lattice window —
the lacemaker pauses
to gaze at the moon

© Hortensia Anderson (19??-2012) (USA)
tinywords, December 24, 2004

Before giving commentary on this haiku, let’s get to know Hortensia Anderson first. Hortensia Anderson is the author of numerous chapbooks as well as a volume of poetry, Trust (fly-by night press, 1995). She maintained an interest in renga and other forms of collaborative poetry with other poets around the world and explored paintings by Frido Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe via ekphrastic poems.

Her work has been published in Frogpond, The Heron’s Nest, Ribbons, Simply Haiku, The Mainichi Daily News, Asahi Haikuist Network, tinywords, Lynx, Haijinx, Hermitage, Woodnotes, South by Southeast, Modern English Tanka Quarterly, Contemporary Haibun, Haibun Today,Prune Juice, Ambrosia, Concise Delight, Modern Tanka and Haibun Prose, and moonset.

Awards and Other Honors include: Best of 2002: Haiku in English, The Mainichi Daily News; 5th Annual Suruga Baika Winner; Honorable Mention, Mainichi Contest (2003); Tanka Splendor Awards (2003, 2004); and Third Prize, Kusamakura (2004).

Her work has been selected to appear in various anthologies, including edge of light: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku 2003 (Red Moon Press, 2004), dust of summers: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku 2007 (Red Moon Press, 2008); Rose Haiku for Flower Lovers and Gardeners (Price-Patterson, Ltd., 2005); The Five-Hole Flute (MET Press, 2006); The Tanka Prose Anthology (MET Press, 2008); Ash Moon Anthology: Poems on Aging (Lulu Press, 2008); and Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka (MET Press, 2009).

Books Published: Trust ( fly-by-night press, 1994) [ISBN 0-9639585-1-8]; Georgia on My Mind (Imp Press, 1992); Awareness of Rose (Imp Press, 1993); Beg, Borrow or Steal (Betty Elyse Press, 1994); Living in Frida’s Body (Imp Press, 1995); The Plenitude of Emptiness: Collected Haibun (Darlington Richards, 2010). [Adapted from The Living Haiku Anthology]

Commentary

As you can see, Anderson was a widely respected haijin (haiku poet) and one can see clearly why in this haiku. We start with a unique first line: “lattice window —”. A lattice is a structure consisting of strips of wood or metal crossed and fastened together with square or diamond-shaped spaces left between, used as a screen or fence or as a support for climbing plants. So, it seems the poet is talking about a window screen in the form of a lattice.

But from the second line, “the lacemaker pauses,” we understand the lattice is made out of either cotton, silk, or a different thread. I enjoy how the word “pauses” is at the end of the second line as an actual pause. If gives us suspense and maybe a moment of silence for ourselves.

In the third line, we get to know why the lacemaker was pausing: “to gaze at the moon.” And directly after envisioning this in our minds, we see a correlation between the lace and the moon: its white color and its softness (the moon’s light and symbolism). Also, we have a relation between space: close and far. Haiku often contrast distances to demonstrate many things, or to show an emotion. The lacemaker, in this instance, might feel guilty for building a lace to partially block the splendor of the moon.

We do not know the true reason why the lacemaker looks at the moon, though, but there could be multiple reasons: the beauty of the moon is enchanting, the lacemaker sees something spiritual in the moon, the lacemaker recognizes that the lace and the moon have a correlation and ponders it, or the lacemaker might feel some pull to give up worldly life for a spiritual life, seeing the contrast between his or her lace and the majesty of the moon.

Whatever the reason is exactly, or if there is no reason other than what is, this haiku has a feeling of reverence to it, especially when it is read out loud. There is a spiritual tinge to it that is hard to pin down, but you can feel it.

The dash used in the first line points to the calmness of the moment. The lines are paced in common fashion for English haiku, with a short first line, longer second line, and short first line. In terms of sound, the strongest letter is “a,” which seems to increase the reverential mood of the haiku.
A meditative, spiritual haiku, I believe Hortensia Anderson got to the essence of this form with this poem.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

autumn wind
I’m the pomegranate
I’m its branch

© Lucia Fontana (Italy)
The Mainichi, November 3, 2016

In the first line, we get a direct kigo, or seasonal reference for autumn. Also, the pomegranate is a typical kigo for mid-autumn. Autumn is a month that is often serious and introspective, though it showcases beautiful colors. It is when things are dying all around—leaves, blossoms, fruits, and more—but yet they pass away in such riveting displays that sometimes it almost seems nature is trying to open our hearts to it.

An autumn wind can make the process of life crumbling come faster, and can push the already frail down. In its chilling sound, a melancholy arises that is hard to depict.

However, the world still has compassion. One of the prime things Japanese poetry tries to show is the human heart, especially in relation to nature. In the last two lines of the haiku, the poet expresses, in my opinion, compassion and a connection to the pomegranate tree.

Either metaphorically or scientifically, the poet is expressing her direct connection with nature. Maybe she sees something in the pomegranate tree that is like her, or maybe she is expressing that in reality, there is no separation between things—the space between entities is filled with vibrating atoms and on an atomic level, it is difficult to discern any real separation. In fact, there can physically be no space that contains nothing. In this way, we are connected by an infinite spread of life, all with no space between us.

In this expression of connection, the poet is calling out to the pomegranate tree and says: “You are not alone. In fact, I am actually you, and feel your suffering.” It is a consolation.

Coming down from these philosophical thoughts, we can look at the haiku technically. The lines are paced naturally, with a short first line, a longer second line, and short third line (which is the most common way to pace lines for haiku in English). In regard to sound, the letter “i” features strongly, and I believe it makes the consolation more convincing. The letter “m” on the other hand, supplies a soothing feeling.

Overall, the haiku gives off an atmosphere of both distress and tranquility. This mix of feelings is crucial for haiku to stand the test of time. If a haiku is one-sided, there is less one can get from it. The best haiku have layers of meaning and ultimately, feeling.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

last day of autumn:
and still the sunset lingers
in a one-way street.

© Eric W. Amann (Canada) (1934 – 2016)
(Modern Haiku 1:1, 6)

Before I comment on this haiku, let’s learn a bit about Eric W. Amann. One of the most influential figures in the formative years of the haiku movement in Canada was Toronto medical doctor and poet Eric Amann. He was born in Munich in 1934. In 1952, Eric and his family emigrated to Chester, Pennsylvania. In 1953, Eric was drafted for the Korean War and escaped to Winnipeg where he stayed with family friends from Munich. He earned his medical degree in 1961.

As many other poets in the 1960s, Amann’s interest in haiku was sparked by the six volumes written by R.H. Blyth. After reading and writing haiku for several years, Eric Amann edited and published the first Canadian haiku magazine Haiku from 1967-1970. Under Amann’s editorship, Haiku rapidly became one of the most influential North American periodicals, publishing experimental as well as classical work. After a hiatus of seven years, during which he engaged in other kinds of writing, in 1977 Amann returned to haiku with a new magazine Cicada (from 1977-1982) which immediately achieved a similar status. The same year, Eric Amann, Betty Drevniok, and George Swede founded the Haiku Society of Canada, which later in 1985 was renamed Haiku Canada. Eric served as its first president during 1977-79. In 1979, Eric Amann also published one issue of konkret [a journey into the concrete and visual].

In the preface to the 1986 edition of The Haiku Anthology, Cor van den Heuvel wrote that “Haiku and Cicada [were] perhaps English language haiku’s most influential magazines [and that they] are still unsurpassed for excellence in both content and design, though both have ceased publication.”

Eric W. Amann sadly passed away in July 2016 and left a huge void in the international haiku community.

While writing about the significant achievement of one of the pioneers of English-language haiku, Richard Stevenson states: “For Eric Amann, the ideal is to capture the ‘ah experience’ or ‘a mood of serene calm and beauty.’ The form may vary from the traditional three-line, 5-7-5 syllable count to the one-line portrait; it may even be stretched to include the “mutational possibilities” of senryu, vertical, visual, and sound haiku.” – (Richard Stevenson in Canadian Literature, Spring 1985) [adapted from The Living Haiku Anthology]

Commentary

First, I want to say that for a reason I can’t explain, I got into a deep meditative state while reading this haiku and this is the main reason I selected this haiku. Just imagining the imagery presented in the haiku brought me to a change in consciousness. That is what a real haiku, or any poem, should do. As Emily Dickinson said, “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” And that is exactly what I felt while reading this haiku.

It is a common haiku aesthetic to show the continuity of something. But the way Amann has presented this aesthetic is unique. The one-way street makes us, as readers, give our full attention to the sunset, and signifies that autumn may in fact be present in every season.

The sunset itself is a representation of autumn: though it is a day dying, it shows death in a beautiful way by showcasing the rich colors of life. With the imagery of the sunset lingering in a one-way street, the author must have felt that this is all of autumn being shown, or that autumn was giving its last display as a kind of a last expenditure. In a sense, we can say autumn did not give up being itself to the very end, and as mentioned before, maybe this is an indication that autumn never truly fades throughout the seasons (especially since we can see sunsets each day of the year).

The one-way street can signify many things. It could mean all seasons are all the same, the way of life is singular, or that autumn is only itself, in its melancholy glory… and many more interpretations are possible. However, I think the best thing to do is to read this haiku as it is and let the imagery soak in your mind and you will get the real experience of this haiku.

The “s” letter features strongly in the haiku, reflecting the sound of leaves rustling. The lines are paced in the classical way for English haiku: short line-longer line-short line. Though the punctuation being used, such as the colon and period, might seem strange to readers now, it was regularly used at the time this was written. But there is nothing wrong with the use of the colon and period, as kireji (cutting words, or punctuation in English) was often used at the end of haiku in Japanese and colons are still in use in English haiku.

To read more haiku by Eric W. Amann, visit: http://terebess.hu/english/haiku/amann.html

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

 

 

abandoned village
her yellow raincoat jumps
in and out of silence

© Ken Sawitri (Indonesia)
Chrysanthemum 18, October 2015

This haiku brings us vivid imagery and mystery. The first line by itself is a powerful image that automatically leaves us wondering why the village was abandoned. The image of “her yellow raincoat jumps” adds another layer of mystery as to who “her” is in the haiku. Focusing on line two, I imagine a small raincoat rising and falling on the waves of a tsunami. The last line brings yet another layer of mystery and the dimension of sound. We don’t know what the other sounds are against the background of silence: perhaps only spurts of rain, the sound of waves, or perhaps distant explosions, or gusts of wind (or a combination of all of these). There is a haunting quality to this haiku. Each word supports the total effect, using descriptive imagery while the meaning, emotion(s), and interpretation is left to the reader. An excellent haiku.

– Jacob Salzer

To add to what Jacob has written, I enjoy the Zen in the state of probable chaos or despair. The yellow jacket and paying attention to it brings us into the moment. I like how this haiku shows detachment and the power of it.

But on the other hand, the image of the yellow raincoat can be quite emotional. It maybe is all that is left of her, the subject of the haiku, acting alive somewhat by jumping, either on wind, waves, or something else. It might make the witness of it cry and feel the true loss of the girl or woman who has either been lost or has died.

In terms of sound, the “i” sound features prominently, making the reading of it more stark and the intenseness of the situation more palpable. The “l” sound also gives a hand in creating a solemn mood.

The pacing of the words and the lines works well to convey the somber atmosphere. The more we as a readers take in this haiku, the more concern we have for the subject of it. I think ultimately this haiku opens our hearts and makes us concerned about the wellbeing of others, even strangers.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

after our argument
fireflies
on the way home

© Olivier Schopfer (Switzerland)

(Polish International Haiku Competition 2014, commended haiku, & Under the Basho : Personal Best 2015)

The first line brings about something common in our lives: arguments. But you know what they say: we fight with the ones we love. Anyways, if haiku are grounded in everyday experiences, it is a plus. One of the worst things a haiku writer can do is be too abstract, grand, or flowery.

I like how the second line stands on its own with one word. Also, the format makes it even more stark and emphasized, being a short line between two longer lines. It also creates a pivot to the third line, and we as readers expect a surprise.

With the third line, I get a visual of a couple walking down an evening street and fireflies surrounding them. The couple is not saying a word, as they are bitter after their argument. However, the fireflies provide either a comforting light, a romantic atmosphere, or an extra light for each partner to look at each other after their argument and maybe assess their state. Either way you look at it, the fireflies, whether they know it or not, are showing a sign of compassion. It is a paradox: though animals may not know they are harbingers of compassion, sincerity, and love, they often are. They frequently are mirrors for ourselves, so that we look at life with a renewed sense of positivity.

The openness of interpretation with the presence of fireflies I think is the key to this haiku. It gives so much to the imagery and stories readers could create in their minds. It sets several moods at the same time, making this a diverse haiku, despite it seeming simple at first glance.

In terms of sound, it seems “a” features the strongest in “after,” “argument,” and “way.” You can say the “a” is bright like the fireflies when we recite the haiku out loud and adds to the seemingly positive mood of the haiku, despite its first line.

Olivier used the right amount of words and right pacing of the lines to create an emotional, stark haiku. I think “fireflies” are an appropriate seasonal reference (for all seasons) for a haiku that has all types of emotions resonating within it.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

on the plum tree
one blossom, one blossom worth
of warmth

– Hattori Ransetsu (Japan) (1654-1707)

Before I delve into the haiku, let me mention a bit about Ransetsu’s life. Born in 1654, his name first appeared in literary circles with the 1680 publication of two anthologies under Basho’s name, which included works by both Ransetsu and Kikaku. Obviously Basho thought highly of his student’s writing if he collaborated in a joint production when Ransetsu was only twenty-six.

In the winter of 1702, Ransetsu was obviously well established as a poet because he circulated a New Year Haikai Ichimazuri—the sort of poem that was not offered for sale but distributed on a single sheet of quality paper among fellow haijins (poets).

When Basho died, Ransetsu shaved his head and became a Buddhist monk, perhaps an indication that he closely shared Basho’s later life preoccupation with Buddhism and inclination towards monastic life. Certainly, retirement to a monastery ruled out any possibility of a Ransetsu school and of disciples in whose interests it would be to promote his life and works.

Nothing seems to be known of his death other than the year of its occurrence, 1707, just five years after his New Year Haikai’s circulation, when he was fifty-three. Like his contemporaries, Ransetsu was concerned with time passing, with the transience of beauty, with capturing the unity of humankind and the natural order in the experience of natural phenomena and universal processes.

A hallmark of Ransetsu’s work is his compassion for all living things and their condition. [adapted from the World Kigo Database]

Now onto looking at the haiku. Plum blossoms are an indication of early spring in Japan, and widely loved among Japanese people. They are a symbol of refinement, purity, nobility, and also a reminder of past love. In addition, Japanese tradition holds that the plum blossom functions as a protective charm against evil. The plum tree is traditionally planted in the northeast of a garden, the direction from which evil is believed to come. Also, the eating of its pickled fruit for breakfast is supposed to stave off misfortune.

So, there is a lot behind the reference to a plum tree and its blossoms, especially in Japan. But more importantly, even in translation, this haiku carries strong emotion. It is a special feeling that is difficult to describe, but the best I can do is say it gives an emotion of the beauty of the moment and preciousness of life.

Warmth is such a wide word, especially in the context of this haiku (Ransetsu was known to be quite an austere person as well). Warmth could mean a shielding from the winds of winter, could mean feeling warm from the beauty of the blossom, or the warmth of blossom against one’s nose when smelling it, or it touching the skin, and so on. But after reading this haiku, the reader may get the impression, intuitively, that though it is one blossom, its impact is more than it looks. Its impact is as strong on a viewer as a whole plum tree full of blossoms, and maybe more.

This play of the singular and plural makes up a classic haiku aesthetic. It is kind of like blurring the lines between quantity, and possibly the lines between infinity and emptiness.

In this sense, the single plum blossom is priceless and fathomless, and can only be understood in awe. This may correlate to Ransetsu’s Zen affiliation, where infinity and emptiness eventually lose meaning, and only the moment matters. Enlightenment, suffering, mere concepts compared to the awareness of the moment.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

a lone   seagull dipping into the clouds

© Gabriel Bates (USA)

This is a monoku, or a one-line haiku. Though traditionally haiku are written as one vertical line in Japanese, in the English language we usually use a three-line format to show the different parts and to have a western pacing. However, sometimes haiku in English are written into one line for various reasons:

1) The lines don’t look good as three or two lines.

2) There only a few words and it would feel and look better as one line.

3) Having a haiku in one line can make phrases bleed more together and thus create more layers and meaning.

4) And some personal reasons of the poet….

The three-line version might look like this:

dipping
into the clouds
a lone seagull

… with the syntax switched to create two clear parts. But it is my belief that the writer wanted to create more of an effect with the word “lone” and to make readers read each word with a stronger emphasis.

In monoku, punctuation is not usually used. But we see that the writer has left a space after “lone” to create a more poignant effect of the feeling of “lone.” In a sense, it is a type of punctuation, but just more creative.

Reflections in haiku are common, but this reflection gets an added boost with color. The seagull is white (commonly) and clouds are white (usually). The act of the seagull dipping into the reflection of the cloud, in a sea or ocean, creates an effect of something philosophical.

It could be a sign of losing one’s identity, or becoming one with something greater (the “heavens”). Making an emphasis on “lone” could be signifying that an individual has to eventually go alone in his or her journey to become one with a higher power or to lose one’s identity. A seagull is sometimes referred to as an autumn kigo, or seasonal reference. Shedding one’s ego correlates well with autumn.

Also of note is the continuity of the word “dipping.” I think the writer chose this instead of “dips” to show a continuous happening, and to make the haiku more meditative.

I enjoy the use of singularity and plurality, e.g. the lone seagull and the many clouds. Using the plural “clouds” creates an image of something massive and epic… kind of like a part becoming the whole. Many haiku operate on contrasting different elements: time, size, age, and so on.

In terms of sound, the “o” and “l” sounds run strongly through it. To me, the “o” sound adds to the awe of the imagery, and the “l” sound adds to the elegance of the happening.

Though this monoku seems simple on the first reading, it is creative in its format, has spiritual symbolism, and brings us into the starkness of the moment described.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

enclosed
in a soap bubble
summer

© Eufemia Griffo (Italy)

A respected haiku aesthetic is the beauty in transience. I believe this haiku wonderfully demonstrates this aesthetic.

Soap bubbles definitely do not last long, if not for a few seconds. This speaks of the attentiveness of the poet and sharpness with which she was in the moment while writing this haiku. Even though the soap bubble is short-lived, it presents summer in all its glory. Being spherical and clear, a soap bubble can mirror the surrounding world in a comprehensive way.

Philosophically, this can speak volumes. It could mean that even if we have lived one moment in complete understanding, our life has been fulfilled. Another perspective could be that even the most momentary of things can have a deep significance in the lives of others. And yet another take on this imagery is that it represents ourselves: our lives are short, though the joy and bliss of life should be fully viewed.

Beyond philosophy, haiku are just what they are. This haiku could be simply about a bubble reflecting the summer day around it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Usually, if we overthink haiku, we are not seeing its truth. The deepest truth of any haiku is that it is, and that isness brings us into a state of pure awareness without thought.

Looking at sound, I enjoy how the letters “o” and “u” are used to create a sensation of roundness, like the bubble. The “s” sound makes it more musical and perhaps could be the sound of the water running in the bathtub.

Soap bubbles correctly add to the atmosphere of summer: playful, comforting, warm, though temporary. The two parts seem to work well together not only as imagery, but also as an atmosphere.

Though our lives are transient, let’s enjoy each moment of it. This is the essential message that seems to stem from this haiku.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)