* * *
asfintit rosu—
butoaiele cu vin
acoperite de frunze
red sunset—
the wine casks
covered by leaves
Murgulet Adrian
sat indepartat—
talpile copilului
pe poteca fierbinte
remote village—
the child’s soles
on the hot path
rasarit de luna—
fereastra apartamentului meu
pare straina
moonrise—
my apartment window seems
somebody else’s
Sanda Ion
furtuna de nisip—
urme vechi si noi
laolalta
sand storm—
old and new footprints
altogether
Baba Amalia
frunze galbene
ravasite de vant—
pasari nemiscate
yellow leaves
rummaged by the wind—
motionless birds
Vasiloaia Alexandra
strada ingusta—
primele raze se strecoara
printre zidurile grele
narrow road—
the first sunbeams slink
amidst heavy walls
greieri cantand...
fosnetul rochiei
pe alee
crickets chirping...
the swish of a dress
on the alley
Stoian Dana
lumina lunii—
pe drumul prafuit
nici un trecator
moonlight—
on the dusty road
no passenger
Istrate Nicoleta
formand numarul...
fiecare cifra ma aduce
mai aproape de tine
dialing...
every figure brings me
closer to you
Braciu Aida
parc pustiu—
un vechi cantec de dragoste
in surdina
deserted park—
an old love song
hardly heard
Ciocan Alexandra
amintiri de demult...
pe malul raului
umbra ta
old memories...
on the river bank
your shadow
Negru Iulia
THE FUTURE LOOKS GOOD:
Commentary on Haiku from the Japanese Culture and Civilization Centre, Constanza Romania
Gary Gach, US
When Sonia Coman sent a dozen haiku via the Internet, I had to blink a few times, unsure whether there was some mistake somewhere or were these really haiku by kids. So mature are these works, and so fresh, that it just goes to show you: the haiku spirit (hai i) is universal.
asfintit rosu—
butoaiele cu vin
acoperite de frunze
red sunset—
the wine casks
covered by leaves
Murgulet Adrian
Anyone wanting a little lesson in haiku as being intimate with the passage of time might do well to linger alongside this quiet gem. Right off, we're told the time of day, sunset. And the aging of wine in casks is a perfect season word (kigo), autumn in general (—the sunset of the year, one might say).
Yet, time is felt even more generally here, in a mood of invisible mystery. Grape juice must age to become wine. It's a holy uncertainty, yet it happens, in its own good time. So I like to think of this haiku (and its hai jin) as being watched over by the spirit of time, the way the casks are covered by leaves. Linger a little longer and you can hear the wind rustling through the leaves, a few of them gently scraping the grain of the cask wood. It's all there, a deep image, resonant with hushed, warm, autumnal earthiness.
sat indepartat—
talpile copilului
pe poteca fierbinte
remote village—
the child’s soles
on the hot path
rasarit de luna—
fereastra apartamentului meu
pare straina
moonrise—
my apartment window seems
somebody else’s
Sanda Ion
Along the way, haiku are everpresent. A child can feel it in his or her very feet. Being small, and new, a child hasn't the familiar cues that adults have for measuring such things as distance. How far is the remote village? As far as the heat of the road felt through one's shoes.
Plus, there's an initiatory quality to this haiku. Anything done for the first time, initially, can be initiatory. This haiku serves to remind me, a beginning haijin, that haiku is always beginning.
Reading the Romanian, I'm struck by its music, even though I don't speak a word of it. Perhaps this is because haiku offers us language as if under a magnifying lens. Here, my ear appreciates the melting, lilting L-sounds of the second line, in between all the lipwork of the P's and F's and B's, and multiple tonguing of the T's and the D in the first line.
Ion's other haiku is worth an equal nod, even if space doesn't allow here. Indeed, he awakens the mind to the costless fact that to see the world with fresh, new eyes is akin to seeing it as a fresh, new self.
furtuna de nisip—
urme vechi si noi
laolalta
sand storm—
old and new footprints
altogether
Baba Amalia
Amalia's entry here is another one of those perfect haiku that might make you blink, wondering if it wasn't indeed written by some master from the Edo. Isn't life truly like that? Your footprints, mine, others, (of people? dogs? birds?) are mingled together, indistinguishably, blown together in the winds of time.
Isn't the Romanian original of the togetherness upon which this haiku depends such a beautiful word: laolalta. Thank you, Amalia, too, for showing me a viable, valuable instance of how the world can live as one: laolalta.
(Although the Web is infinitely elastic, I'm going to reserve the rest of my comments for after the rest of these fine haiku, each of which speaks for itself; res ipsa loquitor.)
frunze galbene
ravasite de vant—
pasari nemiscate
yellow leaves
rummaged by the wind—
motionless birds
Vasiloaia Alexandra
strada ingusta—
primele raze se strecoara
printre zidurile grele
narrow road—
the first sunbeams slink
amidst heavy walls
greieri cantand...
fosnetul rochiei
pe alee
crickets chirping...
the swish of a dress
on the alley
Stoian Dana
lumina lunii—
pe drumul prafuit
nici un trecator
moonlight—
on the dusty road
no passenger
Istrate Nicoleta
formand numarul...
fiecare cifra ma aduce
mai aproape de tine
dialing...
every figure brings me
closer to you
Braciu Aida
parc pustiu—
un vechi cantec de dragoste
in surdina
deserted park—
an old love song
hardly heard
Ciocan Alexandra
amintiri de demult...
pe malul raului
umbra ta
old memories...
on the river bank
your shadow
Negru Iulia
Not that they're at all needed, here are a few further comments in the margins of these beautiful haiku. Nothing I could say could approach their self-contained magic. Yet I'm struck with admiration for how Alexandra Vasiloaia's autumn haiku is all the more dynamic for her using an apt, heightened verb: ravasite / rummaged). It makes the longer part all the more vivid, and further contrasts the motionlessness of the birds.
Even if Nicoleta Istrate has read Basho, even if she read the particular haiku where Basho evokes an empty autumn road, she's made the Way her own.
Interesting to note that pronouns are rarely used in these haiku. They evoke ordinary things with the objectivity of a camera, leaving up to the reader the pleasure of feeling the mood. Difficult lesson, well learned.
The only factor, overall, I might cavil over could be the matter of translation. I don't know: might Nicoleta Istrate's passenger (trecator) be equally a passer-by? (The latter seems more ordinary, but perhaps the stranger interpretation was preferred.) Might Aida Braciu's figure (cifra) also be number? (Numeral seems a little foreign and abstract, as would cipher.) And might the old love song in Alexandra Ciocan's haiku be heard faintly? "Hardly heard" could imply, to my sense of things, that no one sings that tune much anymore.
Translation can be a gnarly topic, in and of itself, and best be treated on its own, elsewhere. (We intend in a future issue to spotlight young people translating their own poetry, and that of their peers.) It's worth noting, in passing, that we also owe an additional round of applause to each of the nine contributors here for translating their own work.
It really should be no surprise that these haiku are by younger writers. When I teach haiku, I find that young people clue in to haiku like water poured into water. It's a natural. Adults take a little more coaxing to allow their innate childlike perceptions.
That these Romanian junior haijin are already well on their way is due, in no small part, to their expert training at the Japanese Culture and Civilization Centre (JCCC) They've completed a two-year haiku course, and now study introductory Japanese as they continue to learn more about haiku-related genres.
JCCC founder Sonia Coman deserves the last word here. While students' work may often eclipse the importance of their teacher, we must acknowledge that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. She writes:
Children and teenagers get easily to the haiku spirit, because they always try to discover the surrounding world and live every moment intensely. Most students come to the haiku optional course by sheer curiosity but stay because of the freedom of expression that it offers them. I think that haiku helps young people to preserve the qualities of their age and to lead happier lives.
MAKING ORIGAMI IN ROMANIA
Photos from the Japanese Civilization and Cultural Centre
Sonia Coman, RO
Miss Eriko Kawaguchi is a Japanese volunteer now working in Constantza. She will collaborate with the Japanese Culture and Civilization Centre, helping our students to improve their knowledge of Japanese culture and literature. In the photo above, Miss Kawaguchi was teaching origami to high school students.
Sonia Cristina Coman and Miss Eriko Kawaguchi, talking about origami. At our next meetings, we will introduce ikebana and tea ceremony to the students.
Some of the students, folding paper cranes.
