Adrian Bouter’s lakeside mist

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

lakeside mist
takes the shape of a heron
morning news                 

— Adrian Bouter (the Netherlands)
(previously published in Wales Haiku Journal, spring 2022)

Commentary:

The heron is frequently used in haiku for its features, colour, style, and voice in association with people’s realities. The heron can symbolize stability, knowledge, wisdom, and tact, which can be observed in its natural habitat which is usually a lake. Lakeside views are scenic and vivid, and give an overall perspective that is often mesmerizing and mysterious.

Being a nature observer, the poet shows the comparison between lakeside mist with what’s going on with their life, where new and creative perspectives help to filter and understand information such as news. It’s quite meditative, where a person gets relief through living close to nature by not trying to overthink about their situation. It’s obvious to me that the lakeside mist is more symbolic in this situation, where it acts as a canvas where a person paints their feelings—or circumstances are not clear to them.

The shape of a heron shows the delicacy of the situation, which might demonstrate how a person seeks solace in escapism through imagination, assuming the situation is in their control. This also shows how creatively we can solve our problems by merely seeing different but interesting perspectives. Morning news may vary from person to person. In this situation, it looks more like unpleasant or mundane morning news that the poet was not expecting. 

— Hifsa Ashraf

I appreciate the mystery (yugen) in this haiku. The lakeside mist evaporating and revealing the heron could mean the news is revealing things that were once hidden from view. On the other hand, I could also see the morning news is the mist evaporating. What is revealed is something as ancient as Mother Earth and the heron. 

I’ve noticed every time I see a heron, he/she is alone. It seems they spend much of their time in solitude looking for fish. I equated this with the poet who also spends much of their time alone with Nature in solitude. 

It seems the morning news on TV or in a newspaper is often filled with negative events. I wonder if this haiku is expressing the poet’s struggle to find a resolution to all the noise of the morning news. This haiku for me shows how Mother Earth and the heron provide peace and solace. The morning news seems to be telling the story of human civilization while Mother Earth tells Her stories without words or thoughts. However, I also like how morning news could be the news of something personal going on in the poet’s life. In that interpretation, it could be good news.

The evaporating mist is a beautiful image that depicts impermanence. I get the stark reminder that our lives and the morning news are, ultimately, as transient as lakeside mist. However, the most beautiful part about this haiku (for me) is the peace and solitude found in both the poet and the heron. I think this is a haiku that encourages us to find peace in the chaos—to discover the calm eye of the storm.

Regardless of our interpretations, this haiku uses sharp images, yet also gives space for us to experience the moment. A strong haiku with meditative, philosophical, and psychological undertones.

 —Jacob D. Salzer

Upon research, herons are quite common in the Netherlands and are often sighted in Amsterdam. It is hard to tell which seasonal reference or kigo this haiku provides, but I would place this perhaps in spring. I can imagine a spring mist on a lake and herons being ubiquitous in this season. This lends power to the phrase “takes the shape of a heron” as spring is a time of new things coming and forming.

There is strictly no kireji or cutting word in this haiku, but the line break in the second line does it enough justice. There is an apparent syntactical break from line two to line three.

The association between morning news and the lakeside mist taking the shape of a heron is intriguing, creating a strong sense of toriawase, or layered juxtaposition. The poet has done well not to make the association too far or too close in connection, which is the essence of the art of haiku.

The length of the lines or pacing of the haiku is standard for English-language haiku, where the first line is short, the second line is longer, and the third line is short. This format emulates the traditional rhythm of Japanese haiku.

In terms of sound, my attention gets pulled toward the “i” and “o” sounds. The sharpness of the “i” contrasts well with the softness of the “o.”

Finally, this haiku follows the principles of brevity and simplicity in language. The feeling or mood of the haiku is easily accessible due to its language and flow. A wonderful haiku overall.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky

Mist Over the Lake by Shufu Miyamoto

R.C. Thomas’ silver lining

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

silver lining—
what the storm takes
from the magpie’s fable

— R.C. Thomas (UK)
(Joint First Place, Sharpening the Green Pencil Haiku Contest, 2022) 

Commentary:

Magpies in various fables symbolize being prudent, wise, and cunning. A magpie in a fable, no matter who wrote it, is interesting and has a central place in the story. The bird itself is known for its self-centered nature that it uses to protect itself from threats. This haiku has cleverly placed the nature of a magpie by referring to a fable that centers on it. I may consider the fable as an allusion to empower the rest of this haiku. Irrespective of the discussion about the magpie being considered a good or a bad omen based on natural history, old literature has used this bird significantly in stories, poems, anecdotes, and fables, which shows how frequently it is connected with the daily lives of many people as a social bird.

“Silver lining” is symbolically used to represent how easily we can get lessons from the birds around us, perhaps. The magpie, being a prudent and cunning bird, knows how to get something beneficial out of a difficult time, which is no less than a storm. I see a problem-solving aspect here where the poet tries to justify the nature of a magpie by giving it a central position and trying to convince us to see how things work when we use our minds actively and wisely no matter how hard the situation is. It also gives us a sense of realization that we as people are provided with many examples in our surroundings that can help us learn something positive. Just like in old times, people used to write fables inspired by nature and the creatures in their surroundings.

Now coming to the imagery of this haiku, I see it as black and white where the silver lining (light colour) blends with storm clouds (dark colour), and both are linked with the colours of the magpie. This can show how deeply our thoughts are linked with the shades of life and how they can reshape our approach to life.

— Hifsa Ashraf

The personification of the storm in this haiku is interesting. I feel the storm is animated and full of Spirit. 
It seems the main message in this haiku is that words have power and have been affecting both humans and non-humans over thousands of years. It seems it is not only the words themselves but the energy, principles, and intentions behind the words that have significance and power. Along these lines, there are many interesting Indigenous myths and stories involving various birds, floods and storms born out of a deep reverence and respect for the Earth. I suspect there are fables about birds and storms in every culture. 

In regards to the storm in this haiku, in the book Black Elk Speaks, the Indigenous Medicine Man named Black Elk talks about his experience being in a colonized city for the first time. He says: “I was surprised at the big houses and so many people, and there were bright lights at night, so that you could not see the stars, and some of these lights, I heard, were made with the power of thunder” (Neihardt, page 135). In the notes, it says: “The Lakota word for electricity is wakhágli ‘lightning,’ hence “the power of thunder” (Neihardt, page 323). In other words, Black Elk had only seen electricity before in the form of lightning and he called storms and lightning Thunder Beings as a form of spiritual energy to be respected with reverence. 

In another interpretation, the storm in this haiku could possibly be a mental storm, perhaps caused and/or partly influenced by the fable itself. Along these lines, I think about the mistranslations and misinterpretations in some fables, and how words can be misused and abused. Unfortunately, as one example, some of the fables and metaphors found in certain religious texts are severely mistranslated and include stories of violence and dominance with a heavy emphasis on sin, fear, punishment and “my way or the highway” thinking. Furthermore, Divine Power is expressed in certain religious texts using only male “He” and “His” pronouns, consequently degrading the beauty and power of women. 

This is a consequence we all pay the price for and has clearly done a great deal of harm. In my view, if both men and women embrace the spirit of sensitivity and compassion within themselves, then we have a chance to make significant progress. 

Despite the negative consequences of certain fables, the silver lining in this haiku tells me the poet sees the bigger picture, and that the fable itself likely includes very challenging circumstances we can learn from. In short, depending on the fable, I see a potential mix of both negative and positive outcomes. Reading the fable itself could also perhaps inspire us to (pun intended) brainstorm better ones. If we look at the definitions of fable, we have: 

1) a short tale to teach a moral lesson, often with animals or inanimate objects as characters; apologue

2) a story not founded on fact

3) a story about supernatural or extraordinary persons or incidents; legend: the fables of gods and heroes.

4) legends or myths collectively: the heroes of a Greek fable

5) an untruth; falsehood: this boast of a cure is a medical fable

6) the plot of an epic, a dramatic poem, or a play

7) idle talk
Source: Fable Definition & Meaning | Dictionary.com

These definitions give us a better idea of what a fable is. In short, I see the word fable as a psychological portal into the human psyche.

The good news is, if the mind is conditioned, it can also be unconditioned. There are, indeed, many ways of seeing the world and many different ways of life. Even if someone has a specific philosophy or spiritual path, my sincere hope is they are also open-minded to other respectful, meaningful philosophies. 
I also strongly feel Mother Earth has many gifts we can all learn from. One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned from Mother Earth is the power of silence. It seems there is great wisdom in being quiet in Nature. This reminds me of a quote by Bashō: “Follow Nature and return to Nature.” Along these lines, when I read “magpie’s fable,” I initially heard stories of the bird’s life through his or her songs vs. human-made fables about the magpie. 

As a final interpretation, if taken literally, I can see light-hearted humor in this haiku as the storm has no ears to hear our human-made stories, nor does the magpie have English words to form the fable. The storm continues, and it will eventually pass, with or without humans and our stories.


Regardless of our interpretation(s), this haiku explores the deep psychological space between the human mind and Mother Earth. I think it also reminds us to be careful with our words and to be mindful of their effects and possible interpretations. An interesting and important haiku. 

 — Jacob D. Salzer

Hifsa and Jacob have explored this haiku in great depth. I’ll briefly comment on the kigo, kireji, toriawase, pacing, and sound of this poem.

The kigo, or seasonal reference, of this haiku could be between August and October since magpies are most active during this time. This makes this an autumnal haiku. The storm adds to this assumption.

The kireji, or “cutting word,” in this haiku is shown as the em dash in the first line. It successfully separates the two parts of the haiku while also giving us time to pause to imagine a silver lining.

The toriawase, or juxtaposition, is the association between the natural and fictional world. The wisdom and ingenuity of the magpie in fables are compared to a silver lining during a storm. A wonderful thought.

In terms of pacing, the length of the lines is a bit different than the standard in English-language haiku because the third line is long while it is usually short. However, the poet wrote the haiku organically and well-framed, because if the first line was placed as the third line, it would not be read as well. Also, the word “takes” is a fine place to cut the line to create suspense.

Finally, looking at the sound of the haiku, the many “i”s and “l”s create a combination of sharp and soft notes. This relates well to the rumble of a storm and the lesson of a fable.

A unique and fresh haiku with significant overtones.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky

“Fantasy Magpie Fable.” Acrylic on deep wooden support by John Penney.

Arvinder Kaur’s margosa blossoms

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku2 Comments

shafts of sunlight
margosa showers blossoms
on the hopscotch

— Arvinder Kaur (India)
From her book Fireflies in the Rubble

Commentary

I am honoured to have read Arvinder’s book Fireflies in the Rubble. I also got many opportunities to work with her on various poetry collaborations. Out of many favourite poems, I selected this one for writing a commentary on. Like Arvinder, I feel nostalgic when I read this poem. There are many hidden feelings in this haiku that create yugen but still one can easily connect deeply with the overall imagery therein.

Shafts of sunlight are perhaps glimpses of the past—especially of childhood—that follow and bind us with sweet bitter memories. I also see this line as a reflection of one’s childhood status that put her in the spotlight as the center of her family. It also depicts subtlety about the particular place or venue, which is probably in the poet’s house. We have been given a full margin to let our imagination run wild and think of the place where sunlight highlights the significance of certain places that may stick to our minds and pull us towards them whenever we reminisce about them.

The margosa or neem tree is connected with healing and health as various parts of this tree are used in many home remedies and for herbal treatment. A margosa showering blossoms can look like the rain of flowers or an abundance of flowers that bring healing to unseen wounds or pain. I see it more as a sign of blessings where one enjoys one’s childhood without any worries and lives a carefree life.

The hopscotch is not simply child’s play but may also be a puzzle that takes us back and forth (memories) to solve them. It involves both physical and mental faculties when one plays it. I can imagine it as one of the most significant times of life where margosa blossoms may metaphorically be related to the laughter of children who are enjoying the early part of life with their friends and family. So, from sunlight to margosa and from margosa to hopscotch, I see the involvement of the key elements of nature, sky, wind, and earth, which shows the vastness of this haiku and the way our thoughts and feelings play around with them through either memories or imagination. 

In terms of the sound, the letter ‘s’ provides the tone of mystery and subtlety of this haiku, which is gracefully written about and allows us to explore more about this childhood story. 

— Hifsa Ashraf

I appreciate the contrasts in this haiku: the formless light and the heavy, dense sidewalk; the dark clouds and shafts of light; the grey clouds and the vibrant rainbow of chalk colors; the soft blossoms and the hard concrete. When I read “shafts of sunlight,” I see the light breaking through holes in a cloud or in the spaces between clouds. I appreciate how the dark clouds could be implied in this interpretation. 

While hopscotch is normally found on sidewalks or city streets, I could also visualize the hopscotch in a narrow alleyway in a city, and the shafts of light could be formed by the steep buildings. In this interpretation, somewhere in the city, the wind has blown these beautiful flowers into what was once a dark alley that may often go unnoticed. 

When I looked up images of “neem tree flowers” online, the flowers remind me of stars. They are white and each flower has five petals. As the flower petals fall in abundance, I get feelings of hope, joy, and optimism that better days are yet to come. 

The descent of the flowers reminds me of how brief our human lives are. Our bodies will eventually dissolve back into the earth, just like these beautiful flowers. This is juxtaposed with the youthful energy that hopscotch brings to mind, along with childlike innocence and imagination. In this sense, I see life cycles in this haiku. To echo what Hifsa has said, perhaps this haiku could speak of returning to our childlike imagination, to dream like we did when we were children, and to find beauty in simple things. Perhaps this haiku could also be a metaphor for nonattachment and letting go, as the flowers are released from the neem tree, taken by the wind. 

In short, a poignant haiku that speaks to impermanence, hope, and finding beauty—even in dark times. 

— Jacob D. Salzer

The seasonal reference, or kigo, is most likely spring due to blossoms being mentioned. Hopscotch is also representative of fun and play that is common in spring and possibly summer.

I admire the “as above, so below” aesthetic with shafts of sunlight (above) being compared to showering blossoms landing on the hopscotch (below). The sunlight gives energy and life to the margosa tree in streams of light and the tree later “streams” down in the form of blossoms. The ending image is wonderful with nature playing a human game, even though it is done inadvertently.

There is no kireji or punctuation to represent a “cutting word” to separate the two parts of the haiku. However, the line break after the first line creates a separation between the fragment and phrase. If it were me writing the haiku, I might have added an ellipsis to illustrate the motion of the showering blossoms. But, this is a stylistic choice rather than a necessary one.

The length of the lines is common for English-language haiku, with a short first line, a longer second line, and a short third line to represent the traditional rhythm of Japanese haiku approximately.

What I find intriguing is a lack of an article in the second line before “margosa” because, in my head, I add “a margosa.” However, with three (possible) nouns in a row, it could be read as “margosa, showers, blossoms” or “margosa showers, blossoms.” I believe the poet wrote it in a way with an intuitive article, though.

This haiku is teeming with positivity within its layers and imagery. I wish Kaur the best with her new book, Fireflies in the Rubble, and I hope her good energy spreads far and wide.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky

You can purchase Kaur’s book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Fireflies-Rubble-Arvinder-Kaur-ebook/dp/B09THDGWC4

Front and back cover of Kaur’s “Fireflies in the Rubble”

Mona Bedi’s pottery class

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

pottery class
i embrace the broken
pieces of me

 — Mona Bedi (India)
First Place, Indian Kukai, #38, 2022

Commentary

The overall imagery of this haiku is apparent as there is little mystery involved here. But, it gives us deep feelings about the self, often known as the inner self. It’s an introspection where the poet has created an analogy between her feelings about herself with pottery. Clay is the element that binds us to this haiku in many ways. If it is introspection, the poet may try to share her broken self, flaws, past experiences, hardship, etc. Taking a pottery class can be taken as catharsis where the focus is not only giving venting feelings and emotions but also reshaping or remoulding the self that is still suffering or dissatisfied and trying to find peace. There is a glimpse of wabi-sabi in this haiku where you accept yourself the way you are as the word ‘embrace’ indicates and focuses on self-healing by practicing optimism and positivity.

The mystic element in this haiku is also obvious in this haiku where the words ‘pottery’ (clay), ‘broken pieces’, ‘I’, and ‘me’ depict how silently one passes through the process of transformation and goes beyond nothingness gracefully. According to Sufism, the connection between the self and clay is quite subtle and deep. It shows the humility and modesty of being, where deep understanding takes us on the journey of ‘knowing thyself’.

The sounds of ‘p’ and ‘m’ in this haiku may depict the rhythm of the thoughts and feelings that are still not on the surface. The letter ‘i’ may show how humbly and keenly a person makes themselves ready to pass through the journey within, which can take them from unknown to known. 

— Hifsa Ashraf

This is a powerful haiku that expresses psychological healing and recovery. I feel acceptance and self-love in the phrase “i embrace the broken pieces of me.” In this haiku, “broken pieces” seem to be symbols for past psychological trauma that carry a heavy connotation. However, the word “embrace” gives me a vision of all the broken pieces coming together, while still honoring each piece as a unique place in our being. Furthermore, in a pottery class, there is a sense of community with the students and teacher. It seems this inclusiveness brings psychological cohesion and unity where the poet is no longer alone on her path of healing.

Along these lines, this haiku immediately brings to mind the ancient Japanese art of kintsugi. Here are some quotes that demonstrate how powerfully kintsugi relates to this haiku: 

“Kintsugi (golden joinery) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.” “Kintsugi became closely associated with ceramic vessels used for chanoyu (Japanese tea ceremony). As a philosophy, kintsugi can be seen to have similarities to the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi, an embracing of the flawed or imperfect. Japanese aesthetics values marks of wear by the use of an object. This can be seen as a rationale for keeping an object around even after it has broken and as a justification of kintsugi itself, highlighting the cracks and repairs as simply an event in the life of an object rather than allowing its service to end at the time of its damage or breakage. Kintsugi can relate to the Japanese philosophy of “no mind” (mushin), which encompasses the concepts of non-attachment, acceptance of change and fate as aspects of human life.” “Not only is there no attempt to hide the damage, but the repair is literally illuminated… a kind of physical expression of the spirit of mushin….Mushin is often literally translated as “no mind,” but carries connotations of fully existing within the moment, of non-attachment, of equanimity amid changing conditions. …The vicissitudes of existence over time, to which all humans are susceptible, could not be clearer than in the breaks, the knocks, and the shattering to which ceramic ware too is subject. This poignancy or aesthetic of existence has been known in Japan as mono no aware, a compassionate sensitivity, or perhaps identification with, [things] outside oneself.

— Christy Bartlett, Flickwerk: The Aesthetics of Mended Japanese Ceramics”
Source: Kintsugi – Art of Repair | Traditional Kyoto

With kintsugi in mind, it seems traces of past trauma may never be fully erased from our individual and collective memory. However, by joining the fragmented parts of our self, I feel the broken pieces can become transformed or transmuted into a larger sense of purpose and unity. In this haiku, it seems the sharp edges that once defined each piece have now blended into a deeper compassion. Perhaps by mending the pieces together, we can also recognize the lessons our past has given us to help protect ourselves and prevent future harm. Interestingly, while this haiku is personal, I think the healing theme of this haiku could apply to families and larger communities that appear to be fragmented or broken. As one example, in some areas of life, I see the United States of America as a divided nation because so many subjects seem to divide people. With this in mind, if we consider thinking of this haiku with the phrase: “i embrace the broken pieces of my family,” “i embrace the broken pieces of my community,” or “i embrace the broken pieces of my country,” perhaps these could be healing phrases for a larger community context because it seems the first step to healing is acceptance—recognizing the broken pieces as they are. 

Along these lines, it seems fragmented communities start with fragmented individuals. If peace and unity are felt within individuals (if their broken pieces are mended together within their own self), then it seems that fragmented unity will be reflected in the world. In short, it seems larger community healing starts from within each individual. Fortunately, according to quantum mechanics and several philosophies, we are not alone and the sense of being an isolated, separate person or individual is not as concrete as it appears to be. Rather than supporting rigid individuality, science and several philosophies—including indigenous ways of life—tell us that all of life is connected.
 
In regard to quantum mechanics, here is a powerful quote that resonates with this haiku: “When quantum systems interact, the result can be the creation of quantum entanglement: their properties become so intertwined that a description of the whole solely in terms of the individual parts is no longer possible.” Source: Quantum mechanics – Wikipedia 

Along these lines, it seems by embracing the broken pieces within us, eventually, even the very sense of “me and mine” as a mental concept may ultimately dissolve into a spiritual energy that is universal. 

In short, this is a powerful haiku that speaks of acceptance, compassion, and healing. I feel it also symbolizes the gifts of our individuality in the context of a universal consciousness. 

— Jacob Salzer 

I have little to add after such excellent and deep commentary from Hifsa and Jacob. I would like to comment on how this haiku is kigoless, or without a seasonal reference. This is definitely fine, since haiku written without kigo goes back all the way to Matsuo Basho and more specifically with the free verse movement of haiku in Japan. I would not say this is a senryu because it is not irreverent or cynical in nature.

Though there is kireji or punctuation acting as a “cutting word,” it is implied by the line break in line one. As Hifsa noted, there is no juxtaposition here but rather an association between the clay and our bodies or self. The length of the lines follow the standard for English-language haiku with a short first line, a longer second line, and short third line to match the traditional rhythm of Japanese haiku.

As Jacob discussed, I think it is important the poet decapitalized the “i.” It is a way to step away from the ego and to distance oneself from egoic thought.

The enjambment, or break in thought, on the second line is unique. In haiku, we don’t usually use enjambment, but I believe it works well here. The word “broken” is appropriately broken off from the rest of the phrase. Perhaps it lends to separate readings for the last two lines, respectively.

A clear haiku that strikes deep emotional and philosophical tones.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky

Image from Wikipedia Commons

John Pappas’ fossil galaxy

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

fossil galaxy
headlights speed 
from dark to dark

— John Pappas (USA)

Commentary

A common understanding of a fossil galaxy is that it’s a remnant of an older galaxy that existed within a current galaxy. It’s something left behind after many years for us to think over, get some lessons from, and see how things are temporary and worthless over time.

When I see a fossil, my thoughts go back to a time when that fossil had a life—maybe even an integral part of life or the environment at that time. A question comes to my mind: “why does nature preserve fossils for us?” There is a simple logical answer: “so that we can remember our history or past.” A fossil galaxy shows us the marvel and perhaps the waste of this universe that discards many elements with time but doesn’t abandon them—estrange its parts but allow them to be present.

Life is like that for us: we discard many things that were once the most valuable part of our lives but they keep circling our minds. Certain things get preserved in our memories like a fossil. We may not give attention to them, but they may elate or haunt us in the later part of life. So, I take ‘headlights speed’ as flashback memories that come to remind us of what’s in our past and how we reach this point after passing through, dark to dark. The word ‘dark’ may depict dreams (particularly nightmares) that remind us of the remnants of difficult times we try to push back in our heads.

However, the connection between our mind and space is so deep as can be observed in this haiku, where we try to connect with the galaxies outside and the galaxies within through our thoughts, memories, reasoning, logic, and analysis being an integral part of this universe. The dark is a background, whether it is our life or space that brings our history to light.

— Hifsa Ashraf

It seems there are galaxies within galaxies—both inside of us and beyond us. This idea is poignantly brought down to earth, quite literally, in this haiku but also (pun intended) leaves space for our imagination and dreams. 

The fragment of this haiku “fossil galaxy” is intriguing, as it marks traces of an ancient galaxy. I also interpret “fossil galaxy” as the Milky Way Galaxy when the dinosaurs roamed Earth. In both interpretations, I appreciate the time-warp perspective in this haiku. 

The phrase “headlights speed from dark to dark” brings to mind a time-lapse of a highway, with cars moving at night and I see stars rotating above. “from dark to dark” could relate to the pollution caused by cars and other motor vehicles, unfortunately contributing to carbon in Earth’s atmosphere and climate change. If we look at the lifetime of a car, it originates from the darkness of Earth via raw materials; then factories produce pollution under the hum of electricity; then some parts of the motor vehicle are buried back into Earth. The good news is most parts of cars are recycled.

According to popularmechanics.com: “Fed by annual new-car sales that hover around 17 million, the U.S. automotive recycling industry reclaims some 750 million pounds of scrap each and every month…The automobile is the most recycled consumer product in the world — 95 percent of all vehicles are reclaimed. The rate far exceeds the numbers for recycling giants such as newspaper (74 percent), aluminum cans (51 percent) and glass (22 percent). And much of the reclaimed material winds up back in new cars: Coffee-stained carpeting becomes air-cleaner assemblies and chewed-up tires morph into brake pedals and floor mats…Still, as much as 25 percent of each car ends up in landfills. That’s largely because landfill space is still relatively cheap and the technologies to recover nonferrous material are still expensive.” Source: Where Your Car Goes to Die (popularmechanics.com)

“from dark to dark” could also be interpreted as returning to The Great Mystery or the Unknown. It shows just how brief our human lives truly are in the grand scheme of things. From one perspective, even a billion years is equivalent to a microsecond. For some, there could perhaps be a divine comedy in this view. 

In terms of “headlights speed,” I thought of all the devices we use that operate at close to the speed of light, such as sending text messages with our phones or sending an email. “It’s the electromagnetic wave rippling through the electrons that propagates at close to the speed of light…This makes the observable speed of electricity about the same as the speed of light: 186,000 miles per second.” Source: Quick Answer: Does Electricity Travel At The Speed Of Light – BikeHike (cyclinghikes.com)

It’s interesting to note that some stars have actually burnt out, but because they are so far away, their light still travels and appears to our human eyes on Mother Earth.
 
Interestingly, it seems galaxies are not just “out there” but also internal in our subconscious and our dreams. Just as a single seed gives birth to an entire forest with innumerable trees, it’s been said that the subtle samskaras or mental impressions give birth to innumerable worlds. This offers a different perspective because instead of the world and galaxies solely being seen as “out there,” they could also be seen as an internal/eternal phenomenon. 

Regardless of our interpretation(s), this is a haiku with depth, modern implications, and mystery. 

— Jacob D. Salzer

With the desolation shown in this haiku, I would place the kigo or seasonal reference in either winter or fall. That being said, I’m not sure the implied kigo is that important to the quality of this haiku. In Japan and around the world, many haiku have been composed as kigoless.

Though there is no punctuation used, the line break in the first line could be said to represent a kireji or cutting word (though more accurately stated as a cutting character or sound) that shows the delineation between the two parts of the poem.

The two sections of this haiku are not too closely or too loosely connected, which illustrates the art of toriawase. The dark of the night connects with the dark of the universe. “Speed” can fit well with the idea of the speed of light. It is up to the reader, though, to see these connections and to see how they resonate with them. Well-written haiku like this one allow the reader to fill in their own gaps, though the poet leads them on certain paths of discovery.

Pacing in this haiku is pretty much standard for English-language haiku: a short first line, a longer second line, and a short third line. However, as we can see, the third line is a tiny bit longer than the second in this haiku. That’s fine because the traditional rhythm is kept with the elongated syllables in the second line.

In terms of sound, the most prominent letters are “l” and “d.” The “l” sounds provide a lightness to the reading as if to illustrate the ephemeral nature of the universe. On the flip side, the “d” sounds give a punch that brings about a sense of seriousness.

This is a unique and relevant haiku with potent imagery that drills deep into our imagination and search for meaning.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky

Image credit: Alan Dyer /VW PICS/Universal Images Group via Getty Images

Luke Levi’s owl

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

caught
between two worlds
an owl at sunset

— Luke Levi (USA)

(previously published in Fireflies’ Light, issue 25)

Commentary

I immediately connect with this haiku, partly because I am drawn towards Indigenous spirituality and appreciate how they acknowledge everything has a Spirit in the Great Mystery of life. I also connect with this haiku because I have seen owls in person that have inspired writing a few haiku about owls and their dreams. When I read “caught between two worlds,” I imagine twilight or what some people call the “golden hour” between day and night. It has been said that twilight can inspire mystical or spiritual experiences.  

At the same time, I appreciate how the poet left the first two lines open for interpretation. When I read “caught between two worlds,” my first interpretation was the gap between the material/seen world and the Spiritual/unseen world that actually may not be seen as separate at all. The Buddhist saying: Form is Emptiness and Emptiness is Form comes to mind. Even atoms are mostly “empty” space. Therefore, it seems material forms are not as concrete as they appear to be. The two worlds could also be between a lifetime on Mother Earth and a spiritual afterlife after physical death. As the sun sets into the mysteries of night, this could be a symbol for our last breath into the afterlife. The two worlds could also be between the waking-dream state that many call “reality” and the world of sleep, dreams, and the subconscious. Possible states of consciousness between these two worlds are the hypnopompic (the state right before entering the “waking” world) or the hypnagogic state (the state right before falling asleep). Regardless of our interpretation(s), I think this haiku has a universal appeal and significance. 

In more down-to-earth terms, I think “caught between two worlds” could easily apply to a wide range of relationships between two people with very different backgrounds and/or worldviews. In a broader sense, the two worlds could even be two cultures, two perspectives, or two sides of a war, etc. It seems the word “caught” holds inherent tension. It’s interesting to observe worlds within worlds here on Mother Earth: from microscopic/quantum to macro/cosmic perspectives and everything in between.

In Indigenous cultures, there are myths and legends about owls. Owls are excellent observers who are very quiet. It’s been said they mostly live their lives in solitude. In this perspective, one interpretation is the poet might be deciding whether or not to be (or possibly remain) single vs. be in a relationship. The word “caught” could imply uncertainty. 

In short, I feel this haiku expresses animistic/Indigenous spirituality, different perspectives, and the depth of relationships and solitude. I also feel this haiku is also a portal into the world of dreams and the subconscious. It seems to carry contemplative power and encourages introspection. I think it also has the power to open our hearts and minds to what is possible in this lifetime. Perhaps it can encourage us to try our best to resolve conflicts. Ultimately, it seems in the gap between two worlds, we can silence the mind and experience peace. A powerful haiku. 

 — Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

The poem starts with the simple word ‘caught’ that resonates a lot and pauses our thoughts to think for a while before moving on to the next lines. The two worlds can be interpreted as: changing seasons, day and night, present and past, life and death, or time and space. Whatever it is, there is a transition where something got stuck, and it is experiencing some sort of unknown circumstances. Being inclined to spiritualism, I can see the two worlds as materialism (outer self) and selflessness (inner self). It’s more like yin-yang where one world reflects the other, or where one world overshadows the other one, causing chaos, confusion, or bewilderment. I also see ‘caught’ as a threshold level where a person initially tries to adjust to what is not visible or known to them.

The third line reveals some specifications of two worlds where ‘owl’ and ‘sunset’ may project time and space. An owl can symbolize wealth, prosperity, a good omen, wisdom, or fortune but in certain other cultures, it is a sign of bad omen. Keeping both aspects in mind, an owl as a nocturnal bird personifies our life as a combination of both good and bad, where a person struggles by exploring their inner and outer worlds—passing through ups and downs but with choices. It depends on where a person’s locus of control is. The sunset gives a clear demarcation of two worlds where the light enters into darkness and opens the new horizon, which may be subtle or sophisticated for a person if their senses are intact with reality.

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

If I were to say what the kigo or seasonal reference is for this haiku, I would say winter. Owls are commonly a kigo for winter in the haiku tradition, but they may be different in various locales. Winter is often seen as a magical time, with gleaming snow and the cold that brings about a whole new landscape. This relates well to the supernatural symbolism of the owl.

In terms of how the two parts of haiku operate, we have the cut in the second line with the line break. It’s not a direct juxtaposition, but rather an association between the sunset and two worlds, plus the owl itself and two worlds. The sunset is a transition from one time to the next, which could be said to be another world. The owl, as we have discussed, has mystical qualities that can be seen as a bridge between two worlds or dimensions by many cultures.

This haiku might contain yugen or as described by Zeami Motokiyo: “To watch the sun sink behind a flower clad hill. To wander on in a huge forest without thought of return. To stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that disappears behind distant islands. To contemplate the flight of wild geese seen and lost among the clouds.” There is a sense of natural awe and mystery in this haiku, plus a possible nod to nothingness as espoused by Buddhism. The nothingness in this haiku is the owl not being a part of any world, where its identity is gone. The nothingness in Buddhism is not physical but rather the emptiness of identity.

Two letters stand out to me when I read this haiku out loud: “t” and “o.” The letter “t” is great at creating an atmosphere of starkness and the letter “o” is excellent at slowing down the pace and making a piece more contemplative.

The format follows the common short-line-short lines sequence of English-language haiku that try to match the 5-7-5 sound units in Japanese judiciously. Most haiku by masters are between 6-9 words, and this one fits in nicely with eight. This ensures brevity and the effectiveness of expression.

The feeling behind this poem is deep, philosophical, and introspective. We need more haiku about owls in English, and this is a fine addition.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

“Sunset Owl” by Alan Galindo

Paul Callus’ crescent moon

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crescent moon —
the baby kicks            
inside her womb

— Paul Callus (Malta)

Commentary

I appreciate how the crescent moon visually resembles the curve of the mother’s womb. There is a long historical and spiritual connection between women and the moon that can be traced back thousands of years in indigenous cultures. In the dark womb, it seems the seeds of unknown karma and samskaras (past mental impressions) are being brought to life.

I also see a playful quality in this haiku or lightness (karumi) when the baby kicks. At the same time, I appreciate how this haiku offers insights into life in the womb and how important this stage of life is. I’ve read that a baby in the womb can hear music, and this affects brain development. Classical music in particular has been shown to create more complex neural connections. The immediacy of kicks could also foreshadow the complex relationship between the mother and the child that develops over time.

In short, this is a dynamic haiku that expresses mystery (yugen), karmic impressions, and the complex relationship between a mother and her child. I also see this haiku as an expression of a mother’s unconditional love for her child. A powerful haiku. 

 — Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

As Alex Fyffe introduced me to a creative writing technique called synecdoche, so I see this haiku in that context where ‘the baby kicks’ represents the sign of a new life, hope, and connectivity.

This haiku revolves around all senses where the most obvious ones are sight, sound, and touch. The birth phase is beautifully related to the phases of the moon where the crescent moon symbolizes birth, the start of a new month, or a new beginning. If we dig deeper into this poem, we can find more analogies between the moon and the baby inside the womb i.e. delicacy, subtlety, and light. It seems the mother is keenly following the birth process where she counts every single day. It shows how excited she is about this new life and finds the kick to be a welcoming sign. The curve that is common in both cases may reflect the beauty of life that gradually passes through various phases before it’s in full bloom.

In a larger context, the relationship between cosmic objects with life on earth, especially human birth, is quite natural and interrelated. It shows the significance of the time and space we live in and how things are revealed to us during a new journey of life. 

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

Jacob and Hifsa explored the meaning and aesthetic of this haiku in great detail. I will dabble in the technical side of this haiku a bit more.

The kigo or seasonal reference of this haiku is “crescent moon.” It is a phase of a moon that can happen any time of the year, but it is often associated with autumn. With its sharp shape and mysterious air, the crescent moon is a classic haiku topic.

In the first line we also have the kireji, or “cutting word.” In English, we use punctuation to separate the parts of a haiku and give extra resonance, but in Japanese, kireji are actual words in place of punctuation. The dash is used well, with it illustrating the hard kick a baby can give within the womb. It also makes the reader stop a while to appreciate a crescent moon in their mind’s eye.

I like how the second line comes with a surprise in relation to the crescent moon, and the third line resolves why the baby is acting the way he or she is. We can assume in the second line it is about pregnancy, but the poet could have written anything, such as “the baby kicks/her diaper away.” The use of “her” is also important, as it claims the womb for the baby and not the mother.

The length of the lines are fairly standard for English-language haiku, but usually the second line is a bit longer to have a more lilting rhythm.

The two most prominent letters in this haiku is “s” and “o.” “S” here comes off as soothing and mysterious, whereas “o” elongate the syllables and make the reading leisurely. The “o” sounds also relate well to the shape of a moon.

Finally, I enjoy how to crescent moon could be a comparison of the shape of a woman’s pregnant figure, or the kick being similar to the sharp tip of a crescent moon.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by Charles Thomas

Carmela Marino’s first buds

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku3 Comments

first buds—
I dust the head
of a stone Buddha

— Carmela Marino (Italy)
(previously published at the Golden Triangle Contest March 2022)

Commentary

This is an interesting haiku that touches both the hard and soft sides of life deeply and perhaps spiritually. The opening line ‘first buds’ gives some hope of spring—the season of new beginnings, or rejuvenation. The plural form of ‘buds’ makes it a bit mysterious where it looks like there is an abundance of buds on a branch, falling, or stuck on the head of a stone Buddha. But, when I take this haiku as a whole, I find it more intrinsic, more towards ‘self-enlightenment’ and/or ‘wisdom’ where buds can be the lessons of wisdom or Buddha’s philosophy unfurling in different phases of life as a sign of hope, progress, learning, and change.

It only needs some clarity, mindfulness, or crystallization of thoughts which is signified in the second line ‘I dust the head’ where the emphasis is beyond seeing i.e. introspection or meditation. I liked the way the poet blends both the delicate side of nature (buds) with the hard and concrete side of nurture (head) by masterfully using the technique of ekphrasis and yugen which may catch the eyes of many haiku lovers. 

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

I appreciate the contrasts in the juxtaposition. The flowers are soft: the Buddha statue is not. The first buds symbolize birth, while dust symbolizes death. The flowers are full of color, while the stone Buddha is not (unless he’s wearing a green moss robe). After Enlightenment, it’s been said the Buddha escaped the wheel of samsara: the endless cycles of birth and death. Actually, in a way, it seems this haiku succinctly expresses the essence of Buddhism by showing the nature of impermanence (symbolized by dust). The Buddha shows us that the mind’s attachment to what is fleeting and temporary creates suffering (while nonattachment reveals peace and ends suffering).

This haiku also brings to mind a quote by my favorite Estonian composer Arvo Pärt: “Time and timelessness are connected. This moment and eternity are struggling within us.” 

It seems impossible for the human mind to experience life that is timeless because the measurement of time seems to be hardwired into conditioned thoughts. Yet the timeless ever-flowing “now” is the only time we are ever alive. It seems the present moment is actually something the mind can never identify with because when it tries to describe the moment, it’s already describing a past event. Thus, it seems the experience of living in the timeless ever-flowing “now” is not a mental concept or idea, but rather seems to originate from the spirit without any words or thoughts. Of course, our measurement of time has its place in modern society. We frequently measure our lives in years, months, weeks, minutes, and seconds. We have work schedules, meetings to attend, and appointments to keep. In the world of jobs and making a living, time is money. However, this haiku puts our small human lives into perspective. One day, we will all physically become dust on the stone Buddha. Therefore, who am I?

Interestingly, the fact there is any dust to begin with made me initially envision a Buddha statue indoors somewhere. At first, I only saw human dust. However, on the second read, I see pollen and the poet is dusting the pollen off the Buddha statue in a garden or park somewhere. This also could be true. 

In regards to the first line, the flower buds could be symbols of hope for new generations. It’s also been said the Buddha gave his disciples a flower without speaking a word. This was a transmission of Enlightenment: a wordless unity that is devoid of thoughts. It’s also true that not all flowers bloom at the same time, but they naturally open to sunlight when the time is ripe. In a way, it seems the same could be said regarding our spiritual unfoldment. I also appreciate the saying: “When the student is ready, the master always appears.” For me, this haiku speaks to this quote as well, where the new buds are students. Perhaps most powerfully, without a single word, the stone Buddha guides us to look within, to become still and quiet. It seems only in those silent depths can I begin to realize his Spirit is not separate from my own Spirit. Perhaps eventually, ultimately, the master vs. disciple duality will seem to disappear. 

In short, this is a powerful haiku that expresses impermanence, the timeless flow of the present, and the teachings of the Buddha. 

— Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

Hifsa and Jacob wrote extensively on the meaning and interpretations of this haiku. I will in turn dive a bit into the technical world of this poem.

In the first line, we have a traditional kigo, or seasonal reference, for spring. “Buds” is fairly general, but I think the poet may have wanted to shy away from putting too much attention on the flower itself in order to focus more on the Buddha. Also in the first line, we see a dash used to separate the two parts of the haiku, which is the fragment and the phrase. This is another classical element of this haiku.

The second line brings in the action. Commonly, haiku only have one verb so that we can concentrate on one movement. Here, the “head” could be the head of a flower without reading the third line.

In the third line, we discover that the head is not of a flower but of a stone Buddha. I think it is important that the poet capitalized “Buddha” as she is not referring to not just any buddha but the Buddha in the form of a statue. She is treating this stone as the actual Buddha and giving it proper reverence. Dusting the statue’s head might signify cleaning or clearing the way to enlightenment, as with a clear mind, one can be in nirvana.

Looking at how the lines are arranged, we have a non-standard length of lines according to English-language haiku. The longest line is usually the second, but here it is the last. There is nothing wrong with this, especially since syllables and Japanese sound units don’t match up well. As long as the rhythm flows well and brings about a potent mood, which I think this haiku does. The rhythm present makes “Buddha” stand out more, which is not a bad thing at all.

We have some interesting usage of sound in this poem, too. The “u”s in “buds,” “dust,” and “Buddha” seem to provide a sense of reverence to me. The “b” sounds pop and make the haiku reading more powerful.

In terms of aesthetics, this haiku might show ba. According to Jim Kacian, “If you look up ba in any Japanese-English Dictionary you’ll find it means “place” or “site” or “occasion”. And these are all true in the most general sense—ba is a pointer to a kind of awareness that something of importance is happening in time and space.” I feel this haiku demonstrates a spiritual importance to the moment of dusting a stone Buddha’s head, where it plays with spirituality, physical objects, and manifestation.

An enjoyable haiku with multiple layers of spiritual and religious meaning.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Sandip Chauhan’s flowing river

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

flowing river . . .
the spot where I poured
his ashes

— Sandip Chauhan (USA)
(IAFOR Vladimir Devidé Haiku Award 2016 – Runners Up)

Commentary

This is a powerful haiku that sparks a conversation about life, death, cycles, time, and the afterlife. Does a river know of past or future, or any sense of time? Because of its continuity, the ever-present flow of now is the only time we are ever truly alive, while past and future seem to be abstractions. In the river’s flow, the person’s ashes seem to simultaneously conjure up the past and the future of the person’s soul. The interesting part about this haiku is “the spot” because it implies a specific place, but that spot in the river is always flowing. In fact, it seems the spot in this haiku can only be recognized because of a nearby landmark, such as a boulder.

This haiku contains yugen (mystery), leaving room for us as readers. Who is the male persona in this haiku who has passed away? How did he pass away? Because we don’t know the answer to these questions, this haiku can conjure up mixed emotions that relate to our own experience. In addition to grief, this haiku could conjure up gratitude for both the person who passed away and the river itself. To the poet, the male persona in this haiku could be his father, brother, son, another family member, or a friend. Regardless of who he is, it’s clear this is a moment many people can relate to. 

In this haiku, the person’s ashes become one with the river. Perhaps this haiku can inspire us to feel connected with Mother Earth and treat water with more respect before physical death as well. 

In terms of spirituality, it seems the individual soul (jiva) is like a river that eventually becomes one with the universal spirit (Shiva) likened to the sea. According to the spiritual teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi, if there are karmic mental impressions (samskaras) left at the time of physical death, this necessitates rebirth at the right time, and this is how individual souls are reborn. 

Regardless of our views on death and the afterlife, this haiku brings mixed emotions and ultimately seems to bring a sense of ease that even at the time of physical death, life goes on. A powerful haiku. 

— Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

It’s about life and death where ‘pausing and flowing’ comes together. It’s time that heals grief and lets us move on like a flowing river. The ellipsis in the first line shows how meaningful and significant it is to keep going on no matter how difficult life is. ‘The spot’ is the place where life and death depart from each other in terms of letting go and catching on.

I see it as a person, despite grieving over the death of a loved one, trying to console themselves by accepting the bitter reality, which is the ‘departure or death’—ready to accept what comes next. 

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

I’ll explore the seasonal reference, pacing, language, sound, and meaning.

There is no clear kigo (seasonal reference), but a flowing river probably cancels out it being winter (lack of frozen water). Because of the tone, I imagine this haiku to be autumnal.

The pacing of the lines is a prime example of the English-language attempt at replicating the traditional Japanese rhythm of “go-shichi-go.” The standard is a short first line, a longer second line, and a short third line. As many know, syllable counting does not match the 5-7-5 Japanese sound units on well, and we use the aforementioned rhythm primarily.

In terms of the language, the poet rightly uses simple vocabulary so as to not be formal or verbose. Like the haiku written by the masters, the poet employs language that cuts straight to the reader. The last thing you want to do in a haiku is bog down the expression of the moment in verbosity and formality. From Matsuo Basho onwards, the haiku (then hokku) became a vehicle of vernacular speech and casual expression.

The first thing I noticed about the sound of this haiku was the repetition of “o” sounds. These elongated sounds carry the leisurely but melancholic movement of the river. “S” also features strongly, providing the music of the river in the reader’s mind.

Jacob and Hifsa have discussed the meaning of this haiku already, but I’ll add that this poem gives me feelings of both the importance and triviality of the body—and perhaps identity. The poet knows the exact spot where he offered the ashes of a loved one in the river, but the river is not stagnant or static. The river is ever-changing, which mirrors Heraclitus who said, “The only constant in life is change.” We can try to claim an identity, but even that is constantly fluid and flowing.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

“Flowing River” by Diana Miller

Małgorzata Formanowska’s white morning

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

white morning
on grandfather’s grave
fox footprints

— Małgorzata Formanowska (Poland)
(published previously in Frogpond vol.44.1 Winter 2021)

Commentary

I like the notion of reincarnation or transformation in this haiku. From the untouched snow, new life. Out of death, signs of life. Out of silence, new stories. A part of me wonders if the poet’s grandfather liked foxes and the poet sees their grandfather’s spirit in the fox in some way. 

I like the atmosphere and deep silence in the first two lines. It sets the tone of the haiku and paints a somber mood. Additionally, when I read “morning” I also think of “mourning” sonically, so I feel hints of grief already in the first line and then the mood solidifies in line 2. By contrast, the third line contains new energy that is fresh and alive. Even though we are only seeing footprints, I also see a timelapse of the fox trotting through the graveyard with his or her vivid orange fur against the stark background of snow. 

This haiku transports me into the lives of my own grandfathers and stories I know about them. I appreciate the acknowledgement of the poet’s grandfather in this haiku. I could also see this haiku as being an excellent start to a haibun about the poet’s grandfather and his stories.

Overall, an excellent haiku that pays tribute to family, animals, and the cycles of life.

 — Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

When I visualize ‘white morning’ I feel as if I am drifting through a dream that is not so vivid or clear to my imagination or sight. The white morning adds more subtlety to this haiku as it’s the early part of the dawn—probably pre-dawn or early dawn. The time when a person’s mental faculties revolve around the self that reflect the true or deep meaning of the realities of life.

The grandfather’s grave with fox footprints gives a sort of mystery that takes us on a walk through the white morning or a dream to imagine a cemetery—perhaps an abandoned one or somewhere in a wild place. I could see the fox footprints as memories of the past that are fresh and deeply imprinted on the mind, maybe from childhood. The connection between the grandfather’s grave and fox footprints is elusive as it could be certain family traditions that pass on from one generation to another, or family affairs that seem to be not well settled, or it could be a sign of good or bad omens.  

Overall, I see it as certain deeds or behaviours remaining fresh and unforgettable even after the demise of a person. It’s the next generation who decides how to perceive and interpret them, especially when there are a lot of rumours about them that are not clear, like the white morning. 

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

We have a clear kigo (seasonal reference) with “white morning,” which refers to winter and specifically snow. In context of this haiku, it brings a sense of coldness and melancholy.

For the pacing, we have a traditional English-language rhythm of a short first line, a longer second line, and a short third line. What is also of importance is that the second line acts as a pivot, where it can be read as connecting to both the first and third line: “white morning on grandfather’s grave” and “on grandfather’s grave, fox footprints.”

Turning our attention to aesthetics, this haiku may contain ma, which is a Japanese aesthetic that stands for not only the unsaid in the poem, but also “the sense of time and space, incorporating between, space, room, interval, pause, time, timing, passing, distanced, etc. More particularly, ma may be taken as the timing of space, as in the duration between two musical notes. Silence is valued as well as sound. It is said that the ma aesthetic is influential upon all varieties of Japanese art” (Simply Haiku, Denis Garrison). There is quite a bit unsaid in this haiku, but we can feel the powerful possibilities therein. In addition, there is a play of time of someone’s passing and the occurrence of fox’s footprints, bringing the past and present into union.

Looking at the sound, I’m drawn to the “o” sounds that elongate the reading and make it more somber in tone. The “i” sounds also give it a sense of urgency.

The language used is simple and effective, and not unnecessarily formal, sentimental, or verbose. It follows the principle of employing just the right amount of words needed to express the moment and feeling.

A haiku with an ethereal quality that makes the reader step inside the emotions and mystery of the moment.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by William Preston