re:Virals 522

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 Keith. This week’s poem, chosen by Dan Campbell was:

 
Dad’s harmonica
blues in the key
of dust
— Edward Cody Huddleston, 
  Prune Juice, July 2025

Introducing this poem, Dan writes:

This poem really touched me because I enjoy playing the blues harmonica and blues music reaches you in ways that words cannot. The blues harmonica isn’t just an instrument. It’s a voice. A cry, a whisper, a celebration—sometimes all three in the span of a single breath. Playing the blues harmonica is like opening a window into someone’s life. Every note bends and sways like a human voice—full of pain, love, grit, and hope. That signature “blue note,” that little twist in the sound, is where the magic lives. It’s what turns a simple tune into something magic.  What made the harmonica so special was how far it could go—literally and emotionally. It was cheap, tough, and small enough to carry in a pocket or a boot. So it followed people—onto trains, into fields, through cities. I’ve been playing this tiny harp for years and somehow, it still surprises me.

Host comment (Keith):

This evocative senryu incorporates five nouns replete with associations.

If ever there was a musical instrument matched to haikuists it would be the harmonica: raw-sounding, small, cheap, plaintive and hard to play well, intimately linked to breath both out and in. There are related reed instruments all over the world, including the more complicated chromatic harmonica used by virtuosos in formal music. But for anglophones, the harmonica, invented in Germany, has become identified with the smaller, single-key diatonic “blues harp” in American culture. It summons up the impoverished and the itinerant. The denim-clad outsiders and their songs of protest. The hobo, the boxcar, the lonesome cowboy by the campfire under the stars, home on the range where, as in the haiku community, seldom is heard a discouraging word. And the blues. For the colour of the sky and the sea, the world’s favourite colour, has also become associated with the sad and gritty toils of life and love since Chaucer’s “Wyth teres blewe and with a wounded herte” (- Complaint of Mars, mid-14C).

Especially when playing blues harmonica in company, the instrument chosen is generally in a key related to the base key of the song, removed by an interval (such as a fourth higher), which gives the characteristic poignant harmony. And so we come to the phrase “key of dust.” Time and again in re:Virals commentaries we have seen that an arresting word or phrase helps to get the reader’s attention, important for such short poems where the reader must linger and meditate, rather than speed-read, if the verse is to have much effect. The “key of dust” is such an arresting phrase: unexpected, dislocating, and requiring attention. It’s not totally original, but nearly so. The first use I can find is in a poem titled “Key of Dust” by Joyce Sutphen in her collection Coming Back to the Body (Holy Cow! Press, 2000). A “key of dust” is a totemic object “of immeasurable power” to be found in the video game TEVI, unlocking Elysium. And this year, a short collection of piano pieces by Kirsten Hanne entitled “Key of Dust” is available on Spotify.

After being put in the blues mood in this sonorous verse, the reader is invited to unlock the meaning of “dust.” Is it trail dust, straw dust at the bottom of a rickety boxcar, the dust to which we (and Dad) return, or attic dust? Even perhaps cosmic dust. Whichever, it arouses feelings of poverty, toil, grittiness of life and death, and perhaps of uselessness, inconsequentiality… I feel for the difficulties my Dad among many fathers faced, and for those whose way of articulating them was and is folksy music in the form of raw blues.

Urszula Marciniak:

The adult child plays his father’s harmonica, recalling with painful fondness how they once walked along the sandy path, his father playing him his favorite tunes. Now he walks alone. The dust is the same, but only dust.

This is one of many possibilities. Let’s let the music play and enjoy it. Let’s not analyze it.

Linda Marie Bicksler:

In my giant (walk-in) closet, I have a little acoustic guitar I seldom play and never practice. Why? Good question. Keeping it company is a bigger guitar, same species, that once was very important to me… Out in California in the 1990s, I’d practice my limited but, over time, consistent group-playing skill. Nice memories. Somewhere buried in my closet is a clear plastic bin filled with words and sheet music — and chords.

Both guitars inhabit black gig cases and have a thin layer of dust. But the senior citizen, disabled by a scratched, cracked but glued headstock, and a neck where the strings began pulling away from the fretboard, isn’t intact enough to take on stage anywhere or even a small group. (Once, I tried.) It was years, no, decades, before I could get the little one at Capt. Rob’s Flea Market here in Muncie for the special price of $70. Has a nice sound. But my guitar — and me — and any hope of replacing it — were neglected & ignored & denied by anyone who could have helped me, during the hardest, poorest years. The very IDEA of helping me or giving me something (lastingly) good to have was rejected and resented by every “family unit” (faction) of my relatives. If anything good were to occur, I should and must achieve it myself. I didn’t.

Still, I like Blues. Lots of sassy attitude! Mournful ballads! Much emotion. The voice is so strong sometimes all the instruments cease. Those instruments tend to be a grinding, scaling guitar, sometimes paired by a dancing harmonica. The harmonica gives it the twang. I like it because, while the guitar keeps the rhythm going (the song structure), the harmonica gets to color outside the lines: you know, be spontaneous. Improvise.

I never got to play the harmonica. Seems such a luxury to me now. The sheer effort of wiping off the dust, opening the gig case, and translating the old muscle memory of playing chords on my big guitar’s larger, easier to reach frets, into some kind of habit that would fit my scrunched fingers onto the frets of this smaller guitar, somewhere along the way began to feel cumbersome. Like, “Who do you think YOU’RE kidding? You were NEVER that good. What makes you think you have any kind of latent skill NOW?!”

That is the way latent skill, impressive or picayune (writing, too), gets off-loaded by a life’s wayside. My Mom did it, giving up her high violin she played sweetly (stunningly) as the star soloist in her high school orchestra — at Windham High, up in the Catskill Mountains of New York. In college she decided to focus on her English studies instead, her writing, speech and debate, her grades and her missions club. Now, true, SHE (Marith) actually met all those goals. She went on to become an amazing teacher, a professor, a speaker, an interpreter. She became a leader, met my Dad (William) in college, and they became career missionaries. They were earnest, giving, sacrificial, and loving. But Mom would die at 66 of leukemia, after quite a long battle, and my best friend is in Heaven now. Her violin is high up in my closet, the same one here in Muncie, unplayed — its black case cracked and battered. I never learned the violin. (Briefly in fourth grade, I tried, once.) Within a year after Mom ascended my Dad remarried; within five years, everything began to change. We all grew divisive, competitive, intolerant. I do blame myself — not for that — but for never being good enough in the eyes of my siblings and in-laws. (My Dad, like my Mom, never stopped loving.) Maybe I could have tried harder. But no one was around to see the ways I did try.

I think this Haiku by Mr. Huddleston reflects some type of experience like these. Feels like poignant nostalgia. A little desolate, detached, as though referring to a past-tense time. In fact, there is no verb at all in the poem, only four nouns, beside “Dad’s,” gelled together by two prepositional phrases. Or, you could make “harmonica” an adjective modifying the word, “blues,” which must refer to that music.

My missionary family was never cool enough to play Blues, growing up. But my Dad would often find chords on a church organ, or his, in older age (until my stepmom got rid of it). Maybe Dad couldn’t remember how. But once, back in the days before he’d try his reluctant (but skillful!) hand at outdoor badminton (and pingpong!), just occasionally, my Dad could play the accordion. Not fancy. But it had a nice sound!

Those were the days of risk and adventure — when early on, on deputation (speaking to churches and camps), my parents often picked me, middle child, whenever they decided the official speak by them both needed a third, youthful voice. The reason (besides my siblings’ unwillingness) — they’d say with a twinkle, “Linda has the gift of gab.”

I wonder, where is the Dad in Huddleston’s poem now? Mine died, four months shy of two years ago, at 89: the same age as Robert Redford left this week (my Dad was just two years earlier). It was sad. I got his picture books: the hodgepodge but huge, thick, full photo albums he compiled, with all the many photos he collected and took.  Sometimes, from his 70s on, he’d ask, beg me to know, who a certain person was. It was challenging, because Dad also included public figures and current events clippings — anybody he could remember. They were all valuable.

Still, there is nothing sadder than a harmonica or a guitar or a photo album (or a violin) left over, gathering dust, unused. Nothing sadder than when the object remains but the PERSON (beloved, for all that), is gone. I mean it truly.

Pat Devine:

Dad’s Harmonica. In this poem, the harmonica, which is a folk instrument that is known for playing both joyful and sad tunes in various common settings, is set on playing the blues, a genre of music originating in poor black culture. The dust centers the poem in an environment where people are not able to live fully, and the harmonica is the dad’s way of dealing with life. He may be poor, he may be part of the common dust, but he can let out his fears and disappointments by playing the blues on his harmonica, maintaining his dignity, and in doing so, be able to have hope for the new day. In this sense, this poem ends on a note of hope I feel.

Alan Harvey:

There is enough complexity in this simple haiku to cause melancholy. The term blues may have originated from “blue devils” meaning melancholy and sadness” (Wikipedia). Dad’s harmonica in line one suggests the father has passed away and left his harmonica behind. So, nostalgia and melancholy may be intermingled. Line two begins with blues music. By designating blues, a tradition that celebrates human emotions and life’s struggles, joys, and lost love, the father’s lifelong struggles are blended in.

Line two ends with and continues onto line three “the key of dust”. Blues musicians are able to play together with little practice because of the structure of blues music. The lead can announce the key signature and fellow musicians can immediately play within this structure. Unfortunately, the haiku’s key signature is the key of dust. This takes us back to the nostalgia of Dad’s harmonica and his passing in line one.

Thinking further about the “key of dust”, Dad’s playing may be lost in the dustpan of time. It’s not remembered and wasn’t important enough at the time to record. The father’s playing/passing is a foggy memory at best and there’s sadness because of it.

Huddleston has written a beautifully, bittersweet poem. I look forward to his commentary on Dad’s harmonica.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

The harmonica is a wind instrument used in many musical genres especially in “blues”. The music that flows from it is full of a sweet sadness, a melancholy that breathes of hardships, love, longing, and loss. The harmonica in the haiku is a nostalgic reminder of times that were,a much loved Dad who is perhaps no longer around.

The harmonica stowed away somewhere because it is no longer in use is retrieved, laden with dust, its keys permanently set in the blue. “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought” (wrote Shelley), and the poet in the haiku is drowned in a cascade of memories—his father playing the blues at a family get together, at a celebration with friends, or even on the stage for an event.   Nostalgia is a powerful and legitimate emotion which makes us revere the past and value memory.  Some presences are irreplaceable but our memories awaken the long gone life, and the things and objects associated with them are our dearest possessions, our heirlooms carried from one generation to another. In a frenetic world a thought for those we have loved and lost and the things they cherished, is a tribute. Not a moment for sadness,but rejuvenation. To pick up the harmonica, to brush off the dust and play the blues and hear him once again

Sean Murphy:

The house has been quieter since Dad stopped playing the trumpet. He didn’t want to, of course; one day his lips just couldn’t buzz in the right way, or couldn’t form the right shape — it’s not my instrument, so I’m not sure of the details. My brother stopped playing, too, after lockdown forced him out of the marching band. He’ll still occasionally pick it up to play some scales, but he’s rustier than the trumpet by now. And I suppose I stopped playing cello after high school, as well, though I never practiced much to begin with.

Now, I must admit, I’ve told a bit of a fib. Or rather, when I said that the house was quieter, that was true, but only because the trumpet is an exceptionally loud instrument. The whole truth is that the three of us are singers, and my father’s voice has yet to diminish with age. It can sometimes be difficult to carry a tune for all the other tunes we stick in each others’ heads.  And that’s not to mention the two guitars, the recorder, the bodrhán drum (a recent acquisition), and especially the old piano in the back. I don’t think it’s once been tuned or cleaned, but we don’t need perfect harmonies to play blues in the key of dust.

Jonathan Epstein—the good, the bad and the ugly:

The phrase “Dad’s harmonica” wraps us in warmth and affection for the instrument and the Dad. That the father may no longer be alive adds nostalgia that melds with the pathos (as we shall see) of this poem.

In the second part of the poem we hear the father shape soulful sounds on his “blues harp”’ to express the full range of human emotions.

The final word —dust — jolts the mind into realizing the aha moment: Nothing is permanent. “Dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return” (Genesis 3:19)

Of all the senses, it’s sound that dominates here; the familiar, plaintive cries of the blues harmonica. There’s an earthiness, too, in the hand-held silver and wood harmonica, the mournful, moaning, raspy ‘voices’ of the blue notes, lips sliding along the well-worn, well-loved instrument. All comes together in harmony (harmonica) through the power of music to stir the human heart.

Here it is music not nature that channels the ‘mono no aware’ (“pathos of things”) motif that permeates this senryu; music that evokes the beauty and sorrow of life’s endless struggles . Rather than singling out one aspect of the human condition, the blues focus cradles them all — the good, the bad and the ugly.

Author Edward Cody Huddleston:

I’m grateful to have this senryu featured in re:Virals! The piece is a first draft, written immediately following the ‘aha’ moment that inspired it. My father is an extremely talented musician and, despite his efforts, I never followed in his footsteps, though, as a radio DJ, music is a big part of my life. Recently, I found the Hohner Blues Band Harmonica that he gave me perhaps two decades ago. The harmonica is in the key of C and was, of course, quite covered in dust. The poem came from the blues I felt at never having learned to play the blues. A more literal senryu would, of course, reflect that fact that it wasn’t actually “Dad’s harmonica,” but lines such as “harmonica from Dad” and “old harmonica” don’t have the same punch. Also, I like the openness to interpretation “Dad’s harmonica” invites. Is Dad gone? Does he just no longer play? Or, did he just take a break from playing and end up with a mouthful of dust when he took it up again? I look forward to reading how others interpret the poem!

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

     
cherry petal breeze
more refugees
adrift
—Archie G. Carlos,
Autumn Moon Haiku Journal 7:2, Spring-Summer 2024

Footnote:

Bio: Edward Cody Huddleston was born in New Jersey and raised in Georgia, where he now works as a radio DJ. His writings—especially micropoetry and microfiction—have appeared in over 100 publications worldwide and have won dozens of awards. His debut haiku collection, Wildflowers in a Vase, is available from Red Moon Press. You can visit him online at his home page.

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The mesmerizing theme from the Western “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” (a phrase to which this week’s winning commentator Jonathan alluded) now happens to be a much-used piece for harmonica lessons, even though (to my surprise when revisiting) the original did not involve the harmonica.

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