re:Virals 490

Welcome to re:Virals, The Haiku Foundation’s weekly commentary feature on some of your favorites among the best contemporary haiku and senryu written in English. This week’s poem, chosen by Jo McInerney, was:

     
turning down the sheets —
outside Perseids fall
without a sound
— kei andersen
  tsuri-dōrō, Issue #24 – November-December 2024

Introducing this poem, Jo writes:

This is a fine juxtaposition. There is a beautiful intimacy in line 1. It seems to describe a private ritual. As someone who nightly crawls under the doona before pulling it up to my chin, I’m taken back to sleeping at my grandmother’s (who ironed her sheets and scented them with lavender) or to hotels where the sheets seem to whisper as they slide against each other. This is a haiku where almost inaudible sounds are louder than the soundless fall through space of tiny frozen particles of comet debris. It aligns a small human action with the celestial, vastly different in scale yet each beautiful. It also creates a sense of opportunities lost. Despite the worth attached to preparing for sleep, those in the bedroom go about their careful routine completely unaware of the wonder in the sky outside.

Opening comment:

A charming, gentle open-ended verse with plenty of —well, I have to use the word “space”—for the reader.  The shift across the cut is considerable, but not too much in my view.  We have the near/far, human/cosmos contrast, and some toriawase (the harmonious arrangement of separate things) binding the two parts in that both are short-lived, quiet moments, both involve downward movement.  The use of the present continuous participle is a frequent device to dispense with a personal pronoun, and here genuinely depicts a short span of continuous moments during which sheets are turned down, Perseids fall.  We assume the presence of the poet, although it’s not specified that it is the poet who is turning down the sheets.

On interpretation or reconstruction, if one wishes to go beyond contemplating, with an empty mind, the picture the verse paints, there are several possibilities.  We don’t know whether the poet actually saw the meteor shower outside, or was just aware that there was one.  I know I have often been frustrated by remembering that there’s a meteor shower on a certain night only when already in sleepwear.  Or by the weather in this island, or light pollution in the crowded place I live.   I have to view it on YouTube with glass in hand the next day. We might associate turning down the sheets with night-time preparation for bed, and the Perseids with night too (another harmonious link across the verse).  But not necessarily.  Small meteorites fall night and day — we see them only at night as they destruct.  And these days, it seems rare that someone would neatly turn down bedsheets except in an institutional environment.  We could infer, if one wished, that this is, say, a hospital, a nurse turning down the sheet corners, and the comparison is with the short-lived spark as a small lump of matter comes to nothing in the atmosphere. That would be in keeping with the morbid predilections of our ageing haiku community.

But actually, I prefer not to overthink this one.  Just to let the moment sink in and marvel that we are here.

Melissa Dennison:

This is a curious juxtaposition, turning down the sheets as a meteor shower unfolds. It is an interesting blend of the seemingly everyday and mundane with something quite magical. The Perseid meteor shower happens every year during the summer months. August I think. Perhaps what connects these three lines is that the act of turning down sheets is quite brief, as is that of a meteor once in our atmosphere. Blink and you miss it. Both are ephemeral.

It’s quite novel to me to write about both of these in a single poem. However, the more I think about it the more I realise that everything we do does unfold against the backdrop of our cosmic environment. The big and the small exist together.

Something else that struck me, no pun intended is the emphasis on movement, the act of turning down the sheets and the meteors falling. So there is a downwards trajectory. And of course we on Earth are falling through space, just like the meteor. Our lives are just like those brief sparks.

Perhaps it was a hot night?

The mention of sound is a nice touch. Why not get out of bed and see if you can see this shower? It’s a shame to sleep through it. I may have to wag a finger.

Lakshman Bulusu:

This haiku hails the task of “turning down” the bed linen and preparing the lights for use by guests — as silently as a Perseids meteor shower outside in the sky. Nature has its own charm and as does the preparation of a bed on which the guests can swoon into slumber. The juxtaposition of both is a miracle haiku. The kigo involves the sky and the silent meteor shower. It’s a “ethereal vs. the blithe” notion beautifully crafted into a haiku – that’s what a haiku and its creator do.

Ashoka Weerakkody:

It’s an alluring fact that Haiku is made in heaven, for no one has ever objected to the saying as it carries between words an indelible bright glow of divine presence that pleases the mind and soul. So the ‘fact’ remains immortal like the heavenly dwellers we never see.   And Perseids: where they come from? From some galaxy or nebulae or even Oort’s cloud up there, but that’s all heaven and none other.

kei anderson seems so ‘simply’ convinced that when the Perseids fall outside it’s time to stay inside and count down on a stellar journey to meet them halfway through, by the dreamy device of a good night’s sleep.

Sensible and participatory reading to say the least, as far as I am concerned for when such a vast event happens around the vertical and horizontal axes around a simple lettered name, a tiny human soul with a fine tuned poetic vision, the best interaction is to lie down on the most comfortable point on earth, one’s sweet sweet home and bedstead and ‘see’ the celestial miracle happen away night through. Well, at least I would find my nirvana that way, some day.
turning down the sheets —
outside Perseids fall
without a sound,
And this last line makes it fiber too since it implies the want of a lullaby to induce the sleep, as we are used to live by our circadian rhythm that lulls us down,  our biological clock.
Good night! Perhaps on the pillow case we have embroidery with these words, and for the time being it may serve as a read only lullaby! Until such a time as the Perseids would start to come down in their numbers, visible and countable like the sheep jumping over the fence, taking you to sleepdom!

Jonathan Epstein:

“The Cosmos is within us. We are made of star stuff.”
— Carl Sagan

Opening shot in this cinematic haiku: hands fold bedsheets back to make it easy to slip under the covers and gently fall asleep; a show of hospitality for a hotel guest or cruise ship passenger.

Cut to: a part of the Milky Way named after the Greek mythological hero Perseus, a constellation hundreds of light years away; background for a steady stream of meteors visible each summer in July – August.

Each “falling star” is a potential stimulus for observers to make a wish. The midnight-to-dawn performance notably includes showstopper fireballs that leave fiery trails and ramp up the degree of awe and wonder.

We have been whisked from the confined comfort of a small bedroom to a distant realm of the boundless Cosmos. As “Perseids fall without a sound” we become lost to our selves in an experience of Oneness.

I bow to this deftly humbling haiku and the radical wow it delivers.

Scott Mason—a reader’s poem:

This tantalizing haiku is a reader’s poem — call it a Rorschach-ku, if you will. It’s redolent with suggestiveness and replete with possibilities. What it decidedly is not is a poem that resolves to a single interpretation — that’s where we enter and get to ruminate or reflect or just play. Is turning down the bedsheets an act of turning away from worldly cares (let the heavens fall) or a prelude to love (let’s make our own muted fireworks) or something else altogether . . . or nothing but simply (and gloriously) what it is? One can’t help but register and feel the parallel elements of descent and quietude. Basho reputedly said something to the effect that “the haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good; those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.” This poem is of the latter breed: one that can miraculously transform a moment into an endlessly engaging and rewarding shared experience.

Author kei andersen:

My haiku often seem to come in unpredictable small flocks, and this was one that arrived late one night after I had been musing on how I had somehow managed to miss seeing the elusive Perseid meteor showers once again. Our attention is so often enmeshed in the small, necessary, daily activities of a human life that we remain unconscious of the unheard, unseen, and unfathomable presences, movements, and events that envelop us. This haiku felt like a gentle reminder to myself that our small worlds are nestled in much greater ones.

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Scott has chosen next week’s poem, which you’ll find below. We invite you to write a commentary to it. It may be short, or of moderate length, academic, your personal response, spontaneous, or idiosyncratic.  As long as it focuses on the verse presented, and with respect for the poet, all genuine reader reaction, criticism, and pertinent discussion is of value.   Out-takes are kept in the THF Archives.  Best of all, the chosen commentary’s author gets to pick the next poem.

Anyone can participate. Simply use the re:Virals commentary form below to enter your commentary on the new week’s poem (“Your text”) by the following Tuesday midnight, Eastern US Time Zone, and then press Submit to send your entry. The Submit button will not be available until Name, Email, and Place of Residence fields are filled in. We look forward to seeing your commentary and finding out about your favourite poems.

Poem for commentary:

   
alone
a meadow
makes me its weed
—Peter Yovu
 The Heron's Nest (Volume XXVI, Number 3: September 2024)

The Haiku Foundation reminds you that participation in our offerings assumes respectful and appropriate behavior from all parties. Please see our Code of Conduct policy.

Footnote:

kei andersen is an artist, haiku poet and occasional kitsune. She lives in Jersey City, NJ.

Spring Street Haiku Group:

kei is a member of New York’s Spring Street Haiku Group which has been home to several very accomplished haiku poets, among them Scott and the editor of tsuri-doro, Tony Pupello; the late Cor van den Heuvel; and at one time Dee Evetts (no relation), the group’s first organiser. Several of the group’s collected works are available to read or download in the Foundation’s Digital Library. Try this search. You might start with the anthology Suspiciously Small, where many excellent and entertaining haiku are to be found.

Writing in 2009, Efren Estevez described the group’s process, which has a familiar ring:

“Our procedure is straightforward: each poet in turn presents a haiku and listens while the group comments. A rarely enforced ground rule requires a quarter from the author for a poem that needs no change. The purpose is to discourage bringing in finished work. Poems that aren’t working are preferred. The group goes through the poem word by word, pinpointing what is confusing (one common initial response is that we don’t understand what an author is getting at), then makes suggestions about what works and what doesn’t. The various responses lead to opposing views. These views are often passionately felt and expressed. Although the discussion builds to a plurality, often one or more dissenters remain.

Each poet does what they wish with the comments about their piece. Suggested alternatives may take the piece in a different direction from the original, but the author makes the ultimate decision. Sometimes an author may not know where a haiku is going and the discussion helps the piece get somewhere. In another case the poet may know what they want to say but can’t get it across. In every meeting someone expresses astonishment that no one else understood what they thought was crystal clear. It is notoriously difficult to be one’s own editor.

There is no leader in the group, no group philosophy or set of guidelines to be adhered to, only a democracy of strong voices. There are preferences for or aversions to punctuation and participles. There are heated exchanges about a comma. Out of the friction new ideas come. Perhaps our best sessions end with renewed questions as to what exactly constitutes a haiku.”

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Received after the deadline from Dan Campbell:

This poem—just three lines, it does not announce itself. It waits, expectant, like the hush before a wish. I admire its restraint, the way it refuses to explain.

The first line, turning down the sheets—so unassuming, yet intimate. No grand overture, no elaborate metaphor. Just a quiet act, familiar as muscle memory. It opens a door not into spectacle, but into stillness, the small ritual of preparing for sleep. I can hear the hush of fabric folding back, the faint sigh of a house settling into night.

And then, the Perseids. A sky unraveling in fire, celestial streaks vanishing before the eye can catch them. Vast, distant, indifferent. Outside, the cosmos flares and falls; inside, only the hush of hands smoothing linen. Yet the two images do not jostle for attention. They belong together. The poet has set the infinite beside the ordinary.

That’s what lingers most—the absence of marveling. The Perseids fall / without a sound. No astonishment, no exclamation, only the bare fact of their descent. And in that quiet, a question stirs. Is the poet too restrained? The poem does not lean in to whisper look, listen, feel. I respect that. And yet, some part of me craves a disturbance—a held breath, a heartbeat stuttering against the vastness.

No matter. The poem keeps its silence, whispering instead of declaring. It asks the reader to come closer, to hear what is left unsaid. And perhaps that is its quiet brilliance.