Tag: poetry

Paul Callus’ crescent moon

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

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

Jacob Salzer’s green tea

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

scent of green tea
in my travel mug
the forest’s darkness

— Jacob Salzer (USA)
(published in The Heron’s Nest, December 2021)

Commentary

Commentary is first by the poet himself, and then others

Green tea is my favorite beverage. According to my college studies, green tea polyphenols have more neuroprotective benefits than any other kind of tea, among many other health benefits. It is an integral part of my life, and I take it with me at times.

Last year, I spent some quality time hiking forests in the Pacific Northwest, particularly on the Columbia Gorge in Washington state and the Wildwood Trail in Portland, Oregon. The Wildwood Trail is the largest urban forested trail in the United States, running over 30 miles long. On this trail, I started to contemplate the soil’s rich darkness that provides nutrients and a safe haven for tree roots and plants. I contemplated geological history and the layers of the Earth. I also thought about the balance of darkness and light that is necessary for trees and plants to grow and thrive, as well as the cycles of life, our ancestors, and the womb of Mother Earth. But the forest’s darkness in this haiku is not limited to the soil alone. I wanted to express the depth, resilience, and mysteries of a forest and how we are connected to the Earth in both obvious and much more subtle ways.

For me, green tea is a bridge in this haiku. It constantly reminds me that I’m a part of something much larger than myself. It reminds me to step outside of my small ego, to remain conscious of my connections with Mother Earth, and to be grateful. Perhaps more subtly, the scent of green tea could resemble transience and my mortality. Simultaneously, if we envision tea steam, it could signify the human spirit evaporating into what Indigenous people call the Great Spirit or the Great Mystery. Additionally, the forest’s darkness might conjure up all the damage we have done collectively to forests, and points to the dangers in a forest, especially at night.

In short, this haiku reminds me to walk in the forest with respect, reverence, and compassion.

 — Jacob Salzer (USA)

A meditative state of mind that travels from here and now to an unknown time. I can feel a sense of transformation that isn’t limited to the scent of green tea, as it highlights how the sense of smell takes us to a special situation, memory, thoughts, or simply daydreaming that can be related to the scent of green tea. It is a deep, therapeutic process where the poet is transformed while holding a travel mug, and travels from the present to the past, or from the present to the future, or from the outer world to the inner world.

I see a sense of realization and awareness here, where ‘the forest’s darkness’ can be interpreted as his inner world/inner self that is revealed to him during this ‘tea meditation’ where each sip is clearing his mind and thoughts—a sort of crystallization of thoughts. The journey to the inner self is being bridged by the traveling that usually brings a person close to their true self especially when they are alone.

Overall, I liked the mystery of this traveling without ‘time & space’ from a cup of tea to the forest’s darkness. There is also an element of healing where one can confront the dark side of one’s life, and to gradually overcome it through patience, self-awareness, and spending quality of time with oneself.

When Nick shared this haiku with me, I felt as if I am the one who is on this journey of transformation. So, an idea came across my mind about this haiku where I read it like this:

green tea dregs
in my travel mug
the forest’s darkness

— HIfsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

Looking at the technical side of this haiku, it is hard to identify a direct kigo, or seasonal reference. “the forest’s darkness” might refer to autumn or winter, though.

In terms of Japanese aesthetics, this haiku may present yugen and/or zoka. Yugen is the subtle profundity of things that are only vaguely suggested, while zoka is the ongoing, continuous self-transforming creativity of the natural world. I think this haiku subtly suggests many deep meanings through its juxtaposition, as Jacob and Hifsa have espoused. The idea of nature’s movement to a travel mug in the form of green tea reminds me of zoka.

For the pacing, the length of the lines are a bit different than the standard English-language haiku. Usually, it is a short first line, a longer second, and a short third. There is nothing wrong in deviating from this, however. There is an elongated syllable in the second line in “travel” that makes it a longer read than shown. What is also cool about the second line is that it acts as a pivot line where the forest’s darkness could be in the travel mug, or the scent of green tea could be in the travel mug—or both.

There are significant things to mention about the sound, too. “e” is the most prominent letter in this haiku, with it being in almost every word. It is a lilting letter that adds positivity to a haiku that has a sense of mystery. The letter “t” is also a major player, where most of the instances of it introduce a softness to the reading.

This is a haiku with many interpretations possible, written in a light way with profound resonance.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by Lilith Lucratea

Marilyn Ward’s flowerpot

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku3 Comments

filling 
a broken flowerpot 
soft sunlight

— Marilyn Ward (UK) 

(previously published in Hedgerow 134, March 2021)

Commentary

The subtle side of nature often reflects through our lives, especially when it comes to filling a void or mending flaws. Nature is our best companion that inspires us to live with hope and resilience. It also teaches us how things, even flawed, are useful for us and others. 

This haiku is a great example of wabi-sabi where nature itself is healing its own elements and mending its flaws. It’s a lesson that even if we are completely broken, we should not lose hope, and find ways to move forward by self-healing. I also see mysticism in this haiku that reminds me of a saying of Jalaluddin Rumi which says: 

“The cure for pain is within pain.”

Let’s keep the soft sunlight of kindness, compassion, and love to heal our flaws. This is how nature teaches us by demonstrating daily that there is no other way of obtaining inner peace. 

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

I like the mood in this haiku. We don’t know why the flowerpot is broken. I like how this brings mystery to the poem and makes me feel the haiku is part of a larger story. I also like the notion that when something is broken it can create new growth and opportunities. In that sense, I like the metaphorical power of this haiku. The broken flowerpot could be a symbol for a divorce or a breakup that is, at the same time, the start of something new.

This haiku also brings to mind the Japanese art of kintsugi. “Poetically translated to ‘golden joinery,’ kintsugi, or Kintsukuroi, is the centuries-old Japanese art of fixing broken pottery. Rather than rejoin ceramic pieces with a camouflaged adhesive, the kintsugi technique employs a special tree sap lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.” (Source: https://mymodernmet.com/kintsugi-kintsukuroi/) 

With kintsugi in mind, I like how the sunlight in this haiku serves as gold lacquer, filling the cracks and empty spaces in this flowerpot. From this perspective, I like how the broken flowerpot is made whole again. But even when the sun sets, I appreciate seeing the broken flowerpot alone with a wabi-sabi aesthetic, which roughly translates to finding beauty in imperfection and what is transient. I appreciate this notion of seeing beauty in the broken flowerpot versus seeing it as only something that needs to be “fixed.” 

Contrast is a technique found in some haiku and, in this case, I think it works very well. I like the 3 contrasts I see: 1) between the hard edges of the flowerpot and soft sunlight, 2) between something broken and something that is whole, and 3) between the loud sound of a flowerpot breaking and the quiet sun. In terms of contrast, the main interpretation I receive is: no matter what is broken in our lives, the power of compassion and gentleness has more depth and seems to last beyond what has happened. This haiku also shows me that the sun is more powerful—and will last longer—than anything that is made and invented by humans. In either interpretation, I feel there is a spiritual quality to this haiku that brings me hope and reassurance. 

In short, this is an emotional haiku with psychological, metaphorical, and spiritual power. 

— Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

Jacob and Hifsa have explained the meaning of this haiku and the aesthetics therein well. I will now discuss the kigo (seasonal reference), pacing, sound, and word usage.

“soft sunlight” and “flowerpot” seem to point to spring. This connects well to the theme of renewal through kintsugi. The lightness of the haiku also aligns well with spring.

The poem follows the common English-language haiku format of a short first line, a second longer line, and a short third line. This is supposed to approximate the rhythm of traditional Japanese haiku.

The most prominent letter in this haiku is “f” in “filling,” “flowerpot,” and “soft.” The first two “f”s bring starkness while the third comes with a delicateness. More soft sounds present themselves with “o” in “broken,” “flowerpot,” and “soft.” The musicality of this haiku manifests a positive tone.

Simplicity and concision is seen in the vernacular used in this haiku. Haiku regularly avoid formal and academic language, and aim for brevity. This is exactly what the poet followed.

A haiku that is at once emotional, philosophical, and direct. It lends much to the reader in terms of resonance.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by Sheetal Shah



Samo Kreutz’s secret

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku3 Comments

friend’s secret
the first to know it
me and the wind

— Samo Kreutz (Slovenia)

(previously published on the Asahi Haikuist Network, October 2020)

Commentary

This is an interesting haiku that sparks a conversation about trust, interconnection, and friendship.  

I like the mystery of the first line. What is the secret? Why is it a secret in the first place? It seems we sometimes keep secrets out of self-protection or simply because we don’t trust someone enough. Sometimes we might keep a secret out of respect for someone else, as to not emotionally or psychologically burden them. In this haiku, I feel a heavy weight in the secret. Perhaps the friend is revealing their gender identity for the first time. Though, I like how the poet left it open for us as readers. In the first line, I feel the strong bond and trust between two friends.

The second line makes me think this is the poet’s best friend, being the first person to know the secret. Consequently, I feel an even deeper trust and connection, as well as even more significance in the secret.

The third line solidifies the bond between two friends. At the same time, it also maintains mystery in the wind. We don’t know if anyone overheard the secret and the consequences of that. We also don’t know where the secret might travel to over time and who else might hear it. Depending on who hears the secret, it may significantly change one person’s life—and therefore many people’s lives, to some degree—because everything is connected. I feel a deep truth in this even on a subconscious level. In a sense, whether we like it or not, I feel we are all sharing our secrets subconsciously with each other all the time, in every second of life. Indeed, I feel the quality of our silence and presence can sometimes speak much louder than words. Along those lines, it seems our body language can also sometimes be doorways into our secrets and the subconscious. 

The wind in the last line could also signify how fast and how far words can travel. If the friend makes a mistake and shares the secret, and then it spreads like a wildfire, what are the consequences? On the extreme end, it may even break the bonds of that friendship. However, in this haiku, I see the wind as benevolent. I like how the wind is invisible, just as the poet keeps their friend’s secret hidden. I feel this shows the power of trust, respect, and mystery in friendship.

On a personal note: in college, I told a female classmate that once she knows something about me, the entire city will know about it due to the strong social bonds of women. She laughed, but also acknowledged a bit of truth in that statement. In short, words can travel far and fast in this digital age. Especially with social media at our fingertips, I feel this haiku reminds us to be careful with our words.

I think this haiku leaves us with a question: What will you share with your friends (or even your best friend) and what will you decide to keep a secret? 

This is a subtle haiku with social significance, mystery, and psychological power.

— Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

A simple yet deep haiku which revolves around a secret—a friend’s secret. The first line gives us straight information about a friend who confided in another friend without knowing how significant that secret is. The second line implies that the information in this secret is given to the person whom that person trusts the most. But then, there is a twist in the story where the wind is being involved, indicating it is revealed or disclosed, or spread out as news, a rumor, whispers, or by other means. ‘The wind’ may depict the particular time when it is made public.

I see both tangible and intangible sides of a secret that may be perceived differently by the secret-keeper and the wind (others). There is another side to this and that is eavesdropping—someone who overheard it and made it public. 

In other words, a secret cannot remain a secret for life, as this universe holds all information whether we share it with others or keep it with us. It’s time that decides the significance of information and when it will be revealed.   

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

What drew me to this haiku is that the wind is given an important place alongside a dear friend. Or, it could be seen that the wind is possibly an intruder in the conversation, who will carry the secret to other people around. Either way, this haiku is a recognition of the power and place of nature within human society.

In terms of the kigo, it could be any season. It could be a gentle or forceful wind at the scene. Sometimes, haiku can have universal kigo or no kigo at all. That’s fine. Since long, haiku in Japan have at times been kigoless.

For aesthetics, the haiku could be illustrative of both shiori (a delicacy verging on pathos that intends a deep sympathy for both nature and humanity) or kisetsu (awareness of the deep relationship between humanity and the seasons).

The pacing of the lines is reminiscent of the traditional Japanese rhythm in haiku, with a short first part, a longer second part, and short third part. This rhythm is not only there for the feel of it, but it also lends to the content being brief and having a somber tone.

Sonically, there is a rare occurrence of two words beginning with “f.” The letter “f” has a certain strength and starkness that heightens our awareness while reading this haiku. Also, the wispy sound of the two “w”s mirrors the wind’s music.

The language of this haiku matches the tradition in Japan with simple words and casual ways of expression. It express profundity in a laidback way.

An enjoyable and deep haiku that gets us thinking about our connection with nature.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by Vincent van Gogh

Daniela Misso’s Moorings

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

moorings 
creaking on the lake…
deep autumn

— Daniela Misso (Italy)

(published in Wales Haiku Journal, Autumn 2020)

Commentary

This is an excellent haiku with depth, a strong atmosphere, and mystery (yugen). It also evokes potent emotions and has metaphorical value as well. 

Starting with the first line, moorings comes from the verb moor. As an intransitive verb, there are three definitions of moor I would like to highlight:

moor

1. To fix in place; secure: synonym: fasten.

2. To provide with an abiding emotional attachment. 

3. To secure a vessel or aircraft with lines or anchors.

Source: https://www.wordnik.com/words/moor

With these definitions in mind, the moorings in this haiku are not only strong cables, ropes, or anchors that are securing a boat or vessel to a dock (or another structure); they are also a metaphor for emotional attachments in a relationship (or within several relationships). In particular, the second definition above “to provide with an abiding emotional attachment” reminds me of a couple providing for their family. More concretely, I can see an emotional attachment to a specific boat as well. In this haiku, I imagine an empty boat overflowing with memories and stories. However, I feel these stories could be not only from one person’s lifetime, but rather span across several generations and even several lifetimes. 

Furthermore, I would like to highlight this definition of moorings: 

moorings

1. the place where a ship is anchored or fastened.

Source: https://dictionary.cambridge.org/es-LA/dictionary/english-portuguese/moorings

With this definition, in this haiku, I feel a very strong emotional attachment to the lake and the surrounding land. Therefore, this haiku is not limited to emotional attachments between people, but also includes our emotional attachments with Mother Earth. I also like that the lake in this haiku is not named, leaving it open for the reader to connect with experiences they’ve had at different lakes. 

Moving to the second line, I am drawn to the sound. Creaking brings an eerie feeling that amplifies the silence of the scene and has a haunting quality to it. I could see this haiku being the start of a mystery novel or movie. In light of the moor definitions, moorings creaking could signify the wear and tear of an emotional attachment between two or more people over time that, despite the challenges, is showing strength, dependability, and longevity. On the other hand, the creaking sound could point to a degree of uncertainty and weakness in a relationship. I like how the creaking sound evokes the emotional complexity of relationships. This interpretation equally and powerfully applies to our relationships with Mother Earth.

In the third line, deep autumn effectively shows us how cold it is, with hints of winter already in the air. I feel it adds to the atmosphere of the scene and brings the universal emotions of grief, loss and letting go, but also expresses a slower pace of life and reflection.

This is a moving haiku that has depth, a strong atmosphere, and significant emotional and metaphorical power.

— Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

What is being moored? This question came to my mind after reading this poem. Perhaps boats, thoughts, fatigue, silence, worries, nostalgia, or anything else that is still hidden from our sight. Moorings indicate that we have to run our imagination wild and think of things that may fit best to the scene, as we have choices. So, the person who is at the seaside is the one who ties up whatever they want. I see it as more personal, intangible, and discreet where it’s not the matter of fastening boats but the things that are related to it—maybe something burdensome as alluded to in the second line by using the word ‘creaking’. But on the other hand, a person may not have control over those choices that are creaking and haunting again and again.

The poet concludes the scene by taking us to the deep autumn which adds more depth and silence in the background, where one can introspect and find out how to run the boat of life without distractions, and shortcomings.

The sound of ‘ing’ in this haiku resonates with the feelings of helplessness and aimlessness that continue without any interruption.

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

Jacob and Hifsa have provided thorough commentary that leaves me with a bit to add. I will go over the kigo (seasonal reference), pacing, sound, and language.

Sometimes in haiku, using a direct name of a season works well, and this haiku is a fine example of that. What is interesting is commonly haiku poets put the kigo in the first line if they are naming it directly. But in this haiku, the kigo carves out a more resonant space for the reader to ponder as it is given in the last line. The way the kigo interacts with the creaking brings out the melancholy, introspection, and loneliness of autumn.

The pacing of the lines follows the standard for English-language haiku with a short first line, a longer second line, and a short last line that mimics the traditional Japanese haiku rhythm.

As Hifsa noted, the “ing” sounds carry that somberness that is present in haiku. Also, the “m” sounds bring a sense of eeriness, and “ee”/”ea” slows down the pace. There are many elongated syllables in this haiku, which showcase the slowness of time of the moment described.

The language is simple and concise, with enough poetic phrasing to bring out emotion. Not one word is unnecessary and the poem is not begging for words to be added.

The relation between human-made instruments and nature, combined with the mentioned season, makes this haiku especially resonant.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Watercolor painting by Cathy Hillegas

Srinivas S’s footprint

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn Haiku1 Comment

between waves the life of a footprint

— Srinivas S (India)

(The Heron’s Nest, March 2021)

This simple monoku manifests all the key perspectives of life, but the most obvious one is the journey of life. It may consist of hardship and difficult trials. A footprint is something that is left behind in life—a past life that may be imprinted in the mind as a memory or depicts the choices a person made, the path they took. A footprint could symbolize the vivid memories of a person of life events where every step carved or reshaped one’s decisions, choices, and thinking.

The concept of waves is cleverly used in this monoku as our senses that are connected with the surrounding through waves, our brain activities, our nervous system, and our body is similar to the rhythmic movement of waves. What matters the most is whether these waves erase the footprint or fill it with water. It may also unfold the path one has chosen, the path that faces the ups and downs of life, or to and fro movement. The concept of our lives is shown in this haiku as a footprint, which is the mark that a person leaves behind as an example or memory.

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

This is a beautiful monoku that sparks a conversation about the miracle of life, impermanence, reincarnation, and the afterlife. 

When I read “between waves” I see it as a metaphor for between lifetimes. In a vast scale of time, a human lifetime appears to be like a brief footprint. 

In that sense, I feel the footprint could create a sense of melancholy (from how brief human lives are) and also joy and gratitude (from how precious life is). The footprint could be from a child, an adult, or an elderly person. It could also be the footprint of a seagull or of a dog running on the beach. I like how the poet left this open for us as readers. 

The footprint also shows a single step on a long journey, as part of a larger story. In that sense, this monoku makes me wonder what stories have been passed down and recorded throughout several generations and what stories have been lost? Some stories have been preserved, while other stories have been mistranslated or buried and forgotten. I think this is a critical subject because stories and literature have significant influence and power. Stories contain our ethics, values, and principles of how to live. They create new worlds and different ways of seeing. They record history and document what we learned. They can inspire our imagination. And, they set an example. In particular, I think some of the oldest stories and legends from Indigenous People contain strong values and important lessons for us all, especially involving spirituality, community, and taking care of Mother Earth.

Additionally, I see the footprint as a metaphor for a samskara or mental impression. We could ask ourselves: compared to the sand, how real is the footprint? It seems we all leave several marks in this lifetime and some impressions seem to last longer than others. But, in the end, it seems something universal (in this case, the ocean) washes away all our impressions or footprints. Then, it seems we’re only left with the wordless present moment, without a past or a future. As the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt has said: “Time and timelessness are connected. This moment and eternity are struggling within us.” On the other hand, I wonder if perhaps our impressions and memories are permanently stored in a universal consciousness. In any case, it is the silence itself that carries all words and sounds. Everything appears to rise and fall into silence. Even as the footprint disappears, the sound of the waves is in synch with the rhythm of my heartbeat. 

The footprint also shows engagement and actively participating in the play of life vs. becoming a passive observer. I think there is a time and place for active, compassionate observing, and as haiku poets we do this very well, but I think there’s also a time and place to be actively immersed in life and living without reflection or observation. In fact, sometimes, only when I return home from an adventure does a haiku appear.

This is a monoku that is simultaneously deep and simple at the same time. I think it’s also a moment that many people can relate to and has a universal appeal and power. 

A beautiful monoku. 

Book recommendations on these subjects: Indian Legends of the Pacific Northwest by Ella E. Clark, The Spiritual Teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi, and The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.

— Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

I can’t touch on more about the interpretation and meaning of this haiku that Hifsa and Jacob already expressed. They discussed the many layers of this monoku’s substance deftly.

I’ll now explore the technical points of this poem. First, there is no specific kigo or seasonal reference to be found in this haiku. We know that perhaps it is a low tide but the action of the haiku might be talking about someone walking close to the waves at any kind of tide. There is no issue is not having a kigo. The requirement for haiku to have a kigo has been loose for a century, even in Japan. Perhaps the exclusion of kigo began to be commonplace in Japan in the late 1800s, with masters such as Kawahigashi Hekigotō and Ogiwara Seisensui.

This haiku being written as one line is not experimental or strange, as haiku is originally written as one vertical line in Japanese. The major difference between English monoku and Japanese haiku is that English monoku don’t use punctuation usually. Japanese haiku have kireji, or cutting words that signify a shift in grammar or phrasing to make the two parts of a haiku distinct. Without punctuation, though, English monoku can be read in more ways sometimes:

between / waves the life of a footprint

between waves / the life of a footprint

or as one phrase: between waves the life of a footprint

In terms of sound, we have the unusual consonance of “w” which makes a “whhh” noise when said, imitating the song of waves. The “e” and “i” sounds also bring another layer of softness to the reading.

The haiku is noticeably brief. With only seven words, the poem is quite concise. This is hard to pull off, and if one is a beginner in this art form, I would not recommend writing in such a terse way. By Srinivas has skillfully used the right combination of words, sounds, and phrasing to create a strong visual effect in the reader and potent resonance.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by Ken Figurski

Jennifer Hambrick’s budding branches

On By Nicholas KlacsanzkyIn HaikuLeave a comment

budding branches
the ellipsis at the end
of his text

— Jennifer Hambrick (USA)
(Mayfly 71, Summer 2021)

This is an important social consciousness haiku that speaks to both the limitations and the value of text messaging. On one hand, brief text messages can be useful and save us time. On the other hand, emotions and meanings can often be misinterpreted in text messages. This is partly because experts say over 85% of communication is nonverbal and accomplished by our tone of voice and body language. Along these lines, in my opinion, emojis also don’t do us justice in accurately conveying emotions and meanings. In terms of punctuation, specifically, an ellipsis can convey many different messages. It can be a sign of gentleness, caution/warning, uncertainty, or even a threat or dark sarcasm/humiliation, as if someone is looking down on someone else, conveying a sense that the receiver should have known something or is somehow inferior to the person who sent the text. This wide range of interpretations in an ellipsis can leave us scratching our heads, wondering what was the real intent behind the message. 

Budding branches could be a symbol for the start of a new relationship. It could also simultaneously be a metaphor for a new baby or babies starting their life/lives on Earth. I get a feeling this haiku is an exchange between a girlfriend & boyfriend or between a wife & husband as they are attempting to communicate via text messages due to their busy lives.

This is an important haiku that sparks conversations about how we communicate. While emails, text messaging, and phone calls have their place, I think video calls or in-person meetings are the best ways to have quality conversations. They can also save us from a lot of stress and conflicts down the road.

For more info on nonverbal communication: https://www.sciencedirect.com/topics/social-sciences/nonverbal-communication

 — Jacob D. Salzer (USA)

The poem starts with hope, and a presence of life probably after autumn. Budding branches depict the seasonal transformation that someone is closely observing, maybe while strolling, or through a window, viewing a painting, sketching a tree, or watching it live somewhere, etc. In any case, it shows how keen and resilient a person is who focuses on something that is progressing positively. The first line in this haiku is so engaging that a reader like me starts thinking about the colour, type, ambience, and style of budding branches as it gives a lot of pleasure exploring nature when it retreats after a dry winter.

There is a shift in this haiku in the last two lines that the poet cleverly related to the budding branches: a deeply personal experience where the text of a person with an ellipsis is accepted with possibly a positive interpretation. The ellipsis can allude to subtle emotions and feelings or an incomplete sentence that is left with curiosity and assumptions. I see it as if the seasonal transformation is related to personal transformation where things are in process and a person is not certain about the results.

Budding branches may be a positive sign, beckoning spring to appear, but it’s premature and uncertain whether these budding branches will bloom fully, and whether the birds will perch on them and sing melodious songs. Somehow, it’s daydreaming that runs the imagination of the poet wild from ‘tree to text’ where both thoughts and feelings oscillate between imagination and reality. 

— Hifsa Ashraf (Pakistan)

Jacob and Hifsa have delved deep into the meanings and interpretations of this haiku. I will now explore more of its technical side.

In the first line, we get a clear indication of the kigo, or seasonal reference. “Budding” shows the haiku refers to spring. As you may know, haiku are primarily poems based on seasons and poets use them as springboards to resonance.

The first line would seem to need punctuation to mark the separation between the two parts of the haiku, called kireji in Japanese. However, the line break is a clear enough break in phrasing to aid readers in knowing that a fresh section has begun.

The second line brings about a sense of suspense, as we await what the third line will display. We can also see a pattern of alliteration with the “b” and “e” sounds in the first two lines. This echoes the repetition of an ellipsis.

In the third line, we discover the conclusion. The end has yugen, or a sense of mystery. We don’t who “his” refers to, but we do feel the significance of it. My best guess is it is about the husband or boyfriend of the poet. As Jacob and Hifsa have mentioned, an ellipsis in a text message can mean many things. Since it is a spring haiku, it could pertain to something exciting and adventurous. However, it could also be introduced as a contrast to spring, with the ellipsis meant to stand for melancholy or something left undone.

In terms of pacing, this poem follows the common line lengths of English-language haiku, with a short first line, a longer second line, and a short third line to approximately match the traditional Japanese rhythm. The pacing works well, especially with how the third line comes.

A masterfully written haiku with strong aesthetics, conciseness, and sound.

— Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA)

Painting by Vincent van Gogh