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ben_miller's review against another edition
4.0
When I was in college Sam Hamill came and spoke to my poetry class. He was a barrel-chested, craggy man who paced the room like a caged bear—his voice was a loud rasp, and he was a little bit deaf, so he cut off everyone who asked a question by barking "Huh?" and then going on with whatever he wanted to say. I remember that his hands were massive and gave the impression of tremendous strength and potential violence.
If this sounds to you like an odd profile for an accomplished and sensitive translator of Zen nature poetry, you're right. He was a paradox. He told us how he'd been abused as a child, and went on to become an abuser himself. I don't remember the full story, but he spent time in jail and the military, eventually reforming himself, or at least chaining up the mad dog inside, through the disciplines of meditation and poetry.
He was an angry man, and radiated contempt for all of us who didn't rise at 4:30 to meditate, write ten pages of verse, and eat a breakfast of nails. At the time I found him both terrifying and ridiculous. I understand Sam Hamill much better today than I did then, as a soft and clueless 18-year-old. Now I too get up early to meditate and even try my hand at a little haiku. I understand that this is not a matter of preference, but survival. My struggles are different from his, and probably not as titanic, but still, we stop the world from breaking us by being meticulous in how we approach it. Taking care with our thoughts, attention, and time.
In other words, don't let anyone tell you that 300-year-old Japanese poetry isn't useful. It may have saved Sam Hamill's life, and it could save yours one day, too.
(This book loses one star for being almost perfectly square and the size of a folded handkerchief. Books shouldn't be square or this tiny.)
If this sounds to you like an odd profile for an accomplished and sensitive translator of Zen nature poetry, you're right. He was a paradox. He told us how he'd been abused as a child, and went on to become an abuser himself. I don't remember the full story, but he spent time in jail and the military, eventually reforming himself, or at least chaining up the mad dog inside, through the disciplines of meditation and poetry.
He was an angry man, and radiated contempt for all of us who didn't rise at 4:30 to meditate, write ten pages of verse, and eat a breakfast of nails. At the time I found him both terrifying and ridiculous. I understand Sam Hamill much better today than I did then, as a soft and clueless 18-year-old. Now I too get up early to meditate and even try my hand at a little haiku. I understand that this is not a matter of preference, but survival. My struggles are different from his, and probably not as titanic, but still, we stop the world from breaking us by being meticulous in how we approach it. Taking care with our thoughts, attention, and time.
In other words, don't let anyone tell you that 300-year-old Japanese poetry isn't useful. It may have saved Sam Hamill's life, and it could save yours one day, too.
(This book loses one star for being almost perfectly square and the size of a folded handkerchief. Books shouldn't be square or this tiny.)
ampersunder's review against another edition
3.0
I meant to get Basho's The Narrow Road to the Far North out from the library, but it was a very large square library-bound book that upon opening emitted that unpleasant smell of a book that is old enough to change scent while sitting unread on the library shelf but not quite old enough for that scent to be a good one. Also, the book included colour photographs from the 1970s which are the sort that seem to physically assault the sensitive aesthetic sensibilities of those of us who have grown up with the advantage of the hugely improved production values of the present age.
This book was close by, so I borrowed it instead. It is tiny and brief and allowed me to carry home a bunch of other books that I may or may not read (including a long study of the Japanese haiku for which I don't think I have the patience).
The haiku were lovely and the introduction was illuminating. Some of my favourites of Basho's:
"With a warbler for / a soul, it sleeps peacefully, / this mountain willow"
"A weathered skeleton / in windy fields of memory, / piercing like a knife"
"Through frozen rice fields, / moving slowly on horseback, / my shadow creeps by"
(That place between three and four stars is a place of torture.)
This book was close by, so I borrowed it instead. It is tiny and brief and allowed me to carry home a bunch of other books that I may or may not read (including a long study of the Japanese haiku for which I don't think I have the patience).
The haiku were lovely and the introduction was illuminating. Some of my favourites of Basho's:
"With a warbler for / a soul, it sleeps peacefully, / this mountain willow"
"A weathered skeleton / in windy fields of memory, / piercing like a knife"
"Through frozen rice fields, / moving slowly on horseback, / my shadow creeps by"
(That place between three and four stars is a place of torture.)
xterminal's review
Sam Hamill (ed.), The Sound of Water: Haiku by Basho, Buson, Issa, and Other Poets (Shambhala, 1995)
Very small, very concentrated book. One hundred twenty-five pages, most with two haiku per page (some pages are simple illustrations from the period). I was unfortunately too much of an idiot to keep this with me until I wrote the review so I could quote some of the world's finest haiku at you, so all I can say is trust me on this one: there's a reason these guys are known as the masters of haiku and senryu. It's also a surprising look at the earthiness of the form; too many anthologies of classic haiku seem like revisionist histories, quoting the stuff the translator or editor thinks is noble and leaving out the poems about drunkenness or taking a leak or lechery or what have you. Hamill, thankfully, has no filters (in fact, in his intro, he singles out one of Issa's fecal pieces to point out this very thing). As with a lot of books along these lines, my only problem with it is that it's far too short; it's possible to polish this off in an hour, if you don't savor each piece. Even then, it'll probably take you an afternoon. I spent a couple of weeks on it, thinking and reflecting; given a book five time this size, I would have been more than happy to sit with it for a few months. ****
Very small, very concentrated book. One hundred twenty-five pages, most with two haiku per page (some pages are simple illustrations from the period). I was unfortunately too much of an idiot to keep this with me until I wrote the review so I could quote some of the world's finest haiku at you, so all I can say is trust me on this one: there's a reason these guys are known as the masters of haiku and senryu. It's also a surprising look at the earthiness of the form; too many anthologies of classic haiku seem like revisionist histories, quoting the stuff the translator or editor thinks is noble and leaving out the poems about drunkenness or taking a leak or lechery or what have you. Hamill, thankfully, has no filters (in fact, in his intro, he singles out one of Issa's fecal pieces to point out this very thing). As with a lot of books along these lines, my only problem with it is that it's far too short; it's possible to polish this off in an hour, if you don't savor each piece. Even then, it'll probably take you an afternoon. I spent a couple of weeks on it, thinking and reflecting; given a book five time this size, I would have been more than happy to sit with it for a few months. ****
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