Ruminations before a pitstop somewhere on the road
From Matsuo Basho, veritable father of haiku, we learn that the true writer does not lead a sedentary life, and indeed must walk, drift or move in order for his or her syllables to flow.
Basho walked for 156 days through Japan in his legendary ‘Deep Road to the Far North,’ writing about his journey in exquisite style, and sprinkling his text with haiku, thus creating the haibun form — prose with haiku, or micropoetry.
faintly-edged
on a doorway
Basho’s haiku
With the fondness for fantasy that the beginning of a journey brings, I again contemplate tracing his route as I prepare another trip, through the Baltics in Northern Europe. I say a ‘trip’ though in fact it is not a simple journey, as after years of travel, and stopping off in guest houses, refuges, bed & breakfasts, hostels, cafés, inns and roadside stands, I decided I too would set up my tavern, or coffee shop. Somewhere. Meaning I do not know where exactly, but some suitable place on my journey, and there, at that Somewhere, we might too, welcome the itinerant, the traveller, pilgrim, or those on a quest.
I am thus all-too overloaded with pots and pans in my bags, and nagging worries — easily supplanted by determination when I started preparing properly.
how silent
the hoot of an owl
in winter
This morning I stepped out of the door to go to the local Kurd store to buy snacks for the journey, and a note-book, and walked through my forest to the shop, trying to think of a name for my café-to-come. Beside me, the tiny stream flowed, and still flows.
