What initially drove my interest in this haiku is its unique kigo, or seasonal reference. In the poet’s own words: “After “Soda jerk” a term used for a person who operated the soda fountain in a drugstore, preparing/serving soda drinks & ice cream sodas. A snowjerk is a snow chaser, as the snow decreases in some geographical areas, and increases in other areas. Snow will soon be like diamond dust.” This reflects the effects of climate change.
The first two lines could be interpreted in at least two ways. It may connect to the cola float mentioned in the third line, or an unnamed iceberg or ball of snow. I believe this haiku points to the irony or sadness of a snowjerk melting ice, snow, or a float with their hands. This melancholy is contrasted with the sweetness of the cola float.
There is a fine euphony occurring in the haiku with the “l” and “o” sounds. Also, the pacing of the haiku aligns well with the original Japanese rhythm of this art form. Lastly, though the kigo is unique, the language itself is accessible. Overall, it’s a haiku you have definitely never seen before with pressing topics built in, which makes us pause and ponder.
As with many powerful haiku, complex emotions are implied in the first two lines through the “show not tell” method. In addition to re-reading the letter, there is repetition in the act of gnawing. The em-dash also provides a weighted pause, which adds emotional weight. The fact that the poet is re-reading this letter also tells us that it has heavy emotions within it. As readers, we can likely relate to this experience or enter our imagination in this haiku in our own way.
Using simple words, this haiku has a powerful juxtaposition that balances concrete imagery with mystery. It has room for the reader and is relatable. In short, this is an effective haiku that focuses on the layered complexity of relationships.
ragwort sprouts… mother pats her wrinkles with a gentle sigh
We all try to compare and contrast many things in our surroundings to justify or satisfy ourselves. In this haiku, the poet relates ageing with the leaf structure of ragwort sprouts which are wavy and wrinkled.
Mother, who is patting her wrinkles with a gentle sigh, is perhaps indicating her feelings of satisfaction that she is not alone. Though her skin is changing, other things in nature pass through similar transformations right from the beginning. The words ‘pat’ and ‘sigh’, though, perhaps show signs of satisfaction and motivation that she gets after seeing ragwort sprouts. There may also be a comparison between the poisonous nature of ragwort and changes in mood, thoughts, and feelings due to ageing that become more cynical or bitter. As ragwort causes skin allergies, I can see an element of fear here where the mother makes herself content by assuring herself that her skin is still healthy despite dangerous risks in her vicinity. She may be trying to accept ageing and adjust to it positively.
Looking at the sound, the letter ‘w’ could indicate the continuous thought process of ageing that can be satisfactory or dissatisfactory.
First published: Blithe Spirit 31.4 (November 2021)
Article:
The Unseen Go-Between in Haiku by Alan Summers Haiku Society of America Haiku Spotlight (January 2022)
Award Credit
Runner up: Museum of Haiku Literature Blithe Spirit vol. 32 no. 1 (February 2022)
Commentary
I appreciate the mystery (yugen) in this haiku and the possible interpretations. I initially felt a kind of fantasy-surrealism in this monoku. “The key” could be to a door, and if so, a door to what? Is the key a door that leads inside a physical building or room? Is it a key to a door that leads outside a building? Or, is this a key to a psychological door in the poet’s mind or within someone else’s psyche? In one interpretation, I get the feeling the key is turning and opening a locked door in the poet’s house leading outside. I like how the door does not need to be said in the monoku for me to imagine it.
I think “nightfall” effectively sets the tone and a mysterious atmosphere. I also think the double meaning of “turns” adds more depth to the monoku. Did the key physically turn into a blackbird? Or, did the poet open the locked door and simply saw a blackbird at night? Is the poet dreaming or daydreaming? Is this a monoku about the poet reading a fantasy novel? Did the door release a blackbird from a confined physical and/or mental space? Perhaps a limited physical room could symbolize a confined, limited mind or mental concept. When I see the key turn, I feel a door opening and the blackbird is released and disappears into the night. In that sense, perhaps the spirit of the blackbird is a key that opens the door to the Great Mystery/unseen dimensions of life and simultaneously opens the poet’s mind to a different way of seeing.
If taken literally, I see the key transforming into a blackbird could symbolize how something that appears to be a concrete image (in this case, the key and the blackbird) is actually full of depth and mystery. It’s interesting how a single key can unlock possibilities and also lock a door and protect us from danger. I also get a sense that the blackbird is being honored and respected in this monoku, especially in relation to the night and the Great Mystery. I appreciate how this interpretation resonates with Indigenous spirituality. There are many Indigenous myths and legends about various birds. I also appreciate how this monoku expresses the beauty and importance of having an open mind. The poem encourages us to have the courage to see the world from different perspectives versus staying in our comfort zone and familiar ways of seeing and labeling. An intriguing and powerful monoku.
Nightfall is a shift in the day which brings mysteries with it. Symbolically, it unfolds a different world that manifests our true state of mind and heart. A time when we rarely see things through the lens of others and try to unfold our own stories. A time when we can fully concentrate on what matters the most in our lives. A time when certain realities are revealed to us through introspection or pondering.
Nightfall in this one-line haiku shows the vastness and significance of time, which motivates us to pause and imagine the scene that may look more inspirational and persuasive in this particular poem. The shift in the poem is the ‘key’ which reveals the mystery or unfolds the story; it can be the cognitive process that productively grasps the whole situation and gives flashbacks; it can be the meditative state of mind that unwinds the day’s fatigue by opening the doors of imagination or mysticism and brings some peace; it can be the solution to a problem when a person finds a creative solution and is able to find a way through critical thinking; or, it can be simply daydreaming when a person seeks solace in imagination and manifests their imagination in the most creative and surprising way, which looks magical in the end.
A blackbird symbolizes mystery, death, and magic but it is also significantly considered a sign of spiritualism or transformation. In this poem, nightfall transforms a person’s life where they can turn the key into something that looks more blissful and peaceful.
Overall, the poet challenges our senses to imagine and capture the vivid image of this poem and lets our creative faculties run wild and find how nightfall can spellbound us to see what we want to see or to see beyond seeing.
The blackbird in England can be seen year-round. However, their mating season stretches from March up until July. So, perhaps this is a spring haiku. This relates well to the key possibly turning into a blackbird, as spring is a time of transformation.
There is no kireji or cutting word in this monoku, which is common in English-language haiku that run as one line. There is a clear grammatical break after “nightfall,” though.
However, you could say the haiku could be read as one flowing phrase, with “nightfall” being a verb that acts upon “the key.” Then, “turns” would be the second part of the haiku.
“nightfall” also goes well with transformation as many things change during the night. Because of the darkness, things can be perceived differently. A person might imagine a key turning into a blackbird. A person might also imagine turning a key and going into an apartment or house and seeing a blackbird in the darkness. In this respect, the haiku might be speaking about human perception and its possible manipulation or trickery. I feel that the night, the key, and the blackbird are ultimately the same.
This haiku is succinct with no word out of place. Also, the lovely soft sounds of the letter L contrasting with the sharp tick of the letter T make this haiku musical and layered.
A haiku that begs to be read over and over, it presents an abstract idea in a concrete sense.
The opening line of this haiku alludes to the visibility, progress, and movement of something very intangible and subtle. ‘Dust’ may reflect resilience, hope, positivity, strength, or life. When a person moves on in life with all these characteristics, they find it easier to understand certain realities of life and their underlying meanings.
When we look back into the past, old arguments look vague and meaningless. We hold fast to our points of view over the years and ruin relationships because our state of mind doesn’t accept them or see through them for a better reflection of the causes of those arguments.
The resettling of arguments means a new perspective on past disagreements or the reasons behind those arguments that bring more understanding of life.
Haiku often showcase two slices of life that contrast in a unique and meaningful way. Here we have the action of rising and resettling juxtaposed, written in a way that can be taken both mundanely and metaphorically. We can easily imagine by reading this haiku that an argument has settled on an imaginary ground and dust rising from its impact of touching the earth.
Childhood memories always remain with us no matter how old we are or how hard it is to get through our lives. We always cherish those memories no matter how bittersweet they are. Those flashbacks of the past look like a cloud of chalk dust that we enjoy for a moment and then get back to our routine lives. This also means that vivid memories are fading away either due to life experiences of both childhood or present or due to ageing. In any case, if words have been erased, only chalk dust remains for a short while. A cloud also shows fading memories or forgetting, where a person loses the details of childhood memories and has only short glimpses of their childhood.
The word ‘my’ depicts the personal experiences of the poet where he finds it hard to remember those memories. The letter ‘c’ in this haiku displays the half circle of those memories that result in mere images or glimpses from childhood without having any significant details.
I have written plenty of haiku on childhood memories and can say that it is quite difficult to do so. Mena has composed one with power and brevity in a seemingly effortless fashion (the trick is to make it look effortless when it is not). “Chalk dust” has many implications, as it pertains to education, writing, purity, innocence, and possibly more.
While the poet is looking at photos of a beloved of his, there remain parts of this person that are still technically alive on the pictures: the individual’s dust. This brings about an extra layer of sadness because even though a part of this person is still with the poet, it is a part that is non sentient and cannot interact with him. This haiku might reflect the Japanese aesthetic of mono no aware (物の哀れ), which is about the pathos and transience of things, and that sometimes brings about beauty in melancholy.
There are certain memories in life that we want to forget but cannot as they leave deep imprints on our minds and hearts. But still, time is considered as the best healer. So, the memories of loved ones remain as mere dust.
Specks of dust on photos, metaphorical flashbacks, or vivid memories are fading away or not getting the importance they deserve. This may be due to a change in priorities or other perspectives of life or ageing when someone cannot remember certain things of the past or ignore them.
In this haiku, ‘last fragments’ show the loosening of memories that the narrator once held dear. These fragments are dust, which also shows the annihilation of memories.
Ultimately, this haiku speaks about the transformation of a relationship from a tangible personal touch to the intangible thoughts and memories that later fizzle out in the dust of time.
an attic window sill a wasp curls into its own dust
— Alan Summers (England) Haiku of Merit: Ginko & Kukai event with Professor Hoshino Tsunehiko (1997) Pub. Yomiuri Shimbun Go-Shichi-Go On-Line Language Lab (Japan, 2005)
An attic window sill is a place where many creatures yearn for their dreams and rest for a moment or two and then fly away. An attic window may be a reflection of memories where a person finds themselves close to their inner self and feel protected.
The analogy of a wasp who curls into its dust may indicate the protection that we acquire after time. When we relate this to human life, our experiences reshape our potential and abilities where we can transcend and transform with time. The connection between ‘attic’ and ‘dust’ shows the stages of maturity that we gain phase by phase and eventually gain the maturity level where the outcomes of those experiences become our strength and protect us from an unseen future. ‘Dust’ may also reflect the annihilation where a person bends down due to either ageing or the brunt of the past that they bury under the dust of time or death.
The articles ‘an’ and ‘a’ project the individual experiences of a person that are more subtle but profound. The letter ‘w’, I feel, gives a sense of the ups and downs in life that reshape our intellect and bring ultimate maturity until death.
To me, the act of the wasp curling into its own dust is representative of an attic itself: self-contained, enclosed, and a place of possible loneliness. The wasp being at the windowsill adds more to the pathos of this haiku, as it indicates that the wasp wished to leave the stuffy attic for its free life outside. It brings into question humanity’s relationship with nature and makes us think about how we can live in more synchronicity with the natural world.
– Alan Summers (UK)
(Published previously in The Heron’s Nest vol. XXI no. 4, 2019)
It’s difficult sometimes to summarize a whole story into the shortest possible amount of words, but when someone does it, it becomes a masterpiece. This haiku is one of those masterpieces that shows why haiku is considered as one of the finest forms of creative writing.
‘Duskfall’ with an ellipsis gives the imagery of a silent yet sad evening where there are no activities. The word itself shows the ending of life when dusk has fallen and is followed by darkness. But, the ending of life can also mean a new beginning that is deeper in nature. It looks like the locus of control is shifting from the outer world to the inner one where subtle aspects of nature get active and replace worldly life.
In this haiku, I can see both outer and inner aspects of life where outer life activities gradually enter into the night and let night complete the rest of the story. The moon bumping into a paper boat shows how things delicately work out of realities, especially when they enter into the night where a moon gradually comes close to Earth and touches the temporary or fragile part of life, which is a paper boat in this case.
Mr. Summers is often experimental and inventive in his choice of words and phrasing. In this haiku, “duskfall” is one such example. It is not a recognized word by the majority of dictionaries but it is intuitively understood. It has a potent imagistic sense to it, with the motion of dusk falling either into place or dropping away. I prefer to think it is the former. As Hifsa pointed out, the ellipsis helps to create movement as well.
The next two lines provide a startling but calming image of the moon bumping into a paper boat. However, we can discern that the moon is not actually hitting the paper boat, but its reflection is.
A fun part of reading this haiku is figuring out the connection between the first line and the next two lines. The haiku seems to say: “the coming of dusk is like the moon’s reflection bumping into a paper boat.” A lot could be interpreted from this, but I feel that the image gives rise to mystery and magic.
What is also curious is that Mr. Summers plays with color with the two parts: dusk being black and the moon and paper boat being white. In a way, the coming of the blackness accentuates the white. I get a sense that the poem could be speaking of yin and yang: the sky and the earth, the night and day, are intertwined and balance each out.
Besides all this thought, witnessing the moment described would be joyous and spectacular, especially in the quiet of dusk. Like in any poetry, haiku have a layer of mental interpretation and a layer of mood/atmosphere. Understanding both can give us a comprehensive picture of a poem.
Another feeling I get from this haiku is the beauty of the “o” sounds in “moon,” “into,” and “paperboat.” These long syllables slow down the poem and create the scene of dusk potently.
It’s difficult to write an original haiku about the moon after 100s of years of tradition of doing so. Mr. Summers has done it through his unique juxtaposition, word choice, and imagery.
– Alan Summers (UK) Modern Haiku volume 48.3 Autumn 2017
Commenting on a master’s haiku is always a gamble, but fundamentally … fortuna adiuvat audaces. At first, I wondered what the light of the river was: the brightness of the river’s surface or the lights on its shore … then I realized that it didn’t really matter and that I didn’t have to rationalize too much. The image that reaches me is immediate: dark, a light that reflects on the river and on falling raindrops. The raindrops, if illuminated by an intense light in the dark, can highlight and hypnotically catalyze the eye. Enlightenment that reveals what would otherwise escape us. And here, they are clearly evident: these thin needles that sew the river with the sky, the darkness with darkness, in a single landscape.
This haiku, masterfully expressed in a few words, has enchanted someone like me who loves brevity very much. I also enjoy its harmonious fluidity, which cleverly breaks into a stark tone only in the second line. It harmonizes well with an Italian who is accustomed to the harmonious sounds of their own language. Chapeau.
This is a very visual haiku where I can immediately see a scene of a night of rain ripples but one might ask how can there be light at night if it’s raining? To answer that, another immediate scene came to my mind, which was an urban or suburban area lit by city lights around the river. Manhattan or the other side Brooklyn is a perfect atmosphere for this haiku. This haiku also conjures images of rain needles during the day too.
Another question to ask is why would someone be in the rain to view such a sight? Perhaps an unexpected downpour occurred while someone was by the river or was inside a boat/ferry to capture this moment. There’s a lot going on in this seven-word haiku.
Although this haiku can be seen as a shasei “sketch of life” poem, one can note the juxtaposition between the fragment (riverlight) and the phrase (rain) and the space the reader has to fill in to see the ripples without it being told. Ex. If this haiku was written as:
riverlight
the sewing pins
of rainfall ripples
That to me would be too telling and boring and would definitely classify as shasei.
Another interesting thing about this haiku is that riverlight on the spellchecker sees it as a typo. I’m not sure if it was intended or not and I could not find a direct definition of the word but found that’s it’s a name of a property in London. Perhaps leaving the word not in caps made it personal to the author yet open to the reader. Either way, it doesn’t hurt the essence of this haiku, which to me is quite masterfully written.
Riverlight, with its great mystery, is used as the starting note of this beautiful orchestral haiku, where the subtlety of life lies in the light that makes no difference to the flowing water but to the falling rain. It’s a deep expression of having everything but still nothing in life. The riverlight may be soft, subtle, mysterious, and vague for the rhythmic movement of water but it has a great impact on the things that are intangible.
Sewing pins not only help in setting clothes but also fixing mending issues by providing adherence. The analogy of sewing pins with rainfall makes this haiku poignant and profound. Again, the riverlight gives a great colour to the rain but metaphorically doesn’t change the vagueness and purposeless life of it.
In life, we may experience a lot of things that look different when uncovered or unveiled by rational thinking. We may find them piercing our life and wish to not face them or encounter them again. Glimpses of adversity in life may be painful but it brings ease with them.
The synthesis of sight, touch, and feel in this haiku makes it more profound and mystical in nature, where the light turns rain into painful experiences or trials of life that eventually lead to eternal peace.
One of the great qualities of Alan’s work is that it is always unique and often imaginative/abstract. However, this imagination is grounded in the perception of reality. “riverlight” is a good example of this. The invented word in the first line and the image of rainfall being like sewing pins can be easily understood. In some instances, rain does appear to be sharp and could be mistaken for sewing pins.
Though sewing pins can be seen as something sharp, they can also be perceived as something that mends the broken. This may be why “riverlight” is used: the rain has merged the river and sunlight/moonlight. Also, Alan might be saying that riverlight is akin to the magic of rain appearing as sewing pins.
In terms of sound, the “i” jumps out in almost every word in this haiku. They are in the shape of sharp rain and even have a sonic comparison to them. I also like the format, with the second line setting up a surprise in the third line.
Overall, I believe this poem is unique, fascinating, and economically written.
We have a special edition this time around, as we have an interview with Alan Summers: founder of the organization Call of the Page, President of the United Haiku and Tanka Society, Japan Times award-winning writer, and Pushcart Prize nominated poet. We are honored to have him for our first interview on Haiku Commentary.
NK: So, to begin the interview, I would like to ask you about what first attracted you to haiku, and what continues to inspire you to write haiku and related forms of poetry?
AS: I believe I heard a haiku being read in my old home town of Bristol (England) but it didn’t register. A year later I moved to Queensland, Australia, and I was reading a lot of poetry books, trying to grasp all the forms.
I was in the Queensland State Library, which has a huge collection of Asian literature, and I must have slipped a copy or two of something amongst all the ‘Western’ forms of poetry. When I opened the next book from a huge pile (I was a fast reader) it was short poems, and they started to click with me, and I saw they were called haiku. Within half a minute, I realised I would stay with haiku for years to come. I stopped trying to accomplish and conquer poetry, and just enjoyed it for its own sake.
I’m never sure of inspiration, and there’s been some great quotes about it barely being about inspiration.
So, what makes me keep reading (very important) and writing haiku and its related genres is the drive, not to conquer, but to search, both myself, and attempt to know some answers, and haiku is a very good medium for that.
NK: “I stopped trying to accomplish and conquer poetry, and just enjoyed it for its own sake.” It seems that this comes with more maturity as a poet. What do you enjoy most about haiku? Also, along the lines of searching for answers, what is a recent answer you have been seeking for through haiku?
AS: It was the ‘release’ as there was a great pressure to perform well with the other poetry. I was released just to be able to write and submit, mostly to Azami journal ed. Ikkoku Santo (Osaka, Japan). No judgements, no peer pressure or politics—just submit the poetry. I even started up a monthly column showing the wonder of the haiku by different writers each time.
The most enjoyable thing about haiku is its stages, from first ‘write’ at or immediately after I’ve experienced something, to the editing where I try to capture both experience (on both sides of the coin) and that something special called ‘else’ which is an essence we try to catch in poetry.
Every single year, I do what is called “Going back to Zero” and pulling back to that first time I read, then wrote, or attempted to write haiku. It’s that ultimate simplicity born out of wisdom, and I believe that the pre-haiku writer Matsuo Basho was forever searching for the lodestone, or that alchemical answer, of turning base things to ‘gold’.
My recent answer? I’ve only just started this year, and I’m hoping a few new projects might find some kind of ‘lead’, or if not, something will happen, and sometimes it’s not good, and sometimes that’s the best stimulus and incentive.
NK: You mentioned the pressure associated with performing well in other forms of poetry. Do you feel submitting haiku to journals in English now is still without that pressure? AS: There was a certain poetry group, very early on, that was often destructive, which I couldn’t understand. Thankfully an opportunity came up to move to Australia, and I found my home at Brisbane’s Metro Arts Centre. I also got my very first paid poem! I struggled with writing formal poetry, and perhaps it was simply that my heart wasn’t really into it. Haiku isn’t really as easy as it looks, but we can fall into writing some good ones from time to time. I think there’s always pressure when a batch of haiku or related genres are sent off, which we can’t escape. Even when I’ve had editors that have headhunted my work, it’s still pressure, as you want the best for them, and their journal. Pressure has to come hand in hand with writing and then submitting haiku—at least for me. Anyone who has met me knows I love a sense of humour, but when I work out a batch of poems to send to an editor, even if they are for a friend, it’s deadly serious for me: I put myself under immense pressure.
During my time in Australia, I had to perform—not just write poetry—and I remember the first big public event was a complete disaster for me. I’m basically an introvert, although it won’t seem like that to many who know me now. The second performance, for the Fellowship of Writers in Queensland, was a success. Coming back to Bristol, in England, I regularly went to open mics, once, twice, three times a week, and was awful to start with, but it’s so important to read or perform our poetry in public, and then one day, I remember it was a haibun, it all clicked, and the large audience loved it.
I now get nervous if I’m not nervous, whether it’s writing, and then submitting work, or being interviewed on the radio, or doing a live guest slot. Running live workshops is a mix of nerves, humour, intenseness, and fun, all rolled into one, with a time pressure, as the clock is always ticking. But it’s so rewarding, whether it’s top poets, or those new—both are equally exciting. There has to be pressure, and ‘good’ stress, and my past mistakes are a bonus that I can teach and mentor from, and watch people grow in front of my eyes.
NK: I couldn’t agree more that there is a power in reading poetry to the public that cannot be found on a page. Could you share that haibun that really clicked with the audience and yourself? If you have trouble finding it, I would like to talk about one of your monoku: I once was this stone home for another Bones – journal for contemporary haiku no. 7 (2015) What was your inspiration behind this haiku, and for a larger question, how do you feel the monoku in English connects to the original vertical line of Japanese haiku? AS: The haibun that connected with that large audience including poets is one that has been published multiple times, with slight revisions each time, including a slightly different title. It’s currently known as The Crow Star: http://area17.blogspot.com/2014/03/rooster-moans-and-land-of-rising-haibun.html …
It’s unique in that a number of journals have happily published this work knowing it was already published, and enjoyed its tweak each time. It was first published in Australia, which is as it should be for a number of reasons. Firstly, it was all about Australia and a melding of two places—one in Queensland, namely Fraser Island (that’s the camp fire I helped build)—and secondly the 4000 klick journey to Uluru, which are both iconic places. It really was a violet sky, and I’ve seen green sunsets too in Australia! The other reason is that ‘paper wasp’, before it became international, was a Brisbane-based haiku group, and they invited both myself (just outside) and Janice Bostok (New South Wales) which was a double honour. The opening haiku was also a friendly argument with Janice (we often exchanged long letters via snail-mail) and I was right this time, although Janice was a real wildlife expert, and it was a Torresian crow! I was surrounded by various crows at a rented farmhouse, where the farmer owner was embarrassed when I found out it was also called Faraway Farm. You can imagine as a younger poet how much I loved that name! Well, I was right—the crow, although usually only found in New South Wales, was on the farmland. I’ve written about crows in various countries for almost a quarter of a century and they always come back to me in my work. This was my first haibun, and oddly it did do well in performances from then on.
After that, I wrote two haibun purely for performance, one for various festivals, and never put up for publication, and the second one was commissioned by Bristol Old Vic Theatre, and takes at least twenty minutes to read or perform, and far too long to be published. Each haibun has been a breakthrough moment for me. Haibun became a breakthrough again, years later, when then Blithe Spirit editor Dave Serjeant told me that my haibun submission (I hadn’t submitted haibun for a few years) was the best he’d read recently, and that started a long relationship with haibun with the British Haiku Society journal, which years later again culminated in becoming their haibun editor for three issues in 2018. I also regularly help run online haibun courses, and it’s exciting to see so many from the courses become some of the strongest and most original practitioners of this genre in both haikai and non-haikai publications and anthologies.
Regarding the monoku from Bones 7 [http://www.bonesjournal.com/no7/bones7-1.pdf …], it’s an interesting story in that it’s the first submission to Bones under my own name! I’m one of the original founding editors, and occasionally we’d slip one haiku each into the journal, but we’d each choose a pseudonym, and I believe, so far, no one has been able to guess which ones, as we didn’t make it that easy for our wonderful readers! I left Bones journal after issue 6 to pursue more of my writing projects and for Call of the Page, and felt compelled to submit to Bones in my own right. It was a tall order as the quality is so very high, and I didn’t just want to write something good just to get into the journal. The acceptance process is quite intense, and each editor has very high standards, and all three editors are very different. I couldn’t believe it, but several monoku and a sequence were taken! If anything, being known as a former editor, who has just left, and been a colleague, would have made it even more difficult to have so many accepted, which I knew, so they were accepted purely on merit alone. Each piece for that submission to Bones journal had to justify itself to be added to the submission that I was compiling, and of course to be eventually and hopefully accepted.
One thing I learnt, or had confirmed, during my master’s degree at Bath Spa University, was that poets can go into some separate almost dream state in order to write. Sometimes when we come out of that state, with the paper ‘still dripping ink’, we can’t always recognise it as ours, that we have just written it: I call it ‘Writer’s Fugue’. It’s the opposite of ‘writer’s block’ and can compel us to write in various states, from unconsciously writing (without knowing), to an almost Red Shoes state (HC Andersen). When I had written the pieces for Bones journal, and come back to them, I realised a lot of them were about home, having one or not having one, or of a major disruption to personal security such as political actions that do not benefit society, or just plain outright war.
My Ticking Moon sequence, in the same issue of Bones journal, is inspired by WWI, and the wrongs committed by politicians and generals which meant millions upon millions of marvellous human beings vanished from our society, across the various killing fields, over power and territory. The monoku you ask about, which is published as a standalone poem, brings in home, and that I was “once”, and by that I mean it’s a strong theme for me, and possibly for any of us: that we were “once” one kind of person, and evolved, whether via the usual routes of childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood, as we mature, and become more nuanced in life’s experience; or through great occasions of sadness; of trauma; or displacement. I have always felt displaced. Am I an outlier? I’m not sure. Perhaps I’m neither one thing or another, not even “once”. There have been times I have risked my life for society—a treatment in haibun is due to be published later this year—and perhaps it’s as an outsider that I have my own unique gifts and insight to share.
Although unconsciously or subconsciously written, that monoku, and the rest of the submission to Bones journal, in that ‘writer’s fugue’, had a part of me that also “parallel wrote it” consciously; just one of those curious partnerships with ourselves as writers maybe! Perhaps, because I was adopted, and left my mother after 11-12 months, there was an unconscious trauma, and an inwardness and extreme numbness and introvertedness. I had no real help to develop as a functioning human other than by and with myself until I fell into enough fortunate incidents to make me realise my humanness and being a valid ‘component’ of society. I’d always been motivated to serve society so much I often forgot myself in the process, but I began to feel finally validated: great experiences for a writer’s source material!
So, one way to break it down is that I was ‘once a stone’ and being locked in emotionally, and that I am not this ‘another’ any more. So, ‘I once was this stone’ and ‘I once was…” and not being or living in a ‘stone home’ as now I have a home, which is myself, basically. Does the reader need to know all of this? I don’t think so, but just to pick up a tone, a nuance, and that many of us might feel like stone at times, for whatever reason, for a while, and now that we’ve left this behind, it might be some comfort. As much as I enjoy plain open haiku, which are just one or two of Shiki’s later stages of shasei technique, there is an occasional pull for me of cryptic haiku, almost as if I am in two minds to reveal too much of my vulnerabilities. And for the joy of writing something different, and using language in other ways. Well, it’s been a long journey developing my first ever submission to Bones journal, because it had to be more than just good, it had to be really me and going deeply into and under myself.
re: “…for a larger question, how do you feel the monoku in English connects to the original vertical line of Japanese haiku?”
As the complex Japanese language systems (plural) are so different from the single and simpler Western method of language and communication, I do feel the broken syntax method of many English-language monoku can closely resemble Japanese haikai verses, which are traditionally one-line poems.
Take for example the classic haikai (pre-haiku) verse of Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694) which would normally be vertical of course:
夏草や兵どもが夢の跡.
So let’s transliterate it! First into Romanised Japanese, and then into English in its original order of ‘words/phrases/grammar’ in the haikai verse:
natsu-gusa ya / tsuwamono-domo-ga / yume no ato
summer grasses (:!) / strong ones’ / dreams’ site
(Presented by University of Oregon, USA).
Should we smooth out the verse so much when it’s “poetically translated?” I’ve attempted a few translations, but can they pack the same punch as the original Japanese?
summer grasses:
the remains of warriors
with their dreams
(English-language translation version by Alan Summers).
I deliberately kept the colon (and suggesting it as an “equals” sign) as I’m suggesting that an incredible amount of grassland does “equal” battlefields at one time or another; that maybe summer grass is warriors/soldiers sleeping, and this is a strong folklore expectation of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table fable too, that they will rise again, either to save us or return as haunted casualties of the manipulation done by governments and corporations. The verse has influenced me for decades, in all of its shades.
As a one-line monoku in English, how might we approach it? Not to everyone’s taste, but I prefer the literal presentation version by the University of Oregon (web page now gone sadly). I can’t replicate that roughness that says more than a polished version. But here’s one I created for this interview:
summer grass the warriors site dreaming
(version by Alan Summers)
This next one of mine is of night grass, and of iconic British nocturnal animals that used to trundle around my previous home.
after rain midnight dreams a hedgehog
Alan Summers brass bell: a haiku journal feature: One-Line Haiku curated by Zee Zahava (September, 2014)
At first it appears to be smooth syntax, with one or even no pause or cut. This one went through numerous versions and revisions over a year or more and then it came together, and I feel it comes close to the actual experience which was dreamlike. Here we can read different pauses:
after rain / midnight dreams a hedgehog
after rain / midnight dreams / a hedgehog
after rain / midnight / dreams / a hedgehog
And using the Oregon transliteration,
even: after rain (:!) / midnight dreams / a hedgehog
I think we, outside of Japan, do connect with a lot of their haiku, and the pre-haiku verses of the classic times too. Sometimes we are like children, but I’ve heard that many Japanese haikai writers who are aware and can find haiku in other languages are influenced in return. Reading through Fay Aoyagi’s immensely fine blog of Japanese-language haiku translated into English where the Japanese and Romanised versions are one line, you could make each English version into a monoku, and see that we are not all that distantly placed from each other: https://fayaoyagi.wordpress.com/haiku/ .
We are at least cousins, perhaps close cousins, to Japanese haiku, and also have our own genre at the same time. There is something about haiku that rejuvenates us, and gets us to look in the right and correct ‘other’ way in this world of human turmoil. As much as I need to look into the face of the world created by big government and business, I can also look ‘the other way’ and see magic that might otherwise be ignored, overlooked, or at worst dislocated and uprooted, or be transient.
NK: Thank you for the detailed response. I especially resonate with your idea of “writer’s fugue,” and how English monoku, and haiku in general, are cousins with Japanese haiku, that both cultures can inspire each other. Now we have a question or two from our other editors: Lucia Fontana and Hifsa Ashraf.
LF: What do you enjoy writing about, and what would you like to write about in the future? AS: I write from various perspectives, mostly from direct actual experience, and bringing that to a poem, both as it “was”, and as close to it being “as it happened”, with sometimes a tiny tweak, but as close to the experience as to a hairsbreadth. It’s more of a challenge to make a direct experience into a poem, then simply using it as a base for a work of fiction, or a mix of fact and fiction. We see too much filtering of facts all too often on the news. So, a news report is diluted, and altered. Not just in recent years, but as far as I can remember, there’s been a struggle to tell it as it, no slant or bias, with direct reporting as absolutely truthful and accurate as possible, and contain the necessary kernels of creativity, to convey it to every reader, but without usurping the facts “that happened.”
When we are not dominated by the ‘glint of gun’ then it’s the glint of a knife. This haiku is from direct experience, in London, where more and more police carry semi or fully automatic weapons, and not just handguns. This was in a Royal Borough where one of the Princes resides, right off a large public park, and was from a writing haiku walk called a ‘ginko’ that I led for the British Haiku Society:
dappled light the glint of gun
Publication credit: Human/Kind Journal of Topical & Contemporary Japanese Short-forms & Art Issue 1.1 January 2019
The hard sounds of the opening line in this monoku is deliberate, despite its actual meaning. The light and sounds were late afternoon in heatwave London, and it’s a subconscious play on the sound of saying “Doppler effect” as well an aspect of its meaning, and ‘dappled’ could also be the sound of the blip blip blip of expended ammunition if it ever came to that. The alliteration is a device I use more and more and aids and abets a number of haiku, by myself, and elsewhere, rather than distracts.
Ever since appearing in a book about British birds in haiku, and encouraging Gene Murtha (USA) on a similar project in America, I’ve found myself dominated by birdlife in my haiku, whether harsh reality: https://haikucommentary.wordpress.com/2017/10/14/alan-summers-sparrow/ … or amplifying the joy of a new birth of birds:
baby robins
the world is reset
for a moment
Publication credit: Presence issue #61 2018 Anthology: a hole in the light: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku 2018
Adult robins are a symbol of Christmas in particular in the U.K. and baby robins are early-to-late summer.
So, what do I enjoy about writing and writing about? I need to, have to, write about both the light and shade of the world, and its tones within each spectrum. I can’t ignore tough topics, and I can’t ignore happy situations that dangerously veer close to sentimentality. It’s a world of all colours after all. I can enjoy writing, when it’s not an uncomfortable compulsion, and can be deeply relaxing and fulfilling, and also when the editing brain side of things kicks in, it’s another kind of rewarding physical and mental experience.
What would I like to write about in the future? I would like to write about things that are occurring in that future when it arrives. There are a lot of very current writers again, talking about mental health issues, various serious forms of abuse, and self-harming, as well as protests against injustice. Marlene Mountain has her heirs, and I give a deep bow to her, and those inspired by her. I am already seeing things I thought would never happen again, such as the rise of the far/extreme right in mainstream politics, society, and actual government again. My parents were active in their different ways against Nazi Germany, and I saw the Berlin Wall come down, and now another one is going up, despite the fact that walls don’t fully function. China’s Great Wall was an exception but what it did was drive tribes away that became the scourge of many parts of the world. I’ll continue to include empathy in all its guises, as there is always a great need. So, whatever topic I’ll write about when the future arrives, and it’s constantly arriving, there has to be embedded empathy.
HA: What do you think will change in haiku in the future in terms of its features and aesthetics?
AS: The future happens every second, and we often lag behind, in our technology, and social issues. What will haiku be like in the ‘further’ future? We’ve already seen how haiku (around since the 1890s) picked up on Basho’s innovative ideas of mass communication in the pre-haiku days of hokku and other haikai verses. When we no longer have to carry physical tech devices, haiku will be there too.
Just as haiku can carry a hundred different meanings, when all other communication is controlled, we will tell our future selves about freedom, and how life was before we killed off most of our animal and plant co-species.
On a literary level where will, or rather, where could haiku go?
That’s for whoever or whatever comes after us. I do know for sure that when we inhabit planet Earth’s moon, and Mars, and the moons of some of our galaxy companion planets, haiku will find its way there too. It is much more than just being brief. It can carry our cry of being alive, and reporting what is still alive, despite our mistakes.
If Basho had not died so young, if Shiki had not died so young, we can guess they would have taken their ideas so much further. Can we second-guess the future features and aesthetics? If I knew, I might still keep it quiet so that future generations can be free of any risk of control from the haiku writers before them.
The key element to any writing is communication, let’s keep it genuine, and keep hold of empathy. That’s what Basho, Shiki, and those between those timelines, strived to keep going. Let’s respect that, and the already-new pioneers of haiku and associated genres, who hold that dear.
Closing statement:
AS: When I asked Nick if he’d like me to close with something more, one suggestion was to offer “some advice for those who are having a difficult time finding their way through haiku” which I thought was a great question, as I’m about to launch a second Call of the Page introduction to the haiku course at the end of January. And because when I came to haiku, back in the early 1990s, I instantly connected to the genre, as a reader, but struggled with writing it myself. Though it seemed to be “so easy” I failed more often than I succeeded, at first: this has stood me in good stead, personally to good advantage, as I now regularly give feedback sessions, remembering many of my own mistakes, before breaking through to writing better haiku, and being able to write in so many different approaches.
So, what are our obstacles and pitfalls when we start writing haiku?
Whether we come from a longer poetry tradition/background as writers or readers, or both, one thing to bear in mind is to cut back on explanation. We are people who often want to explain, sometimes too much, and with haiku, we need to step back from doing that.
The next thing is to select our two images (which haiku is often about, and quite literally just two things side by side). When we select our images, then our next step could be to build bridges, to or over those images, in order to start connecting them for our readers. We need to judge how to build the framework of a haiku and ensure we don’t sacrifice grammar, syntax, clarity, and add the steps for feet to be placed onto that bridge, to help the reader travel back and forth, over and into, that framework called a haiku. One of the basic methods of haiku is something called juxtaposition.
Don’t ditch your articles (a, an, the) as they can be invaluable, not only for clarity of meaning, but a nuanced focus, and emphasis, so that the haiku has direction for the reader to travel.
Articles (a, an, the) are small things but can make all the difference to both your haiku and to your reader.
Putting images together: Either two concrete images or one concrete and one abstract. And always pull back from the precipice of over-telling, and making strong personal statements in your haiku.
Adjust the nature of the images, and decide which choices to make for the effect of combining them. They can be strongly related to each other, although if there’s a slight gap, or distance, in the logic of their pairing, you might create a haiku much larger and compelling. When you select the right pair, it could send your haiku beyond just the accumulation of two images. Just as different kinds of drinks or food can be a combination of two things that transcend being just a pair of basic flavours.
Avoid the temptation to crowd or cram more than two images into your haiku. Three images are possible, as long as two images are the main feature, so there will always be exceptions to every suggestion. But back to two images, and how we let those them interact, by bumping up against each other, without injecting ideas or concepts, or ‘leading’ the reader to ‘our own conclusions” and opinions.
Relax and have fun deciding which two images, without embellishment, so that they can resonate, and really buzz like bees. Make plans to pair images for each haiku that you begin to create, and push yourself, now and then, to experiment, and even swap and change one image from one haiku, for one in another haiku, until you feel you’ve got the magic formula for at least one haiku.
Building blocks: Once you have your “chosen couple” (be they plain, ordinary, everyday, for at least one image) create a few variations with different syntax, different articles (a, an, the), and prepositions, from the simple ones such as: at, by, in, of, up, with. There’s a few other common prepositions: after, before, behind, below, beneath, beside, between, down, for, from, into, near, off, outside, through, toward, under, and underneath. Articles and prepositions are or look like humble bits of grammar but they really improve on communication, which is a major aim of most poetry, and other genres of writing. And often vital are the ‘prepositions of place’ (at, in, on) and these little devices help to further clarify where something or someone needs to be located. Think of all these little components as vital pieces of evidence in a court of law, where the most important decision of our lives is being made. We need judge, jury, and public to completely understand our intent, and accuracy of an event or experience. These ‘prepositions of place’ help you to be specific when writing about where the action takes place, giving important details for our communication to the reader. Often details stand or fall on a single word, sometimes that word could even be that article or a preposition as mentioned above.
Now we’ve talked about the two images and their dynamics for haiku, but not about the common three-line shape of haiku, and how that’s made. With the three-line haiku, it’s often the case that there is a combination of a one-line segment with a two-line section. The segment can come first, or it can be the section. If the one-line segment is the last (third) line, we need to check that it isn’t dropped into that line position too abruptly, so fine-tuning might be called upon. Yet, often, if the one-line segment becomes the opening (first) line, we can drop it into that position without too much worry about articles and prepositions. Phew!
Read out your early draft versions for any distracting skips and bumps that don’t aid the preferred sound (and intent) of your haiku. Read them out, and loud! You can even record them to play back to yourself. Reading out loud can pick up some things to be ironed smooth, and playing back a recording can certainly highlight even more aspects to improve, or to keep, that might or might not look good on paper. Remember, haiku (and not just tanka) were meant to be read out to fellow poets, and thus they are sound poems as much as they are poems on a page or screen.
Don’t be too anxious to post or publish your haiku out into the public’s eye within seconds or minutes (so easy with email and social media). Let the poem rest, if only for a few days. Your fresh eyes, and time that has passed by, can give you invaluable insight into any overlooked or missed opportunities for adjustments and correcting. Think of it in this way: you only have one shot—make it as good as you can. Part of haikai practice, from Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694) onwards, was to hone, edit, revise, and refine so many times until it shone. Make that polish bright!
The first elemental capturing of haiku is just one half of the magic, and of a good healthy brain work out. That’s because the revision process is the other half of a good brain workout— particularly important in modern times. The full write up and eventual presentation of a haiku is a left/right brain exercise that can pay dividends for our overall mental health. Attention to the initial spark, an actual experience, also heightens our observational skills. However observant we already are, or not, haiku can really increase what we can notice, enriching our daily lives.
Be excited! Even about the editorial process, and enjoy going over a number of versions, each getting closer to the diamond-sharp haiku we strive for, and want to shine further than our own computer screen. And enjoy reading and commenting on haiku by other people, even those we have never heard of before, or didn’t realise we could enjoy their particular style. Now pull all these various aspects together and you will regularly build up stronger work for posting, or for submissions and publication that can also provide a foundation for your first or next haiku collection, if you so desire.
(Poetry & Place anthology issue 1 ed. Ashley Capes and Brooke (Close-Up Books, April 2016)
I really love the imagery of the juniper and larksong. Larksong itself is a strong image created by fusing a visual and audible image!
The brevity of the poem makes it very direct, but I feel there is much more to it than can be seen at first glance…
…It took me a few reads to see what is going on, but I can see how the wonderful song of the bird is drawing the observer/reader in close, like the juniper berries are drawing in the lark. The song is making the observer/reader take a look at the natural scene—beyond the everyday view, deep into a wondrous microcosm, a symbiosis of the bird and tree, the bird eating the berries, spreading the juniper seeds through its faeces.
The juniper bush also reminds me of a funny scene from the movie “Monty Python’s Life of Brian,” where it is the only means of food for a recluse who has taken a vow of silence.
Brian is fleeing from an unwanted following of fanatics looking for a savior and arrives on a mountaintop. He falls into a recluse’s hole, hurting the man’s foot. The man shouts out in pain, cussing about breaking his 5-year silence. But soon, he starts singing, as he might as well. Brian is trying to keep him quiet so his following doesn’t find him, but to no avail of course.
When the mob arrives and they hear what has happened, they decide it is a miracle performed by Brian. Soon though, they wonder why there savior “led” them to the mountaintop where there is no water or food.
Then Brian points out a nearby juniper bush and its presence is declared another miracle!
The scene ends with the recluse fighting Brian’s following over the juniper bush.
I guess the point being that the recluse’s voice led the group to discover the juniper bush, like the lark’s song draws us into the haiku moment.
There have been some eastern poems about drinking, but they were not corrupted. They look like saintly poems. I think that this author drank the gin “juniper” to the limit “tether” until morning when the larks were singing—but heaven’s gate closed, because the larksong ended.
Bad habits will make you lose your mind, and it will be its own tether. Maybe we think that the past drunkard poets as saintly because they stand far from power. They say Santoka was always drinking, but his haiku is popular now.He wrote many haiku, begging and drinking while he was wandering. I think there isn’t a commonality between this author’s life and Santoka’s life, but they can’t stop drinking to their dream.
– Norie Umeda (Japan)
I imagine this juniper as an old, dying, or felled tree. Lark sparrows (based on what I have read) tend to favor more open grassland. Could it be that the bird is singing a happy song?
Alternatively, the tendency in places to plant and save more juniper trees (ecotourism) means the larks in those areas are in decline. In this case, could it be that the bird(s) is singing a sad song?
Thirdly, if we define juniper as an evergreen (from the Latin, junniperus) the youthful image that arouses contrasts with “the tether end of larksong” which one could imagine meaning that the birds are getting ready to migrate, taking with them their beautiful sing-song. Does it mean winter is on the doorstep?
Lastly, in certain countries, poachers trap birds (including larks) and eat them. I can picture a bird glued (birdlime) to a branch. It’s a slow death and would surely provoke a heart-breaking song. I am not sure larks are trapped in that way (they nest near the ground) but the image jumped into my mind.
– Corine Timmer (Portugal)
The juniper has distinctly sharp shoots and often the shape of the tree itself forms to one side, and I think comparing it to the “tether end of larksong” is a fine association. Besides showing an intriguing connection, I believe the image brings the reader to a state of mental silence, watching the lark’s song in its last sound.
Juniper berries are a summer kigo, or seasonal reference. The call of the lark is reflective of summer, in my eyes, as it has an uplifting and energetic resonance. The juniper is also reflective of summer, with its sharpness matching the blaze of summer heat.
The “r” sounds in this monoku also associate with the call of the lark in its curved song.
You can easily feel the moment of the haiku when you read it, and it brings one peace and introspection.
– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)
Did you enjoy this haiku and commentary? Let us know in the comments.
Haiku Commentary 