who somehow exist outside of time – or, at least, as we experience it. This haiku was written last autumn.

 

 

Adding to the hush

unmoving –

a heron’s eye.

 

 

 

 

This poem was originally written and posted on Bluesky in response to a #haikufeels writing prompt: 'hush.'

Goldfinches

Leaf 373 – Reflections

 

Kerry Buck - Charm of Goldfinches

Since I was very young, I have always loved goldfinches. When I was a child growing up on the rural edgelands of London sparrows seemed to be everywhere, while goldfinches were a relative rarity. By the time I moved to Japan (a fair few decades later), something had changed in London’s ecology. Sparrows had rapidly declined, while goldfinches had increased. Both birds are favourites of mine for similar reasons. I love hearing them chatter away as they seem to flock together, excitedly dashing from one place to the next. Consequently, goldfinches seemed to be a natural subject for my haiku. I’ve written several haiku about sparrows, but so far this is the first and only haiku I’ve written about goldfinches – and, personally, I think it is one of my best. But not so the editors of modern haiku journals! – I have tried to place it in numerous publications, yet each time it has been turned down and I can’t quite fathom why. A first draft of it was very nearly accepted by one very well-known and much respected haiku magazine; and so, it was duly re-drafted in an attempt to make it more concise, but alas to no avail. For what it’s worth, I present both poems here (the re-draft first, followed by the original version), because I still like both of them very much. I leave it to the reader to decide which they prefer.

 

 

Goldfinches

fast fleeting flashes

gone.

 

 

***

 

 

In fleeting glimpses,

flurries, flashing, fast,

– goldfinches, gone.

 

 

 

Red Summer Sun

Leaf 365 – Reflection

 

This poem consciously emulates a haiku by Bashō (see below). But it also attempts to connect Bashō’s poem to our own life here in modern day Tokyo. From our balcony we can see Mount Fuji to the west. Throughout the course of the year, I like to watch the wandering progress of the setting sun as it moves along the mountain ridge first one way and then heading back again. The late summer and early autumn sunsets are always the most spectacular, and they always seem to coincide with the setting sun’s alignment directly behind Mount Fuji. In my mind, it’s as if I’m seeing summer packing up and departing Tokyo for the winter, to spend the cold season of each year’s end in some other, warmer place somewhere beyond Mount Fuji. (As always, I’m not sure how well my Japanese version works; but both versions are 5-7-5).

 

富士山や   赤々の暮れ   秋の風

ふじさんや | あかあかのくれ | あきのかぜ

Mount Fuji | the crimson summer dusk | autumn wind

 

 

A last red sunset –

summer slips past Mount Fuji

with the autumn wind.

Or:

On the autumn wind –

summer’s last warm glow, setting 

behind Mount Fuji.

 

 

Tsukioka Kogyo - Barley Field at Sunrise (c.1900-1910)

 

Bashō’s haiku:

あかあかと日はつれなくも秋の風

 

     The sun bright red,

Relentlessly hot, –

     But the wind is of autumn.

(translated by R.H. Blyth)

 

 

Tsukioka Kogyo - Barley Field (c.1900)

Top photograph by Tim Chamberlain (2024).

Harold Lloyd in Japan

Leaf 346 – Reflections

 

Harold Lloyd in Japan, c.1962

Harold Lloyd was always my favourite amongst all of the most famous comedians of the golden age of silent film in Hollywood. I’ve read several books about him, but I was curious to find a few photos of a trip he made to Japan in later life. I’d love to know more about that trip and the places he visited.

 

 

HAROLD LLOYD IN JAPAN

 

Evening star –

silently sliding shut

a silver screen.

 

 

 

Persimmons

Leaf 321 – Reflections

 

Katsuyuki Nishijima - Evening Sun (20th Century)

Having grown up in the UK, I can’t help finding it strange to see such large fruits growing on trees here in Japan during the winter.

 

 

Autumn into winter –

persimmons ripening

on black branches.

 

 

 

Sakai Hoitsu - Three Mejiro Birds on Persimmon Tree (19th Century)

Soka Matsubara

Leaf 319 – Reflections

 

Last year I went on another of my poetic pilgrimages in search of the haiku master, Matsuo Bashō. I have previously visited several sites in different parts of Japan connected to, or commemorating Bashō, such as Matsushima (see here). But this was my first time to visit Soka Matsubara, a pleasant paved walkway lined with pine trees on the Ayase River in north-eastern Tokyo, which was created to mark the first stopping point on Bashō’s famous route as recorded in his travel diary, ‘Oku no Hosomichi’ (‘Narrow Road to the Deep North’), in 1689. While Bashō set out in spring, I visited Soka Matsubara at the start of autumn – a reality the following paired-poems reflect, but also one which is mirrored in the realisation that I am now several years older than Bashō was when he set out on this, probably his most famous journey. ‘Matsubara’  means ‘pine grove.’ 

 

 

Soka Matsubara

shading the river

into autumn.

 

***

 

Following the ink flow –

Bashō and Sora

travelling north.

 

 

 

The second of these two haiku was originally written and posted on Bluesky in response to a #haikufeels writing prompt: 'travel.'

Photographs by Tim Chamberlain

Long Shadows

Leaf 318 – Reflections

 

Tabuchi Toshio - Aki Hazeru (Autumn Explosion)

Each autumn, it seems, there is always more to look back upon.

 

 

Long shadows

reaching back to summer

– evening light.

 

 

 

This poem was originally written and posted on Bluesky in response to a #haikufeels writing prompt: 'long.'

Autumn Sour

Leaf 306 – Reflections

 

Traditionally pickles were a way of ensuring a vital nutritional supply of vitamins during the long dark months of winter. Another plus point, of course, is that they are also a tasty treat. I’ve always felt that a little magic gets released whenever a new jar is cracked open.

 

 

Autumn sour –

sweetening the crunch

of new pickles.

 

 

 

 

Photograph Credit: Polina Tankilevitch/Pexels

Autumn Smiles

Leaf 301 – Looking Back

 

Every now and then, I like to set myself challenges. A few years ago, I decided to see if I could go for a whole year without buying any bread. Instead, I would bake my own. Most often I would make a white loaf, but every now and then I would treat myself and make a walnut loaf instead. Nothing beats the smell and the taste of freshly baked bread, especially when it is comes from the hard work of your own two hands.

 

 

Autumn smiles –

toasted walnut bread

dipped in honey.

 

 

 

 

This poem was originally written and posted on Bluesky in response to a #dailyhaikuprompt: 'walnut.'

Photograph Credit: Marta Dzedyshko/Pexels

Harvest Fiesta

Leaf 284 – Art Inspired

 

C.F. Tunnicliffe - Sparrows Raiding Corn

This poem was originally written in response to a #dailyhaikuprompt on Bluesky to write a haiku using the words ‘harvest’ and ‘sparrow.’ This Ladybird book illustration by C.F. Tunnicliffe immediately sprang to mind.

 

 

Harvest festival

soon becomes a fiesta –

sparrows amid the barley.

 

Septimus Scott - Harvest Mouse (1949)

This poem was originally written and posted on Bluesky in response to a #dailyhaikuprompt: 'harvest', 'sparrow.'

Handy Pine

Leaf 282 – Garden Poems

 

Maruyama Ōkyo - Pine Trees in Snow, left folding screen (1786) Mitsui Memorial Museum

Similar to Leaf 281, this poem was written during my second trip to Japan back in 2003. I wrote it during a visit to Rikugien, one of Tokyo’s remaining Daimyō Gardens (see Leaf 108). The way pine trees are so carefully sculpted here in Japan, to my mind at least, means they sometimes seem to resemble hands or umbrellas even, which sometimes can be quite “handy” …

 

 

Feeling the cold –

I stand under a handy pine bough

and warm my head.

 

 

 

Kawase Hasui - Pine Trees in Clear Weather after Snow (1929)

Primping the Pooch

Leaf 281 – Looking Back

 

This is a poem written during my first or second trip to Japan back in 2003. I’m pretty sure it was something I saw whilst wandering around the Asakusa area of Tokyo. I took the accompanying photograph only a year or two ago in Yokohama.

 

 

Primping the pooch

in her handbag,

the lady stops

to adjust its little coat.

 

 

 

 

Photograph by Tim Chamberlain

Making A Day Of It

Leaf 274 – Looking Back

 

Ronald Lampitt - August (1958)

I have always loved watching birds. This linked verse poem (of twenty haiku, and one closing tanka) is an attempt to distil a day of avian activity in an English suburban back garden, hopefully incorporating a subtle feel for the seasons progressing from Spring to Autumn as well.

 

 

MAKING A DAY OF IT

 

Making a symphony

of the early morning sun

– dawn chorus awakes.

 

Making a grub

wriggle in its beak –

a wren checks its route.

 

Making a big splash

in the bird bath –

house sparrows.

 

Making an ungainly mess

under the bird feeder

– a wood pigeon.

 

Making a quick sortie

down to the lawn –

a blue tit bobs.

 

Making a menace –

a couple of shady crows,

calling to collect.

 

Making a dash

across an empty patio

– a pied wagtail passes.

 

Making quiet progress

amid the leafy hedge –

a dunnock on the hop.

 

Making its song heard,

top of the apple tree –

a great tit hollerin’ the blues.

 

Making a clean sweep

a couple of swifts –

scything the sky.

 

Making a blackbird

lose its mind –

ginger tom, unfussed.

 

Making the gardener’s fork

turn its advantage –

cock robin.

John Leigh-Pemberton - Bullfinches (1967)

  

Making a royal review

in plum-hued plumage

– a pair of bullfinches.

 

Making its descent

upside down –

a nuthatch knows.

 

Making a kaleidoscope

take wing – goldfinches

flocking through.

 

Making a racket

at the top of the conifers

– magpies conferring.

 

C.F. Tunnicliffe - Magpies and Larch

 

Making a flurry –

dust bathing

sparrows.

 

Making a stately visit –

two collared doves,

cooing.

 

Making a melody

crisp ‘n’ cleanly clear –

a chaffinch conducts.

 

Making the laundry line sway

– long tailed tits

simply passing through.

 

Making a runway

for Mr & Mrs Mallard –

the river over the fence.

 

Making a snail

come out to dinner –

a song thrush shells out.

 

Making a flash of colour,

quickly catching an eye –

a jay, fast moving.

 

Making no sound at all

– an owl (eyes shut)

awaits the moon.

 

Making light and dark

ripples through the air –

starlings moving as one.

 

Making all aware

of evening’s onset –

a blackbird clucks

again and again

again and again.

 

 

 

C.F. Tunnicliffe - Yellow Catkins