The unlikely modernity of Matsuo Bashō, the 17th century travelling poet

Understandably, you might wonder what relevance a Japanese poet from the 1600s still has today, or why we should read centuries-old haiku when Anglophone writers like Chaucer or Shakespeare are often hard enough to understand. Matsuo Bashō’s Japan was feudal and deeply isolationist, while we live in an age of rapid technological advances and globalisation, able to cross the world with the press of a button. What can we learn from a hermit who had never heard of the internet, let alone experienced aeroplane travel or microwavable meals?

It’s easy to overlook a writer whose influence is often obscured by the Eurocentric monolith that is the Western literary canon, and it’s equally convenient to focus exclusively on more familiar Anglophone writers.

Bashō’s poetry, however, deserves to be recognised for its artistry and enduring influence on both the East and West

Bashō’s poetry, however, deserves to be recognised for its artistry and enduring influence on both the East and West. His works serve as a brilliant introduction to Japanese literature, and now is a great time to begin reading more internationally, since translated fiction is more popular than ever.

If you’re willing to read Murakami and Kawakami, why not try some classics too?

If you’re willing to read Murakami and Kawakami, why not try some classics too? Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694) was one of the most celebrated poets of his time and remains a prominent figure in the history of Japanese literature, credited with the transformation of haiku poetry into a respected genre. Haiku are known for their immense brevity, consisting of three lines with 17 syllables in a five, seven, five pattern. Bashō’s oeuvre grapples with questions of mortality, ancestral memory, and humanity’s relationship with the natural world. In later life he became disillusioned with the materialistic excesses of urban society and sought solace in the natural world, undertaking a series of journeys across Japan. In the process, Bashō developed a spiritual approach to poetry which was heavily inspired by Zen Buddhism and Confucianism. His influence extends into the Western world, and can be seen in Beat Generation writers such as Jack Kerouac, inspiring Anglophone poets to experiment with haiku.

I recently read an article in The Guardian about how haiku poets have had to adapt to climate change, since traditionally seasonal imagery has been undermined by rising temperatures and extreme weather patterns. Modern poets have been forced to find new modes of expression, while canonical writers like Bashō have been reappraised. As such, Bashō’s work has found an unexpected but deserved place within the climate fiction canon.

His portrayal of humanity as fragile and subsumed by the vastness of nature acts as a timely reminder of the existential threat posed by the climate crisis

His portrayal of humanity as fragile and subsumed by the vastness of nature acts as a timely reminder of the existential threat posed by the climate crisis. The pre-industrial landscapes of Japan’s Edo period may seem like a far cry from the scenes of environmental destruction we see so regularly in the media, but Bashō’s vision of an enduring and indomitable natural world is refreshingly optimistic.

So, where should you start? Bashō’s work covers a remarkable breadth of styles and themes with a varying degree of complexity, but fortunately haiku collections are relatively bite-sized and can be found easily online. Personally, I favour his later work for its mature and often pensive tone over his more light-hearted poems; surprisingly, 17th century Japanese humour fails to translate well. Regardless, his poetry offers an evocative insight into a Japan of years past.

The Penguin Classics edition of On Love and Barley is well worth a read, and at only 92 pages long, is a very manageable diversion from dense university reading lists. If you fancy more of a commitment, Nobuyuki Yuasa’s 1966 translation titled The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches is a lyrical rendering of Bashō’s poetic journals. It’s the first collection of his works which I read, and probably the most accessible. Yuasa also translates haiku in four rather than three lines, so if you’re a purist maybe stay away from this one. A more succinct translation of Bashō’s haiku has been produced by Andrew Fitzsimons, who keeps the syllable structure of the original poems. The choice of edition or translation is ultimately down to personal choice, though.

Since I first picked up a copy of his travel journals in Sixth Form, Bashō’s emphasis on the importance of nature is more relevant than ever; the world recently passed the 1.5C threshold and Trump’s return to power makes tackling the climate crisis even more difficult. Bashō’s wanderlust and affinity for the natural world offers a thought-provoking alternative to the daunting political and economic reality facing us today. There has never been a better time to browse the back catalogue of world literature.