Haiku cannot be read ahistorically and should really not be viewed simply as vignettes. At least not with the Edo period haiku poet, Yosa Buson (1716-83). Yes, his haiku have denseness, compactness; yes, every word, every syllable, every character has been well considered. But each one is also pointed or jagged in its own way, with smooth reflecting surfaces — and perhaps some dirt in the cracks and discoloration at the base. Haiku can be as much about prostitutes as mushroom picking, lumberjacks as lightning on bamboo.

His work shows a remarkable range: at times self-deprecating in its humor; most often compassionate; oftentimes ironic; always with a keen eye for the detail.

It’s important to understand, too, that haiku is very rarely an only this proposition. What I mean by this is that haiku in Japanese require you to hold two very different things in your head at the same time and acknowledge both as having equal validity, even if they are at odds. Sometimes this ambiguity is achieved by the lines pushing against one another. Sometimes through the variable interpretation of a single line. Often by the absence of personal pronouns.

Buson was a learned and accomplished painter as well as a poet, but he never put on airs. He chose homeliness and simplicity over worldliness and sophistication. Out walking in the countryside and mountains, less often in the capital, he looked closely at what was around him while managing to look inward at the same time. His work shows a remarkable range: at times self-deprecating in its humor; most often compassionate; oftentimes ironic; always with a keen eye for the detail. He saw the tiny butterfly clinging to the poppy stem. He lingered with it. Didn’t chase it away. He hunted for crystals under poppy stems. He didn’t buy them in stores.