On Haiku: Part 2 English-language Haiku

Foreword

         In a previous post several months ago, I provided a history and explanation of haiku (which, in retrospect, seems a bit too scholarly for some of my readers to enjoy).  However, composing the post spurred my studies and helped me mentally digest all those facts, so I'm still glad I wrote it.  Now it is past time I got on with part two, and I hope my lay readers will find more enjoyment in the topic of modern, English-language haiku. . . . However, one can hardly explain modern English haiku without also mentioning some of the attending literary debates on the form and function of this poetry genre, so this has likewise become rather esoteric.  Well, continue if you will, and I hope it will intrigue you.

  

Literary Debates

        Over the years since haiku was first introduced to Westerners, many renowned English-language poets have written what they call "haiku" before understanding the traditional form of the genre, thus setting precedents of psuedohaiku that have muddled our definition.  Further confusing would-be haijin, well-meaning school teachers have often recommended partially- or loosely-defined haiku to children, who don't realize that the haiku they have been taught to write bear only a passing resemblance to classical Japanese haiku, and these amateur poets often carry their erroneous perceptions with them into adulthood.  Thus, many people today still think that any short, unrhymed poem is sufficient to earn the name "haiku" with no concern for its central characteristics.  Yet, take for instance a single-word poem (yes, they do exist!), which juxtaposes no images nor conveys a mood, and thus doesn't fulfill those components of haiku.  Similarly, a poem much longer than seventeen syllables can't quite capture the breath-length brevity of haiku.  While I have no strong objection to such imagist or avant-garde short poems, I align myself with the apparent majority who maintain that such poems should not presume to the name "haiku."

       Most of the debate and development of English-language haiku has happened during the last sixty years—since the end of WWII—and though experts agree that English haiku do have a defined form and content that sets them apart from other short poems, they still disagree on what, precisely, they are.  Admittedly, one cannot easily translate Japanese rules into English.  For instance, we don't typically write English vertically, we don't always have the same associations between words and seasons as the Japanese do with their kigo, we don't have equivalents of kireji—cutting words—in our language, and we don't think of sounds in our language in terms of morae.  

To provide an example of this difficulty, consider just the issue of sounds:  Literati have frequently debated whether haiku form should proscribe a number of sounds and, if so, what those numbers should be; some argue that less than 17 syllables total is sufficient while others argue for 3-5-3, 8-8-8, or 5-7-5 syllable schemes per line, with the former and latter seeming most common online.  Others recommend emphasis on rhythm over form, some suggesting (if you’ll pardon the descent into jargon) that the traditional 17 morae float on a 24-mora template, allowing 7 moraic beats for meaningful pauses, which allows for extra flexibility with the number of sounds (see http://www.iyume.com/metrics/total2.html.  Though I find this latter idea intriguing and I like a few irregular short haiku, I tend to favor the balanced 5-7-5 syllable scheme, even if that increases the total morae above 17.)  However, more important than the sounds or rhythm, some argue, is the “spirit,” subject, and manner of expression in the haiku—or that there exists a “phrase and fragment” juxtaposing images.

Haiku Form in English

Because of these difficulties, many authorities on the subject of English-language haiku, such as the Haiku Society of America (HSA), describe more than proscribe.  The HSA, for example, writes in the appendix of their official definitions, "There is no rigid 'form' for Japanese haiku. Seventeen Japanese onji (sound-symbols) is the norm, but some 5% of 'classical' haiku depart from it, and so do a still greater percentage of 'modern' Japanese haiku. To the Japanese and to American haiku poets, it is the content and not the form alone that makes a haiku" (hsa-haiku.org).  As for the content’s qualifying characteristics, the HSA loosely defines haiku as "a short poem that uses imagistic language to convey the essence of an experience of nature or the season intuitively linked to the human condition."  They follow this with observational notes about the characteristics of "most" English haiku (from which I quote some of the text, though not the paragraph form):

• Most use three unrhymed lines (though I will add that some writers prefer to write the same words on a single line).
• Most use seventeen or fewer syllables, with the middle line longest, though today's poets use a variety of line lengths and arrangements.
• They may omit season words, but the original focus on experience captured in clear images continues.
• The most common technique is juxtaposing two images or ideas.
• Punctuation, space, a line-break, or a grammatical break may substitute for a cutting word (Note that some haijin eschew all of these, as well as capitalization, in the manner of ee cummings).
• Most haiku have no titles.
• Metaphors and similes are commonly avoided. (Haiku do sometimes have brief introductory notes, usually specifying the setting or similar facts; metaphors and similes in the simple sense of these terms do sometimes occur, but infrequently.)  (hsa-haiku.org)

Other websites note that haiku are typically written in the present tense with specific and vivid word choices on nature-related topics.  A poem that doesn't meet haiku’s content criteria but shares the haiku's form is more properly called a senryu, which is often humorous or satiric and deals with human nature.  The haijin Elisabeth St. Jacques explains this distinction here.  Haiku also read smoothly instead of choppily like a telegraph and have sparse punctuation—usually just one at the end of one line in imitation of kireji. 

In all, writers of English haiku have a fair amount of flexibility of form, and though I feel some would benefit from punctuation and capitalization (such as the first example below), I enjoy seeing the variety of styles and subjects people use in their haiku.

Modern Examples

Here I'll share some English haiku examples I enjoy:

     fireflies
     the space between
     stars

~Sheila (from the online discussion group HaikaiTalk)

     I kill an ant

     and realize my three children

     have been watching.

~Kato Shuson (1905-1993) (Rusnauka.com)

Jane Reichhold (ahapoetry) wrote the next three:

     a spring nap

     downstream cherry trees

     in bud

     ancestors

     the wild plum

     blooms again

     the whole sky

     in a wide field of flowers

     one tulip

The following come from Deborah Coates’s book Cat Haiku--though these seem more like senryu to me:

     Is it not lovely

     The way my fur wafts through the

     Air when you pet me?

     Driving to the vet

     I MUST crouch underneath this

     Nice safe gas pedal.

     You read books; I like

     To lie on top of them.  We're

     Both bibliophiles.

     You use dental floss.

     So what's wrong with chewing on

     Electrical cords?

     You're dashing to work

     In the rain.  I yawn and stretch--

     Don't you just hate me?

     There is no one as

     Dignified as we cats; I

     Think it's the whiskers.

My Haiku

       Some time ago, as I waited for a friend to pick me up for an afternoon of hanging out, I whiled away the time playing with words and images to form haiku.  The following ones came out the best.  The first is particularly meaningful for me--I've been trying for years to put into words how I felt the moment I came upon this particular spot along our neighbor's creek.  Unfortunately, this spot now lies under their new pond . . . :(

     Stream split 'round an elm--

     Mist shrouds the green fairyland

     Where I dare to tread.

     Settling softly 

     on water . . . a leaf

     or a butterfly?

     Cold wind stirs the snow

     Erasing last year's footsteps . . .

     We remember them.

     bitter wind
     belied by golden sunlight
     on the window frame

     Useless florescents--
     golden sunlight denies
     the cold beyond glass

     sunlight on frost; 
     already grieving the loss
     of this smile 

     Burning within,                                

     she strides into snowy wind

     without zipping up.

     Deceptive morning 

     chill—a patron’s words also 

     become heated.

     Emerald leaves appear,

     Turn ruby before they fall. 

     Diamonds take their place.

Alternately, 

     Emerald shoots appear,

     Ruby leaves pirouette down;
     Diamonds replace them

P.S.
It occurred to me that reading a novel is like enjoying a full meal while reading a haiku is more like savoring a single bite of luscious chocolate; one can eat a lot more of the former, more quickly, but haiku need long pauses between bites so the eater can fully experience and appreciate each one.
 

On Trees

       I exit the backdoor and watch the alley cat Tabitha watch me warily from a couple yards away, ready to run if I approach—and equally ready to leap onto the porch after I disappear to enjoy the cat food I put out for her and her kin.  I smile at her reticence and speak soothing nothings in that high voice people reserve for infants and pets while I step slowly down to the sidewalk.  Then I must mind my feet to step around fuzzy-topped acorns.  The sun isn't up high enough to shine into the yard, so I shiver in the cold, thankful the elms at the border of our yard block the wind for now.  I eye the base of our mulberry tree by the alley, but no cat hides within the brush, and I must soon step closer to the dipped and cracked center of the alley to avoid the overhanging branches of a redbud tree.
       I round the corner of the alley onto Washington Street, holding my breath past the stench of cigarettes from the open door of a small rental house, and cross the next intersection diagonally.  On this side of the street, I must circle widely around the antique chevy parked on the sidewalk under a leaning elm, and farther down, circle the opposite way to avoid the sprawling branches of a tree that I struggle to identify, it having been pruned and regrown often enough that it more closely resembles a bush than a tree, and though it bears long leaves like a white walnut, its quick growth hints that it belongs to a different family.  I ponder its name while I pass under a myriad of elms, maple, sweet gum, and oak trees lining the street.  One house's crab apples are just now beginning to drop their fruit, making the ground gummy for a few meters.  At the next corner, I look in vain for the white cat I sometimes see there, then turn my gaze to admire the elegant Persian Silk tree catycorner to me as I cross the street.  I miss its delicate silken flowers and elusive scent from earlier in the year. 
       While walking by the library on my right, I gaze fleetingly at the depleted branches of their Bradford pears and at their similarly empty parking lot; it's too late in the year for many leaves and too early in the day for any patrons.  I wonder idly if I should stop on my way home to pick up a book or two, then admit the diversion would only keep me from my chores, so I regretfully decide against it.
       Past the next street, the sidewalk leads me between a high chain-link fence on one side and more elms on the other.  Another house down, I just barely need to duck under the branches of an apple tree whose dessicated fruits have long since vanished into trash cans or the grass around its base.  On the other side of the ally abutting that house, lovely lilac bushes, still mostly green, line the yard of the quiet Sundquist home, with a forsythia bush and an oak adorning the street side of the walk.
       Beyond 11th Street, which I cross carefully, lies the home of "Sweetie"—my name for a miniature collie who comes to the gate of his fenced backyard for petting whenever he's there and hears me approach.  Elms continually try to grow between the sidewalk and the cinder-block dirt barrier beside that home's front yard, despite periodic prunings.  Since they're in need of another, I'm obliged to walk on the far left side of the sidewalk.  I notice that though the redbud and crabapples on the street side are losing their leaves, the yellow day lilies beside the house are blooming a second time this year.  Soon I near the back fence and confirm that "Sweetie" isn't out.  Near the end of the fence, however, I see the neighbor's calico cat jump between the warped slats into the back yard where she sits, meowing plaintively at me as I pause to coax her closer.  She doesn't budge, so I continue to her owner's yard, a beautifully maintained flower bed with wisteria growing up the pillars around the front door, though the flowers below are now dead or dying.  A high, whitewashed fence hides the side yard, and a romantic archway forms between a crab apple on my left and a cherry tree hanging over the fence on my right—or it would be romantic if less fruit spattered the sidewalk underfoot.  I pass between a mound of tall, spiky grass and more wisteria along the sideyard's rear, chain-link fence, emerging beside a parking lot half encircled with three tall oaks, widely spaced.  My workplace lies directly east at the end of the road just ahead, so I angle my steps diagonally across the deserted lot; the company to which it belongs went out of business some months ago, and now I will only occasionally see a cop park in the lot, perhaps to do his paperwork or eat his lunch.
       I jog across busy Main Street, slowing past a green house converted from a residential dwelling into a business, which is also currently ownerless.  Sadly, no cats stir in the old house diagonally ahead and across the street from it, so I stay on the southern sidewalk along the long parking lot of a medical facility.  A wide spread of grass and crab apple trees decorate the street side, and on my right in a bed of wood chips, bushes with orange berries alternate with evergreen trees kept small and ornamental from pruning.  That ends the business district, and I pass many residential homes where American elms and a variety of sugar maples and silver maples tower above me every few feet on my left, and a variety of catalpa, oak, smoke tree, redbud, Japanese maple, sycamore, honey locust, goldenrain, and one gorgeous weeping willow draw my appreciative eyes on my right.  Squirrels occasionally dart up a tree upon my approach.
       Many blocks later, I come to the Lutheran church, which boasts several Bradford pears—one rather badly mangled, perhaps having been pruned of diseased parts—standing before its walls filled with narrow stained glass windows.  Oaks line the church's parking lot, which, when it's not needed for a funeral or wedding, is frequently full of student vehicles, as it is now.  One house remains before Plum Street and the community college; as I cross the gravel alley at the rear of the church, I regret not knowing my evergreen trees better, for a wide specimen graces the yard, but closer to the house, I happily recognize the barren magnolia tree, remembering its large blooms from two seasons earlier.
       Traffic obligingly stops at the walk signal that a girl initiated from the opposite sidewalk, and we cross to the college, then head different ways.  I pass under a cypress, whose identity I'd just recently discovered thanks to Google's image search.  More elms and oaks adorn the lawn, along with a couple acacia-looking thorny trees whose name still eludes me.  I walk inside, determined to look it up, but by the time I hang up my jacket, clock in, and complete my morning chores, my mind is on work rather than arboreal mysteries.


       Among the places I've lived, trees have been rather ubiquitous—not forest-thick, usually, but one can hardly find a place outdoors where one cannot see a single tree somewhere at the distant end of a grain field.  Trees are a bit like the picture we've had on our walls for years and never look at anymore; a detail in the background—pretty and enhancing, but hardly worth further attention.  We're reminded each Arbor Day to appreciate them, and we notice them when their appearance changes, they need care, or they prove useful or inconvenient at a given moment.  We know, intellectually at least, that they provide beauty, privacy, windblocks, food, furniture, firewood, shade, reduced erosion, and water conservation.  How often, however, do we pass them by without a thought, accepting their existence as easily as the grass or the sky?  Walking to work each day has helped me notice and appreciate them; how boring the town would look without them!  Who could ever be bored anywhere if equipped with decent observation skills and an active imagination? 
       I still spend some days walking around more in my head than in the world—more aware of my thoughts than the objects around me.  On such days, I may notice the carpet of maple or elm seeds underfoot, and I may take care to navigate around large acorns or spiky sweet gum seeds, but I don't wonder at their parent trees or note their growth or seasonal changes.  When I do notice, however, these changes ensure that the same path never looks quite the same, and they give me cause to praise God for His fascinating creation.

On the Persistence of Unbelief

       I am frequently dismayed at the human capacity for stubbornness--not just the willful claim of one's right to one's self above God's claim on us (which includes all of us), but the refusal to even accept Christ based on either the claim that one is sinless (which as Joel likes to point out is itself boasting--a sin) and even moreso, the persistent claim that God is merely a concept of human imagination.  The truth seems so clear to me, but if this latter person refuses to accept the testimony of the created world as evidence of a Creator, rejects the authority of the Bible or the testimonies of Christians, and demands empirical proof of the supernatural (which is by definition undefinable), how is one to persuade such a person?  "For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles" (1 Corinthians 1:22-23 ESV).  People can certainly be led to Christ through reason (C.S. Lewis is such an example), but reason can only point the way to Truth; it cannot prove His existence or power, nor make a stubborn person set aside doubts or prejudices or selfishness and trust Him. 
        When I feel frustrated or sorrowed by such people's persistent unbelief, I can only show them love and commit them to God; I must remind myself that it is not up to me to "convince" them if they refuse to be convinced; I can tell the truth to plant the seed and must let the Holy Spirit do the rest.  It hurts to watch esteemed people reject their only hope for eternal life, yet I know (not empirically--I believe) my helplessness, which so frustrates me now, will ultimately glorify God's strength and power to save, which no human can claim.

On Clouds, or On Art vs. Science

       I've developed a love for the open sky in Kansas.  Unlike forested or mountainous areas, our long stretches of fields and plains grant us a spectacular view of the heavens--a beauty so many people, including myself, tend to overlook as they work away within four walls or stare fixedly at the uneven sidewalk or the busy traffic on their journeys to a place with more walls that obscure the view.  Whenever I spare a glance upward, the shifting textures of the clouds, the smooth backdrop behind them, and the dynamic light that decorates both with a multitude of colors--all fill me with awe.  They put my existence and woes in perspective with God's greatness and care for me; they bring a peaceful smile to my face as I enjoy a delicate swirl of white or a smooth gradation of cobalt or light-limned purple.
        However, I've never bothered to truly learn the names of the cloud types in the same way I try to memorize the names of trees; I simply enjoy them as one enjoys a work of art.  Still, as with art, I wonder sheepishly if I'm missing something by remaining ignorant of atmospheric layers and meteorological terms and the effects of jet streams.  I imagine an arrogant meteorologist scoffing at my "love for the sky," saying that if I loved it, I would have pursued and amassed more knowledge of it.  I know as well as the next person that part of art appreciation involves knowing the methods of creation, the artist's background, and contextual influences.  Yet, is an abundance of scientific knowledge necessary to "properly" enjoy nature?  (Is an abundance of knowledge necessary to be a fan of anything--manga, language, history, etc.?)  Would a greater understanding of such things enhance my enjoyment and admiration of the skies, or would it cause me to dissect the beauty into unglamorous terms and meteorological calculations?  I know of the Artist and some basics of the heavens' composition--and I'm glad to know clouds are made of moisture rather than marshmallows or cotton or magic--to understand a little something of the physics that make such wondrous colors possible.  Yet, it's not as if my circumstances require me to study and predict the weather as a farmer might need to.  Learning is never-ending; when would I stop?  Is that the best use of my time?  I still enjoy what I enjoy even if I can't quantify how it arrived at its appearance or explain what it means in terms of wind patterns and future weather.  This casual deliberation decides me that we can truly enjoy what we like regardless of our interest in deepening our knowledge about it.  I've nothing to feel guilty of if I simply want to turn my face upward and drink in the view without the burden or blessing of scientific knowledge.  

On Games and Nijuin

        I wonder what attracts us to certain games over others?  Depending on the person, games might provide a social opportunity or a solitary escape; players may prefer the thrill of chance or the challenge of skill; people may crave variety and novelty, or consistency and familiarity; some people refuse to play a game they cannot win consistently while others prefer wrestling against the high possibility of failure; what some people call a game, others may call work.   A person may even prefer a different game for a different occasion or in different company.  I, myself, don't play games often (unless one counts tutoring games for work, making up stories, or guessing the age of old books before I look at their publication information).  However, my investigation into renku (as mentioned in a previous post) and my husband's recent birthday present of the game Dominion have gotten me back into playing games.  So far, my own preferences for gaming lie as follows: 

Apples to Apples for large groups of ages 7 and up

Settlers of Catan for groups of 3-6 (with expansion), ages 10 and up

Hide and seek for groups of two or more children, 

provided we have access to good hiding spots

Dominion for adult groups of 2-4, ages 10 and up

Spider Solitaire or Neverwinter Nights by myself

        I've had a difficult time finding players to write nijuin with me—the twenty-stanza form of renku--so my esteem for this poetry game is still undecided, pending a complete game or two with a group.  I did, however, finish a solo nijuin and have posted it below.  The game requires linking adjacent stanzas while shifting on to new subjects and moods, and the challenge is increased with the tradition of visiting each of the seasons and proscribed topics (love, the moon, and blossoms) in a particular sequence.  (As this is my first nijuin, I hope any experienced renku writers reading this will pardon whatever failures in form or weaknesses of expression I am sure exist.  I would welcome professional advice for improvements.)

 

An Autumn Nijuin
Composed 28 September to 1 October 2012 
Revised February 2013

1.         a walk alone            over wind-scattered acorns--            such noisy thoughts 2.         feeling chilly inside            and out after the news 3.         father and daughter debate the forecast under the autumn moon 4.         making plans            for the problem child __________________________ 5.         red string            over, under, and ‘round            the sleeper 6.         a frisson from a comment and burning face from a touch 7.         her lowered gaze            a flirtation or            consternation? 8.         only much hard proof            earns a first date 9.         an evening downpour isn’t enough to drown these sorrows 10.       whimpers under the bed from guard dogs afraid of thunder __________________________

11.       a perfect time for            a tryst with Jane Austen            and a mug of tea 12.       languid specks in the skewed square of sunshine 13.       improbably high,            a deceptively tiny            aluminum bird 14.       plowing through the spotless expanse of white 15.       the pristine world            silvered in moonlight fulfills            their Christmas hopes 16.       old Simeon and Anna rejoice in the temple __________________________ 17.       what a joy            to see prayers confirmed            by this sight 18.       the drab landscape with a robin on a Yield sign 19.       brick and ivy            hide the adventurer’s            secret blossoms 20.       wisteria’s velvet stems            escape the fence