HaikuNow! Awards for 2013

First Prize

snowflakes falling
on the child’s upturned face
the stillness of stars
     — john hawkhead (United Kingdom)

Judge’s
Comments

The sense of wonder that attracted me to this haiku on first reading was still there after several more readings. The snowflakes, the child’s upturned face, and the vastness of the night sky—this, at least to me, presents a truly magical moment that any of us who have experienced our first snow can remember. I can almost see the stars of wonder twinkling in the child’s eyes.

     — Peter Duppenthaler

Runners-Up

the Lee at spring tide —
the reflection of a bridge
flows under the bridge
     — Anatoly Kudryavitsky (Ireland)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . .
all the sparrows fly away
and I lose my count
     — Anon (Malaysia)

Runners-Up Commentary

Commended

another winter
we bury conversations
within the silence
     — Seánan Forbes (United Kingdom)

First Prize

nagasaki . . .
in her belly, the sound
of unopened mail
     — Don Baird (USA)

Judge’s
Comments

Our top prize is an enigma wrapped in a riddle. This poem provides very clear context and imagery, and yet in such a way that the sense of the poem seems almost to evade us. Almost, but not quite.

One cannot speak of “nagasaki” without conjuring the events of 9 August 1945, which to this day are contentious amongst Americans (less so amongst Japanese, who have taken this occasion, along with August 6 and Hiroshima, as a clear signal that they move in a completely different direction, a decision now being revisited in the wake of the Fukushima nuclear reactor meltdown). Whichever side you come down on, the cost in terms of people of this second atomic blast was horrific — final reckoning was 87,000 fatalities, and at least 100,000 with secondary conditions like radiation poisoning.

Having established this compelling context, the poet directs us to its polar opposite: not the destruction of life, but its creation. Our gaze is directed not skyward but down, to “her belly,” where we are to hear something: the line breaks and we know what we expect. But our expectations are confounded by the quizzical third line: “unopened mail”?

What is the sound of unopened mail? Why, none. Unopened mail is a blank slate, useful as a prompt to our imagination, perhaps, but simply unknown until we open it. And this child in the belly, what is its message? How can we know until it is born? And into what sort of world will it be born? No matter when it is born — in 1945 or 2013 — into a world where “nagasaki” is a context which still resonates for us.

The poem, too, with its unexpected third line, is unopened mail. Perhaps we’ve conjured some of its sense, but almost certainly not all. My Western sensibility registers only the war-time connotations of “nagasaki” — I imagine one who knows the culture intimately will hear the sound of this mail in much greater depth.

     — Jim Kacian

Runners-Up

feeling for the pulse deep winter
     — Lorin Ford (Australia)

deep within
the melody of
a fallen tree
     — Veronika Zora Novak (Canada))

Runners-Up Commentary

     — Jim Kacian

Commended

sucking marrow
from the bone—
autumn drought
     — Sandra Simpson (New Zealand)

road atlas
the plans we made
in thin, blue ink
     — David Caruso (USA)

Parable;
too heavy
for insect wings
     — Joe Polsky (?)

First Prize

gmo tomātoes tomätoes
     — Christopher Patchel (USA)

Judge’s
Comments

Patchel’s prize winner uses a mere two words and an acronym to bring to our awareness not only one of the most controversial topics of our time, but conjures simultaneously class consciousness in Depression Era Western culture. Admittedly Ira Gershwin does much of the heavy lifting here, via the lyrics to his hit song “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off,” from the 1937 musical Shall We Dance? This duet, sung by an enamored couple from unequal social classes, suggests—seemingly tongue-in-cheek—that their differences are so great that they should give up the attempt to connect. And the marker for these differences: pronunciation of eether/eyether neether/neyether, potaydo/potahdo tomayto/tomahto. But after all, a tomahto is merely a tomayto with a macron, is it not?

Well, perhaps not. In the gmo world, the differences are so small as not to be seen. But what are the consequences of these tiny alterations? Though early scientific reports seem to suggest no harm will come from treating these tomatoes as any other, not everyone is convinced. It could well be we won’t know the effects of genetically modifying foods for several generations, and this is enough to give one pause. The poet’s neat use of diacritical marks—the macron and the umlaut—are effective not only in marking the distinctions between the two fruit, but also in making the words themselves slightly foreign—recognizable, but with something subtly changed. Does it make a difference?

     — Jim Kacian

Runners-Up

            new                         first step              child
spring            moon — the                   of my
            full                           last word             father
     — Eduard Tara (Romania)

R    O    O   T   S
   e       u        o       u
         a      t                  r
      c                                 v
              h                        i
                    i                v
                      n                   e
                 g
     — John Fedyna (?)

Runners-Up Commentary

     — Jim Kacian

Commended

distant thunder
the sound of an ellipsis
     — Terri L. French (USA)

between the event       AMERICA       and the sentiment
     — Lorin Ford (Australia)

     — Mark Smith (USA)