Young Samurai _ The Way Of The Dragon - Chris Bradford [56]
Yori raised the little brass bowl and cushion out of his lap.
‘He’s also given me this singing bowl to practise on. Kiaijutsu isn’t about how loud the shout is; it’s about how focused the ki is,’ explained Yori, his eyes sparkling with determination. ‘Sensei Yamada said that even the smallest breeze can make ripples on the largest ocean.’
Sensei Nakamura returned Jack’s attempt at haiku. She gave him a single despondent shake of the head that sent a shudder down her mane of snow-white hair.
‘You insist on putting your own opinion into the poem,’ she said, her tone cold as the grave. ‘Angry sea. Pretty blossom. How many times have I told you not to use words that impose your personal response on the moment you’re describing? The reader of your haiku might not have the same reaction as you.’
‘Hai, Sensei,’ replied Jack with a weary sigh. He still didn’t understand. He thought poetry was all about love, emotion and passion. That’s why that playwright William Shakespeare was so popular in England. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more beautiful…’ or something like that. The Japanese, on the other hand, seemed so detached from their emotions that they weren’t even allowed to express them in a poem.
Sensei Nakamura moved on to Yori. With a dour expression, she studied his page.
‘A fair attempt. You show promise,’ she began.
Yori smiled hopefully. Her praise, though, was short-lived.
‘But you must avoid saying the same thing twice in your haiku. You begin here with cold dawn and then go on to observe the chilly breeze. Not good. You’ve wasted a word and haven’t told the reader any more about your subject. Try again.’
Abashed, Yori took back the haiku and began to rewrite it.
Sensei Nakamura worked her way through the students, admonishing them for their various faults and very occasionally offering faint praise.
‘Kazuki-kun, recite your haiku to the class. I would like to commend yours.’
Standing, paper in hand, Kazuki proudly read aloud:
‘Take a pair of wings
from a dragonfly, you would
make a pepper pod.’
There was a generous round of applause, but Sensei Nakamura cut it short with a stern look. ‘I said I would like to commend it. But this isn’t in the spirit of a haiku. The boy has killed the dragonfly. To compose a haiku, you must give life to it, you should say:
‘Add a pair of wings
to a pepper pod, you would
make a dragonfly.’
A collective hum of understanding filled the hall as Kazuki sat back down, his moment of glory quashed.
‘I had hoped by autumn that this class’s attempts at haiku would be of a higher standard,’ she sighed. ‘Nonetheless, most are now passable so I will risk organizing a kukai for the start of winter. That should give those falling behind in class enough time to improve.’
Sensei Nakamura was met with a roomful of puzzled looks. She tutted loudly, her eyes widening in exasperation at their ignorance.
‘A kukai is a haiku contest. I will be inviting the renowned poet Saigyo-san to preside over the kukai, so ensure the poems you present are only those of the highest quality!’
She dismissed the class with a wave of her hand. After tidying away their ink blocks, paper and brushes, the students filed out of the hall.
‘It’s very exciting, isn’t it?’ enthused Yori as they were slipping on their sandals in the courtyard. ‘I mean, to have the great Saigyo-san come here, to our school! He’s my favourite poet.’
‘I think I’ll enter,’ said Saburo, to everyone’s surprise.
‘You?’ said Akiko, giving him an incredulous look. ‘There won’t be any prizes for poems about bodily functions.’
‘I’ll write one about love then!’
‘What do you know about love?’ laughed Akiko.
Saburo suddenly looked flustered. ‘As much as anyone here.’
‘Akiko!’ called Takuan, beckoning her to join him.
‘Though probably not as much as some people,’ he muttered under his breath, and strode off in the direction of the Chō-no-ma for lunch.
Jack heard