| As promised, here is a Primer on haiku, a poetic practice that I comsider
most excellent for developing an eye for detail and the concrete image.
I requested a "haijin" I know on another list, Paul David Mena, to use his
article on haiku for the body of this Primer. And so, with Paul's permission,
here it is:
It isn't microwave poetry. It's not quite as simple as popping in seventeen syllables and pressing the "5-7-5" setting. These days, depending upon where you live and how you've lived, haiku could mean alot of very different things.
Literally, haiku is a Japanese word that means "short verse". In ancient Japan, a "hokku" (literally "playful verse") represented the first three lines, or "link", of a much larger work, called a "renku" (literally "linked verse"), which would alternate between three lines of seventeen syllables and two lines of fourteen syllables - going on for 36, 72 or 100 "links". Prior to the 17th Century, a renku was an integral part of an all-night party among the upper class. The links were usually humorous, romantic or political, not exactly works of literary merit.
All of this changed with Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), who brought a serious, Zen Buddhist discipline to the practise, transforming it from a party game into an art form. Basho lived a wanderer's life, developing a reputation, as well as a significant following of dedicated disciples, in many Japanese cities. While Basho usually adhered to the 5-7-5 syllable format of ancient hokku, he also instituted other principles. Most of his haiku could be seen as brief snapshots of nature - like momentary entries in a journal of wandering. They also included another ingredient: the poet himself, but usually as an object surrounded by nature instead of the main subject of the poem. This Zen paradox of being completely empty of self while being ultimately self-aware remains an important ingredient in many haiku.
About 200 years after Basho died, haiku was little more than an historical artifact until Masaoka Shiki recognized the potential of such a terse literary form and single-handedly revived the practise in Japan. A few years later, American poets such as Ezra Pound took an active interest in haiku, sparking the birth of English-language haiku as a legitimate poetic form.
While many English haiku poets try to stick to seventeen syllables, incompatibilities between the English and Japanese languages render this restriction less important than the science of capturing a momentary image in words. Most "haijin" will agree that the haiku should be no longer than the duration of a breath, and that its subject matter should represent an event or an observation that was experienced directly by the author. So on the one hand the subject of a haiku should be very much literal, while the effect of the subject on the author, more subtle but equally important to the haiku, could be literal, symbolic or even imagined. Probably a good time for an example. Consider one of Basho's later works (1689):
autumn wind --
The apparent subject of the haiku is the autumn wind. But what does Basho do? He sneaks himself into the haiku, alluding to his loneliness, by introducing a second subject, the graveyard.
This technique of introducing a second subject into a haiku for the purpose of contrast or complement is called "juxtaposition". After brevity, it is the most distinctive attribute of modern haiku. Here is a haiku by Kikaku, one of Basho's prized disciples:
now the dragonflies
Two seemingly irrelevant subjects are brought together - the dragonflies and the moon, in order to draw the reader into the scene. The technique of juxtapositioning the two images causes us to stop to look at the moon, at which point we realize that the frisky dragonflies have done the same thing. The effect is an unexpected identification with the insects - at least for that moment.
My favorite haiku of all demonstrates this technique beautifully. Issa wrote this haiku in the early 19th century, after the death of his infant daughter:
dew evaporates --
The apparent subject of the haiku is dew, but Issa is not writing about dew at all, but rather his identification with dew as a symbol of our short lives.
Okay, I've given a few definitions and examples. Why do *I* like haiku? It is immediate - there is no need to dig into the words and ask "what did that mean"? More often than not, you'll read a haiku and say "ouch!" or "ooooh..." or words to that effect. I also appreciate the discipline of stripping words to the bare essential needed to make the connection between the author and the reader. Haiku doesn't tell a story - it takes a still photograph of a flash of lightning, in all its beauty, terror and suddenness. It takes the time to notice a dead bird but doesn't speculate on cause and effect. It celebrates a kiss, a smile or a fragrance, by simply allowing it to have its moment, usually when it is least expected...
Paul David Mena,
Haiku in Low Places, Ltd.
A few last words from Anitra, from a brief post about haiku I made to the poetry discussion list pod-l:
Haiku is a poetry form originating in Japan, although it has become very popular in the United States. Written in Japanese, it has a strict form of seventeen syllables arranged in three lines, 5-7-5. English is a more compressed language than Japanese; Japanese haiku translated into English have eleven or twelve syllables. Most modern American serious haiku folks put less emphasis on the number of syllables -- as long as the poem is not more than seventeen -- and more on the quality. Haiku is the essence of "show don't tell" poetry. It avaids metaphor, simile, or descriptions of emotion, and sticks to "snapshots" of physical detail that evoke thought and emotion in the reader.
I found some haiku snapshots of trees to share (translations by Sam Hamill):
the poet Basho:
The banana tree
the poet Buson:
A lightning flash --
Haiku is an enchanting form that entices every poet at some time or another.