Day in day out, year in year out, we spend our lives doing the one thing that Shakyamuni Buddha abhorred, which is the making of distinctions.

For the first few hundred years of its existence that is what science was all about, and it is only towards the end of the last century that physicists and mathematicians in particular have begun to follow in the wake of their non-scientific Indian predecessors of three thousand years ago and search in earnest for a theory of everything, the counterpart of the Buddhist belief in the unity of all that is and is not.

Not that Buddhists, like everyone else, were very good at honouring this idea in practice. Wherever you look in Buddhist philosophy, and in the Sutras, in particular, you find that almost everything you could possibly think of is divided into five of this or ten of that or twelve of the other, up into the hundreds and thousands.

And Japanese haiku poets, like Japanese people in general were not immune. For them each season started and ended on one particular day.

There was one day a year for soot cleaning, two for the changing of clothes, and in the world of haiku marker words were established to determine with absolute precision into which of the seasons of the year a given haiku had to fall, quite frequently regardless of the actual seasonal facts of life; the moon for autumn, unless there were qualifications, frogs for spring, and so on and so forth.

It is therefore no surprise that the relationship between poetry and science is not much discussed.

A haiku is, for instance, now generally seen as a separate poetic form, although that is not how it began, when it was just one element in a renga, or sequence of linked verses, which might run up to a hundred elements or more, each verse being by a different poet.

Renga or linked poetry, which seems to be unique to Japan, apparently goes back at least to the twelfth century and over time became more or less standardised as a series of tanka, or two part verses of 31 syllables or sound bites in which the first three lines in the resulting 5-7-5-7-7 sequence were called hokku, and became the origin of the word haiku.

Bashō himself wrote many linked sequences of hokku and was also involved, not merely as a contributor, but as the originator in uncounted numbers of such enterprises which brought together and united many different poets in a single carefully controlled, yet paradoxically spontaneous, poetic enterprise.

Each haiku in such a renga, with its symmetrical, 5-7-5 rise and fall from five syllables or sound bites up to seven and back down to five, forms part of a regular, running curvilinear sequence, 5-7-5 5-7-5 5-7-5 5-7-5 …which can be seen as a poetic analogue of the sine wave in mathematics which, though not always in absolutely precise terms, underpins so many important aspects of the natural world.

The waves in all the lakes and seas and oceans of the world; sound and radio waves in vast arrays of different frequencies, are prime examples as, in simpler terms, is the path traced by a pendulum in relation to a piece of paper moving steadily beneath it at right angles to its swing.

Bashō himself, who lived from 1644 to 1694, and the great haiku poets who followed him, such as Yosa Buson (1716-1783) and Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828), were, of course, not scientists in the modern sense for all their intense, Buddhist concentration on and observation of the natural of which they were an integral part.

When Bashō wrote in one of his famous haiku on the skylark, imbued with the fundamental Buddhist concept of non-attachment, which goes

haranaka ya
mono nimo tsukazu
naku hibari

out over the plain
free of any attachment
the skylarks, singing

neither he nor any of his fellow haiku poets could possibly have known, as subsequent research has paradoxically shown, that the skylarks' joyous songs are actually a long and elaborate assertion of territorial rights, which adds a particular poignancy to Bashō's innocent, deeply felt image.

This does nothing to diminish the poetry of Bashō's haiku, and had he known it, he would probably have marvelled that such a self-centred activity could result in such unforgettable harmony.

By the same token, none of them could possibly had any idea how the hailstones formed in hot weather or how the ice pellets, which are their winter counterparts, are actually produced.

One field which does bring up one aspect of the relationship of poetry and science is that of synaesthesia which, in modern medical science, is a neurological condition in which the stimulation of any one, particular sensory or cognitive pathway is invariably accompanied by instantaneous and involuntary experiences in another.

Furthermore, the Buddhist concept of the unity of all that is and that is not includes our five senses and is not confined to the external world.

The result is that in synaesthesia and in Bashō's poetry each sound may actually be seen, not merely thought of, as a colour, every colour have a smell, each fragrance have a sound and, as in the following haiku, the call of a distant deer can be seen as being only one inch high

musashino ya
issun hodo na
shika no koe

on the grassy plain,
only about an inch high
the call of a deer

The call of the deer and the deer itself are one.

Sometimes there may be a straightforward historical derivation for such things, as in the haiku which reads

umi kurete
kamo no koe
honoka ni shiroshi

the sea has darkened
the calls of wild ducks
have now become faintly white

In this particular case the colour of the ducks' calls may possibly derive from the fact that white was the colour of autumn in the ancient Taoist system of correspondences familiar in Japan.

It should, perhaps, also be noted that the English version has, as in all such cases in the recent publication, exactly followed the unusual 5-5-7 format of the seventeen sound bite original.

There is of course no evidence that Bashō or his fellow poets had synaesthesia, but in many cases there are no such possibilities of finding simple historical precedents and a particularly fine and complex example is the haiku which reads

sazanami ya
kaze no kaori no
ai byōshi

among rippling waves
the fragrance of blowing wind
is in their rhythm

Much simpler is his

kazairo ya
shidoro ni ue shi
niwa no aki

the colour of wind
a garden sown at random;
bush cover flowers

Again much more complex is his

matsu sugi o
homete ya kaze no
kaoru oto

pine trees and cedars
are praised by the blowing wind
and its fragrant sound

Here indeed, his personal feeling for the scope, within the unity of all that is, of Amida Buddha's Primal Vow to save all sentient beings, seems to be reflected in his inclusion of both pine trees and cedars and the blowing wind among them.

Quite apart from all such things is the intrinsic possibility, exploited by Matsuo Bashō and indeed by all the finest and most sensitive of the poets who followed in his wake, of forcing the mere seventeen syllables or sound bites of a haiku to make a sudden, unexpected leap from some acutely observed, small detail of the natural world to something far more grand and powerful in its immediate impact.

The silent flutter of tiny petals and the roar of a great waterfall are brought together in the haiku reading

horo horo to
yamabuki chiru ka
taki no oto

yellow rose petals
gently, gently flutter down;
waterfall thunder

Indeed, for Bashō, the homely, mundane sound of the fulling block as it is used for beating cloth can carry him to the far reaches of the universe at large, as in

koe sumite
hokuto ni hibiku
kinuta kano

clear echoing sound
rises up to the great bear
from the fulling block

As you will by now have certainly have gathered, all the English translations of the haiku, which Taira and I have read out to you tonight, represent what seem to be the first attempt to maintain the original 5-7-5 format and, as far as possible, to honour the spirit of the Japanese originals.

It seems to be that it is, in part at least, the self-advertising intellectual laziness and poetic limitations of leading members of the Beat Generation of the nineteen fifties and sixties that have played a major role in the subsequent, quite deliberate decision on the part of British, American and even Japanese translators into English, to make no attempt to honour the essential format of the Japanese originals.

Although no less deliberately still called haiku, the results, whatever their own merits, are no more than a long list of short, derivative works in another language.

They vary, at one extreme, to the cutting back from seventeen syllables to as little as seven or eight or even less, which leaves no possibility of preserving in translation anything remotely resembling a rhythmic counterpart to that of the originals.

This is no trivial matter.

From time immemorial until quite recently its own, distinctive rhythmic quality has been seen as an essential feature of any poem, and Bashō's haiku are no exception.

At the other extreme, quite possibly under the influence of Chinese poetry in the case of Japanese translators in particular, the result has been to turn to a four line format of twenty-five syllables or more, which totally destroys the characteristic brevity which is another vital aspect of a Japanese haiku, whether by Bashō himself or any other of the great haiku poets.

Apart from its rhythm and syllabic structure, a third significant aspect of a haiku is its linear sequence, especially in the case of the first and last five syllables which form the first and final lines.

How important this could be is demonstrated by the renga in the construction of which Bashō himself was so renowned an expert.

Each new haiku by a different poet had to follow on directly from the preceding one and in the process extend the range of the renga as a whole, and then not simply fade away but, on the contrary, provide a platform for the one that followed it.

Here, a source of some confusion for English speakers ignorant of Japanese, or for anyone, whether Japanese or otherwise, who is dependent on the horizontal format of the romanised versions, is that, when set out formally in the single vertical line of the original Japanese, there is no indication, either in the form of gaps or any kind of punctuation, of the essential three part structure of a haiku.

Every effort should therefore be made to retain the original line order of the Japanese, although this is often extremely difficult to do.

It is, however, all too easy to forget or to ignore such matters, with the result that, in translation, the first and last lines of a haiku are quite often simply interchanged.

What a difference such a change can make even when, as is the case of that same haiku with the mountain rose, it proved impossible to avoid the transposition of the first two lines, is easily shown.

What was originally a sudden move to an unexpected and eye opening climax, just becomes a steady slide from a powerful opening into the detail and diminuendo of a weak, if pretty, ending; the original

yellow rose petals
gently, gently flutter down;
waterfall thunder

changing into

waterfall thunder;
yellow rose petals gently,
gently flutter down

Here nothing has been changed in rhythm or in syllable count and yet such subtleties and alterations in emphasis, simply brought about by what may well appear to be routine matters of line sequence, are something which each and every translator has to face.

More importantly, when seen through Buddhist eyes, even a haiku such as this reflects the unity and the impermanence of all that is, and Bashō was indeed a Buddhist.

Here again the matter may have been confused by Bashō's birth within the family of a minor samurai in Ueno, a small town which, despite its many Buddhist temples, lay in the shadow of one of the great feudal fortresses.

Indeed, his early upbringing in Shinto surroundings may have played its part in giving rise to his obsession with the natural world and helped to shape his own particular brand of Buddhism.

Our inherent tendency to compartmentalise and to divide things neatly into different categories, makes it easy to forget the peaceful coexistence of the two religions in the centuries following Buddhism's first arrival in Japan, or the fact that still in Bashō's day, because of Shinto's lack of any kind of overarching organisational system, many of the small shrines in the countryside were actually maintained and run by local Buddhist monks.

However, despite the fact that throughout all his travels Bashō seems to have visited and worshipped in as many Shinto shrines as Buddhist temples, his references to Shinto are confined to four or five passing references to the kami or spirits inhabiting the trees and rocks and mountains.

The single most evocative and explicitly Shinto in its content, since it refers to a deserted shrine when the kami or god is away, reads

rusu no ma ni
aretaru kami no
ochiba kana

all is deserted
the god is away, dead leaves
are everywhere

Similarly there is only a slightly larger handful of references to Buddhism and its basic beliefs, although they are a good deal more specific.

A prime example reads

sō asagao
iku shini kaeru
nori no matsu

monks and morning glories
dying again and again;
the dharma pine tree

This particular haiku, running to eighteen syllables, throws a direct light on the fundamental basis of Bashō's Buddhist outlook and, as in so many cases, is so compressed as almost to become a koan in its own right.

There is no distinction between monks and morning glories, men and flowers.

They are one.

The last line, furthermore, reflects his own familiarity with the famous Zen koan and the answer that was given when an earnest monk, enquiring about the basic principles of Buddhism, asked "What is the meaning of the patriarch's coming from the west?"

For Bashō even the smallest and most insignificant of fish was included in Amida Buddha's vow to save all sentient beings

shira-uo ya
kuroki me o aku
nori no ami

whitebait, the small fry,
all open their jet black eyes
in the dharma's net

Moreover, his own personal attitude to Shin Buddhist faith and practice is recorded in the haiku reading

yo ni sakaru
hana nimo nebutsu
mōshi keri

cherries in blossom
also to them nenbutsu
has been recited

The length and strength of the poetic tradition leading up to the 17th century move from hokku into haiku is well shown by a 31 syllable tanka or waka, which was written some five centuries earlier, by the great Zen Master Dōgen Zenji (1200-1253), who did not consider himself to be a poet, and whose poetry was written, not for its own sake, but as part of his function as a guide and teacher.

Oddly enough, it is a perfect illustration of how carefully haiku should be read when one goes back to them.

It reads, in what are actually the 4-7-5-8-7 sound bites of the Japanese,

mamoruto
omowazu nagara
koyamada no
itazura naranu
kakashi narikeri

and in translation

though unaware
of their protective function
out on the hilltop
where the rice is being grown
scarecrows are never idle

It is relatively easy to see that we and the scarecrows, which are a simulacrum of ourselves, are one, and that we too can never tell the consequences of the things we do, and as a result feel satisfied that we have got the point.

Far from it!

What about the rice field and the hilltop within the unity of all that is?

They too are useful, and they too are unaware, in a network of interdependent origination.

It is of the essence of the latter that each of its constituent elements is wholly unaware of its function within the network, or indeed the networks, in which it plays an essential role.

The world becomes a very different place when seen through the eyes of a fully committed Buddhist poet.

In Basho's case, to return to the haiku in the dissemination and development of which he was so deeply involved, even the simple seeming observation of some small natural happening is redolent of his deep Buddhist faith and understanding, as in

kozue yori
adani ochi keri
semi no kara

out of a treetop
it was emptiness that fell;
a cicada shell

The emptiness of the cicada shell embraces three of the most important Buddhist concepts; those of the lack of any permanent, inherent self; of interdependent origination, the belief that all that ever comes into existence is the outcome of a multitude of causes and effects, and finally that of the impermanence of all created things.

Like a Zen garden, a fine haiku must be constantly returned to if one is even to begin to know it.

Another haiku, quietly but deeply Buddhist, which he wrote in 1677 when he as living on the outskirts of Edo and practising deep meditation, focussed on moving beyond words and conscious thought, under the Zen master, Butchō, has a wealth of implications although it is given in the form of a straightforward statement which may, nonetheless, prove puzzling at first sight, and reads

tabine shite
waga ku o shire ya
aki no kaze

sleep on a journey
and you will know my haiku
in the autumn wind

In the twelve syllables of the opening lines, Bashō reveals his sharp awareness of the easily forgotten fact that there is no counterpart of poetry in prose; outside itself a poem is unspeakable.

There is no logical approach to a true haiku; it is only in sleep or deep in our subconscious minds, beyond the realm of words and conscious thought, that it is reachable.

Then, with the last five syllables, in the autumn wind that starts to blow away the dying year, Bashō again encapsulates the Buddhist concept of impermanence in which all poets and their poems dwell.

He was indeed a poet, not a preacher and as the last two haiku show, there was no need for him to emphasise his faith in more explicit terms.

Buddhism was the very air he breathed and everything he wrote expressed the fact.

Yet in a world of endless individual sects, each with their close adherents, the fact that he was completely non-sectarian in his Buddhism has led at times to somewhat inexplicable uncertainty and argument.

In a final haiku on Zenkoji his position is made crystal clear.

tsuki kage ya
shimon shishū mo
tada hitotsu

under the moonlight
the four gates and the four sects
are all of them one