Month: October 2025

Haiku and senryu by Srini, Danny Blackwell, and Tuyet Van Do

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku1 Comment

starlit pond…
a paper boat floats
for light years

— Srini (India)
Tinywords, 25:2, October 3, 2025

Commentary from Hifsa Ashraf:

This haiku transports us into a quiet, enclosed space—perhaps a park, a backyard, or a secluded garden. The opening image is enchanting and dreamy: a starlit pond blurs the line between sky and earth, mirroring the cosmos in its still waters. The ellipsis at the end of the first line invites a pause, allowing the reader to absorb the magic of the moment. I can almost see a tapestry of stars delicately reflected on the pond’s surface.

The second line introduces a subtle shift: a paper boat floats on the water. It acts as both an interruption and an anchor—drawing us back from reverie into something tangible and innocent. The boat may symbolize a small dream, a fleeting hope, or a playful childhood memory. Its fragility contrasts with the vastness of the sky, evoking a sense of childlike wonder and gentle yearning.

The closing line, “for light years,” broadens the scale dramatically, allowing us to feel the vastness of our universe. This simple phrase goes beyond time and space, suggesting a desire for an unending journey or an unreachable dream, sort of imaginative, but still holds some meaning. It transforms the scene into something meditative—where a single paper boat becomes a bridge between the earth and the cosmos, a bridge that also connects a dream with reality. It seems one is thoroughly enjoying the surreal environment that inspires them to see beyond limited vision and express one’s longing in the most beautiful and innocent way.

the mosquito mesh
pixelating
the night

— Danny Blackwell (Spain)
NHK TV program Haiku Masters, July 31, 2017. Reprinted in tiny words 17:2

Commentary from Nicholas Klacsanzky:

With the mention of “mosquito,” we could be receiving a kigo (seasonal reference), as they are most active during the warmer months—especially in June and July. Summer, as it relates to pixelation, can be likened to something overwhelming.

There is no explicit kireji (marker for the cut between parts in a haiku), but the line breaks act as a quasi one. The flow of the haiku can be read as one part, yet it is broken down as a pixelated mesh would be. This brings the reader more into the “space” of the poem.

The mosquito mesh is dual-acting: keeping out mosquitoes but also a catalyst for altered perception. As a person who used to work in information technology, I have often thought about the poetic implications of mesh and it being like pixelation. It is a visual metaphor drawn from the digital realm that plays with mundane texture. The mesh breaks the darkness of night into fragments, perhaps making it more manageable and less oppressive. This toriawase (combination of elements to create harmony) of the analog and digital invites multiple readings, with the word “night” having physical and metaphysical implications. “Night” could be indicative of a sadness, a horror, or a malaise.

The mesh could also be illustrative of the distance between intimacy and separation. The poet is close enough to notice the effect of the mesh, yet the mesh itself signifies a boundary between inside and outside, human and nature, the safe and the wild. It is a contemplative image that captures the modern condition: the world increasingly filtered, fragmented, and mediated through invisible grids.

With the repetition of t and i sounds, I can almost hear the tick of mosquitoes against the net and their whining. Overall, it is a haiku that expresses succinctly and poignantly a bridge between technology and the natural world, and the false divide we put up between nature and humanity.

emergency room
an elderly patient
rocking back and forth

— Tuyet Van Do (Australia) 
Pulse, 19th September 2025

Commentary from Jacob D. Salzer: 

The emergency room (ER) is a tough place to be, for a variety of reasons. While there is a triage process that’s designed for providers to first see patients with the most severe injuries and diseases, a lot of people end up in the waiting room for anywhere between 2 to 3 hours (or sometimes more) before being seen by a provider. The ER can be a crowded place. I’m personally a strong advocate for preventing diseases and injuries, though some things are hard or impossible to avoid. In this senryu, I first saw the ER waiting room full of people, and then noticed the elderly patient rocking back and forth. This movement could help create a soothing rhythm in the midst of what is often chaos and uncertainty. The elderly person could be rocking back and forth as they wait for the doctor or test results. While the ER can be a very difficult place to be, it’s also often a place of healing, recovery, and discovering what’s gone wrong.

We don’t know what the patient is going through in this senryu, but when I read this poem, I immediately feel compassion and empathy for the elderly person and for the human condition. It’s never easy being human, and it gets increasingly more common for things to go wrong in the body and mind as we age.

While this poem may seem simple on the surface, there are layers of psychological and medical complexity that I appreciate. A well-written senryu that offers a portal into another world.

Painting by Hisae Shouse

Haiku by Martina Matijević, Anthony Lusardi, and Paul Callus

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku2 Comments

dusty teddy bear   
brushing off   
my childhood 

— Martina Matijević (Croatia)  

Commentary from Hifsa Ashraf:

This haiku evokes a tender yet bittersweet moment of reconnection with the past. The “dusty teddy bear” serves as a symbol of childhood, once cherished, now forgotten, or stored away. Dust here is not just physical but metaphorical, suggesting the passage of time and emotional distance where one may have fading memories of childhood.

The middle line, “brushing off,” is beautifully ambiguous, yet letting the person find some clarity into their childhood. It implies a physical act where cleaning the toy hints at revisiting or even confronting long-buried memories. There’s a subtle emotional movement in this line: care, nostalgia, and perhaps a trace of reluctance. This is how one reverts back to their past life with a little bit of effort and time.

The final line, “my childhood,” brings a sense of closure. The teddy bear becomes a gateway to personal history, and the speaker, by brushing it off, also dusts off a part of themselves. The haiku captures a universal experience, how a small object can unlock an entire era of feeling. It’s delicate, reflective, and deeply human.

Lastly, the sound of consonants b and d in this haiku strikes deep yet strong feelings that might have brought back some vivid memories of childhood.

blind date
a wildflower                           
my app can’t identify

— Anthony Lusardi (USA)
Prune Juice, August issue, 2025

Commentary from Nicholas Klacsanzky:

The senryu opens with “blind date,” situating the poem in the modern social world. It’s also a circumstance that many of us can identify with. Usually, “blind date” senryu have elements of humor. So, as a reader, I immediately expected a comical twist.

The second line introduces “a wildflower”—a counterpoint to the digital world referred to in the third line. The wildflower symbolizes something growing outside expected boundaries and a sense of freedom. In traditional haiku aesthetics, a wildflower often embodies sabi (rustic beauty), yet here in this senryu, it is employed in a playful way where the poet’s date is implied to be a “wildflower,” and notes how romance or love is often indescribable.

The closing line captures the tension between technology’s attempt to categorize the world and the irreducible mystery of human connection. There’s an irony in our dependence on apps to “know” what’s what—even as what truly matters (the person on the blind date) resists such identification.

Overall, the humor is understated—a hallmark of senryu—but carries emotional resonance. Beneath the joke about the app’s failure is a quiet longing for authenticity, for something not optimized or labeled.

Checking in on the sense of sound, the w and f sounds give both emphasis and a wispy feeling to the poem. With the format, the last line is long, yet it is not an issue since not only is this a senryu (which doesn’t focus on format much), but the line breaks seem natural.

Ultimately, I chose to comment on this senryu because of its mixing of technology, romance, and playful use of nature. I was happy to see it appear in the prestigious journal, Prune Juice.

monsoon rain
over the paddy fields
a flight of dragonflies

— Paul Callus (Malta)

Commentary from Jacob D. Salzer:

This is an interesting haiku that shows the after-effects of a monsoon in the paddy fields where rice is grown. According to the National Environmental Satellite, Data, and Information Service: “A monsoon is a shift in winds that often causes a very rainy season or a very dry season. Although monsoons are usually associated with parts of Asia, they can happen in many tropical and subtropical regions – including several locations in the United States. Monsoons are caused by a change in the direction of the wind that happens when the seasons change. In fact, even the word monsoon comes from the Arabic word mausim, which means ‘season.’ At the beginning of summer, the land warms up faster than bodies of water. Monsoon winds always blow from cold to warm. In the summer, warm air rising off the land creates conditions that reverse the direction of the wind.”

In this haiku, the extreme weather of heavy monsoon rains is contrasted with the silent and delicate flight of dragonflies. Traditionally, dragonflies are an autumn kigo (seasonal reference). The flight of dragonflies could symbolize a human migration, i.e., perhaps the farmers in the paddy fields are also temporarily migrating due to the heavy rains, as summer fades into autumn.

On the other hand, according to the World Population Review: “The most common method of cultivating rice involves flooding the field, a practice typically carried out in what’s known as a rice paddy. This helps water and protect the plant from vermin and disease.” Therefore, the monsoon rains can help cultivate rice, though it’s more difficult to work in the paddy fields during the downpour.

Despite the potential melancholy interpretation relating to the autumn kigo, I can’t help but feel hope, courage, and resilience in this haiku: even in the heavy monsoon rains, the dragonflies are flying together. I think the plural form of “dragonflies” is special because I normally only see one dragonfly at any given moment. While there are likely two dragonflies in this haiku, it could also be enjoyable to imagine several dragonflies flying together.

In short, this is a significant haiku that shows resilience, a seasonal shift, and offers a portal into the lives of farmers who work tirelessly in the paddy fields to grow and cultivate rice. More interesting facts about rice can be found on the World Population Review website.

Painting by Ernest Barbaric

Haiku by Thomas L. Vaultonburg, Tuyet Van Do, and Alexander Groth

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku2 Comments

broken bridge—
the river teaches me
its alphabet

— Thomas L. Vaultonburg (USA)

Commentary from Hifsa Ashraf:

This haiku reflects wreckage, destruction, and loss—possibly due to war, natural erosion, or catastrophe. The opening line, “broken bridge,” immediately conveys a sense of disruption—be it in relationships, communication, or continuity. A bridge often symbolizes connection, transition, or passage from one state to another. Here, its brokenness suggests a severed link, a collapse in understanding or unity. The em dash after the first line pauses the reader, allowing them to fully absorb the scene and connect with it in their own personal way.

The second line shows how, in the absence of that constructed path, the observer begins to engage directly with the river. The destruction of the bridge uncovers a hidden relationship with the river—something previously ignored as people simply crossed over it, never truly noticing its flow, sound, or resilience. Now, with nothing in between, the river demands presence. It becomes a metaphor for uninterrupted thought—fluid, spontaneous, and reflective—offering insight and wisdom in the aftermath of loss.

The final line, “its alphabet,” is especially evocative. It suggests the river has its own language—one that the observer is now learning to read. This could represent poetry, expression, or a deeper understanding of the self and nature. The word “alphabet” also points to musicality, rhythm, and perhaps even healing, as if the river’s sounds become a kind of song or meditation.

Overall, it is a haiku that displays humility, and that when the human-made world breaks down, nature is there with its voice and language.

vacation at grandma’s
cicada’s symphony
singing me to sleep

— Tuyet Van Do (Australia)
Haiku Girl Summer, 25 August 2025

Commentary from Nicholas Klacsanzky:

“Cicada” is a classic summer kigo (seasonal reference) in the Japanese haiku tradition, and in most countries. The poet could be implying that she was on summer vacation while visiting her grandma’s house. I got the feeling, though, that perhaps her grandma was no longer there, and the cicadas were a substitute for the lullabies that her grandma used to sing. The loudness and fullness of cicada song fill the gap left behind by a loved one to some degree.

In the second line, there is a shift to the natural world, connecting humanity with the cicadas. Oftentimes, cicadas are thought to have harsh calls, but the word “symphony” characterizes their sound as pleasant and even awe-inspiring. Perhaps at a place as so nostalgia-infused as grandma’s house, even cicadas can sound melodious and sweet.

The third line returns to the human, showing the effect of nature on the poet. It displays a clear juxtaposition of human experience and nature. Additionally, it also manifests the connection between sound and the memory of an emotion. Music, or certain sonics of nature, can often open the floodgates of memory.

Looking at the sense of sound within the words themselves, the repetition of the soft s sounds mimics the hiss and hum of the cicadas in the first line. In the last line, the s dominates again, this time softened by ng and sl, creating a lulling effect.

It is a simple haiku at first glance, but with a second look or more, one can easily see and feel layers of meaning that are poignant and resonant.

school bathroom—
the scent of fresh deodorizer
lingers in my hair

— Alexander Groth (Germany)

Commentary from Jacob D. Salzer:

Many activities can happen in school bathrooms. They can be a kind of hiding place for some students, where they talk and share secrets, though more unfortunate things can happen in school bathrooms as well. The scent of the fresh deodorizer could be covering up another scent, though this is left open to the reader. In a broader sense, this haiku makes me think about the psychological, physical, and emotional effect that various scents have in our daily lives. It also makes me think about the chemicals in various deodorizers/deodorants that some people are exposed to on a daily basis. In college, I learned certain deodorants have harmful chemicals that can enter the lymph nodes and can cause various medical problems over time, including cancer. In short, this is an important haiku that sparks conversations about school safety, the sense of smell, chemicals, and the social lives of students. 

Panorama of the Tiber with a broken bridge. Caspar van Wittel (1653–1736)