The Seashell Game - Round Three

[Lorin]

Hi Maya... of course you can vote! Anyone who's interested enough can vote, though David asks that we give our reasons, since the discussion is the more important thing.

Hi Polona... thanks for helping with the Serbian poem. For me, "returning from the beach" (or even "back from the beach") would work almost the same as "The moment I return/from the beach" or "just as I return from the beach", given that in a haiku we don't have a lot of room to say everything. It feels to me that it's Ls 2 & 3 that are the focus of the poem.

Interesting to know that a beach can be a river bank (I'd never have thought of that!) The beach, wherever situated, might be important in giving a sense of season? For the majority of people, "beach" is probably associated with Summer.

- Lorin

[polona]

Hi Lorin,

I agree that the mention of the beach provides the seasonal reference and sets the poem in the summer and yes, there are a few known river beaches like Ada Ciganlija, an islet in the Danube near Belgrade, a popular venue for the local folks.

I also feel that the poet's voice mimicking the chirping of parrots / parakeets / budgies(?) is essential for the haiku and gives an interesting twist. The birds are caged but greet the returning owner with the cheerful chirping and he shows his affection by responding in the same way...

[Lorin]

Hi Lorin,

I agree that the mention of the beach provides the seasonal reference and sets the poem in the summer and yes, there are a few known river beaches like Ada Ciganlija, an islet in the Danube near Belgrade, a popular venue for the local folks.

I also feel that the poet's voice mimicking the chirping of parrots / parakeets / budgies(?) is essential for the haiku and gives an interesting twist. The birds are caged but greet the returning owner with the cheerful chirping and he shows his affection by responding in the same way...

Hi Polona,

The more I sit with this poem and let it sink in, the more I see what a warm poem it is. ('warm' in the sense of 'warm, affectionate feelings', not temperature!) The man might even be the first to 'chirp', greeting his birds and letting them know he's home, even before he's within their sight. It seems to me this might be the case, and that he's observing himself without judgment but with (perhaps ironical , perhaps not ironical at all) detachment in this poem.

If they're budgies or the like, they're very communal birds even in the wild, and as pet birds would be attached to their owner. Here are some wild ones having a conference:

http://www.listeningearth.com.au/blog_images/2008_10/BudgieQuintet.jpg

- Lorin

[polona]

Hi Lorin... yes, a lot of empathy in this poem. And thanks for the budgie photo, they look great in their wildlife plumage :)

My impression is that while Petar's poem hits immediately with its stark and primal imagery, Sedlar's is not so easily accessible but turns out no less rewarding (now I talk like an expert which I am certainly not) :o

[sandra]

Thank you Polona, for the suggestion of "budgie" - it makes more sense to me (no disrespect to Sasa intended, the fault is my own).

Interesting that Petar writes first in English.

My vote is for that poem:

the longest night
a raven steals the eyes
of a snowman

because I feel that each word is counting towards the whole, whereas in the parrot haiku I lean towards the view that "beach" is meaningless in the context of the poem, it's simply "outside"/ "away".

[Maya]

Hi, Lorin, and thank you, i'll give my reasons for voting for Peter's haiku then.

най-дългата нощ
гарван краде очите
на снежен човек

the longest night
a raven steals the eyes
of a snowman

гарван= a raven

Firstly, because of the stark imagery; secondly, i like the structure of the ku - the parallel between the longest night, the dark colors of the raven and the eyes of the snowman (usually pieces of coal), the coldness of the night, embodied in a snowman. IMHO, Peter's haiku is a classical example of the use of implied metaphor in haiku writing.Then, last but not least, i get it as a low bow to the Great Master's "autumn dusk"

Hi, Polona, nothing curious about Peter's writing them directly in English, i do most of mine too.

About Slavko's haiku - i think it's an example of the so called "slippery haiku", too slippery to my taste, though. Could it be his voice becoming the chirp of two parakeets because he suffers from some illness? This could happen wnen someone catches cold for example, or it could more serious like throat cancer.

[John Carley]

About Slavko's haiku - i think it's an example of the so called "slippery haiku", too slippery to my taste, though - Maya

It's been immensely helpful to read the exchanges between people closer to the languages of composition.

Petar's poem gets my vote. John

[Peter Yovu]

Sedlar's poem is 18 syllables "long". I see no reason why a haiku cannot be that long or even considerably longer. (A recent Per Diem was I think 24 syllables long). But I have come to believe that the first part this poem, by dint of its length, goes counter to its "meaning", or intent. He is speaking of an instant: the instant of returning from a beach, but the instant he sets up for us takes (relatively) forever to get to. It is, in fact, an instant that pulls us away from instantaneity-- it has the past at its back, pulling like the tide. Again we are up against translation here, but the word "return" always implies a history, and is not of the moment. Strictly speaking, though, this is not true, as any moment may be layered with all manner of temporality, associations, memories etc. But I believe for it to work in this poem, it needs more of an all-at-onceness to be effective. An all-at-onceness would help "explain" (horrible word) the transformation to come. It may be that the appeal for the author was in the experience of return: being here (back home?) and there (the beach) at the same time, and in how that split moment swiftly changed into the chirp of two birds.

It is entirely plausible if one does not require plausibility-- still under the spell of the beach, feeling open and perhaps a bit sky and sky-struck, that one would cross the threshold (back) into familiarity and experience it in a new way: a moment when one's voice is transformed.

I just think, today, the poem needs better execution-- or better translation.

[polona]

Hi, Polona, nothing curious about Peter's writing them directly in English, i do most of mine too.

Hi Maya, actually it was Sandra who found Peter's writing haiku directly in English curious. It seems quite normal to me - I do it, too :)

[Lorin]

Again, as in 'seashells #2", we have a translated poem and poem written in English by a multi-lingual author for comparison. Somehow, this doesn't strike me as quite fair to the translated poem.


the longest night
    a raven steals the eyes
    of a snowman

'The longest night' (Winter Solstice) might be a humorous or witty take on the blindness of the snowman, before but particularly after the theft. Like Dennis & Maya, I imagine the traditional 'eyes' of coal . Why a raven would steal these is beyond me, but there is a connection of 'black' between the bird & coal. But perhaps the eyes were made of some foodstuff? If they were made of coal, this is 'one dumb bird', and the poem might also be a humorous take on the benightedness of such a raven. Alternatively, we might suspect that it's a very clever raven who knows how to make fire, and ravens are noted for cleverness, the ability to use tools eg.

Anyway, the raven is an eater of the eyes of corpses, according to European and British folk-lore, and the implication here is that it's so cold that a raven steals a snowman's, to eat. I see this as a play on the sort of hyperbole in common sayings like, "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse!"

Tchouhov's poem has the advantage of its relative clarity and technical smoothness in English, but then it was written in English! (see Maya's first post: "Peter writes most of his haiku directly in English and that explains their smooth flow. . .")

Sedlar's is translated, and may not yet have reached its definitive translation/rendition into English. The author has passed away, so we can't consult him.

The moment I return
    from the beach - my voice becomes
    the chirp of two parrots

(trans.- Saša Važić)

returning from the beach -
my voice becomes the chirp
of two parrots

(trans. – Polona)

home [back?] from the beach -
my voice becomes the chirp
of two parrots

(EL version – Lorin)

In previous posts, I've said what appeals to me about this poem... the transformation of the voice leads me to a warm sense of 'family' and fellowship in relation to the caged birds... but more, it leads me ultimately to a sense of  'Thou art that', not told, but experienced through quite an ordinary thing...a man chirping to his parrots/ budgies.

Tchouhov's poem is certainly the more technically accomplished (in English: I have no ability to judge haiku in other languages) and is a delightful poem, but it is Sedlar's poem that draws me into a warm sense of the mystery of relationship with everything.

So, because I think that the contest is weighted in favour of the Tchouhov poem as the more technically accomplished (in English) of the two and therefore is likely to glean more votes, I'll vote for the Sedlar poem.

(ps, I've just seen your post, Polona.

I think that it's not the fact that Petar's was written directly in English that's curious or surprising, but that we are presented with the two poems as if both are translations into English, when it turns out that one is a translation but the other is an EL haiku.

- Lorin

[sandra]

To clarify what I meant by finding it interesting (not curious) that Petar writes first in English:

When I read that this was the case I applied a hypothetical scenario to myself - if I had a fluent second language, which language would be the language of my poetry?

The one my parents speak and so the language of my growing up, or the one I have learned? If I still lived in the country of my birth my "mother tongue" is the language being spoken all around me and is the language of memory.

But now, there are three people on this thread, if we count Petar, who don't have English as a first language, yet compose haiku in English.

As I say, interesting ... oh, okay, I'm curious. :)

It's a bit off-topic but I wonder if Maya and Polona would mind sharing why they do choose to do this?

Best wishes,
Sandra

[John Carley]

if I had a fluent second language, which language would be the language of my poetry? - Sandra

Either, Sandra. Isn't that a diagnostic criterion for true fluency, or self delusion?!

Sedlar's is translated, and may not yet have reached its definitive translation/rendition into English. The author has passed away, so we can't consult him - Lorin

Perhaps there's a bit of a loop here, Lorin. If the author was not fluent enough in Swahili to write in Swahili originally, or to translate his original from Ingush to Swahili, how would said author be able to rule on what was a correct of definitive translation?

I support your objection that there is limited utility in judging chalk against cheese.

Best wishes, John

[polona]

Sandra says

It's a bit off-topic but I wonder if Maya and Polona would mind sharing why they do choose to do this?

Fitst off, Slovenian is a language spoken by roughly two million people, most of which, even if they've heard about haiku, haven't the slightest idea what haiku is. The status of the Haiku Club of Slovenia is currently frozen and the last publication of Letni časi / The Seasons magazine dates back in 2007. There is still Apokalipsa with their haiku contest and some activity in schools but mostly the use a world language (i.e. English) is necessary if one wants to make their haiku public.

On a more personal note, and this is not completely clear even to me, I find it easier to express myself creatively in English than in my native language. I suppose this has something to do with the teachers / mentors I encountered during my learning process. Until not many years ago I had no affinity for writing whatsoever and I actually learned to enjoy writing at an English course, a few years before I first discovered and fell in love with haiku.

[sandra]

Thanks Polona, I appreciate your reply.

[David Lanoue]

This is another great conversation. Welcome, Maya (I hope to see you again this summer in Blagoevgrad!) and welcome Polona and Sasa. And welcome back, everyone else!

I promised to share my impressions of these haiku. First, Petar's.

The longest night, the night of winter equinox, is frigid, dark, disturbing. Our ancient ancestors feared this night: with days growing shorter and shorter, nights growing longer and longer; would not the inevitable result be a cold and perpetual darkness? Hence solstice rituals and magical-religious celebrations to coax back the sun and its life-giving light. But in Petar's scene there's no promise of light or warmth, no miracle. The raven blinds the poor man of snow, leaving him in a permanent darkness that is truly "the longest night." At first view, it seems an atrocity. Or, I wonder: Is this raven a trickster, as the Chinook and other Native American tribes see him, playing a mischievous prank? Should we be horrified? Should we laugh? Or...should we simply accept and understand? If the eyes that he steals are berries and not lumps of charcoal like we used for our Nebraskan snowmen back when I was a kid, then the raven's theft is a forgivable act of survival in a harsh, cold world.

My sympathies flit from snowman to raven, back to snowman. Life is hard all over. The world is cold all over. And now that the black bird has flown off with the snowman's eyes, our eyes, we are left alone in a frozen darkness without a glimmer of hope, of light, of spring. Brrrrrrr!

About Sedlar's haiku: When I first read this and wrote about it for the Periplum blog last year, I felt it was surreal and "slippery." I wrote:

What appears impossible in the external world can ring with psychological truth. The body takes a journey from beach to home, and the mind is not the same. A day of communing with the sea--perhaps swimming in it, perhaps simply watching its undulating waves, the suchness of the undulation--has profoundly changed, well, everything. As he walks in the door, are two parrots in a cage singing the story of what he has gained and felt today with perfect precision, with their wild, raucous voices? Or, perhaps, has the poet opened his own mouth to say something and discovered, by truly listening to it, his voice sounds different, for it has become the chirping of two parrots?

Now, thanks to this discussion, I am able see the haiku differently and less magically: the parrots' (budgies') owner coming home from the beach (river or sea), affectionately chirping to/with his birds. This is a sweet interpretation. Still, I prefer (obstinately) to read the haiku as a magical moment: the poet's voice becomes, in fact, the voice of two parrots. Why? I don't know! But I like it.

By the way, as I'm writing this I'm listening to music on my headphones (it's past midnight but the neighbors have a loud party going)--and just now Petar's band, Gologan, started playing. He was kind enough to give me a disk with several of his band's "Bulgarian folk-rock" tracks when he visited New Orleans two summers ago. I think there's one or two samples on You-Tube. A talentented guy! Check it out: here. (That's Petar playing the guitar.)