Jim Kacian

Comments (4)

1. Few poems go beyond themselves. We call them masterpieces. I think this is one of them.

   This poem is more than a poem. It is a decision in poetics.

   If the poet lies quite still, spring rain becomes spring rain. Nothing more, and yet more than everything.

   The poem does not explain the rain. It lets the rain arrive. On the skin, in the ear, in the whole body. And maybe this is where the poem begins: not in the mind, but in the body.

   The word “if” is essential. It does not say: this will happen. It says: this may happen, if we are able to give up something of ourselves.

   Then comes “I lie”. A simple act. Almost nothing. And then “quite still”.

   Without “quite”, the poem would be too perfect. Too pure. “Quite” leaves a little human hesitation. The ego is still there, but softer.

   And “still” — what a word here. Still as immobile. Still as silent. Still as continuing. Still as not yet finished.

   The poet does not disappear completely. He becomes available.

   And because he becomes available, spring rain can reach us too.

   This poem feels to me like a gift. A gentle invitation to lie quite still, and let the world touch us.

   1. Thank you, Sebastién. Well put. And yes.

      The spring rain is there. Whether we hear it or not is up to us.

      1. I echo Sébastien’s comments, Keith. This wonderful haiku from Jim also reminded me of Peggy Willis Lyles’ famous ‘summer night’, in which the narrator turned out the lights in order to hear the rain.

         (Enjoying this series immensely btw!)

2. spring rain
                          if i lie
           quite still
   — jim kacian, South by Southeast 3:2, 1996

   Another ichibutsujitate (tailored to one thing or theme), this delicate haiku is essentially a single flowing sentence with no formal cut. It forms a continuous whole. However, you can see what a difference the line breaks and the spaces make. They slow the reader down, quieten us too, and in the long pauses we can just begin to hear the soft spring rain. The choice of “if” (rather than “as” or “while” or “and”) is delightful. Being quite still becomes a condition of hearing the rain. Mushin—first, free your mind, arrive at a state of deep calm…

   Here the lower-case “i” is not an affectation. It’s fitting to make the first person as unobtrusive as can be, consistent with “quite still.” This is not one of those kigo-plus-personal-thought-of-the-poet verses that are currently so popular —and easy to write. Nor a disjunctive juxtaposition leading to an internal comparison. Semantically there are two aspects here: the rain that we hear and the self-effacing, still poet that we don’t, the one seemingly dependent on the other. There is a relationship, a bond almost, between them. We identify with the poet, we become the poet, we set aside ego, make ourselves small, we are still, and we hear the gentle rain.

   A subtle, harmonious, profound haiku expressed in the briefest and plainest of words.

Comments are closed.