March 2026 – Haiku Commentary

morning fog—
a crow’s cry piercing
the layers of light

— Anne Kulou (Germany)

I have a soft spot for morning fogs and crows, so this haiku gravitated towards me. The ellipsis in the beginning grounds us in the scene, allowing the reader to imagine a beautiful, yet mysterious fog. “Fog” is a double entendre, lending to interpretations about the fuzziness of the mind and other psychological disturbances, such as the “fog of war.”

No matter if the fog is literal or figurative, the crow’s cry cuts through it, even in the calmness of the morning. The word “cry” is intriguing, as it humanizes the crow. We usually associate this magnificent bird with “caw” and something abrasive. But “cry” prompts us to feel sympathy, if not empathy, for the crow.

Morning fogs and crows point towards autumn. It is a time of sparseness, with just a little light coming through. Even that minuscule amount of brightness is sliced through by the cry of the crow, which highlights or intensifies the sense of autumn.

The power of this haiku centers around its vivid imagery, the play between sound and light, and the embodiment of the season. It also reads well, with open sounds in “o” and “i” strung throughout. These pleasant letters are contrasted with the stronger letters in “r” and “g,” which connect with the juxtaposition of fog and the cry of a crow that runs through it. The pacing of the lines is also measured and weighty, like walking through a fog.

This haiku brings back awe to common themes, which is a mark of knowing tradition well and utilizing our creative spirit.

siren song
as a fire station
empty boots

— Elliot Diamond (USA)
first published in The Pan Haiku Review Issue 2 (Winter 2023), Kigo Lab Special, ed. Alan Summers

Commentary by Jacob D. Salzer:

This is an important haiku that gives us a glimpse into the life of firefighters. This haiku seems to have a haunting quality, as the siren song could be the silence of the fire station itself. Even in the silence, we can hear the echoes of the siren. The siren song could also be exemplified by the red color of the fire station. It is interesting to include the word song in this haiku. This seems to give the siren added dimensions. It is no longer merely a siren, but a kind of song that seems to honor those who have left the occupation or passed away. It is a sound that marks the urgency of fighting a fire. There is no time to waste.

We also don’t know why the boots are empty. A firefighter could have retired, he/she/they could have left the job for another occupation, or the firefighter could have passed away. In all three scenarios, the darkness of the empty boots allows us to step into the shoes/boots of the firefighter, even for a moment. Regardless of our interpretations, this haiku shows the inherent dangers of being a firefighter, the sheer courage and strength it takes to be on the front lines of several fires, and the consequences. Indeed, firefighters sometimes risk their lives to save others. Additionally, this haiku may inspire readers to learn more about how to prevent fires, fire safety, and what to do during wildfires.

Interestingly, Indigenous Peoples have long known the importance of controlled fires to prevent wildfires. These controlled fires also allow ashes and nutrients to supplement the soil. I think we should take the time to learn from Indigenous Peoples who are excellent caretakers of the Earth.

This haiku first appeared in The Pan Haiku Review Issue 2 (Winter 2023), edited by Alan Summers. One unique aspect of this journal is Alan’s inclusion of additional context around certain poems. For this particular haiku by Elliot Diamond, Alan adds:

“What is the life expectancy of a firefighter in the United States? Life expectancy for firefighters is 10 years less than for individuals with other occupations. The frequency of leaving the job due to health problems was 60% higher among firefighters than among individuals working in other industries.

Seasonality and Coronary Heart Disease Deaths in United States Firefighters: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3756551/

The September 11 attacks (New York City 2001) 9/11 by the numbers: 8:46 a.m. and 9:02 a.m. Time the burning towers stood: 56 minutes and 102 minutes. Time they took to fall: 12 seconds. From there, they ripple out. Number of firefighters and paramedics killed: 343 September 11 by Numbers New York Magazine Despite advancements in DNA technology, roughly 40% of the victims (1,100 people) thought to have died in the disaster, remain unidentified. CNN September 2023″

In summary, this is an important haiku that provides a window into the life of firefighters. I sincerely thank all firefighters who put their lives on the line. They have a heart of compassion and will attempt to save anyone, regardless of their race, ethnicity, gender identity, or background.

winter air
the fleeting shapes
of our breaths

— Małgorzata Formanowska (Poland)
22nd Annual UKIAH Haiku Festival: Honorable Mention for the Jane Reichhold International Award

Commentary by Hifsa Ashraf:

This haiku captures a quiet moment in cold winter, phrased in a way that makes us feel it to our core. “Winter air” may be referring to the extreme cold that may occur before or after rain or snowfall. It is something invisible but still shows its existence in mysterious ways, i.e., breath clouds. The poet showcases the moment of visibility of the air in an imaginative way, where it suddenly takes shape briefly before it disappears. The yugen and ephemeral elements of this poem make it interesting, while also being easily relatable.

“The fleeting shapes” show the transience of life. Things come and go quickly, leaving a deep impact on our lives. Fleeting shapes may allude to the possibility that there are two persons in close proximity who are not only enjoying the warmth of their breath but also the shapes that it creates in dense air, which can intermingle and overlap with each other. It may also reflect melancholic feelings, with the person being alone and enjoying the shapes of breath even in chilly weather, or being so focused on something, and then the poet gets distracted by the shapes of breath. In any case, it is a subtle awareness where breath is a symbol of life, and seeing it appear and disappear in winter air evokes the fragility and temporary nature of existence.

Looking at the sound, the frequent use of vowels in this haiku emphasizes the subtle connectivity that exists in moments but leaves strong effects behind.

Sumi-e by Carolyn Fitz

my epitaph
again and again
the weeds

— Kashiana Singh (USA)

Commentary by Nicholas Klacsanzky:

Writing one’s epitaph has various connotations. It could mean the poet is near death or was near death at some point. Another reason is that the poet is already reflecting on her life and writing an epitaph, even though she is not close to passing away. Epitaphs are usually short and compact, and comprising a whole life in one statement is difficult.

The second line acts as a pivot, which could add content for either the first or third line. It is also a contrast of the finality of the first line. “again and again” could be pointing towards reincarnation or revising an epitaph over and over. There is another reading that suggests that the weeds keep coming up over the epitaph not matter how many times you get rid of them. Both ways of looking at the poem are interesting and make readers ponder. Overall, the poem makes me introspect about our insignificance and how nature cannot be truly disrupted, despite our push to control our environment. In addition, I think of how difficult it is to encapsulate a life in one sentence, as each of us is a multitude.

When I read “weeds,” I feel the weeds might be us. Also, the poet might be hinting that the weeds might be the true epitaph of the poet, and perhaps of us all. A weed also flowers and is often misunderstood. We label them as “weeds” when they are simply following their essential nature.

Peering at the more formal elements, the language mirrors the minimalism of an epitaph. Yet, the final image expands outward, suggesting seasons, neglect, and time passing after the poet is gone. It is difficult to pin down a kigo or seasonal reference here, as different types of weeds are more prominent at certain times of the year. In traditional Japanese haiku, common examples are ukikusa (duckweed) for summer, mugura (cleavers/creepers) for spring, dandelion for early spring, and tsuwabuki (rock butterbur) in winter. In this haiku, though, I don’t feel the poet is putting emphasis on the season. Rather, the poet is focusing on the link between permanence and impermanence.

In terms of sound, it seems the lightness of the e and a letters contrasts well with the heaviness of the g letters. This brings transience and mortality into focus again.

It’s quite a simple haiku at first glance, but the more you look at it, the more layers you discover.

starry night—
the generations of women
who did needlework

— Goran Gatalica (Croatia)
Awarded First Place in the 3rd John Bird Dreaming Award for Haiku, Australia, 2025

Commentary by Jacob D. Salzer:

This is a beautiful haiku that honors generations of women, giving them the respect and reverence they deserve. The relationships that women made with each other and with others resonate powerfully with the invisible constellations that connect the stars. I believe these relationships continue, spiritually, and also form new relationships when women continue the craft. When someone engages in an age-old tradition, I feel they are inherently connecting with their ancestors.

On that note, this haiku also makes me think of Indigenous culture. I’ve read that Indigenous Peoples believe each person’s spirit travels across the Milky Way at the end of their human life to meet their ancestors and the Great Mystery. Indigenous Peoples understand that everything is connected, which leads to reciprocity and community, as our lives are interwoven in a myriad of ways. This view shows that our lives are woven with our ancestors as well, which comes through this haiku.

In a broad sense, needlework is a crafting technique that often involves yarn, thread, and fabric to create clothing and other works of art. There are actually at least 14 different kinds of needlework: (1) embroidery, (2) appliqué, (3) knitting, (4) crocheting, (5) quilting, (6) sewing, (7) bead weaving, (8) cross-stitch, (9) ribbon embroidery, (10), crewel embroidery, (11) needlepoint, (12) needle lace, (13) tapestry, and (14) patchwork. These needlework approaches can result in delicate and textured works of art, quilts, clothing, home décor, scarves, intricate lace, blankets, toys, bags, and curtains. For more information on needlework, I recommend this article: 14 Types of Needlework. This article includes this quote: “These 14 needlework crafts, each with its distinctive techniques and histories, offer not just a means to create but also a way to connect with traditions, communities, and our creative selves.”

In summary, this is a powerful haiku that honors our ancestors, the women who did needlework, and the women who continue needlework today. It also shows the power of relationships. This haiku is spiritually charged with love and reverence, and tangibly shows how the threads of our lives are interwoven with each other and other forms of life in both obvious and mysterious ways.

busker’s song 
coins rattle 
in a minor key

— David Josephsohn (USA)
Winner, the Haiku International Association 2023 Contest

Commentary by Hifsa Ashraf:

The opening line, “busker’s song,” recalls for me a performance I once heard along the River Thames in London. The phrase does not specify the melody, but the kind of songs buskers often choose i.e. sentimental, powerful, or quietly melancholic pieces that stir emotions. The apostrophe in the opening line suggests that it’s something very personal and emotional.

The second line, “coins rattle,” introduces a sharp, sudden sound. The quick succession of coins in a bowl makes it a parallel rhythmic music that echoes a bit loud and also gets the attention of the audience. To me, it gives me a sense of sadness as personal feelings are being transformed into something materialistic. The rattling coins suggest that the song has touched many listeners, yet there is a subtle irony here: while the audience may feel deeply moved, their response is reduced to the simple gesture of tossing a coin. The sound becomes both appreciation and limitation in terms of a public token for private feelings that perhaps cannot be openly expressed.

The concluding line, “in a minor key,” gives an emotional touch to the poem. A minor key implies sadness, depth, and introspection. It’s a minor key with the strongest impact. The melancholy of the melody leaves some reflection where listeners can feel their profound emotions. Whether deliberate or instinctive, the busker’s choice of tone draws out a collective response that makes the minor key more significant.

The absence of punctuation encourages the readers to experience the moment freely. The repetition of the r sound (busker’s, rattle, minor) adds a subtle rhythm to the ears by integrating all the elements together: music, metal, and deep feelings.

Haiku Commentary

Month: March 2026

Haiku by Anne Kulou, Elliot Diamond, and Małgorzata Formanowska

Haiku by Kashiana Singh, Goran Gatalica, and David Josephsohn