ISSA
Issa (1763-1827), Japanese haiku poet of the
Edo period (1600-1868). Best known by his penname, Issa, his child name
was Yataro and registered name was Nobuyuki. He was born in Kashiwabara,
now part of Shinano-machi (Shinano Town), Nagano Prefecture.
Issa wrote poetry that is especially remarkable
considering the life of the poet. His mother died when he was very young,
and his father's second wife became a plague upon his soul until he left
home at the age of thirteen for Edo (now Tokyo) with his father's help,
and lived in poverty for twenty years. His life in Edo is unrecorded until
1787, by which time he was at the Katsushika haiku school. Issa started
to write haiku at about the age of 25, having learned it from Genmu and
Chiku-a, and had Seibi Natsume as his patron.. Elected to succeed his deceased
teacher in 1791, Issa soon resigned and wandered throughout southwest Japan
until his father's death in 1801. Although he was named principal heir
in his father's will, his stepmother and half brother conspired successfully
to keep Issa from the property for thirteen more years. He wrote:
My dear old village,
every memory of home
pierces like a thorn
After visiting and living at various places,
including Kyoto, Osaka, Nagasaki, Matsuyama and other Western cities, Issa
returned to his home in Kashiwabara at the age of 51 and married a young
village woman. However, his four children died in infancy, as did his wife
in childbirth. His house burned down. He lived four more years, married
again, and finally had an heir, a baby girl - born shortly after his death
at the age of 65. Issa's masterpiece, Ora ga haru (1820, The Year of My
Life), records the events.His other published works are "The Diary at My
Father's Death" (1801) and "My Springtime" (1819).
Neither as at ease as Basho nor as composed
as Buson, Issa wrote a more personal poetry of unadorned language, often
using the local dialects and words of the daily conversations, moving steadily
into a Pure Land Buddhist philosophy that expressed true devotion without
getting caught up in the snares of mere religious dogmatism. Sometimes
humorous or sarcastic, often of uneven quality, his poems are prized for
their remarkable compassionate and poignant insight. Following the death
of one of his children, he wrote:
This world of dew
is only a world of dew -
and yet
And his poem is large enough - and sufficiently
particular - to say it all. As is so often the case, the most important
part is that which is left unstated.