morning paper

the morning paper

turning first to the letters

to see if I'm there

dance

butterflies dance windshield

joy[s]?

the joy of spring

winter's joy

different

the same

someone's trash

someone's trash

by a quiet pond

quiet pond

not flashy

magnolia tree

now puts on leaves—not flashy

but they wear well

those scattered blossoms

those scattered blossoms

can't cover its nakedness

the magnolia tree

splendor

the splendor

of the magnolia

till today

sabbath

Mass in the morning

love in the afternoon

keeping it holy

white helicopter

This is not the same helicopter as in the posting for 4/21. We get a lot of helicopters around here.

white helicopter

descending

cloudless sky

repent?

deathbed repentance

but he recovered

helicopter

helicopter

making its silent way

through leafless trees

magnolia petals

magnolia petals

today they lend their color

to the lawn

talking business

Can't shake the senryu. This one is based on an observation in the New Jersey Transit waiting area in Penn Station NYC. We were headed to Philadelphia.

talking business

on a cell phone

his hand hides his mouth

reason to smile

In a senryu mood

reason to smile

this time the birds attacked

his neighbor's car

delight

the child's delight—

sprinkled by water

at Sunday Mass

thanks dw

dw bender's comment on the previous post, including her beautiful 2-line haiku (She shows us how it's done.) led to this effort:

tell the butterfly

dandelion's a weed

In a moment of madness, I even thought of doing this one in telegraphic style

dandelion a weed

inform butterfly

but I decided against it.

Toward Definitions: 10th Approximation

This is the tenth and last of a series of approximations, posted with the intention of moving gradually closer to, without ever hoping to arrive at, a definition of the formal aspects of haiku. Although these have been presented in a tone of pedantry only to be expected, I fear, from a retired academic, they are meant essentially to outline my personal understanding of what I think I'm doing when I write what I claim is haiku. Thoughts on issues of content, including the haiku/senryu relationship will be presented now and then in no particular order. Like the haiku and senryu I've posted, these approximations invite comments, questions, corrections, and criticism.
All of these approximations have assumed as the norm the three-line form most familiar in English. Is that the form of haiku? Well, no. There are also one-line, two-line, and four-line haiku. This raises a question [Excuse a cranky old English teacher's observation that it doesn't beg the question; it raises it.]: How much formal variation can be allowed to haiku before it ceases to be haiku and becomes simply the short poem? The answer is simply stated: There is no answer.
My interest in my own practice has been primarily in the three-line form, and I expect that will continue to be the case. I post here one of my few experiments in the two-line option. I wrote this one in February.

overcoats flapping

midwinter thaw

advancing spring

advancing spring

the buds aren't waiting

for me to count them

13 April 2005, 1:10pm EDT

tired of waiting

I sigh and raise my eyes—

the moon at midday

before a Rubens

This one has been revised since the original post. Some comments indicated there was a problem of clarity in the original. My thanks to Anonymous Poet and Jim.

stooped over his cane

before a Rubens—

his gaze travels upwards

suddenly silver

My thanks to Fred of urban-ku for his help with this one. You can sample Fred's work at mmariani.homestead.com.

suddenly silver

as they turn in their flight

city pigeons

today—

seventy-two years

nothing special about them

today—

Dali and

I spent a long weekend in Philadelphia, where my wife and I visited the Dali show at the Philadelphia Museum. The show was, as expected, extremely crowded, leading to the senryu below and the postscript that follows. As I mentioned in a senryu posted a few days ago, I'm a short man myself.

1

crowded museum

waiting for the tall man

to move along

2

ps

and I waited

and he

in his good time

moved along

we two

strangers

each of us taking

together

the time

that is ours

first person

Here are two senryu (I think), based on personal data. Not exactly what they call "confessional poetry," but maybe I'm coming out of my shell.

1

seventy-two

how many years I've spent

playing grown-up

2

five-three

no height for a man

but it's mine

long day

the long day

I don't know what to do

with this sun

daylight saving

set the clock ahead

growing older

every hour

unwelcome guests

unwelcome guests

these ants of spring—

our home is theirs

Toward Definitions: 9th Approximation

In the 8th approximation, I looked at the "phrase-and-fragment" structure that is the norm in haiku past and present. We have to note, though, that there are deviations, for which there is ample precedent in the work of the Japanese masters and in the practice of contemporary haiku poets. On the latter point, consult respected anthologies like Cor van den Heuvel's The Haiku Anthology and Bruce Ross's Haiku Moment, both highly recommended.
There is, for instance, haiku consisting of one complete sentence. Some purists reject this option outright, which, of course, they have a right to do in their own writing. But readers who consult the anthologies I've just mentioned will find single-sentence haiku by Nick Avis, Chuck Brickley, Jack Cain, L. A. Davidson, David Elliott, J. W. Hackett, Penny Harter, Doris Heitmeyer, Anna Holley, Adele Kenny, and Elsie Kolashinski, among others; proceeding alphabetically, I've stopped at the letter K, and, at that, I haven't included everyone.
Examples that follow are derived from David Cobb's handsome anthology, Haiku: The Poetry of Nature. I'll arrange the examples in the familiar 3-line form, although that is not how haiku appears in Japanese, a point I touched on in an earlier approximation.
Basho is generally regarded as the first great master of haiku. Here's one of his:

kagero no

waga kata ni tatsu

kamiko kana

In translation:

heat waves

shimmer on the shoulder

of my paper robe

Since we're working with translation, this is a bit tricky, but Basho's haiku seems a clear ancestor of today's single-sentence haiku. Does this mean that any old sentence will do, as long as its divided into three lines/segments of 17 syllables or less?

Well, no. Look at the last word in the original Japanese. "Kana" is a cutting word: one of those words with no definite meaning that function rather like punctuation in English. The nearest equivalent to kana—a very rough one indeed—would be an exclamation point; very rough, because kana is much softer, less emphatic, than an exclamation point. With no specific denotation, it signals the poet's wonder and surprise at what he has just observed.

Here's one criterion for the single-sentence haiku, and, in writing haiku, it's the test I apply to the single-sentence deviation: Is it worth a kana? That is, does it move convincingly to a feeling, however subtle, of wonder and surprise? Actually, I prefer Glenn Gould's wonderful phrase "wonder and serenity."

In the application of this criterion, whether to my own work or that of others, I do not claim infallibility.

Single-sentence haiku (I think of them as kana haiku.) that appear on this blog, in reverse order:

March 31, "spring visitor"

March 23, "dandelion" (an interrogative sentence)

March 16, "pointing to spring"

March 7. "Third Approximation," "the carriage horse," illustrating accentual haiku

Most of my haiku are in the phrase-and-fragment form, since, as I said at the beginning of this long post, that is the norm.

heavy rain

I don't know how the weather is where you are.

a dying Pope

heavy rain about the work

of heavy rain

significants

According to the American Horticultural Society's Great Plant Guide, "The greenish white flowers [of Euonymus Fortunei/`Silver Queen'] in spring are insignificant." That led to this (And, yes, I do know how to spell "significance."):

Silver Queen

insignificant flowers

signifying spring