support group
I never know
where to put my hands

© Tia Haynes (USA)
Failed Haiku, Vol. 2, Issue 20, 2017

This senryu has a significant breadth of meaning. On one hand, it brings about a feeling of mystery, where one does not know where the narrator’s hands will go. This type of mystery can put the reader in a state of pure consciousness, as thought cannot comprehend it. Another interpretation is that it is expressing the nervousness we feel in group environments, even groups that are aimed at support (we have all felt this nervousness within groups, and therefore this makes this senryu highly relatable). Lastly, it could be about how people need support equally, and to know who to give aid to is difficult to determine. This could also relate to self-help and collective help. Sometimes, it is hard to decide if we should give support to ourselves or others first.

I think the lack of punctuation works well, as a clear separation between the parts are made between line 1 and line 2 (though traditionally, senryu didn’t use kireji). Also, intuitively, the structure works better with “support group” as line 1 rather than as line 3. Making “support group” line 3 would have made the lines more normal in the short/long/short structure; however, this senryu has more impact and sounds better in the form it is now. At times, you have to use your gut when formatting a senryu or haiku.

Looking at the sound of this senryu, the most prominent sonic features are the letter “o” and “p.” The letter “o” gives an emphasis on the emotion behind the senryu, and perhaps the letter “p” adds importance to the action within the poem. Whatever the interpretation, the author has made this an aesthetic senryu through the use of sound.

A poignant, introspective senryu.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

Do you enjoy this senryu? You can tell us why in the comment section.

lonely night . . .
from myself to myself
a poem in the mail

© Lucia Fontana (Italy)

Poets from the group Haiku Nook wrote commentary on this senryu:

I like it, and can relate to it. Not that I am particularly lonely, but sometimes, who better to like our poems than ourselves?

– Dana Grover (USA)

While we have grown accustomed to the speed of emails, texts, or personal messages, there is still something tangible and heartwarming about receiving a letter in the mail. A handwritten note, especially, can create proximity between sender and recipient. What snail mail lacks in speed, it often makes up for in warmth of touch.

In Fontana’s poem, we encounter a narrator seeking, but failing to receive, that warmth and proximity. Alone at night, when our darkest emotions are strongest, she decides to bridge this gap by mailing a poem to herself. Fontana achieves a delicate balance here. The subtle humour inherent in sending yourself a poem (of which neither the content nor arrival will come as a surprise), works to accentuate the loneliness which prompts that need to begin with. Fontana’s senryu has successfully captured a moment of loneliness which exceeds, in depth of feeling, the brevity of the poem.

– Dave Read (Canada)

lonely night . . .
from myself to myself
a poem in the mail

First, Dave’s comments are brilliant, and spot-on.

When I read this poem, I get a paradoxical feeling of rejection and acceptance.

One one hand, I’m reading a poem that I submitted to a magazine that got rejected (for no good reason), and it was mailed back in my own, self-stamped return envelope. (This has happened to me, numerous times).

On the other hand, I can’t help but see the possibility of acceptance, as the author’s poem got sent back in the return envelope with an ACCEPTED stamp on it, relieving some of the sadness and feelings of isolation.

It seems a lot of writers are brilliant but don’t necessarily feel connected with many people. It seems to send poems out is an attempt to extinguish the sense of isolation. When a writer’s work is accepted, it seems to significantly uplift someone’s mood, and solidifies a connection with another human being. Someone, who I have never seen before has read my poem, and accepted it, but, not only that—it’s now being published to be read by many more people. That is a very good feeling that I think all writers and poets share. It’s a feeling of being accepted in a larger group—a feeling of belonging, of someone else noticing you, and wanting to share a part of you with many more people.

– Jacob Salzer (USA)

First, I thought “from myself to myself” is a Zen feeling, but it seems to be my misreading, because there is the word “lonely” in the first line.

The first line uses “… ” which is for making a cut, clearly. This second line ends with a personal pronoun, which is a second light cut. So, I can read this senryu as three parts.

“lonely night …” is the introduction of this senryu. It feels like “silence.” The second line “from myself to myself ” gives me an image of repetition. Is it deeply into oneself?

The third line is made up of nouns. Often, the Japanese say that haiku and senryu are poems based on nouns. This third line’s ending becomes flat with the noun. First, I thought this poem was a haiku. The first line and second line are moody. But the third line is suddenly flattened by the nouns. So, this writer categorized this poem as a “senryu”? This is a little mysterious as a senryu.

– Norie Umeda (Japan)

The other poets commenting on this senryu wrote a great deal of what I wanted to say, but to add, I will point out that this senryu’s aesthetic could be a way to express the increase in loneliness, despite last-ditch efforts. The poet receiving a poem from herself accentuates the loneliness, and maybe she begins to accept her loneliness with greater depth since this act is so unusual.

It is like Buddhist monks sometimes say: “Become one with pain, and move beyond it.” I think this senryu could be expressing this sentiment.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

What do you think or feel about this senryu? Let us know in the comments.

blowing out
one birthday candle
the whole family

© Donna Claire Gallagher (USA) (1941 – 2009)

Various poets from the Haiku Nook wrote about this haiku:

I like it. I have an image of a family gathered around a birthday cake for a child who has just turned one year old, too young to understand the meaning of birthday celebrations and too young to know about blowing out candles at such celebrations. This is a happy, joyful event, a family, more than one generation, gathered and bound together with the glue of love. And Donna Claire said all that with only eight words. Kudos to her.

– Dana Grover (USA)

Yes, when everyone else forsakes you… the comfort of family is your last bastion of hope in this physical world. Their warmth, their assurance, their comfort in the most trying moments of your life.

Of course there would be happy moments shared with the family, specially with a big one, as in this ku, where a child celebrates his first year. I could imagine the fun… the human drama of it all.

– Willie Bongcaron (Philippines)

Could be a trick candle, the last fragment is the key because it’s pretty much open to all types on interpretations where the haiku never ends because of the structure.

– Fractled (USA)

Yes, there’s an element of humor. It could be a trick candle, but there’s also a connotation of warmth and togetherness that conjures the image of a close-knit family, as was said earlier. I don’t approve of calling verses like this “senryu.” The tone is light and humorous, but also very warm and positive. It is firmly in the haiku range of tone and character, and calling a ku this wholesome and lovely a senryu is an insult in my opinion.

– Clayton Beach (USA)

I think this says a lot about how much a family has invested in the next generation, and how the first birthday is an important milestone. Perhaps we can be reminded that in many parts of the world, the infant mortality rate remains very high.

Another point is that this first birthday is a unifying event for the family—as we all know, families are full of tensions and issues, but on this special day, the whole family are united in one simple task.

– Martha Magenta (UK)

One view that was not mentioned by the other commentators was that maybe this senryu is about the death of a baby, and the family is blowing out a birthday candle in honor of the baby.

Also, in terms of sound, the “b” in “blowing” and “birthday” could connect to the sound of blowing out of a candle. Also, making the senryu more musical is the “l” sounds coursing through the lines.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

What do you think or feel about this senryu? Let us know in the comments. 

after Memorial Day
Anne’s Diary
back in a drawer

© Elisa Allo (Switzerland)

(first appeared in The Mainichi May 31, 2017 and Otata, May 17, 2017)

I would say this is a senryu rather than a haiku, as it does not have any seasonal reference (though sometimes haiku does not contain a seasonal reference), and it takes a jab at human behavior.

This is most likely a senryu about The Diary of Anne Frank, and how we forget its meaning, and the victims of war in general, the day after Memorial Day. One famous quote from the book that may slip our mind is, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

This senryu to me points to a fact of human nature: though we know what is true and essential, we relegate it to something insubstantial, because we would rather concern ourselves with the easier thoughts and actions to digest, such as mindless entertainment, and the routine of life. To be concerned and sympathetic each day is difficult, as we mostly put our attention on the mundane. This senryu is a reminder that we should keep compassion and higher thinking integrated in our lives.

On a more technical note, the sound of the poem is populated with strong “d” sounds in “Day,” “Diary,” and “drawer.” It is akin to the sounding of the drums of war.

The phrasing is succinct, and the lack of punctuation works well to let the words come as they are, without adding over-emphasis.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

Here is additional commentary from members of Haiku Nook, a group of haiku poets on Google Plus:

After reading it, in a broad sense, I’m sorry that the victims might be forgotten on Memorial Day and in the writer’s personal meaning, she might be touched by Anne’s Diary after Memorial Day. So, I think of Anne’s Diary as a symbol for victims.

– Rika Inami (Japan)

This evokes a few scenarios. Is Anne a relative (wife, mother, sister, daughter?), an old lover, could it be Anne Frank? Could be any of these, and more. I’m thinking it is the The Diary of Anne Frank, and how we tend to put our memories away for awhile, take them out now and then, peruse them, put them away.

– Dana Grover (USA)

Anne Frank was the instant go-to for me, she being the only person named Anne whose diary I have ever read. It is difficult to imagine other readings of this piece, except for the possibility of highly personal ones.

Philosophically, I think Anne Frank barely breaks the surface of the modern consciousness. It might be more accurate to revise it:

Memorial Day –
Anne’s diary unmoved
from its drawer

– Eric Lohman (USA)

I thought of Anne Frank also. I guess it’s just an automatic connection?

– Edwin Lomere (USA)

Yes, how we tend to forget important people and events as time passes. This haiku creates a feeling of being human—that we forget bigger things, because at times we are so engrossed with our own personal affairs. So sad because those bigger things are also important, if not, more important to us as thinking human beings.

– Willie Bongcaron (Philippines)

What do you think or feel about this haiku?

childhood home
I straighten my back
before entering

© Antonietta Losito (Italy)

This is something we do that is inexplicable, and often unconsciously. But the poet, through her observation, noticed this familiar, but intriguing action. What is the meaning of straightening one’s back before coming to one’s childhood home? A multitude of interpretations come to mind: you remember the words of your parents to keep your back straight, you want to return to your childhood days somehow by making your back straight as it was when you were a child, you become more alert when you enter your childhood home, it could reference the purity you had as a child and now you are trying to pretend you have that purity still, or it could be that you await your parents inside the house and you want to show you are a good child of theirs by keeping your back straight.

A straight back shows confidence, healthiness, and is often associated with youth. It is almost as if the poet wants to become who she once was when she enters her childhood home, though it is not possible.

It is also interesting that something inanimate, a home, makes her straighten her back.

This tension, this situation of limbo, is a common theme in senryu and haiku, but it is subtly referenced in this poem. The poet is an adult, but may feel as if she is a child at home—essentially feeling like an adult and a child at the same time. This uncertainty is spiritual, in a way, as when we are certain of something, that means we have come to a dead end in our awareness. Not fixing ourselves on specific ideas allows us to grow and to advance in our spiritual awareness.

The sound of the senryu lends to its meaning. With the “o” sounds, you can feel the longing for being a child once again. The senryu’s language is straightforward, but has many implications. It is a real “sketch of life” senryu.

I think in a sense, each of us yearn to enjoy our childhood self again, for its innocence, wonder, and fresh awareness. This senryu brings this pining to the fore of the reader’s mind in a casual but intimate way.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

the great monk’s fart
totally forgotten

– Anonymous

(From the Mutamagawa, an anthology of senryu in 1750)

Most senryu were written anonymously in the 1700s in Japan because of their often explicit and personal nature. In senryu, no one and nothing is safe or sacred enough to escape being written about in a critical or joking way.

In this instance, we have a humorous senryu about a senior monk. Though the first line is funny, the second line has overtones of spirituality, believe it or not.

The last line is an invitation to a riddle: why was the great monk’s fart totally forgotten? Well, in Buddhism, you are supposed to live in the present moment, and be beyond thoughts of the past and future.

There is a story of a man who shouted obscenities at the Buddha, but when he learned that it was the Buddha who he spoke to crassly, the next day he met with him. He said, “I’m sorry for saying all those bad things to you the other day.” And the Buddha replied, “What do you mean? I live in the moment.”

This senryu is expressing this teaching, albeit in a silly way. It even shows how great the monk really was as a teacher if his students could forgot about his fart.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

 

 

 

the well digger
comes out into the floating world—
the heat!

Yokoi Yayū (1702–1783) (Japan)

Before we get into this senryu, let’s take a look at the poet himself. Yokoi Yayū was a Japanese samurai best known for his haibun, a scholar of Kokugaku, and haikai poet, though he was also an expert in tea ceremonies and martial arts.

He learned haikai from Mutō Hajaku and Ōta Hajō. Hajaku and Hajō were pupils of Kagami Shikō, a leading disciple of Matsuo Bashō. Mori Senzō, a student of old Japanese literature, compared his hokku to senryū, and said they were not as interesting as his haibun. Yayū has been described as a master of haibun, and Nagai Kafū called Yayū’s haibun a model of Japanese prose.

Though Yayu was highly respected for his haibun, we are going to go over one of his senryu, or short poem pondering the foibles of human nature.

There is something in this senryu that some readers might not be familiar with: the floating world (ukiyo). What is it? Well, the floating world is a term that describes the urban lifestyle, especially the pleasure-seeking aspects, of Edo-period Japan (1600–1867). The floating world culture developed in Yoshiwara, the licensed red-light district of Edo (modern Tokyo), which was the site of many brothels, chashitsu, and kabuki theaters frequented by Japan’s growing middle class. The ukiyo culture also arose in other cities such as Osaka and Kyoto.

The term ukiyo (when meaning the floating world) is also an ironic allusion to the homophone ukiyo (憂き世 “Sorrowful World”), the earthly plane of death and rebirth from which Buddhists sought release.

So, like many words used in literature, “floating word” has at least two connotations. This open-endedness is one of the main features of senryu and haiku. It is important to have an open interpretation in senryu and haiku, as there are only a few words used, and you want readers to get the most they can from those words.

The juxtaposition in the senryu is intriguing because “the heat!” can mean at least two things. It could be the heat from the day and the feeling of being in the now when struck with that heat. On the other hand, it could be a play on the idea that hell is hot, (where the well digger was digging), and he came up to the surface with a surprise that the same heat that hell had was present on Earth. In a sense, the poet is hinting that hell is on Earth, and that it is not so supernatural after all. This idea of hell also coincides with both definitions of the floating world.

As you can see, senryu, though often humorous, can also have a lot of depth and introspective ideas. Senryu are more about conveying thoughts, and haiku are more about conveying a mood, and ultimately the human heart in connection with the natural world. Each genre has its place in literature, and can equally stir us towards being better people.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)

 

Trevi Fountain—
a beggar steals
other’s wishes

© Antonietta Losito (Italy)

Otata’s bookshelf, November, 2016

The Trevi Fountain is a fountain in the Trevi district in Rome, Italy, designed by Italian architect Nicola Salvi and completed by Pietro Bracci. Standing 26.3 meters (86 ft) high and 49.15 meters (161.3 ft) wide, it is the largest Baroque fountain in the city and one of the most famous fountains in the world. An estimated 3,000 Euros are thrown into the fountain each day. The money has been used to subsidize a supermarket for Rome’s needy; however, there are regular attempts to steal coins from the fountain, although it is illegal to do so.

With this context in mind, we can see this senryu as commentary on those in need and the power of wishes. With the surprising last line, we can get a mix of emotions: a witty laugh, a reflection on the weight of our wishes, and maybe an introspection on how we treat our homeless members of society.

We can get a witty laugh because of the wordplay, but many times senryu use puns and witticisms to reach for a deeper meaning. It could be that the poet wanted us to think about how much wishes mean. Most people have many wishes, but rarely act upon them. The beggar taking the wishing coins could be a demonstration of the frivolousness of our wishes if they are not put into action.

We can also ponder if the supposed power we put into these coins with our wishes will be transferred to the beggar. Maybe he is not only begging for money, but begging for being able to wish. Many of the homeless have no way to get out their circumstances, and cannot even afford to wish.

The money thrown into the fountain for charity may in fact be collected and put in the pockets of the wealthy. The beggar might have the right to distrust the city and its politicians, and collect the money for himself, making the charity transparent. He is in fact committing a righteous act by accepting the charity money directly.

As one can see, what might start as a witticism can turn into a deep introspection on human nature.

In a technical sense, the most prominent sound is the letter “s,” giving the impression of the sound of a fountain. With just 7 words and 12 syllables, Losito has packed a lot of meaning and emotions in a small space—which is a mark of a fine senryu poet.

– Nicholas Klacsanzky (Ukraine)