The Haiku Apprentice. Abigail Friedman

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СКАЧАТЬ sign near the iron gate marked it as the Goyōtei. I stepped through the gate and found myself in a richly wooded stretch of land, wrapped in quiet. I stood silent, breathing in the scent of pine mixed with the salt air of the sea. I closed my eyes. I was far, far from Tokyo.

      I had lost track of the man in the fedora, but a gatekeeper in a wooden hut handed me a brochure with a map of the area and a description of the Goyōtei. I now learned it was once a summer retreat for the imperial family. Like many imperial holdings the Goyōtei had been turned over to public use after the war. I asked the gatekeeper if a haiku session was being held on the grounds. Unaccustomed to hearing a foreigner speak Japanese, he used hand motions, pointing first to a low, Japanese-style wooden building at the far end of the grounds, and then to the impeccably clean slate walkway I was to take to get there.

      I walked up to the low building, toward a gathering of about thirty elderly-looking men and women who were taking off their shoes and placing them in cubbyholes at the entryway. Everyone bowed and smiled at me as I neared, and I bowed and smiled back. I was the only non-Japanese in the group, and my longtime habit of setting myself apart from others kicked in.

      I had never been to a haiku group, and was not much for joining groups in general. A feeling of paranoia grew within me. What if this turned out to be a cult? An American colleague in Japan once told me of being invited by strangers into their home. After taking off his shoes and entering the house, he realized the strangers were members of a pseudoreligious cult. They smiled and offered him tea and talked to him of spiritual salvation, but would not let him leave. Hours later, after much negotiation and growing panic on his part, his hosts relented and gave him back his shoes. I placed my shoes in the cubbyhole with some anxiety, but resisted the urge to carry them in with me.

      Then again, the group might just as easily be a hotbed of Japanese far-right nationalism. After all, haiku had a long historical tradition in Japan, and we were meeting on grounds once owned by the imperial household. Or the haiku group might be a far-left association. My years as a diplomat analyzing political trends were distorting my judgment. Still, I made a mental note to check whether McCarthy-era laws remained in place, and whether I might be fired for membership in a Communist Party haiku group.

      Whatever the nature of the group, there was no turning back. We were all making our way now down a narrow hallway. We turned right into a very large room, about twenty by thirty feet, with a high cedar ceiling and a tatami-mat floor where we were to sit Japanese-style. A delicately carved sheet of thin cedar spanned the ceiling at its midpoint, providing the room’s only decorative touch. Sliding paper screen doors along one wall hid recessed closets. Facing me, another set of sliding doors opened onto a glass-walled, enclosed wooden balcony that ran the length of the building. The room, rich with the scent of cedar and tatami, was beautiful in its simplicity.

      A Japanese garden beckoned beyond the balcony, through windowpanes wavy with age. Toward the back of the garden, near a bamboo fence, stood an old stone lantern, squat and mossy—the kind that I had until then seen only in old prints of Japan. It was a “snow viewing,” or yuki­mi, lantern, so named because it is most beautiful when capped with snow. I could hardly believe that I was a part of this exquisite scene. Its sheer beauty calmed my fears.

      Several members of the haiku group were taking low, folding tables out of the recessed closets and arranging them in a large rectangle around the room. Others sat on the tatami, placing their pens and rice-paper notebooks on the low tables. I spotted Traveling Man Tree seated in the far corner. Next to him was the man with the fedora who had been on the bus. He and Traveling Man Tree were absorbed in conversation with a third man, who was quite distinguished-looking in his three-piece suit. I hesitated, wondering where to sit, when two women smiled at me and patted the tatami between them. Relieved that I was no longer isolated, I went over to them, stepping over people to get there, bowing and excusing myself on the way.

      The two women told me they were from Kamakura, the medieval capital of Japan, about an hour south of Tokyo by train. They had come up together for the haiku session. The first woman, graceful and of slender build, spoke to me in excellent English. She said she was a historian and her haiku name was Chōon, or “Sound of the Tide.” She had lived in the United States for six and a half years, she explained, having followed her husband there when the Japanese bank he worked for transferred him to New York.

      Sound of the Tide introduced me to her friend, whose haiku name was Uono, or Fish Field. Fish Field, brimming with energy, gave me a big smile. She appeared to be one of the younger members of the group, perhaps in her late forties. Fish Field told me she was a caricature artist, a Japanese word I did not understand until she took out one of her calling cards to show me. The card had a self-portrait in the upper right corner—a caricature with a peppy smile, jet-black hair, and bright, intelligent eyes behind huge, round glasses. Fish Field made room for me at the table. How could someone so likeable have such a strange haiku name? Fish Field evoked a field of smelly, rotting fish. In my mind I called her “Field and Stream,” after the fishing magazine—a name that I found just as humorous but that evoked a more pleasant image.

      I turned my attention back to Sound of the Tide. She intrigued me. I had always thought of haiku as an art focused on the present moment, where words came from a flash of poetic inspiration or were triggered by a scene, a sound, or even a scent. Yet here was Sound of the Tide, a historian devoted to researching the past, taking up the art. I could not understand why she would be attracted to haiku. I asked and she replied, I love doing historical research. But history is like doing a jigsaw puzzle. It is solitary and demands patience. I was looking for an activity that would involve more people. I was searching for something, but I did not know quite what.

      I had never thought of haiku, or any kind of poetry for that matter, as a social activity. I assumed people wrote haiku to connect with themselves, in keeping with my image of the Zen monk writing haiku in the woods. Yet here was Sound of the Tide telling me that she was attracted to haiku because it would connect her with others.

      Sound of the Tide explained that at about the time she was looking for something to add to her life, she learned that Field and Stream was starting up a haiku group in Kamakura. She had never written haiku at that point, but she joined Field and Stream’s group. Some months later, when they learned that Dr. Mochizuki was forming a group in Numazu, she and Field and Stream joined that group too. Hearing mention of Dr. Mochizuki, Field and Stream pointed out to me the elderly gentleman I had noticed earlier sitting with Traveling Man Tree and the man with the fedora. That’s him. He’s the organizer of our group. He’s a doctor and an essayist.

      I asked Field and Stream why she joined the Numamomo haiku group. Me? I joined because Kuroda Momoko is the haiku master. I’ve read some of her books and I like her openness of spirit. Also, I thought it would be great to do haiku in a place as beautiful as the Goyōtei!

      I was nodding in agreement when the sliding paper screen door opened behind us. The room became quiet and I turned to see an exotic woman in her sixties walk in. I knew instantly that this must be the person Traveling Man Tree and Field and Stream referred to as our haiku master. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cropped like a schoolgirl’s—bangs straight across her forehead and then falling in an even cut about an inch above her shoulders, framing a deeply wrinkled, peaceful face. She smiled at us as she entered, and more deep creases broke forth around her eyes. She wore an unusual outfit, which appeared to be a modern variation on the traditional Japanese samue—a cotton wraparound blouse with loose, matching, calf-length pants. Our haiku master’s version of the samue was deep indigo, with white stitching in traditional Japanese geometric patterns. I have never seen anyone in Japan dress like her, before or since.

      Our haiku master settled herself in at one of the low tables and gave us all a reassuring nod and bow. Traveling Man Tree leaned over to Momoko and mentioned that several of us were new to the group. She spoke:

      It’s good to see so many new faces this month. If this is your first СКАЧАТЬ