Tag: poetry

Haiku by Alexander Groth, Gareth Nurden, and Ibrahim Nureni

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku1 Comment

meteor shower
her wish for
dialysis

— Alexander Groth (Germany)
published in tsuri-doro, issue #30, 2025

Commentary by Nicholas Klacsanzky:

This haiku takes the tradition of a “wish upon a shooting star” to very real emotional depths. As a life-saving treatment, dialysis being wished upon through a superstition highlights the desperation of the patient. Commonly, a wish made in this fashion is much lighter and whimsical. It is also associated with childhood, and the patient herself might be a child. The meteor shower mirrors that seriousness and overwhelming experience of needing dialysis, which is a mechanism for survival rather than a cure.

“Meteor shower” functions as a seasonal word (kigo), traditionally evoking images of wonder, transience, and celestial beauty. In Germany, meteor showers happen most in summer and winter. In looking at the mood of this haiku, I would suspect that the meteor shower would be happening in winter.

The poet deftly leaves some details out. We don’t know who “her” refers to: a mother, a daughter, a patient, or the speaker herself? We don’t know if the wish is granted. We don’t know if she can afford it or access it. This haiku is effectively spartan in information and wording.

The lines are written in descending order, from distant grandeur (meteor shower) to personal strife (her wish for) to the stark focus of dialysis. The lines becoming smaller and smaller could be reminiscent of many things: how a meteor falls to the Earth, the dimming of life for the patient, or the flow of liquids during dialysis itself.

In looking at the punctuation and sound, this haiku does not employ a dash or ellipsis to mark a cut. The haiku is so sparse and is phrased in such a way that adding punctuation might have looked clunky. The first two lines have euphony with the letters “o” and “r.” However, in the last line, the switch up in content is matched with a change in sound: “i” and “y” are focused upon, while “s” is still carrying some of the flavor from the first two lines.

In only six words, this haiku presents medical trauma, economic hardship, human longing, and cosmic indifference—and does not sentimentalize it. In this haiku, the wish upon a star, an innocent gesture, becomes a call for empathy and assistance for those who are less fortunate.

The crow lurking
In my parking bay
Learning to walk again

— Gareth Nurden (Wales)

Commentary by Jacob D. Salzer:

A powerful haiku that has at least two interpretations. The crow could be learning to walk again due to an injury or old age. The poet also could be learning to walk again for similar reasons and/or due to another medical condition. I appreciate how learning to walk again slows us down and lets us appreciate life and notice more in our surroundings.

Interestingly, there are three -ing verbs in this haiku, which is not commonly seen in English-language haiku, but it doesn’t come across as distracting. On the contrary, the -ing verbs seem to show connection and coherence.  

In short, this is a haiku that inspires compassion for both the crow and the poet. In the end, a lot of people will learn to walk again as we grow older, and may become more like a child again as well. A beautiful haiku.

onion bulbs—
I peel another layer
of sorrow

— Ibrahim Nureni (Nigeria/USA)
published in Acorn, 2024

Commentary by Hifsa Ashraf:

The opening line, onion bulbs, establishes both a literal and symbolic foundation for the haiku. On one hand, it refers to a physical object associated with harvesting and storage; on the other, it suggests something layered and hidden. The image implies that beneath the surface of ordinary things lies something hidden within human experience. The em dash creates a pause, supplying a sense of hesitation and emotional weight.

The ending phrase, I peel another layer of sorrow, extends this metaphor into something very personal. The act of peeling becomes an inward process of confronting a long-time buried feeling. Each layer removed does not lead to clarity or resolution but instead reveals further sorrow, suggesting a therapeutic process. The word another depicts repetition, implying that this is an ongoing, possibly exhausting process of resurfacing something painful or difficult to face.

The haiku does not have a clear end. Rather than arriving at a core truth, it presents sorrow as something endlessly layered, where reaching to the core is either delayed or uncertain.  

Coloured Artwork Of Leonid Meteor Shower Of 1833 is a photograph by the Science Photo Library

Haiku by Lucas Weissenborn, Michael Shoemaker, and Tuyet Van Do

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

still playing
the anti-war song
air raid alert

— Lucas Weissenborn (Norway)
published in Tsuri-dōrō, issue #31, January, 2026

Commentary by Hifsa Ashraf:

The opening line is written in a continuous form, suggesting that something is still ongoing. Adding the word “still” before “playing” makes it more expressive in several ways, as it may convey feelings of sadness, hope, emptiness, or persistence.

The reference to an anti-war song in the second line makes the scene more specific, while also raising questions. Is this song personal to the speaker? Is it being played by the person themselves or someone from their past or family? Does the song trigger memories, or does it soothe them? The phrase anti-war suggests themes of peace and reflection, possibly indicating a reminder to oneself or to the world about positivity and resistance to conflict.

The setting in which the song is being played is also significant. Is it in a vehicle, a shop, a home, ruins, or a public space? Each possibility changes the emotional context of the haiku.

The air raid alert, typically represented by a siren, is associated with fear, urgency, and distress. The contrast between the anti-war song and the air raid alert creates striking tension, making the haiku open to multiple interpretations. Is the anti-war song playing during the air raid alert, or is it being used to counteract its psychological impact?

The absence of punctuation further enhances the sense of silence, fear, and uncertainty underlying the poem.

quaking aspens
spinning leaves
into daydreams

— Michael Shoemaker (USA)
published in the Autumn Moon Haiku Journal, May 10, 2025

Commentary by Jacob D. Salzer:

I appreciate the message in this haiku that even in autumn, when some things and people are aging and passing away, there is room to daydream. The word “quaking” is unique and means shivering or trembling but also defines the unique tree beings with the same name: quaking aspens.

According to The National Wildlife Federation, “Quaking aspens, also called trembling aspens, are named for their leaves. Flat leaves attach to branches with lengthy stalks called petioles, which quake or tremble in light breezes. Quaking aspens regularly grow in dense, pure stands, creating a stunning golden vista when their leaves change color in the fall. The white bark is one identifying characteristic of this tree, but the bark is special for more than just its unique appearance. The bark layer of quaking aspens carries out photosynthesis, a task usually reserved for tree leaves. In winter, when other deciduous trees are mostly dormant, quaking aspens are able to keep producing sugar for energy. Deer, moose, and elk seek shade from aspen groves in summer. These same animals consume bark, leaves, buds, and twigs of quaking aspens throughout the year. Ruffed grouse are especially dependent on quaking aspens for food and nesting habitat. People use quaking aspens for fuel and to make paper, particle board, furniture, and hamster bedding. In terms of height, quaking aspens are relatively small. They are usually less than 50 feet (15 meters) tall.”

Quaking aspens are native to North America and have heart-shaped leaves.

The sonic effect of “quaking,” “spinning,” and the “s” sounds (and the wind through the trees) throughout gives this haiku a dreamlike, lullaby effect.  In a culture that praises a fast-paced life, speed, productivity, efficiency, and a “more is better” mindset and attitude, this haiku offers another mode of being, to slow down and be one with Nature. Quaking aspens and their beauty can quiet the mind and give us a quiet space to dream and to daydream. A beautiful haiku.

tuning my guitar
outside the study
yellow leaves shivering

— Tuyet Van Do (Australia)
published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, December 17, 2025

Commentary by Nicholas Klacsanzky:

Starting with the kigo, or seasonal reference, we notice that it is autumn due to the yellow leaves. The action of shivering allows us to conclude that it is the colder part of autumn, heading towards the beginning of winter. This connects well with the word “tuning,” as nature and humans alike have to adjust to the changing of seasons.

Also, when someone tunes a guitar, they are shifting strings, which can be perceived as shivering. So, in this haiku, the leaves trembling can be seen as a direct correspondence of the poet tuning her guitar. It is a comparison I have not seen in other haiku before yet highly relatable.

In the second line, the haiku is placed within a study, or a place to focus on work or projects. From the comfort of the study, the poet sees the helpless leaves “shivering” in the cold weather. The diction personifies the leaves, allowing readers to sympathize with them during this harsh time of year. For many haiku masters, old and new, the focus of the art form is to create empathy and connection between humanity and nature. This haiku leans into that facet.

The pacing of the lines is interesting. The first two lines are of equal length, while the third is long. Most commonly, haiku are written in a short/long/short format in English. The prolonged third line, in a way, emphasizes the leaves’ suffering. The unusual focus on “u” sounds in the first two lines could be a representation of what tuning sounds like. The “l” sounds in the third line make it light for a bit, but the letter “v” in “shivering” creates heaviness.

Finally, the lack of punctuation creates a chance for a pivot line. The haiku can be read two ways: tuning my guitar/ outside the study, yellow leaves shivering” or “tuning my guitar outside of the study/ yellow leaves shivering.” The second reading could mean the poet is outside tuning her guitar, and the leaves could be “shivering” to the music instead of the cold. An enjoyable haiku that provides readers with empathy and a sense of oneness with the natural world.

Photograph by Matt Lavin, Creative Commons





Haiku and haibun by Gareth Nurden, Sathya Venkatesh, and Anthony Lusardi

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haibun, HaikuLeave a comment

civil twilight
around the old parish
the halogen glow of snow

— Gareth Nurden (Wales)

Commentary by Nicholas Klacsanzky:

What initially got me interested in this haiku was the first line, “civil twilight.” I had to look it up, and found out that it means “the brightest of the three twilight phases, occurring when the sun is between the horizon and 6° below the horizon. It provides enough natural light for most outdoor activities, often making artificial lighting unnecessary. It begins in the morning before sunrise and ends in the evening after sunset” (National Weather Service). I never saw this kigo being used, and I was impressed by its sense of sound. The running of “i” and “l” through the line makes it sing.

The second line further sets the scene and serves as a pivot between the first and third lines. The lack of punctuation helps this pivot succeed. The word “parish” is wonderful in its specificity, while “old” adds to the “l” sound in the first line and creates a contrast of times.

Though the first line introduced the time of day, the last line features the season: winter. This supplies a direct comparison between the state of the parish and the stark season it now inhabits. The word “halogen” is a brilliant touch, not just from an imagistic standpoint but also from a mood perspective. The radioactive glow of halogen is reminiscent of war, industry, science, and more. However, the take that stuck with me is the relation to the aftermath of war. The old parish is most likely in ruin (physically or metaphorically), and the halogen of snow magnifies this fact. The snow and twilight did not intend to illustrate the old parish’s wrecked state, but it did in the poet’s eyes, and maybe in the eyes of others around. On another note, the third line keeps with “l” and “o” sounds that blend musically with the second line, and some of the first line.

The relationship between civil twilight and the halogen glow of snow creates toriawase, or a skillful combination of different elements. Though both of these parts are of nature, the old parish brings in a human and spiritual element. This adds another layer to the toriawase.

This haiku is understated and unfolds with meaning with each line and word. It brings in time, seasons, and the connection between human architecture and spirituality with the natural world. It is a contemplative work that delivers through excellent diction, imagery, and phrasing.

red alert
the umbrella seller sits back
to enjoy his tea

— Sathya Venkatesh (India)
published in haikuKATHA, issue #44, 2025

Commentary by Hifsa Ashraf:

The haiku presents a striking shift in mood, moving from danger or urgency to quiet ease. The opening line, “red alert,” signals danger or impending disruption, immediately creating tension and uncertainty. Without punctuation, it allows readers to imagine various interpretations, the most common ones maybe a storm, heavy rain, or another natural calamity.

The second line introduces an umbrella seller that subtly hinting at the nature of the alert. Umbrellas suggest rain or rain related disasters. Yet instead of reacting with alarm, the seller seems to be relaxed, creating a contrast between the urgency and the utter relaxation.

In the final line, “to enjoy his tea,” there is a quiet sense of ease, even a hint of enjoyment. The umbrella seller appears untroubled, suggesting that what brings concern to some may offer opportunity or simply remain an ordinary moment to others.

The overall imagery can be read as revealing a colder, more self-interested side of human nature, where one benefits from circumstances that may trouble many. At the same time, the haiku remains open to multiple interpretations and invites the reader to consider both its subtle implications and its silences.

A haibun:

while reading ryokan’s poetry

i thought about the annual christmas parade in boonton, new jersey. held right after black friday on main street with fire trucks and floats for every local business. the high school marching band, the politicians, the VFWs, the church choirs, the boy and girl scouts and all the neighbors lining up and down the road, taking selfies and tossing confetti with the first falling snow. and if i was his pupil, i would try to convince ryokan to join me in the festivities . . . yet i would imagine, he would convince me to join him near the rockaway river, right near its small falls, far away from all activities and ask me to just listen.

                        late autumn moon;
                        eventually the town sleeps
                        but never the river

— Anthony Lusardi (USA)
first published in failed haiku, issue #111, September 2025

Commentary by Jacob D. Salzer: 

This is an intriguing haibun where modern culture collides with Nature. The parade and modern culture also contrast with the monastic life of a Japanese poet, calligrapher, and Zen Buddhist priest, Ryōkan, who lived in the 18th and 19th centuries. The annual Christmas parade is loud and full of bright colors, sounds, and music, flashing phone cameras, confetti, etc. The parade is happening after Black Friday, when people buy things that day at discounted prices, but it can also involve physical violence and be dangerous. This kind of stimulation at the parade and during Black Friday can easily activate the human sympathetic nervous system (fight, flight, or freeze).

By contrast, the life of Ryōkan is strongly aligned with the beauty of Nature, without loud sounds or other excessive multisensory stimulation. The atmosphere of his life in Nature easily activates our parasympathetic nervous system (rest and digest), where we can relax, while being fully alert and present.

In this haibun, a powerful example of the collision between two worlds is “tossing confetti with the first falling snow.” With Ryōkan’s life and perspective in mind, perhaps the poet is ultimately starting to see modern culture as a kind of distraction that has established traditions, but are ultimately short-lived, while our true home is found in Nature and a quiet mind.

According to Britannica: “Ryōkan (born 1758, Izumozaki, Japan—died Feb. 18, 1831, Echigo province) was a Zen Buddhist priest of the late Tokugawa period (1603–1867) who was renowned as a poet and calligrapher. The eldest son of a village headman, he became a Buddhist priest at about the age of 17 under the religious name of Taigu Ryōkan. When he was 21 he met an itinerant monk, Kokusen, and followed him to his temple, Entsū-ji, at Tamashima, Bitchū province. He followed a life of monastic discipline there for 12 years. After Kokusen’s death he traveled to various parts of Japan as a mendicant priest. In old age he returned to his native Echigo province, where he studied the Man’yōshū and ancient calligraphy. He developed a strong master-pupil relationship with a young nun, Teishin, who after his death compiled Hachisu no tsuyu (1835; “Dew on the Lotus”), a collection of his haiku and waka poems. He also executed many pieces of calligraphy that are esteemed for their elegant beauty.”

Interestingly, there is no capitalization found in this haibun, aside from VFW’s (which I learned means Veterans of Foreign Wars, which is an organization representing U.S. veterans who have served in overseas conflicts). The lowercase words in this haibun seem to create a tone of humility.

In short, this is an intriguing haibun that offers social commentary on modern culture and the importance of being in Nature. It also provides a small window into the life of Ryōkan and Zen Buddhism. Despite our technological advances, cities will rise and fall with time, but Nature will remain. A powerful haibun.

Old Church Tower at Nuenen, 1884, Vincent van Gogh