spring visitor

You can read here and there that haiku must be about nature and its works, not about humans and their works. But it isn't always easy, possible, or desirable to keep them separated.

the mourning dove coos

from his nest

under our air conditioner

when the leaves come

Thanks to "anonymous" (you know who you are), who suggested an improvement in the third line of this one.

I won't see it

when the leaves come

this piece of sky

Toward Definitions: 8th Approximation

I introduced the "cutting word" (kireji) in the 6th approximation. There is no punctuation in Japanese haiku, but the cutting word, an essentially meaningless word that indicates some kind of grammatical break, functions very like punctuation.The cutting word is usually found at the end of the first or second segment of the haiku—at the end, that is, of the first or second line in the most familiar format in English.

The formal effect of the cutting word and of whatever replaces it in English-language haiku is to divide the haiku into two main parts, unequal in length—two to one—but roughly equal in weight. Jane Reichhold in Writing and Enjoying Haiku (Kodansha International 2002) usefully suggests the term "phrase" for the longer part and "fragment" for the shorter. (Her insights can also be found at ahapoetry.com.) In many haiku, then, we can discern a two-part structure in a three-line format. The "meaning" of the haiku often arises out of the relationship between the two parts. This structure can be found even in haiku that contain no punctuation.

Every post on this blog from March 26 through March 29 features a haiku in which the break occurs at the end of the first line; in Reichhold's terminology, line one is the fragment, lines two and three are the phrase. And, at least in my reading (not binding on you), the "meaning" of these haiku arises out of the relationship between the fragment and the phrase, which are of roughly equal weight though of unequal length. Among these haiku, only the one posted as "sounds" contains punctuation: my preferred all-purpose em dash. My principle regarding punctuation in haiku is the same as Mark Twain's regarding the adjective in anything: When in doubt, cut it out.

The post "ant" (March 30) features a haiku in which the fragment is line three, with lines one and two constituting the phrase; this one includes an em dash in the cutting word position. I've also re-posted below two of my winter haiku in which the fragment is the last line; no punctuation in these.

Does what we've said cover all haiku? Well, no. More on that in later approximations.

By the way, if you ask me to tell you the "meaning" of these haiku or of any of the others I've written, I can usually do no better than to repeat the haiku itself

1

evergreens

more green today

sun after snow

2

a clump of snow

explodes on the iron step

sudden wind

ant

on a bare surface

an ant changes direction—

what does the ant know

raindrops

tree still bare

at the tip of every twig

a drop of rain

sounds

listening to rain—

a motorcycle

and a mourning dove

Monday

Monday

the locked doors

of churches

rain

prattle of the rain

meaningless

and steady

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday

sun finds me early

time to rise

first buds

"View from the artist's window"

early buds

still through naked branches

unclouded blue

Toward Definitions: 7th Approximation

A small point of clarification: Haiku are normally untitled. The titles provided here (e. g., "squirrel," in the preceding post) should be regarded as titles of the posts, not of the haiku.

squirrel

squirrel in a tree

its shadow scampers

at my feet

dandelion

who will tell

the dandelion

it's a weed

spring chronicle

Since March 14, about a week before the official start of spring, I've been posting a number of haiku and senryu on the theme of the approach and arrival of the season. Just for the hell of it, I am here re-posting, in the order of composition, all the poems on the subject I've posted before. They were not written as a sequence, but I find that, rather like "Back from the Berkshires," an earlier post, they form a kind of accidental chronicle: The coming of spring as perceived from one spot in the universe. The only newly posted poems here are the last two, #11 and #12. Anyone who has visited before and/or simply isn't interested in reading the old stuff should skip to those.
1

March 14

almost spring

scattering of crocus

rising from the mud

2

March 15

rising from the mud

the purple brag of crocus

ready for the spring

3

March 16

on this brisk morning

that young woman's naked toes

are pointing to spring

4

March 18

looking for spring

the eye is held—

one mound of snow

5

March 20

Passion Sunday

palm branches

waving hello

6

March 20

growing fond of it

last mound of snow

shrinking into spring

7

March 20

first day of spring

chill rain

snow almost gone

8

March 21

another spring

a year older

up early

9

March 21

early spring

chill in the air

waiting for spring

10

March 22

patch of snow

yesterday a mound

the pace of spring

11

March 22

did the sun come out

this afternoon—

busy at my desk

12

March 23

spring rain

changing to snow

that will change

robin

not moving

robin on the lawn

still

early spring

Two more on the season. Again, there is no connection, other than the seasonal reference, between them. It strikes me, though, that it's possible to read #2 (written a day later) as a kind of response to #1.

1

early spring

chill in the air

waiting for spring

2

patch of snow

yesterday a mound

the pace of spring

another spring

another spring

a year older

up early

first day of spring

Three haiku written today. This year, the first day of spring coincides with Passion Sunday, aka Palm Sunday, in Catholic and Protestant churches. Other than being written on the same day, the three haiku have no relation to one another, although it occurs to me that #2 and #3 might be read as the second and third acts of a little drama, of which act one can be found at the post "looking for spring."

1

Passion Sunday

palm branches

waving hello

2

growing fond of it

last mound of snow

shrinking into spring

3

first day of spring

chill rain

snow almost gone

driving home

The experience on which this one is based goes back a while. Something I read yesterday jogged my memory.

drop a flower

on the coffin's lid--

driving home

looking for spring

looking for spring

the eye is held--

one mound of snow

St. Patrick's Day

St. Patrick's Day

wearing a green tie

to a French restaurant

colon

Wouldn't you know? I no sooner post a statement that I generally avoid punctuation in haiku and senryu, limiting myself to the all-purpose dash when necessary, than I find myself writing a senryu containing, in addition to a dash, what looks suspiciously like a colon doing just the sort of thing colons are supposed to do.

new construction site--

still visible on the blue fence:

post no bills

Toward Definitions: 6th Approximation

Back for now to matters of form. This post looks at a few "technical" matters.
capitalization: generally avoided in haiku. Absolutists don't even capitalize proper names, but most follow the practice, reflected here, of capitalizing proper nouns ("Central Park," below) and the pronoun "I;" the latter, of course, shouldn't show up in haiku, as distinguished from senryu, very often.
punctuation: complicated. You don't find punctuation in Japanese haiku, but you do find "cutting words (kireji)," words that have no real meaning in themselves but indicate a grammatical break: words, that is, that act rather like punctuation in English. Haiku poets don't necessarily follow standard rules of English punctuation, but beyond that generalizations become difficult. My practice, which I have not explained to myself before this, is to avoid punctuation except where to do so might create unwanted confusion. And when I find punctuation necessary, I generally resort to the all-purpose dash. Moreover, more often than not, I place the dash where a cutting word would be most likely to appear: at the end of the first or second line. That the absence of punctuation sometimes makes it possible to read a word or phrase in more than one way seems to me a plus: ambiguity, yes; confusion, no.
Here's a haiku in which I use the dash. I felt that, without it, "not moving" might seem to refer primarily to the trees, yielding the (apparently) ludicrously obvious observation that the trees aren't going anywhere. The dash, by separating the third line from the first two, is meant to suggest that it's the perceiver who is not moving: the image in my mind was of someone stuck in traffic driving north on Central Park West, but other readings--for instance, that the perceiver has simply paused while walking through the park--are entirely valid. By making this clearer, I hope to open up the interplay of "rising" and "not moving." For me, that tension is the heart of this haiku. Doesn't have to be that way for you.

in Central Park

trees rising from the snow--

not moving

pointing to spring

on this brisk morning

that young woman's naked toes

are pointing to spring

on the bus

A senryu based on something that happened on a bus ride from Queens to Manhattan this morning. Of course, it led nowhere.

checking her makeup

she peers into her mirror

checking me out too

variation

A fleeting moment of perception can be so complex as to generate a multitude of haiku. Capturing the moment is not the point. One of the lessons of writing haiku is that no moment is ever "captured." That, I realize for the first time, is the awareness that produced the haiku on "The Gates" included in the very first post on this blog. In its revised form it's #1 below.
Haiku is based, in this reckoning, on an aesthetic of "holding letting go." Multiple haiku inspired by the same moment of perception acknowledge, accept, and celebrate the awareness that the moment is indeed fleeting.

Anyway, #2 is a variation on yesterday's post. That was free form; this one turned out syllabic:

1

saffron banners

holding the wind

letting go

2

rising from the mud

the purple brag of crocus

ready for the spring

almost spring

There's so much snow on this blog, for reasons made clear in earlier posts, that I can't resist posting this one while the ink is still wet.

almost spring

scattering of crocus

rising from the mud

Toward Definitions: 5th Approximation

I don't want to get ahead of myself, and these approximations are still concerned primarily with matters of form, in regard to which haiku and senryu are identical. But, since I've raised the haiku-senryu issue, I'll permit myself an unsupported generalization at this point, keeping in mind that many argue the haiku-senryu distinction is no longer meaningful or relevant, at least in an English-language context. Anyway, the essential distinction between the two, if distinction there be, is that haiku is driven by perception, while senryu is driven by attitude. This one, for instance, is in my view an unambiguous example of senryu. Notice, by the way, that it's in the strict syllabic 5-7-5 format.

car alarm bleating

I devote my attention

to not hearing it

the cigarette

the cigarette

in Robert Mitchum's mouth

out of the past

This is not a haiku

haiku: not what's on

your mind but what's in the world

including your mind

tis the season

Traditionally, haiku are written on seasonal themes and contain some sort of reference, direct or indirect, to the season. Although I've written on other themes, as a glance at the blog will demonstrate, I do respect haiku's venerable tradition. That's why my haiku these days tend to be full of snow. And that may be why one of my sons has been surprised to notice my "dark vision." I tell him just wait until spring, but who knows?

By the way, I might mention here that some of the poems I've posted might be senryu, rather than haiku, for those who maintain that distinction. I haven't talked about the distinction here (That will come later.), and for now I'll continue to post by whim rather than by definition.

Here are a few more products of this interminable (But good!) winter:

1

tiny pond

ripples hurried by the wind

carry the chill

2

ice on the river

glimpsed through flickering trees

from the car window

3

she speaks

a cloud of breath dissolved

in winter fog

4

Groundhog Day

my shadow one of many

shades of gray

5

shadows on the snow

my pen on the white page

makes its mark

Toward Definitions: 4th Approximation

Dropping in at random on various blogs that offer the odd haiku now and then,
I've found widespread adherence to two questionable notions regarding haiku. First, as to form. Many people seem to think that the 17-syllable, 5-7-5 format is absolutely obligatory. As I've indicated in previous posts, the practice of haiku poets in English is not nearly so restrictive: syllabic, free, and accentual haiku are all acceptable on just about equal footing. I've also pointed out that the belief that the Japanese haiku consists of 17 syllables is an oversimplification, since the Japanese on is only an approximate equivalent of the English syllable.

On the other hand, these bloggers' approach to content is pretty much "Anything goes." As a definition, a haiku is anything that's on your mind in 17 syllables divided into three lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables. Well, of course, I respect your constitutional right to say what you want in 17 syllables or less or more. But haiku has traditionally meant something more precise, something worth keeping. What that something is is the subject of these approximations. For the moment, let me throw out a couple of unsupported propositions (Supporting them being, again, the longterm goal of these approximations.). The heart of haiku is perception. The goal of haiku is mindfulness.

Toward Definitions: Third Approximation

In addition to the classical, syllabic form and the free form haiku mentioned in earlier posts, a third possibility is accentual haiku, based on counting accents (beats, stresses) rather than syllables. William J. Higginson in his invaluable The Haiku Handbook (with Penny Harter, Kodansha International, 1985) suggests that the most pleasing form for haiku in English might take an overall form consisting of seven accented syllables, plus unaccented syllables up to a total of twelve. The accents would be distributed 2-3-2 over the three lines of the haiku. This, he says, while yielding a rhythmical structure native to English, would also approximate the duration of traditional Japanese haiku.

Basically, then, three options for the 3-line haiku, the most common form in English: syllabic (5-7-5), free (up to 17 syllables, the fewer the better), and accentual (2-3-2 beats, and up to 10 unaccented syllables, preferably fewer).

No one seems to call for metrical (e. g., iambic) haiku, and I think that's a good thing. It's also generally agreed that rhyme and haiku don't mix, although there are some respectable rhymed translations from the Japanese.

Here's an accentual haiku I wrote a while back. I composed it while waiting for a bus one winter night. It's an urban haiku, reflecting an effort to be mindful of haiku moments (more about that later) in the setting of the city. 14 syllables in all, by my count: in the first line, the second and fourth syllables are accented; in the second, the first, third, and fifth; in the third, the second and third.

the carriage horse

trots his steaming breath

up Sixth Avenue

people coming

people coming

and a cold besides

no poems today

complaint

having a cold

not able to remember

not having a cold

morning haiku

coffee's ready

wife still in bed

sipping

Toward Definitions: Second Approximation

The 17-syllable, 5-7-5 form remains a live option for haiku poets, but it's only one option. An alternative is the "Who's counting?" option. That is, some haiku poets opt for a free form: Haiku, in this alternative, is a 3-line poem consisting of an indeterminate number of syllables up to a total of 17. The 17-syllable maximum is generally respected, on grounds that, whatever freedom we allow ourselves, we should not abandon the criterion of conciseness embodied in the classical form. Indeed, one of the arguments in favor of free-form haiku is that it works against the practice of including unnecessary words for the sake of the "compulsory" syllable count.

In formal terms, then, haiku will follow either the "classical" 5-7-5 form or the "free" form described above. Well, it's not that simple. Again, what we've said is only an approximation. But we're getting closer.

1

overheated bus

passengers sleeping

their way to work

2

brush strokes

expressing abstraction

clouds

Out There

Here's a 5-7-5 haiku that happened just a few minutes ago. In fact, I haven't subjected it to even minimal critical evaluation; I might want to disown it later on. Still ...

sunny day in March

jostled by an eager wind

the bare branches spring

Toward Definitions: First Approximation

Now that we've started, this seems like a good time to begin addressing the question of what we mean by haiku and senryu. We're going to approach the question by offering a series of approximations that should gradually bring us closer to a usable definition. We'll start with matters of form, then move on to matters of content. An advantage of this sequence is that, in formal terms, haiku and senryu are pretty much identical.

So, first approximation: In English, haiku/senryu means a poem consisting of three lines. The first line contains five syllables, the second seven, and the third five, for a total of seventeen. Japanese haiku [The form is of Japanese origin.] are usually written in a single line, but a Japanese reader will readily discern three distinct elements in that one line. The Japanese sound unit that is the rough equivalent of the English syllable is the on [plural onji], but they differ in that onji are invariably of the same, short length, while English syllables can vary significantly in length: Think of "be" and "breathe." A 17-syllable poem is therefore significantly different from the 17-onji Japanese form, the 17-syllable poem being, in the utterance, obviously longer. This has led many English language haiku poets to explore other formal possibilities, which we'll consider in further approximations. This process has probably also been furthered by the fact that translations from the Japanese, if they are to be faithful to the spirit of the original, are often compelled to deviate from a 5-7-5 format.

So the familiar notion that haiku means a poem of 17 syllables, divided 5-7-5, is at most approximately true. It remains the case that many haiku in English do follow this form. One example from the haiku already available on this blog:

I never saw it

until winter stripped the trees

the curve of the hill

Was this form "intended?" Well, a first draft came close enough to make me work consciously in revision for the 5-7-5 form, since that seemed to be what the poem wanted me to do.