re:Virals 519

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. In the host chair today is Shawn Blair. This week’s poem, chosen by Pamela Garry was:

   
umbrella bin— 
leaving the rain
at the door
— Risë E. Daniels
  bottle rockets #41 2019 Fall Edition

Introducing this poem, Pamela writes:

My grandmother of blessed memory had an umbrella bin in the little foyer of her city apartment. It held dry umbrellas for the taking. It wasn’t an option to leave a wet umbrella in the shared hallway outside her apartment. A loosely closed wet umbrella could drip-dry in the bin, if the dry umbrellas were first removed.

And then lines 2 and 3, ‘leaving the rain / at the door’ resonates emotionally with me. Shedding the all-consuming discomfort from soaking rain, letting go of negativity, suggested by ‘leaving the rain’.

The ‘umbrella bin…at the door’ for me functions metaphorically as a method to channel unwanted emotions and thoughts from desired ones, to keep the storms at bay while creating room to ruminate.

Opening comment (Shawn):

The verse is not a metaphor, but is suggestive of one (or two or three). “Rain” especially seems to stand in for some other word—there are many choices: leaving the politics at the door, leaving the negativity at the door, leaving the opinions at the door, leaving the guilt at the door, leaving the drama at the door, leaving the chatter at the door. The heavier the rain, the more its absence may feel like a relief. The world on this or that side of the door may feel like a welcome refuge.

The simplicity is enticing—you can simply leave the rain at the door. I believe this is possible. After all, there are mud mats, shoe shelves, and even an umbrella bin. People have cared enough to create and provide tools such as these, fostering environments in which we can develop and flourish—and step back out into a renewed world.

Violet Avery Hall:

This relatable moment is simple, elegant, and playful. Using karumi, or lightness, we empathize with the poet who has been soaked with rain. What’s interesting is this poem doesn’t rely on juxtaposition, but uses a concise cut between lines two and three as the poem’s main technique. Although this poem is very straightforward, there is a good amount of space for interpretation. Sometimes the phrase “rainy day” is used to indicate a time of struggles. Perhaps the author is leaving her worries at the door as well.

Urszula Marciniak:

What if we left all our negative thoughts at the door and entered our homes with our inner light on, whether as guests or hosts? Inventors, get to work! An evil absorber is urgently needed.

Swagata Soumyanarayan:

L1 is about an umbrella bin which is a receptacle to hold wet umbrellas. The humble umbrella is a symbol of protection and comfort though there is no umbrella in the poem, just the bin.

What is the speaker trying to convey here? Would she like to leave the ‘rain’, the past behind? On the face of it, it’s just a person getting inside to take shelter from the rain. But if one looks for symbolism, we can imagine a person who has decided that she’s done with past dramas and negativity, and chooses not to let the past have a hold on her or continue to agitate her.

Umbrella in the bin may mean a sense of detachment and maturity in letting things go. When you leave something at the door it suggests that the speaker may be letting bygones be bygones. I picture a person shaking off the rain and entering the home, shaking off all that has no place in her life anymore—things that cause ripples in her peace.

Rain has often been used to symbolize grief and is associated with tragedies. Leaving the ‘rain’ at the door suggests a boundary that has been created by the speaker to safeguard herself from whatever causes anguish and chaos. The speaker would like to begin things afresh and therefore L2 and L3 suggest a renewal. A clear poem by Risë E. Daniels that conveys a lot in just eight words.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

In this haiku someone who was out in a torrent of rain has at last reached his destination, home or shelter, folded his umbrella with a sense of relief and placed it in a bin and forgotten about it. He is glad he escaped the rain and as soon as he does he abandons the umbrella till he needs it next.

Isn’t that what life is about when we just shove out of our sight what we once gratefully depended on? For instance resources like the umbrella; the books we once read, now languishing on the bookshelf mildewed and with cracking spines; the dress or shirt that no longer fits; the outdated cookware that needs to be given away; the artefacts we no longer care about, now gathering dust. The umbrella might find worthier successors, colourful and more user friendly.

Even people, friends and family who cared for us and were close to us in many ways drift apart when we no longer have time for them or connect with them or rely on them. Whether it is the humble umbrella that has weathered many downpours or persons, as Einstein said “on whose smiles and wellbeing our happiness was wholly dependent” are no longer a part of our consciousness. They have lived out their usefulness and don’t figure any further in the present scenario and we do not know when we might need them if at all. An umbrella can be replaced by newer ones or fashionable comfortable rain wear and people too by others we meet in the ongoing flux of life.

The bedraggled umbrella, a sorry object with drops of rain trickling down its sides like tears, in a bin with others like itself peeps out of this evocative haiku trying to awaken our attention.

Sitarama Seshu Maringanti:

The haiku presents an interesting common sight of people leaving their rain-soaked umbrellas at the door before entering a house. On the west coast of India, we rarely see women without a compact umbrella in their bags or under their arms. There’s always the prospect of a sudden downpour. The small umbrella comes in handy to protect the women from the pitter-patter rain drops.

It is common etiquette to deposit the wet dripping umbrella outside the threshold of the house. Some houses make provision for an umbrella bin near the door, some do not. But leave the umbrella one must, if possible, by depositing it in the bin. There’s an interesting dimension to this haiku. What is it that we are leaving at the door? Is it the rain-soaked umbrella or is it the rain? It is like the great saint of India asking a Chandala (the untouchable) who crossed his path one day to make way for him but the Chandala asked the pontiff in return as to whom he was asking to move away. Was it the physical person of Chandala or the Aatman (the divine soul resident in everyone)? Similarly, what is it that is left outside the door—is it the umbrella or the rain? That’s the question, as I see it.

Joseph Chiang—a gentle hospitality:

okaeri

The swirling weariness, pain, exhaustion, and perhaps even grief of the dark day or years, all left in the umbrella bin. This haiku brings out a sense of deep longing for peace, an underlying tension of light and darkness, by making the reader pause about what “rain” might represent and the location one finds themselves in. In my mind, I picture arriving at a friend’s house, or a welcoming restaurant, to take the edge off a tiresome day. But it also speaks to a nonphysical place, one where I can take off my guard, shake off my burdens, and warm my hands by a steady fire, so to speak. The cut is placed effectively, adding extra emphasis to the separation between the rain and the rest of the home through the door. The small gesture of having an umbrella bin exudes a gentle hospitality, a lightness with which Risë makes me feel at home.

Author Risë Daniels:

Between 2010 and 2013 I was on assignment for my work in Center City, Philadelphia, PA. Each week I would travel on the train to Philly on Monday morning and return home on Thursday. Being away from my home and family during those years and alone while I was in the city, I had many hours to observe life and the human condition in a large city. The many poems – haiku, senryu and long verse – reflect the people I saw, the conditions that people navigated to survive, the loneliness that sometimes overtook me.

I wrote “Umbrella Bin” one night while I was having dinner alone at a restaurant. It has been raining all day, and work had been particularly challenging as I dealt with staffing issues and tight deadlines. At the restaurant as I was working to decompress from the day and put it behind me, I saw other patrons enter and deposit their umbrellas at the door. It was then it occurred to me that I too, could leave my day’s “rain” at the door and slip into a quieter frame of mind.

Another published poem I wrote while in Philly reflecting my time there is:

lonely evening—
the distant sound of
someone’s emergency

— Bottle Rockets – #27 February 2012

I have often considered pulling together the broader body of work I wrote in Philly into a chapbook as it tells the story of the journey and how it transforms the traveler.

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Joseph 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:

     
wishing
for grandkids
the silence of stars
— Ann Sullivan
  Prune Juice Issue 46, August 2025

Footnote:

Risë Daniels is a writer and artist focused on haiku, tanka, haibun, and haiga. She has been published in multiple journals and anthologies, including bottle rockets, tinywords, Haiku Society of America (HSA) Frogpond, Akitsu Quarterly, Moonbathing, Under the Bashō, Presence (England), British Haiku Society’s Blythe Spirit, Failed Haiku, in the Australia Haiku Society “The Awakened One” Anthology, and in Bottle Rocket Press’s Bird Whistle: A contemporary Anthology of Bird Haiku, Senryu & Short Poems.

In 2010 and 2025 she won an honorable mention in the United States category of the Vancouver Haiku Invitational.

In October 2019, Risë’s first book, “The Day Awaits,” was published and features a collection of her original haiku/senryu. Limited # of copies are still available.

She is the founder of Lone Heron Art and currently lives in Connecticut with her partner, Laurie.

Risë’s philosophy is to create art that is accessible to everyone and speaks to the truth of the human condition, the world, and the Zen of a life well lived. While writing is her primary art form, she also dabbles in other artistic adventures, including pottery, photography, and sketching to create a view into an unseen or unknown world around us.

She looks to the small and sometimes invisible events around us, like the changing of the season, a moment of clarity during meditation, or the essence found in the invisible touch of strangers that inspire us to be better humans.

Some upcoming projects of Risë’s include:

• “Scraps of Paper” – Collaborating with artists and poets alike to infuse short poems into collages and other artwork.
• “Childhood Forts” – a story of childhood trauma and how we survive using haibun and poems.
• “What it is possible – A question or an invitation?” – a story highlighting the life of an ancestor and that of the author through prose and poetry.
• “To Philly and Back” – a compilation of observations of city dwelling, the human condition, and the loneliness experienced in a crowded environment.

All 4 are in various stages of development.

——

I wasn’t familiar with the Japanese word “okaeri” which Joseph placed at the head of his commentary, but I found this on the internet:

Okaerinasai (お帰りなさい), or “okaeri” for short, is used to welcome someone else home, usually after they say “tadaima”. It literally means “you have come home” and it’s basically akin to: “Welcome home!” It is a warm, welcoming phrase used with gratitude toward the person coming home safely.

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re:Virals is co-hosted by Shawn Blair, Melissa Dennison, Susan Yavaniski, and Keith Evetts (managing editor).

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