Moon and Finger 6 —Shiki’s Haikai Essentials
Welcome to Moon and Finger, a feature for addressing and discussing any haiku topic under the sun, in depth, but particularly haiku poetics. The feature is hosted by Orense Nicod and Keith Evetts, and eventually, we hope, by a variety of occasional invited guests. We aim to make it varied and challenging, serious and amusing. Host today is Keith Evetts.
Shiki’s Haikai Taiyō: Essentials of Haikai (1895)
This is by way of a supplement to last Saturday’s Moon and Finger 5, where we looked at Shiki’s shasei including a number of quotes about realism and the role of the imagination. Most of the quotes were from the above publication, serialised in issues of the Nippon when Shiki was that newspaper’s haiku editor. In essence it’s a compendium of advice for those entering the way of haiku.
The document, available in Japanese thanks to Aozora Bunko, the Internet library, is very long, but very interesting on a number of subjects, many still relevant to us.
With the resources of DeepL I have prepared a translation in English which I’ve posted for you here. It is the full text except for section Eight, which deals at length with renga. I believe the translation is good as far as the prose is concerned. I would check each of the individual poems Shiki gives as examples if I were studying them carefully. Also, if you are fluent in Japanese and any parts of the translation seem questionable to you, I’d be grateful for alternative renderings.
The full text (minus section 8) is optional reading for your interest or curiosity. Minus the quotes we had last week, I’ve pulled out several extracts below. I have bolded certain phrases that stand out for me. Short comments in double brackets are mine.
Do take some of these thoughts and dictums of Shiki that strike you as significant, and comment on them in the comments thread at the end of the post. There is also an anonymous Chorus poll based on them and their current application to anglophone haiku in our times. It’s not a repeat of the one for Moon and Finger 5 on Shasei, but asks different questions. Please take it. The more data we have, the more useful the results when we show them to you in a subsequent Chorus post.
Notes for English translation:
The word that Shiki uses for what English translators often render as “syllable” is 音 (romaji: on), a unit of sound. For example in the section 俳句と他の文学 (Haiku and Other Literature), he writes:
五音七音五音
go-on shichi-on go-on
five sounds, seven sounds, five sounds
To translate 音 as “syllable” has been the conventional way to present the 5–7–5 pattern to English readers. More correctly, “on” is the Japanese rhythmic unit termed a mora in linguistics, not an English-style syllable. The modern linguistic “syllable” is 音節 onsetsu, a term that was not yet standard when Shiki was writing.
Here we go:
——–extracts from Haikai Taiyō-——
“Haiku has a fixed rhythm. Although it is generally said that a single haiku consists of three lines of five, seven, and five syllables, there are also forms with six, seven, and five syllables; five, eight, and five syllables; or six, eight, and five syllables, among countless other minor variations.
“Generally speaking, there is no question of superiority or inferiority when comparing haiku to other forms of literature….While those who regard haiku as the supreme form of literature may also be said to hold a personal view, haiku nonetheless occupies a place within literature and is by no means inferior to other literary forms.
“When one sees a theme related to the four seasons, one should immediately evoke associations with that season. For example, the word “butterfly” does not merely evoke a small scene of a fluttering little insect flying to and fro; it also conjures a scene in which, as the warmth of spring gradually sets in and plants begin to sprout, men and women in small groups enjoy themselves amidst the yellowing vegetables and green wheat. It is only through this association that infinite charm is born within the seventeen-syllable universe. Therefore, those who do not understand the associations of the four seasons ultimately do not understand haiku. It is also reasonable to say that those lacking this association will find haiku shallow and insubstantial. It may be said that the seasonal themes used in haiku possess a unique meaning specific to haiku.
“Many miscellaneous haiku, lacking associations with the four seasons, have shallow meanings and are unfit for recitation. However, when it comes to subjects that are majestic and grand, one does not necessarily have to wait for the changes of the seasons. Therefore, we occasionally encounter this type of miscellaneous haiku. Among the extremely few miscellaneous haiku composed since ancient times, more than half are those that praise Mount Fuji. And yet, the verses worthy of recitation are, once again, those about Mount Fuji.
“If you wish to compose haiku, you should write down whatever comes to mind. Do not seek sophistication; do not hide your clumsiness; and do not be ashamed in front of others.
The moment you decide to compose a haiku—whether it be half a verse or a full verse—you should write it down. Beginners often give up simply because they cannot fit the idea that has come to mind into seventeen syllables; this is a great loss. If it does not fit into seventeen syllables, fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, nineteen, or even twenty-two or twenty-three syllables are perfectly acceptable. It is also a mistake to abandon an idea simply because you do not know elegant or sophisticated words. Whether it be refined language, colloquial speech, Chinese terms, or Buddhist terms—it does not matter
“From the very beginning, there are those who ask about the “kireji” (cutting word), seasonal themes, and kana usage. While it is good to know many things, mere knowledge does not guarantee one’s ability to compose haiku well. There are many examples in the world of people who, despite knowing nothing of grammar, compose skillful poems that astonish others. One should understand that haiku, in particular, has absolutely no regard for language, grammar, cutting words, or kana usage. However, those who wish to learn should gradually acquire this knowledge.
“When composing haiku, it is good to show your work to a senior practitioner in the field and ask for guidance. It is actually counterproductive for a beginner to feel ashamed. Haiku composed during the early stages are often free from vulgarity and quite good, whereas once one becomes slightly more skilled, one often falls into vulgarity.
((but:))
“Many who study in a conventional, run-of-the-mill style seek skill from the very beginning and prioritize subtlety. Since masters also guide them in this direction, they ultimately fall into petty tricks and never open their eyes to true insight.
“Those without learning find it difficult to distinguish between refined and vulgar tastes, while those with learning often stray beyond the bounds of literature by leaning too heavily toward the ideal. Nevertheless, in the end, those with learning are infinitely superior to those without.
“Those who write prose, poetry, or novels, when suddenly attempting to compose a haiku, often find the language too simple. They say, “After all, a haiku is incapable of expressing any idea.” However, this stems from a difference in the habit of association; it is impossible to achieve because they attempt to cram complex ideas entirely into seventeen syllables. If one selects a simple idea suited to haiku, it can be easily contained within seventeen syllables. Even if the subject matter is complex, if one extracts the single most literary and haiku-like element from it and contains it within seventeen syllables, it will become a haiku. Beginners should remember that composing is far more essential than debating.
“Some say that since haikai is meant to be humorous, anything that is not humorous is not a haiku. This is a narrow-minded view worthy only of a laugh. They say this merely because they themselves happened to enter the world of haikai through something humorous.
“Some beginners struggle because they have not yet established their own standards; while this is certainly true, there is no need to worry about it. As you write and read more, your standards will naturally become established.
“Haiku should be written simply to amuse yourself. Thinking that others will find it interesting even if you yourself do not is the mindset of a student of a master, straining to string together scenes and objects.
“However, while it goes without saying that those entering the world of haiku will each choose their own path—whether through delicacy, subtlety, grandeur, or humor—I believe that proceeding through simplicity is the most common approach and, moreover, the true path. For this reason, I have selected simple verses here. No matter which path one takes, upon reaching the summit, there will be nothing left to do but gaze upon the single, great moon in the cloudless sky.
“Even if others deem a haiku poor, if you consider it good, do not concern yourself with others’ opinions and continue to compose that style. If it is indeed a poor haiku of that style, as you compose it repeatedly over time, you will naturally come to feel aversion toward it.
“It is said that many beginners, upon seeing haiku by the masters and their contemporaries, are unable to understand them in the slightest. This is ultimately because they have seen too few classical haiku. One need not conclude that haiku is difficult to learn simply because one cannot understand the old verses. One should proceed along the path starting from what one is able to understand.
“The notion that composing haiku that are difficult to understand is a sign of sophistication is nothing more than the narrow-minded prejudice of a vulgar person. Convoluted verses are not valuable; ordinary verses are, in fact, quite valuable.
“Although the true charm of haiku lies in the fact that it cannot ultimately be interpreted and must await each person’s own realization, the interpretation of the words and phrases themselves can, of course, be easily explained.
“Any student who has composed five thousand haiku should immediately enter the second stage. Even for an ordinary person with some education, once they have composed 10,000 or more haiku, they will inevitably enter the second stage. Even if the number of haiku does not reach 5,000 or 10,000, talented individuals often develop naturally over the course of several years and, before they realize it, find themselves in the second stage. This is because, even if they do not compose many haiku themselves, over the years they frequently read others’ haiku and hear explanations of the art.
“…there is no difference in ordinary artistic value between things that are grand and majestic and those that are delicate and intricate. However, the reason I specifically mention grandeur and majesty here is that haiku of this kind are so rare that the longing for them is all the more intense. If one asks why such haiku are so rare, the reasons are: first, few people in the world appreciate this style; second, there are few natural or human-made vistas of this scale in the world; and third, the limited number of characters in a haiku makes it difficult to convey such a grand vista.
“…Grand and majestic verses are few and far between, and those who compose such verses are likely to be welcomed and praised by those who yearn for them. However, because grand and majestic subjects are so rare and seldom witnessed, they tend to fall into clichés. Furthermore, since it is extremely difficult to encapsulate grand and majestic subjects within seventeen or eighteen characters, even when one attempts to compose a haiku based on a grand spectacle, the scene or event depicted often remains vague and indistinct, making it difficult for the reader to discern what exactly is being described. Those with some knowledge of haiku who, merely to feign an appreciation for grand vistas, compose verses of this sort often fall into banality or produce work so vague and obscure that it is impossible to interpret. This should serve as a lesson.
“One must also study delicate and intricate haiku. People who are naturally lacking in artistic sensibility, or those who are too broad-minded in their Confucian studies, often fail to appreciate this kind of aesthetic. However, eight or nine out of ten of those in the world who are called artists or literary figures tend to lean toward this one side. Yet, among those eight or nine out of ten, those who reach the very pinnacle of delicacy and intricacy are likely to be fewer than one out of ten. Those who study nature understand the subtleties of every blade of grass and every tree; those who observe human affairs recognize the profound essence of every detail and every minute thing; and those who perceive the fleeting motives within the human heart are extremely rare, if not nonexistent. In haiku, while it is not necessary to examine human affairs with the same meticulous detail as a novelist, the study of nature must be as subtle and precise as possible. This is because, while meticulous human affairs cannot be fully contained within seventeen syllables, delicate aspects of nature can often be encompassed within that space.
“…it is the typical sentiment of a poet to prefer seclusion, profundity, and tranquility while disdaining bustle and commotion. It goes without saying that the former is refined and the latter vulgar; yet, bustle and commotion do not necessarily lack literary elements. Indeed, when any mundane thing is viewed with a detached eye, that very act of detachment gives rise to a certain refined charm.
“Reasoning is reasoning; it is not literature. However, cloaking reasoning in the guise of literature to express a seventeen-character argument is also an application of literature, so it is good to try this from time to time. Just do not let literature be overshadowed by reasoning. If one tries to conform to logic, one strays far from literature; if one tries to conform to literature, one strays from logic. This is simply because the two are fundamentally different in nature, so there is no question of right or wrong. To create a work that harmoniously blends the two requires extraordinary effort, yet may not necessarily garner the expected acclaim; one must be prepared for this.
“Beginners, of course, know nothing at all, but those who have delved a little into haiku should realize that haiku based on theory, or those with prefaces or introductions, are difficult.
“It is essential to constantly reflect on one’s own work.
“As students, they sometimes imitate the run-of-the-mill style and call it novel. It may indeed be novel to them. However, it has long been considered trite in literary circles. It is laughable to the uneducated.
“Plum blossoms and the bush warbler; willows and the wind; the cuckoo and the moon; the full moon and clouds; famous sites such as Mount Fuji, Arashiyama, and Mount Yoshino—everyone knows how trite these themes are. Nevertheless, an umbrella in the spring rain; a woman in late spring; a nun among the wisteria blossoms; a horse in the May showers; a waterfall amid the autumn foliage; cattle in late autumn, lanterns in the snow, crows in the biting wind, and famous sites such as Kyoto, Saga, Omuro, Ohara, Mount Hiei, Mii-dera, Seta, Suma, Nara, and Utsu—the banality of these motifs is something that only those deeply immersed in haiku can truly appreciate.
“While the concept should be as innovative as possible, there are times when one must employ the skill of reinterpreting these clichés to transform the stale into the fresh and the lifeless into the living.
“It is common practice to refine a haiku when deciding which specific words or phrases to use. However, for some reason, after having already composed seventeen characters, many students fail to scrutinize each part of the verse to determine what can and cannot be changed. When one, feeling proud of having composed a famous verse, shows it to someone else, and that person asks, “What about this word?” one often realizes, “Indeed, that is unsettling; the word ‘such-and-such’ would have been better,” and so on—there are many instances where one’s shortcomings become apparent. If one discovers this while still alive, it will amount to nothing more than a momentary embarrassment; but once dead, one will be powerless to do anything about others’ criticism.
((I just love that last sentence!))
“In language, there is a distinction between “tight” and “loose.” “Tight” refers to a composition where each word is tightly woven together, with not a single character to be moved. “Loose” refers to a composition that, when heard, gives the impression of being naturally relaxed and not fully resolved. To use an analogy, the difference between a koto string that is taut and one that is loose is something even a layperson can readily discern. Whenever a phrase feels loose, one must scrutinize it carefully. There will surely be something to note, such as: “This word is superfluous,” “This word could be shortened even slightly and still convey the meaning,” or “If I switch the positions of this word and that word, the flow of the sentence will not feel forced.” There are instances of poor composition even among the seasoned, and instances of skillful composition even among amateurs; however, a verse whose rhythm never sags is invariably the work of a seasoned hand. One should pay close attention to the famous verses of the ancients.
“Although a lack of rhythm in a haiku cannot be described in absolute terms, to cite a commonly understood example: verses with many filler words tend to lack rhythm, while those with many nouns tend to have a tight, cohesive rhythm. Filler words are, first and foremost, “te ni wa”; second, “adverbs”; and third, “verbs.” Therefore, if you wish to minimize a lack of rhythm, it is essential to reduce the use of “te ni wa” as much as possible. Try examining haiku from the Tenpō era onward. Because “te ni wa” are used in unnecessary places to construct a verse, the rhythm becomes sluggish and unpleasing to the ear. Next, adverbs also cause sluggishness, and verbs are similarly prone to it. However, the use of adverbs and verbs depends on how they are employed.
“There are varying degrees of looseness. If we take the previous argument to its extreme, a phrase consisting solely of a string of nouns would be considered the finest verse. However, a certain degree of looseness is acceptable. The specific degree, however, can only be determined by examining each instance in practice. Furthermore, there are two types of looseness: looseness affecting the entire verse and looseness affecting only a part of it. When the entire verse is loose, it is either the most beautiful or the most unattractive. For the most part, a haiku that is tight in structure, with only a portion being loose, is invariably poor.
“Realism encompasses both human affairs and nature, as well as the accidental and the deliberate. Depicting human affairs is difficult, while depicting nature is easy. There is little material for depicting the accidental, but plenty for depicting the deliberate. Therefore, seeking out natural scenery with the aim of realism is most suitable for haiku. If one can manage a pilgrimage of several dozen days, that would be most excellent. For those with official duties, touring the countryside on Saturdays and Sundays is also acceptable. Stealing half a day to take a stroll in the suburbs is also acceptable.
“even if you travel with the aim of capturing reality, a train will be of no use whatsoever. It is best to walk, calming your mind and avoiding distractions.
“A verse born of pure imagination is either the most beautiful or the most clumsy. Yet the most beautiful are exceedingly rare. Though one may think it the most beautiful at the time of composition, many verses become so cloying that they make one want to vomit when viewed half a year or a year later. Even when depicting real scenes, the most beautiful are still hard to come by, but second-rate verses are the easiest to produce. Moreover, many realistic haiku retain some charm even after many years have passed.
“At first, it is common to feel that one cannot compose haiku without relying on imagination. Eventually, when one tries to depict real scenes, one feels at a loss, and nothing seems to become a haiku. However, once one gains enough experience through repeated practice to compose realistic haiku to some extent, one will find that nothing is as interesting or as easy to compose as realistic haiku. It is also at this time that one realizes the banality of fantasy and the freshness of realism. I once spoke with the oil painter Gyūban. Gyūban said, “In painting, too, when competing through fantasy, the seasoned artist will surely win, and the young artist will surely lose. However, when it comes to painting from life, the works of young artists are often enough to astonish even the seasoned ones.”
(( this is the only place in the document that “shasei” occurs))
“To compose a haiku based on imagination, one may sit motionless with eyes closed, visualizing the ideal realm of heaven. One may also sit at one’s desk, holding a hand warmer, and recall past experiences. It is also acceptable to leaf through ancient haiku texts and derive new ideas from the verses of others. It is also acceptable to gather with a few people to take turns leading the session, engage in competitive composition, or tackle assigned themes.
“When attempting to compose a haiku from imagination based on a given theme, if the theme is particularly difficult, the author—even a seasoned poet—often cannot avoid producing a clumsy verse that is hard to bear after much agonizing over it.
“Humor also belongs to literature. However, the humor found in haiku and that found in senryū naturally differ in degree. The humor of senryū lies in making people laugh until their sides ache. The humor in haiku, on the other hand, requires a touch of elegance.
“There are those who favor an eccentric style, and such eccentricity also belongs to literature. However, it is essential that the eccentricity of the composition and the eccentricity of the language go hand in hand. There are works where the composition is eccentric but the language is not—much like a madman who is sometimes serious. There are works where the composition is not eccentric but the language is—much like a sane person pretending to be mad. Neither is literary.
“There are old haiku that even those well-versed in the art find difficult to understand. If such a haiku relies on ancient events or archaic language, one should search through relevant books. However, if the words themselves are common yet the meaning of the entire poem remains obscure, one must ponder it at length. Failing to understand even a single haiku is not only a source of shame but also proof that one has yet to reach a certain level of proficiency in haiku. Inventing meanings that do not exist to make a haiku seem more profound is a flaw of ancient commentators. Discarding difficult haiku without thoroughly exploring their inherent meanings is a flaw of today’s students.
“Third stage of haiku:
“Those in the second stage should already be considered members of the haiku community. It is not difficult to make a name for oneself in this generation. Only those who aspire to become masters of haiku can reach the third stage. Those who are content with mere fame in this generation will ultimately not be permitted to enter this stage.
“The third stage has no set graduation date. Those who enter it early may become masters for a hundred years; those who enter it late may become masters for all eternity.
“The second stage is open to those with a natural literary talent who can pursue it as a hobby. The third stage is open only to those who specialize in literature.
“In the second stage, even those of limited learning or who are lazy can still cultivate this art. The third stage is accessible only to those who are diligent and devoted to their studies.
“One may enter the second stage without even realizing it. The third stage is accessible only to those who have resolved to enter it of their own accord.
“Even those who specialize in literature cannot progress beyond the second stage if they are arrogant, look down on others, and lack the will to study and refine their craft.
“It is absolutely essential to distinguish between the trite and the novel in haiku. The scope of what is considered trite or novel varies depending on one’s level of study. The more haiku one reads, the more one will likely perceive what is trite. Those in the second stage, when viewing the haiku of beginners, will see only what is trite. Those in the third stage, when viewing the work of those in the second stage, will see the same. And so on.
“However, there is no better way to learn to distinguish between the trite and the novel than to read many books on haiku.
“For those who practice haiku as a hobby, it is not a problem if their own poems happen to resemble older ones. However, those in the third stage cannot use such similarities to mask their banality; it merely serves to highlight their own lack of knowledge.
“One must be well-versed in the various forms of haiku and possess one’s own distinctive style.
“If one is satisfied merely by reading books on haiku, one will do no more than taste the dregs of the ancients. One must seek new material beyond traditional haiku.”
——–end of extracts——-
I think this is the first time a translation of the text of Shiki’s Haikai Taiyō has been made available to readers in English, but if you can find another, please let us know.
We look forward to your thoughts, comments and the poll.
—Keith Evetts
At the end of each post you will find a short anonymous poll related to the topic of the week (3 or 5 questions).
It asks not what you know about haiku but what you experience reading and writing it — whether an argument lands, whether a poem does what the essay claims it does, whether your practice matches the orthodoxies you’ve been taught. There are no correct answers. A no or a not yet is as valuable as a yes, and more valuable than a performance of agreement.
Periodic issues titled Chorus will return to what the polls have gathered — not to tally verdicts but to examine what the pattern of responses reveals. Where readers converge is interesting. Where they diverge is often more so. The more poets who participate the richer the picture.
Discussion is welcomed in the Comments thread at the very end of this post. Meanwhile, if you would like to propose a topic you wish to see addressed, or better still, if you have an outline proposal for an article that you would be prepared to write—if accepted—please submit it to us via the submission form immediately below this text:
Why Moon and Finger? Zen, Chan, and Indian Buddhist texts cite the metaphor of a Finger pointing at the Moon with a caution: do not mistake the finger for the moon itself. Clinging to words or doctrines (the finger) obscures the awakened mind or truth (the moon). Thus, the analyses, views, and critiques of haiku in this feature are but the Finger. Haiku is the Moon itself, to be viewed by all. Views expressed here are those of the individual authors alone, except where otherwise attributed. They are very much open to discussion in the comments thread below. We all learn.
Introducing the hosts:
Orense Nicod is a French poet working across forms, with a particular focus on haiku. Born in Paris, she spent ten years of her childhood in South Africa before returning to France and writes in both French and English.
Her work has appeared in journals including Frogpond, Cattails, and The Asahi Haikuist Network. She has twice won first prize in the Haiku Society of America Rengay Awards, in collaboration with Joan Fingon (2021) and Anton R-kelian (2025).
A former teacher, she is raising her two children and her poetic expectations while co-hosting Moon and Finger with Keith Evetts on The Haiku Foundation.
Keith Evetts lives in Thames Ditton, Surrey. Life Fellow of the Cambridge Philosophical Society. Aside from scientific papers, diplomatic telegrams, and local history articles, he’s written poetry of various kinds for sixty years, much of it sub rosa. Latterly host and managing editor of the Foundation’s re:Virals commentary feature since December 2021, one of the ten editors of the annual Red Moon Anthology, and an administrator of Facebook’s largest haiku group. Married with five grown children, cottage garden, grey parrot, and a sense of humour. His short haiku bio is here.
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Are We (for) Real: The 42nd Approach
A few serio-humorous thoughts…
When we start with or from realism where does it take us, including the question “are we for real?”
Dr Gabi Greve gave us this deeply useful resource on everything ‘haiku’ including:
SHASEI 写生
Sketching from Nature
shajitsu 写実, byoosha 描写
https://haikutopics.blogspot.com/2006/07/shasei-sketch-from-nature.html
In a nutshell:
Masaoka Shiki – Three Ways of Sketching from Life
to copy reality as it is
to select carefully from experience (the next stage)
to include makoto, internal, psychological reality of what is truthful (the third development)
Modern Japanese Poets and the Nature of Literature
by Makoto Ueda (Stanford University Press; 1 edition 1983)
Portable words: The other side of the electric fence – Kate Hall’s haiku collection “Irises”
https://area17.blogspot.com/2016/11/portable-words-other-side-of-electric_11.html
Kate Hall: https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/kate-b-hall/
Saitō Mokichi (1882 – 1953) puts [it] so succinctly, that shasei is:
“…an expression of ‘animation’ or ‘the divine soul’ and never as a simple linear bordering of objects as contemporary Japanese artists and poets in general took the term to mean.”
Paraphrasing from:
”Saito Mokichi’s Poetics of Shasei,”
Japanese Hermeneutics: Current Debates on Aesthetics and Interpretation, edited by Michael F. Marra (Honolulu : University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2002)
A neat statement:
“never as a simple linear bordering of objects”
In fact this might suggest the mono no aware of a poignant beauty of ending as soon as it gives pleasure, such as the classic example of cherry blossom. We write about the pretty side of this blossom. In fact later this year is yet another cherry blossom haiku from me appearing in an anthology (no, not that one, another one) which by sheer coincidence backs up that realism/mono no aware etc… are never one-sided, or double-sided as such.
.
The dark side of cherry blossom
cherry mist
the gun you pointed
as I said I love you
Alan Summers
Publication credit: Symmetry Pebbles (2011) ed. Richard Thomas
Collection: Does Fish-God Know (Yet To Be Named Free Press 2012)
We know that cherry blossom is for quick beauty, and it also holds surprising danger. Its plants contain cyanogenic glycosides—that break down into cyanide when leaves or seeds are chewed. Its defence is highly toxic to dogs, cats, and horses, causing breathing problems and shock.
So the cherry blossom symbolises both life and death in more than one manner, beauty and violence as Spring brings promise of new life it also takes it away from others.
It makes me think…
“No matter how beautifully the cherry blossoms have glowed in the light of the torches held up by the inquisitors, it has only been because of the intensity of the darkness around them.”
Japanese author and playwright Kōbō Abe’s essay “The Dark Side of the Cherry Blossoms” (originally published in 1957)
Of course I love the pretty side of nature that we believe we see, it’s important for our equilibrium. Though in a society that is divided between pro-war and those who’d rather there was no war, we tread carefully who offers and why certain solutions to reality.
I’ve recently read from so many sources about the contradictions that are human perceptions of reality, and that even looking at a regular mirror in “real-time” is looking into the past, then we are sketching from possibly what we only think we see (feel touch hear taste). Even if it’s incredibly real to us, if we could see from the perspective of the planet’s other sentient species it would all be turned on its head. In fact “Planet Earth” which despite precedent feels like an oxymoron when one outer-space view of ‘Earth’ is all water, now has two moons, just like Barsoom! Do we mention this, of course not, perhaps it’s too real? It’s with us until possibly 2083, so it’s possible that younger haiku poets here can commercially visit both moons in the future .
And so if we look at “our reality”
Now freed from enforced realism, perhaps Shiki’s third stage, so difficult for him to physically follow perhaps, is a launch pad for other launch pads. It’s inspired me to use various and further approaches to realism (literary, scientific ongoing discoveries, ekphrastic etc…) as this search or hunt isn’t static as those on Call of the Page courses will know.
Realistic depiction:
写実的な描写
Shajitsu-tekina byōsha
A depiction refers to the act of representing or showing something, whether through a visual medium like a painting, drawing, or film, or through a vivid verbal description. It is a portrayal, picture, or word-painting that captures the likeness or essence of a person, object, or event.
—Merriam-Webster
Reality is the actual state of things, encompassing everything that exists and happens. It contrasts with imagination, illusion, and how things are wished to be. —Cambridge Dictionary
Reality is the totality of existence or what all existing entities have in common. —wikipedia
I’m not sure as haiku poets, that is, if we allow ourselves to be “discoverers”, can fully agree with Cambridge or Wikipedia: Further quantum science discoveries turn everything on its head and then some more!
Perhaps we need The 42nd Approach and thank all the fish as well as Shiki.
Thank you, Alan.
Concerning the philospopher’s view of reality being relative to the perceptions, if I stuck a hatpin into your thigh theoretically you might not feel a thing, or might not feel an instance so similar to that I feel when sticking it into my own.
as the crow flies
the difference between theory
and practice
—cattails October 2023
To my eldest son who majored with a first in philosophy, I quote a waka from my adored Saigyõ:
捨てはてて身はなきものとおもへども雪のふる日はさぶくこそあれ
sute-hatete mi wa naki mono to omoedomo, yuki no furu hi wa samuku koso are
—Saigyõ
We know well
that this cicada-shell body
is but an illusion,
yet when it snows,
the days are chill.
—tr Blyth
And we have John Stevenson’s:
pretty sure my red is your red
Roadrunner – February, 2009
(The title verse of his last selection, My Red, that you helped to edit)
Except that in the case of whether red is perceived very similarly by us all, if equipped with the full set of cones, I’m maybe a little less than pretty sure…. And away from somatic sensations, it does seem likely that the gyri and sulci of the cerebral cortex are the home of varied accumulated patterns of perceptions and reasoning according to individual experience.
I doubt that we would all be ordering the same dishes at Milliways, The Restaurant at The End of the Universe. Or maybe in our case we’d both go for the Ameglian Major Cow, accompanied by a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. Who knows?!
re
“Concerning the [philosopher]’s view of reality being relative to the perceptions, if I stuck a hatpin into your thigh theoretically you might not feel a thing, or might not feel an instance so similar to that I feel when sticking it into my own.”
A common analogy is being at the dentist, I believe, and I remember someone talking at an educational conference, and the speaker explained it so well, that it’s reality in one ‘real’ and ‘immediate’ sense. Of course we can write about sticking pins in our thighs for real or not, or go down the Schrödinger’s route endlessly.
Putting aside all the philosophy stuff, I take from presentations of scientific discoveries even if in development, I feel haiku verses originate from our perceived reality but who is to say what happens next.
What we can do, or consider, as the industrial revolution fast-forwarded haiku as we see it now, and subsequently revolutions (science/industry/nano etc…) will push haiku again as well, and we can resist or not, or use it.
Everyone has their own perceived reality shaped, or hopefully not by the big cheeses in politics, big corp, haiku etc…, by the words that should always be our own. It’s an ongoing challenge for poets that they cannot always fully shake off any big cheese [important or powerful person] though we can try but persist.
Ah, yes, crows in all their wonderful guises:
The Thoughtful Raven
after Ted Hughes, and Kurt Jackson
Publication Credit: Blithe Spirit 26.4 winter issue 2016
Anthology Credit: The New English Verse: An International Anthology of Poetry
ed. Suzie Palmer (2017)
https://area17.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-thoughtful-raven-haibun-haikuprose.html
I’ve had various realities, expecting to be killed/murdered, so I even wrote a haibun about it, checking out explosive devices.
Human/kind Issue 1.4 (March 2019) haibun: Living in a second
editor: Robin Smith
Pushcart Prize nominated
It’s quite eye-opening now that I’d hug a suspect device and walk away as far as possible from groups of people. I felt sure my luck would run, though I got through those five years. Reality will always be a strange beast.
I’ve written hundreds of times about crows
secret garden
a clue to everything
lies with the crows
Alan Summers
Mainichi Shimbun (Japan, July 2016)
fifth kind encounter
humans replace crows
as an idiom of murder
Alan Summers
Prune Juice Scifaiku feature Issue 21: March, 2017 ed. Steve Hodge
collection: by ink of crow by Alan Summers pub. Call of the Page (November 2025)
From Douglas Adams’s “So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish”
(the fourth book in the Hitchhiker’s series):
The Lizard Hierarchy:
“The people are people. The leaders are lizards. The people hate the lizards and the lizards rule the people.”
God’s Final Message: “We apologize for the inconvenience.”
On the topic of red being red in our view…
English Language Haiku Master John Stevenson ✍️ (Interview) [983]
Luke’s English Podcast
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VhgA3PE3eQ
pretty sure my red is your red
John Stevenson
Roadrunner – February, 2009 ed. Scott Metz
Annoyingly MY RED is now split up into two pieces, I was lucky enough to catch it as one whole complete presentation.
Logan Rando did a brilliant job!
MY RED – Part 1 | Selected Haiku of John Stevenson | Cinematic Experience
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkgX2o2zzZ0
MY RED – Part 2 | Selected Haiku of John Stevenson | Cinematic Experience
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fracc1LDI1E
John manages to capture a strongly perceived reality in an almost off-hand but deeply intimate manner. Not sure anyone else is quite able to do this.
Red is the colour of hunger, and restaurants including my father used this comprehensively in the 1960s/70s as did various steak houses, as do/did trash-food outlets.
In ancient (ca. 4C) Indian philosophy preserved in Buddhist texts there’s a classic example of perceptual relativism where the same river is perceived as filth by ravenous ghosts, water by humans, a dwelling and breath by fish, nectar by the gods.
(Vimshatika Twenty Verses, Vasubandhu). The river does not change. What you experience depends on the consciousness you bring to it.
By way of challenging ancient wisdom I note aside, that how the Thames tastes is partly dependent on discharges by Thames Water and agricultural effluent, consistently verifiable in samples. That does not make me a ravenous ghost. Science too has its own beauty, indeed.
re “all is filth in the end”
This could date back to older times, that we seem to all abide by, hence the attempt to destruct the branch we are all sitting upon. For those who want to go to Mars already, John Carter’s ancestors are waiting, and not necessarily with eagerness.
The Thames, where historically, poor sanitation, millions of horses, and raw sewage dumping into the River Thames birthed the infamous 19th-century city as the “Great Stink”
In 1892, a certain Lady FW Harberton published an inventory of the items picked up by her trailing skirt on a walk along Piccadilly: “2 cigar ends; 9 cigarette ditto; A portion of pork pie, 4 toothpicks; 2 hairpins; 1 stem of a clay pipe, 3 fragments of…” The Telegraph newspaper
‘Dirty Old London’: A History Of The Victorians’ Infamous Filth
https://www.npr.org/2015/03/12/392332431/dirty-old-london-a-history-of-the-victorians-infamous-filth
hunger games the Thames barrier a moveable feast
Alan Summers
uncharted
And if there is Kinks in our armour:
Waterloo sunset
the Thames disappears
from the Tube map
Alan Summers
First publication credit: haijinx vol III issue 1 (2010)
ed. Mark Brooks, Alan Summers, Carmen Sterma, Serge Tomé, Kuniharu Shimizu.
Feature: Across the Haikuverse, No. 10: Bleak Midwinter Edition (2011) ed. Melissa Allen
Transport for London (TfL) controversially removed the River Thames from the iconic Tube map in September 2009 to reduce clutter. Though it has remained a staple ever since, the river was historically omitted on a few occasions prior to 2009, including on the very first pocket map designed by Harry Beck. –London Transport Museum
I highly recommend, if you want clean rivers, I hope?
Rave On For The Avon
A feature-length documentary film that follows a local community’s fight to save their bathing spot in unique, daring & distinctly Bristolian ways.
https://www.eightysita.com/raveonfortheavondocumentary
I was born in London, left at 11 months old, though my childhood city is Bristol, though moving to Chippenham I find relatives buried in unmarked graves, as well as one rellie was a Lord Mayor. I’m more excited about my link to Star Wars though, and a rellie being protected by Princess Leia.
I only have one haikai verse on filth, for you:
.
rhinestone chimera we filth up the dance floor
Alan Summers
Publication acceptance: haikuNetra Journal issue 1.5 (2024) ed. Daipayan Nair
.
And surprisingly not many on mud, except this one direct experience one, where I used third person singular, as was wont back in the 1990s, perhaps partly to make it universal:
.
unlacing the shoe
on his sole
mud from the gravesite
Alan Summers
Publication credit: Blithe Spirit Vol. 6 No. 3 (1996)
Collection: Does Fish-God Know (YTBN Press 2012)
.
We carry time with us in so many ways, and despite this being a Water Planet, we live and die in soil be it war or a funeral ceremony.
This was the second and only other haiku about my father’s funeral. Again it was purely direct observation/experience:
.
the rain
almost a friend
this funeral
Alan Summers
Award credits:
Highly Commended, Haiku Collection Competition, (Snapshot Press 1998)
Joint 9th Best of Issue, Snapshot Five (Snapshot Press 1999)
First publication credit: Azami #28 ed. Ikkoku Santo (Japan, 1995)
Other publication credits:
Birmingham Words Issue 3 (Autumn 2004); Snapshots 4 (1998); tempslibre (2010)
Feature: Analysis of the Haiku structure (Serge Tomé, tempslibre, 2001)
Anthology credits:
First Australian Online Anthology (October 1999)
The Omnibus Anthology, haiku and senryu (Hub Haiku series 2001, Hub Editions)
Hidden (British Haiku Society Anthology 2002)
The New Haiku (Snapshot Press, 2002)
First Australian Haiku Anthology (Paper Wasp 2003)
The Temple Bell Stops: Contemporary Poems of Grief, Loss and Change
ed. Robert Epstein (Modern English Tanka Press 2012)
Articles:
On minimalism and other things DJ Peel Blithe Spirit Vol 9 No.3 (1999)
Travelogue on World Haiku Festival 2002, Part 2 (Akita International Haiku Network, Japan 2010)
Collection credit: The In-Between Season (With Words Pamphlet Series 2012)
Featured Poet:
Cornell University, Mann Library, U.S.A. Daily Haiku (Oct 2001)
Magazine feature: Seven magazine: “Three lines of simple beauty” (2006)
online feature:
Blogging Along Tobacco Road: Alan Summers – Three Questions (2010) ed. Curtis Dunlap
Feature/Interview:
Meet… Alan Summers
Seashores Issue 9 (November 2022)
etc…
Earth is mostly water, it’s our choices that can bring back the Water Planet, or make the oddly and banally labeled place, we currently reside upon, as Planet Earth, more likely be renamed as Filth.
Another of Shiki’s forthright dictums that ought to spark a future article and discussion in Moon and Finger, preferably by the protagonists of less comprehensible verses in the genre, is:
“The notion that composing haiku that are difficult to understand is a sign of sophistication is nothing more than the narrow-minded prejudice of a vulgar person. Convoluted verses are not valuable; ordinary verses are, in fact, quite valuable.”
As always, views in response now can be harvested for future exploration. We have open minds.
Concerning Shiki’s comments on realism versus imagination, it’s worth adding to the mix Jim Kacian’s Realism is Dead (And Always Was) in Modern Haiku 47:2, 2016:
“Haiku are not reality. Haiku—at least haiku that aspire beyond realism — are metaphors that use images to trigger responses within the mindspace of readers and hearers, what we have come to call resonance.”
I’m still pondering Barnhill’s reply in another context. Unfortunately Shiki is unable to reply. As he noted “…there are many instances where one’s shortcomings become apparent. If one discovers this while still alive, it will amount to nothing more than a momentary embarrassment; but once dead, one will be powerless to do anything about others’ criticism.“
Emerging from an exhausting weekend watching rugby, soccer, and tennis…..
Among many things that struck me in Haikai Taiyō was Shiki’s forceful condemnation of the trite, the clichéd, the hackneyed, and the mediocre. As Alexander Dolin notes in The Fading Golden Age of Japanese Poetry (Akita International, 2015): “The main merit of Shiki’s campaign was in the effort to liberate poetry of the traditional genres from stagnation, dogmatism, and sectarian conservatism.”
Shiki uses two words that translate as “trite” or “hackneyed.” The dictionary word is:
陳腐, romaji chinpu, which occurs in no less than 21 paragraphs, 27 times in all.
e.g. “zanshin o bi to shi chinpu o fubi to suru”
“take the fresh as beautiful and the trite as not-beautiful”
The craft term is 月並, tsukinami, in the fixed phrase 月並調, tsukinami-chō: “trite / monthly style.” This occurs with variations 9 times in 8 of the paragraphs.
Shiki was not only trying to ” liberate poetry of the traditional genres from stagnation, dogmatism, and sectarian conservatism.” He was bent on making, or restoring, the haikai/haiku genre as primarily literary, a form of art as literature.
But though we often extol haiku as ‘poems’ and love to call and address ourselves as ‘poets’ at every opportunity, there are other virtues of haiku as a mindful practice, and as a sharing of humanity, that can be distinguished from “literary works of art.” Indeed, just after I took on re:Virals in 2021 I had an email from Gabriel Rosenstock, now alas dead, questioning whether haiku was poetry at all. My answer then was “yes.” Now, it might be “sometimes.” Of course, like haiku, ‘poetry’ itself resists deconstruction and definition. This for me is part of its charm.
It’s for consideration whether ELH in the ever-growing number of journals, particularly online, has reached another zenith or another nadir. Or neither. My own conflicted thoughts on the trite and the clichéd, always subject to change depending on what I read last, are here: https://thehaikufoundation.org/revirals-535#revhaikudo
There is a lot here to think about. I don’t know why I go on thinking about haiku, but I do. Something about it took hold of me many years ago and hasn’t let go, despite the mass of triviality that has tried to persuade me to do some surgery to remove it. Actually, I think what grabbed me grabbed when I was a child and first encountered, before I could read, a dictionary, and saw words connected to images. Encountering haiku years later was connected to that, somehow . . .
Keith, you say so many good things. I think you are a wise elder in the world of haiku. You know more about it than I do, which is a good thing. I have tried my best not to know a lot about haiku, which is not necessarily a better position. Only, it suits me. You say:
“the mindful aspect of haiku, the focused-and-unfocused meditative aspect, often seems to me the salient characteristic that distinguishes haiku from ‘other poetry.’ and this seems to me to be true. Up to a point. I tend to think that comparisons between haiku and ‘other poetry’ mostly come across as defensive, and at their extreme, take the form of asserting that haiku is superior primarily because ‘other poetry’ too often is seen as a demonstration of the poet’s verbal skills— if it is a meditation, it is a meditation on one’s self— a demonstration of ego. Of course, that is not what you are saying here, at all.
So my objection may be reflexive. But I think there are many poets who would say that they focus on, or explore “the mindful . . the meditative . . . Jane Hirshfield is an obvious example. But others come to mind: Wendell Berry, James Schuyler, Gary Snyder, Mary Oliver— Their means may be different, of course.
Defensiveness, of course, can be an expression of insecurity. And I think there is a lot of insecurity among writers of haiku— is a haiku a poem? is the genre “primarily literary, a form of art as literature”? Was Shiki insecure about it?
Which may be why “we often extol haiku as ‘poems’ and love to call and address ourselves as ‘poets’ at every opportunity,” a statement I find very amusing, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, but perhaps because it makes me a bit uncomfortable.
Nonetheless, I am a bit baffled by what follows: “there are other virtues of haiku as a mindful practice, and as a sharing of humanity, that can be distinguished from “literary works of art.” Surely, as in the examples given above, there are many poets (other than haiku poets) who feel their work is a mindful practice, and is a sharing of humanity. But I may be missing a broader point you wish to make.
I tend to agree that part of the charm of poetry is its resistance to definition. And maybe part of haiku’s charm is a similar resistance, to the point of resisting being defined as a poem at all.
Thank you Peter, and for the very generous comments. Old I am, wise very doubtful (I share the household with wife and two adult daughters who calibrate that. Not to mention an irreverent parrot).
You always make me think more deeply. I’ll ruminate on your points and on what more precisely I’m trying to get at, and revert after the riveting, titanic men’s singles final at Wimbledon.
What a thunderous singles final that was.
And now, pursuing Peter’s thoughtful response to my comments:
“the mindful aspect of haiku, the focused-and-unfocused meditative aspect, often seems to me the salient characteristic that distinguishes haiku from ‘other poetry.’”
Peter: “and this seems to me to be true. Up to a point….But I think there are many poets who would say that they focus on, or explore “the mindful . . the meditative . .”
““there are other virtues of haiku as a mindful practice, and as a sharing of humanity, that can be distinguished from “literary works of art.” “
Peter: “I am a bit baffled (by this)”
—–
I agree with your point about other poets in English. You can add Charles Reznikoff to your list, Eliot too. What I am trying to get at is not that there’s no inner meditation in ‘other poetry’ (and I mean by that, other poetry in English as a generality). But that within haiku in particular there is a very strong and distinctive meditative streak. It draws to a considerable extent on Buddhist and Daoist habits of meditation. On koans, for example. This emphasis on contemplation is not the be-all and end-all of all haiku, and an emphasis on Zen influence has been resisted latterly by ELH practitioners for various reasons, but it is perhaps the thickest of haiku’s several roots. So that many haiku may not be written for “literary purposes”—that is, as “poetry as we (anglophones) know it.” And is it right and fair to evaluate those by literary yardsticks, or by their success or otherwise in prompting a reader to such contemplation and meditation. Are there other forms of poetry in English that deliberately privilege this aspect over others? If not, it’s a point of relative difference, of distinctions —where distinction means something that can be distinguished or made out from another thing, not “distinguished” as in “distinguished poet.”
Equally, haikai, and thence haiku, is “light” or “humorous” verse rooted in renga. The hokku was usually a verse of greeting, often of compliments to the host, a hospitable setting; getting everyone in the mood and off to a good start. Hence comments (if I recall correctly by Buson, for example; also more recently by David McMurray) that haiku is a vehicle for community, for sharing.
Either of these strands, if pursued, is not necessarily subordinated to what literati may judge “fine art in literature.” Indeed, their practitioners may care not. Those who enter on the way of haiku as a mindful practice, to pay attention to their immediate sense and surroundings; those who delight in sharing a ‘thought for the day’ with like-minded friends, those who savour with amusement the little ironies of life in this world: do they care that much about evaluation by professors of literature, or by distinguished poets-laureate, PhD students, literary judges among a small elite of super-poets? Is their goal, like Shiki’s, to produce fine and elegant literature?
None of which is to say that such haiku ‘cannot’ reach literary heights of some sort as well. Bashõ, who was thus driven, showed that they can. But before making a triage of present-day English Language haiku into categories like Shiki’s “grand and magnificent,” elegant, and other haiku that make it into the fine literature category, and dismissing the rest as trite or banal, should we not consider what they were written as, and for?
In short: the adoption by many of haiku as a particular discipline, a practice, a ‘way’ in the Japanese sense, is not always–or even often–with the thought of becoming “great poets.” Their verses ‘may’ be consonant with the ideals of poetics in English that we are probably trying to apply. But in many cases, they aren’t; and they have no reason to be.
Some of these thoughts germinated here. including the issue of banality: https://thehaikufoundation.org/revirals-535#revhaikudo
How am I doing?
Keith,
I have been thinking along similar lines, actually. Just for now, to say this: a comparison has been made with photography, essentially that many, or most photographers get a great deal of enjoyment and benefit from what they do with no aspirations whatsoever toward greatness, or to producing enduring works of art. Some of course do have such aspirations, but probably do not think the former group drag them, or the art of photography, down in any meaningful way. (Though I think there was a time when photography was not universally accepted as a valid form of art.) There’s more to be said on the matter– perhaps tomorrow.
Well yes. Photography can be enjoyed by anyone as a practice to observe and frame more closely and thoughtfully, contemplatively, a real and present image. If they wish. You notice things differently through a viewfinder and a lens. Ocasionally you hit it off, and a newspaper or the BBC accepts a photo gratis.
Once on home leave with nothing in particular booked by way of a holiday, Lesley and I by chance found a vacancy for a week’s watercolor course based at a farm in Wiltshire, where the farmer’s wife was a lively artistic lady and acted as a relaxed tutor. We’d get a bit of tuition then be despatched to the fields, woods and streams thereabouts with sandwiches, our watercolour pad, paint tins and squeezee water bottles. The weather was fine. It was an immensely relaxing and wholesome experience to focus on the natural images around us and try to render them on the paper. And share the results, grossly amateur as they were, with our hostess over a rustic dinner for which we all had a keen appetite. Not a soul was driven by a desire to be a great artist…
I think of that now when practising haiku.
Keith you write, “This emphasis on contemplation is not the be-all and end-all of all haiku, and an emphasis on Zen influence has been resisted latterly by ELH practitioners for various reasons, but it is perhaps the thickest of haiku’s several roots. So that many haiku may not be written for “literary purposes”—that is, as “poetry as we (anglophones) know it.”
I would push back on this notion of Zen being the “thickest root” of haiku, which finds its ancestors in hokku and waka. The hokku is a deliberately crafted and constructed utterance of language employing deep metaphor and very clever and culturally attuned symbolism. In its function, the hokku had to be *perfect,* comparable to the fuss and stress of an MC’s speech introducing a keynote speaker. I’ve had to write a few of those, and there’s nothing very Zen about that, ha! The hokku was a deliberate crafting and curating of cultural symbolism that embedded itself not with the natural world, but rather with cultural constructions of what the natural world was; hokku constructed an idealized “Nature,” conceptually and symbolically. The crafting of a hokku seems the exact opposite of the general understanding of spontaneity and naturalness and selflessness of Zen/Tao/Etc.
I find that much of the literature on Zen influence on haiku, if stripped of the Zen language, would be the exact sort of advice and approach one would find in any university Creative Writing program. While it is true that a certain amount of intuition and un-deliberated “looseness” may be necessary to create a “first draft” of a haiku, the same can be said for any form of poetry. And even with those who write haiku as a meditative practice, they don’t simply write down random words. Rather, they embrace a set of literary approaches and theory of what a haiku is and does. Such that the *literary nature* of haiku informs any meditative function.
Wrt regard to the forms of poetry that contain a perceived high level of mediative quality, the sonnet is fixated with self-analysis articulated as poetry, as is Confessional Poetry of the 20th century. In the end there’s an irony of the haiku-as-solo-meditaive-practice, because on the surfaced it contradicts the claim of the communal nature of haiku
Wrt to the communal nature of poetry other than haiku, i.e. poetry which primarily functioned to be performed to a community or whose drafting was communal, there are limericks, the sung lyrical poems of the troubadours, and work songs, psalms, medieval Occitan debate poetry, operatic librettos, the Oral Poetic tradition of the ancient world, etc.
Each of these tradition, like hokku and renga, has its own unique manifestation of expression and exact purpose, but they were in general forms of communal poetry, rather than individual private consumption/reading.
In brief, for I am off to the gym:
As I noted, there’s more than one strand. The derivation of haiku from the renga’s hokku is the other one I mentioned.
Arguably, neither one has literary fine art as its primary aim — though it may achieve that, especially in the case of Bashõ.
In the case of free-standing haiku in English , which is generally what we are considering these days, the meditative aspect often appears strongly.
(I may be crossing threads here with my reply to Peter)
Oh, and PS in between resistance machines (which seems appropriate enough): Basho the doyen of Hokku was studying Zen Buddhism – and the Dao – which influenced his approach to hokku, yes?
From my understanding numerous important and prominent writers/scholars of traditional Japanese poetry worked to raise renga to a “high-art status” to be equal to waka, thereby creating the notion that renga could “aim” to be a “literary fine art.”
With regard to the hokku, centuries before Bashō it was considered to be worthy of literary art status and recognized as such by , for example, allowing the most accomplished poet in a session to craft/present it. Steven Carter in the Introduction to “Haiku Before Haiku” writes, that “by the turn of the fifteenth century…linked verse and by extension the hokku form were in the mainstream of elite artistic discourse.”
*
Certainly, folks can use whatever they wish for mediative practice, from painting to sculpting to running to yelling at birds, but when haiku is used as a meditative practice or tool, it is the *literary art of haiku* that is used. It is recognized as a literary art/genre form by such folk. And I would argue (half-assedly) that those who use haiku meditatively, I think they try to write the best haiku they can, i.e. they have the “aim” of writing a good haiku, a good literary art piece.
Is haiku a literary art? Yes. Is this literary art used for mediative practices? Yes.
And a third, yes: yes, I think Zen / Tao influenced Basho’s creative production (in that it affected/generated a particular type of Subjectivity), just as I think the teachings of the Church of England influenced the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare (the greatest playwright ever). But it’s odd to talk of Shakespeare’s works as works of Anglican Christianity. And odder still would be if some Creative Writing instructor suggested that one must embrace the tenets of Anglican Christianity to write a good play or a sonnet. Again, I think if one strips away the zen language from any Use-Zen-to-Write-Good-Haiku instruction, one ends up with a pretty common sense approach to writing that would be familiar in any writing program.
Thank you, Adam. These are good points, I think. And very much part of the discussions we want in this feature.
I’m still of the view that many take up haiku as “a practice,” a path, a way. It may be acknowledged that that too can be part of literary achievement, but that is not perhaps foremost in their mindful minds.
Yes, renga was a highly cultured art form for the elite, the court, during its early centuries. Until the commoners got hold of it in haikai. Thereafter…. well, you know already.
Relative to this informative exploration (thank you, Keith), readers might be interested in reading my brief coverage of Shiki’s 1896 “manifesto” for haiku that Makoto Ueda translated in 1976. Please read “Questioning Haiku: A Shiki Manifesto” at https://www.graceguts.com/essays/questioning-haiku-a-shiki-manifesto. This was first published in Haiku Canada Review in 2019 and reprinted in the Red Moon Anthology covering 2019.
And a comment on seasons. We all know that haiku aims at seasonal reference, not nature reference. In that sense, as others have written, haiku is best understood as a seasonal poem, not (strictly) a nature poem. After all, a saijiki is filled with seasonal references, not just nature references. Nature is not the target, seasonal reference is — though of course nature comes along for the ride with many seasonal references, hence the potential confusion. One may choose to write just nature haiku if one wishes, of course, but historically, nature is not the main target for haiku in Japanese, and need not be in English either. Indeed, I understand that typically a quarter of the listings in most saijiki collections have nothing directly to do with nature at all (such as Tanabata or Obon festivals, or equivalents in North America might by July 4th or Christmas). Likewise, one could write about nature and not be seasonal at all, thus missing what Shiki and others have emphasized, that “those who do not understand the associations of the four seasons ultimately do not understand haiku” — where he said the four seasons, not nature. I love nature-focused haiku, but that’s not actually its traditional target.
Thank you Michael (and for the link to your essay) for the comments on seasons and ‘nature.’
And also Adam for further comments on seasons.
We have a post scheduled for late August that begins with a divagation on a nature kigo that has amusing aspects unique to Japan, and goes on to consider thoughts on kigo, season words, and keywords in general, from the perspective of contemporary anglophone haiku rather than classic Japanese haiku. We’ll reflect on comments made here to see how they might influence that discussion.
Meanwhile, any thoughts on the differences between hon’i, associations, symbolism, semiotics, The Metaphors We Live By &c. (apart from the obvious one that saijikis offer particular example poems to model upon) would be welcome. Stimulating
Michael, thank you for this. Your distinction between nature and seasonality is an important corrective to the common assumption that haiku is simply nature poetry. As you note, many traditional kigo are cultural rather than natural, yet remain fully within the seasonal framework.
Your comment touches on something I’ve been thinking about for some time: whether the deeper principle might be temporality rather than seasonality per se. A kigo locates a poem within one of the four seasons, but in doing so it also answers a more fundamental question: when are we? It establishes the temporal coordinates of the experience.
This seems particularly important if we understand haiku as the poetry of moments, or more broadly of experience. Experience doesn’t occur in an abstract space; it unfolds in time. A haiku needs some temporal frame to situate the moment it presents. The kigo supplies not only a season but a way of locating an experience within a shared temporal world. Haiku’s minimalism means the poem can omit many things, but not the conditions that allow an experience to become perceptible.
This might explain why festivals, customs, foods, and clothing function so effectively as kigo. What unites them is not nature but their place within the unfolding of time — a network of associations that lets a brief moment open into a larger cultural and emotional context.
I’ve increasingly come to think about this through the enunciative triad: every utterance presupposes an “I,” a “here,” and a “now.” Because haiku is so compressed, it depends especially heavily on context to make the moment intelligible. A kigo is one traditional way of supplying that context, anchoring the poem not simply in a season but in a shared experience of time.
Seeing kigo this way also helps explain how successful haiku can be written without one, as is often the case in English-language haiku. If kigo functions to establish the “when” and often the “where” of an experience, a poet may forgo the seasonal reference but must find other ways to place the reader in a specific here and now. The absence of kigo doesn’t remove the need for context — it just shifts the responsibility onto other elements of the poem.
In that sense, the seasons may be less the ultimate target than a particularly rich expression of temporality. The four seasons make time visible, tangible, and communal. Perhaps this is part of what Shiki was pointing toward: to understand the associations of the four seasons is to understand how haiku places individual experience within the larger flow of time.
I appreciate the notion that the target of Japanese poetics is *temporality* rather than Nature and the conceptual apparatuses of “seasons” used to conceive nature and “make time visible.” The very core of Japanese poetics seems to me to be intimately involved with not only making time visible, but, once visible, of immersing one’s self into time (via an art object). Time not as a simple linear point of *now* but time as the extended experience of it at a social level (a “history” and “tradition” of a people).
Nature and Seasons as subjects/tropes/lenses of Japanese poetry and experience are arbitrary and secondary to the primary thrust of embedding present literary-objects into a lineage and tradition of Being within a social group. Japanese poetics at core move to generate a “shared experience of time” but this variety of time is not of the current moment, it’s a deep time, a deep cultural time. The subjects/topics/tropes of Nature and seasons are window dressing. A saijiki isn’t listing “season words” because seasons are important, the terms are presented because they’re tethers to use to embed a current poem into deep cultural time.
I once encountered the term “muki” for a seasonless kigo. I think there are many examples of poems that look and feel like haiku but lack a seasonal referent.
I have long felt that kigo are merely a shorthand for the transience of natural and human phenomena. In other words, the idea behind kigo is transience, and the symbol that overlays this is the kigo itself. Our four seasons (not to mention differing seasonal patterns in different geographies), therefore, are merely different flavors of change and a naturally seasonless referent (like “shooting star” or “earthquake” or even “neap tide”) can still represent this underlying connection to transience—and make a fine, true, haiku.
Thank you. Much in it to learn and try to digest.
What struck me most at the first reading was that Shiki’s insistence on haiku being associated with seasons is too narrow-minded.
Nature is organized in many overlapping ways, seasonality is just one of them. Equally important are each species’ position in the plant-herbivore-predators food pyramid, its adaptations to regulate its population size by the behavior of its own members or by leaving it to external factors such as predation, disease, or availability of food or water.
And so on, including its relationship with us humans and how that as been represented in our poetry. Borges said (I think) that when we see the word “camel” in a poem, it brings to mind not just the image of a camel but everything we remember previous poets having said about them.
So yes, a haiku should relate to something bigger, more universal than the little story it is telling, but to what and how, why not let the poet decide?
Thank you, John.
See my reply to Michael, too.
The ‘camel’ illustration is an aspect of association or symbolism. I suggest that the associations of ‘camel’ in a poem are not limited to those in other poems, but extend to everything a reader has experienced about camels indirectly or (in fewer cases) directly. And that for all that its physical presence is not universal, the associations of it mostly are. (Being a little impish, I am now trying to think what ‘camel’ might look like in a regional saijiki. Say, “first camel”?)
Letting “the poet decide how and what” is appealing to our free-wheeling culture of independent individuality, as contrasted with other more hierarchical cultures; but even so, do we opt entirely for free verse without any constraints, and if so, is it “haiku?”
I’m glad to see you mention ‘the little story,’ for some say categorically that haiku are not stories. But quite a few can be, in my view.
As many fine haiku have been written in free verse without any apparent constraints, I vote that we accept it.
The best definition of haiku I can think of is in Jim Kacian’s “How to Haiku.” But it takes many pages. Can anyone come up with a brief definition that covers all haiku? I don’t think so.
The reason is that haiku, like any other population, shows easily distinguishable features in the middle of its distribution, but gets fuzzy at the edges. So there will always be haiku that even scholars like the two of you will not agree on whether to include or not.
So why not leave it at that? Forever debating about it is like beating a dead horse with a stick, a waste of time.
If you don’t know it already, the Living Haiku Anthology section on Defining Haiku where many eminences grises try to define haiku is edifying (and diverting), but may not leave one all the wiser.
Personally, I’m happy letting it seep into me through reading and study, and leaving it without formal definition (such definitions always seem to cause immediate and usually justified challenges). It is and should be as broad and inclusive as possible, to give these little poems room to delight and develop. And the aggregate practice as seen in the large array of contemporary haiku outlets suggests that it is. All the same, we are using the term ‘haiku’ — does the point ever come where a verse shows little or none of the DNA inherited from its home country?
And Jim Kacian’s How To Haiku was a seminal work for me too, and always my first recommendation to beginners. As to definitions, however, I note Gilles Fabre interviewing Jim in Seashores, April 2024:
Gilles: “For you, what is haiku or a haiku?”
Jim: “You think I would fall for this one? Not a chance. I haven’t answered this question in years and don’t intend to answer it ever again. Instead, I continue to write it and publish my results. I would say those results are some aspects of what haiku is, amidst a myriad of others that can be found in the welter of haiku activity around the globe today. So, in avoiding an answer to your question, and taking an ontological approach, haiku is the summation of these activities, past and present, not complete yet since we’re still inthe process of reinventing it every day. At some point haiku activity will come to a creative halt, I suppose, and perhaps at that point we’ll be able to adequately define it. In the meantime, pointing at its best examples will have to suffice.”
John, thank you. You raise an important question about whether seasonality should be the only possible organizing principle for haiku. The natural world can be understood through many overlapping systems, and poetry can draw on any of these networks of association.
This is where my response to Michael comes in: I think kigo is perhaps less about seasonality as a subject than about the function it performs. It places an experience within a larger context — a shared temporal and cultural field, like your Borges example of the camel.
So I agree that poets may create that connection in different ways. The question isn’t whether the larger frame must always be the seasons, but how a haiku situates its particular moment within something larger than itself. Perhaps that is the deeper work of any such frame, seasonal or otherwise: to turn a bare occurrence into an experience.
The subjective nature of haiku means that others like our haiku when it speaks to them, when it evokes emotions in them, when it touches on something they’ve experienced.
There are probably masters who can objectively assess whether a haiku is good or not.
I have the impression that some people write almost exclusively excellent haiku, which touch many different people, with different life stories.
Is this because they have mastered the principles so well? Or perhaps they simply have talent and a keen sense of the essence?
When the moment comes when writing another poem seems impossible, we start reading others and see that there is no such threat.
Thank you, Urszula.
That begs the questions of what an excellent haiku is, whether a trite thought on a popular theme can be so described if it touches many people (is the number of ‘likes’ on social media an indication of excellence?), whether ‘excellence’ is to be judged by a tiny elite of readers highly educated in haiku and literature, or by poets acclaimed by this-or-that tendency, or by the number of readers it touches; and the question of personal tastes which, very evidently, vary widely.
I’m not offering any answers!
In reply to: “Is this because they have mastered the principles so well? Or perhaps they simply have talent and a keen sense of the essence?” I think Shiki would say of poets that have reached a peak of literary excellence (and he was concerned to make, or restore, haiku to ‘literature’) this is “stage three” and they have talent, a sense of the essence, mastered the principles, and have read and studied what went before in great detail so that they know what is new and original.
Thank you so much, Keith.
Regardless of the “suffering” involved in finding your way to haiku, writing it helps you find balance, perhaps more than other forms of creativity,
Yes. This purpose, the mindful aspect of haiku, the focused-and-unfocused meditative aspect, often seems to me the salient characteristic that distinguishes haiku from ‘other poetry.’
Who talks about “the sonnet spirit”— I ask? References welcome.
Let me change the subject a bit. I loved reading Jerzy Szaniawski’s stories and plays, especially the ones about Professor Tutka. They were as short as possible, without a single superfluous word. It’s a pity he didn’t know haiku. He would have joined the ranks of the greatest masters.
Mój polski jest trochę zardzewiały, Pani Urszulo…
Scorn Not the Sonnet
(William Wordsworth)
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
Excellent.
I would be the last to scorn a sonnet. Yet, I know not of an analysis that focuses on the spirit of sonnets as we do on the spirit of haiku. Although, compact in form, within a span of attention, asymmetrical about a turn, and focused on a formal line-count, there might be other similarities.
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.Sonnet 129: Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame
My great-great-great-Grandad was a labourer on Ann Hathaway’s farm, for what it may be worth. Stratford is the Evetts’ heartland!
I suppose I’m not sure what you mean by “spirit” whether of haiku or sonnets :)
Neither am I, but I’ve been collecting like comments from various thinkers for some years and something may eventually come of them. H F Noyes is one such. E.g.
“Out of the rule-free informality of the haiku form, with its emphasis on intuition, will emerge a poetry truly fresh, with a spirit uniquely unbound” — H F Noyes, Haiku Magic, essay Frogpond XXI.3 and in RMA 1999
At the end of my Shiki and Shasei post;
“And what is a good haiku? That may be more a matter of visceral feeling, of “haiku spirit,” than anything else—as hard to define as it is to catch the moon’s reflection in a fishing net.”
Wrt “haiku spirit” I would throw into the hat the sentiments of Shirane: “Haikai imagination meant taking pleasure in recontextualization: in defamiliarization, in dislocating habitual, conventionalized perceptions…”
So maybe “spirit'” is something like the Subjectivity that writing and reading a certain form of poetry produces, and then being operational (in things other than poetry) with that Subjectivity…as a sort of tentative definition, ha!
And while the discussion of Sonnets is certainly a digression (maybe) in this thread. I do think that the “sonnet spirit” is a thang, discussed in countless books/articles/etc. (e.g. Michael Spiller’s “The Development of the Sonnet: an Introduction”), though obviously not officially dubbed as such.
Too I’ve aways been intrigued at the similarities between haikai (and eventually haiku) and sonnets, specifically the developmental years of the sonnet, and then the “experimental years” of the 20th century (e.g. e.e. cummings): concerns of how to deal with subjects in a form so short; a sense that the sonnet was vulgar, and not high art; it was too suggestive, not comprehensive enough to fully and correctly deal with proper subject matter; it was too simple; it resisted theories of what its nature was; it was the “people’s” poetry; it would devalue true literature; unregulated; etc. There’s a paper there somewhere.
Again this whole convo is more than likely an unnecessary digression, sorry :)
A congenial digression and not irrelevant at all. We aim to get to anglophone haiku’s relationship with other English poetry, where several aspects come to mind, in due course. But not all at once.
There is a paper there somewhere on that comparison. If you’d care to write it, let us have an outline and you’re on.
Thankyou for this Keith.
I appreciate Shiki’s note that “those who do not understand the associations of the four seasons ultimately do not understand haiku. It is also reasonable to say that those lacking this association will find haiku shallow and insubstantial.” The butterfly isn’t merely a thing-in-itself, it is a manifestation of an intricate social and literary dynamic of deep artistic and social construction. “Nature” (as depicted in haiku) itself is a manifestation of this dynamic. In some regards haiku are not primarily rooted in nature or the seasons, rather they are rooted in the experience and creation of hon’i, and the social dynamics inherent to the emergence of hon’i. The “nature” and seasonal aspect of haiku is merely a historic, accidental vehicle to allow the action of the social and artistic dynamic to operate upon and within.
Thanks, Adam. Shiki didn’t hold back. I think his evaluation of seasonal associations might hold for haiku in Japanese at the time. It has been questioned thereafter, and the notion of ‘keywords’ introduced. But to remain ‘authentic’ they too have been codified into an enormous saijiki.
I think there are real problems in trying to stick conscientiously to formal season words in international anglophone haiku, and ‘borrowing’ them from Japan is often makeshift.
See also my reply to Michael. Post coming up in late August. Thoughts on kigo, and on keywords bearing widely-perceived associations, and on symbolism, welcome in advance.
Adam, I find your emphasis on hon’i fascinating because it also points to the essentially dialogic nature of haiku. Hon’i is not simply an inherited meaning attached to an image; it is something created and continually reshaped through a conversation between poems across generations.
In that sense, a haiku participates in a much larger poetic exchange. Each poem both receives and transforms the associations that have accumulated around images and words. This seems to me to be one of the ways in which haiku remains connected to its origins in linked verse: even the apparently independent haiku exists in dialogue with previous uses of language and image, and invites continuation by future poets.
I would hesitate, though, to call the seasonal aspect merely accidental. The seasons themselves provide one of the most powerful ways human beings have organized their experience of change, continuity, and time. Perhaps they are not the only possible vehicle, but they are a particularly rich one.
This links with what I touch on in my other comments, seeing kigo in this way also helps explain how successful haiku can be written without seasonal references. The poet may choose another route, but the poem still needs to establish a meaningful context and connect the particular moment to something beyond itself.
The dialogic nature of hon’i, and artistic tradition in general, is interesting. I think an individual art object has a centrifugal (divergence, “make it new”) and centripetal (convergence) force (tradition), which creates a sort of space of the object. Too narrow and it’s a boring, too wide and it’s silly. Goldilocks width and it’s a very compelling, interesting piece of art. Part of this dynamic is a sort of gravitational pull from each end, the new piece of art pulls the tradition towards it, and the tradition pulls the new piece of art towards it. T.S. Elliott and all that.
I think how a poem is “continually reshaped through a conversation between poems across generations.”
is that utterances (oral and written) desire, to invoke Jakobson, they desire to collapse metonymy *into* metaphor. The divergence desires to converge. The prodigal son returns home. Each poem leaves home, travels a great distance, then returns home. Not to die. But to shift, metaphorically and then hit the road again, only to return again.
Yet, each time the metonymic extension collapses into and returns home to metaphor, it is changed. And it *changes the home* in a sort of Julian Jaynes-paraphrand-kinda-way. New perceptions of the world arise, new objects (as conceptual constructs) arise in the world. Or something blah blah blah.