re:Virals 523

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 Jonathan Epstein was:

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

Introducing this poem, Jonathan writes:

Yet another cherry blossom haiku? And proposed for commentary in re:virals?! Yes. When I read this, I was stunned. Nature’s transient grace (haiku) in juxtaposition with the human condition in flux (senryu). A tiny poem with a mighty theme. So much to say, but what and how to say it concisely and cogently? I look forward to the editor’s remarks and readers’ commentaries.

Host comment (Shawn):

Many of us see the words “cherry petal breeze” and understand something of what is implied—we feel wistful about beauty that is already gone by, and are reminded of the transitory nature of ourselves and everything in the world. Death and impermanence make life precious. But the same words “cherry petal breeze” can sometimes seem excessively refined or come across as a pretty flourish lacking substance.

The unexpected phrase “more refugees adrift” amplifies the sense that “cherry blossom breeze” is a picturesque borrowing from another place and time. One distinct way of reading this verse is as a disharmonious combination of refugees and cherry blossoms—harsh reality bursting a bubble of complacency. The contrast makes the opening phrase seem quaint and out of touch with the real world. Viewed like this, the two parts of the verse connect conceptually in an obvious way, while it is the broader incompatibility of the two parts that becomes the verse’s main feature.

But the verse can equally be viewed in a more unified way. Approached with a haiku mind, “more refugees adrift” ultimately reads as an extension of the feelings introduced by “cherry blossom breeze”, even if the two phrases at first seem incompatible. The juxtaposition implicitly challenges the reader to view refugees and the social and political forces that create them in the same way as cherry blossoms and spring breezes are ideally viewed—to see them as no different, in their nature or even in their beauty.

Basho’s notion of the combination poem, in the words of Haruo Shirane, “implied finding resonance in dissonance, congruity in incongruity, especially between different languages and subcultures.” Do the two phrases in the verse hang together harmoniously or are they at odds with each other? Can the two readings of the verse work together as a complex whole? Perhaps in the end, there is no unity and no disunity, just things as they are: More Refugees. A cherry petal breeze.

Kay Schwartz:

Cherry petals are the individual parts of cherry blossoms, either fallen apart or torn apart. Like refugees they cannot stay where they are. The word “more” adds these petals to the many refugees we already know about. The spring breeze seems as if it would be gentle and benign. But in fact it is separating the petals and carrying them to places not of their own choosing. What we do know is that they cannot go back to where they came from. This is a very skilled haiku leaving much room for contemplation.

Urszula Marciniak:

Is there a difference between going against the wind and drifting wherever fate takes us? Cherry blossom petals cannot choose.

Do we, as humans, possess enough knowledge to consciously choose what is ultimately best for us? For example, a refugee fleeing war dies at a pedestrian crossing in a country that was supposed to be a safe haven for him. However, many of his friends have found a new home in this new country.

In the meantime, spring has arrived, and we all let cherry blossom petals fall on our faces to feel joy, freedom, and tenderness. For a moment, we can be so deeply present here and now.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

The haiku reminds us of windy days of leaf fall and flower fall when leaves and flowers drift down and settle unobtrusively on rooftops and cartops, ledges and windshields, pathways, heads and shoulders. There is a hint of regret about these cherry blossoms as they leave the trees to fall at random places, the breeze carrying their fragrance everywhere as they mingle in the dust and the elements and cease to be. The flowers had once sung with the breeze and the birds and smiled at the world.

The cherry blossom exemplifies the Japanese concept mono no aware—”pathos of tears”, a profound sensitivity and a gentle sadness experienced in appreciating the transient nature of life. We realise all beautiful moments even the most intense like the blooming cherry petals inevitably pass. In cherishing their impermanence we find a deeper connection with the fleeting experiences of life. The cherry blossoms symbolise renewal as they yield place to fruits and other flowers, their graceful departure after they have finished their service of grace to God and man.

There is the analogy of the refugee. The flowers are refugees cast adrift like the refugees of the world, rootless migrants, caught up in the dreadful panic of endless flight looking for safer havens to begin afresh, to renew their lives and the lives of those they love. The sun that sets also rises, the rising tide also recedes.

Sean Murphy:

It’s a grim thing to think about, isn’t it? That the current crisis is just the latest bloom of a perennial conflict, that the poem written last year could have just as easily been written yesterday, that next year will surely see more refugees scattered to the winds like so many dead petals?

But that’s the wrong way to think about it, isn’t it? Haiku doesn’t employ simple metaphors; to leave my reading there would be a disservice both to the poem and to its subjects. A refugee is more than a statistic, more than the latest tragedy, more than a dead thing that hasn’t yet gone still. The poet could have chosen anything to drift on the breeze in the first line — leaves or embers or plastic bags — but they chose cherry petals, that most quintessential symbol of spring, of renewal and new beginnings.

Perhaps these refugees are like the cherry petals, in mourning for the tree they were cast from. Or perhaps they have arrived in a new city just in time to witness the beauty of the blooming cherry blossoms, on a day when the cold weather they aren’t used to yet has finally broken into something tolerably warm. Perhaps, despite everything, they think how glad they would be to see this sight every year. Perhaps they are reminded that hope, too, is perennial… isn’t it?

Jo McInerney—a moral challenge:

This haiku hinges on its startling juxtaposition.

cherry petal breeze

The phrase is a kigo. Pure, classical, beautiful, yet even on first reading not simple. A breeze that carries blossoms, hastening the flowers’ disintegration just as it precedes the arrival of fruit. It is a kigo whose beauty lives so completely in the moment that it literally embodies impermanence.

Line two is a jarring dislocation—’more refugees’. These itinerant lost human beings seem to have materialised from nowhere, and yet we must pause: ‘more refugees’. No, we can’t plead ignorance, we have seen their like before. These are not the first displaced people to have come before us.

The line poses a moral challenge. How did we previously respond? How will we respond this time? The question is not empty, and it is not easy. ‘More’ makes it plain that this is a burden that may call to be carried again and again.

The final line is grim. ‘Adrift’ may simply suggest these peoples’ statelessness; however, it may imply their permanent condition, suggesting our ongoing failure to find an adequate solution.

Permanent impermanence, a paradox that takes us back to the ‘petal breeze’ of line one. It is apt, but here there is no beauty.

As a citizen of a country which locks up in immigration detention centres those who come to it seeking help, I find this haiku particularly distressing.

Author Archie G. Carlos:

A few days after an awesome afternoon of blossom viewing, we found ourselves focused on petals peeling off during a seemingly sustained strong breeze. The late afternoon turned into fleeting shades of pink until the breeze-assisted diaspora finally calmed. It only took maybe a minute or so. (Note to self: Is it pre-ordained when and where each petal lands?)

As the winds settled, more folks started leaving the Tidal Basin to each go their own way. Refugees of the Great Cherry Petal Winds.

Other times, we’re trying to escape from some fearsome natural phenomena. Or we become refugees from some kind of unsettling socio-political reality. Maybe from a forever war. Leaving our homes and towns, uncertain of when and where to settle. In the interim—adrift.

Melancholia. Loss. Fear… Talks, and, hopefully, yet another hanami.

I am grateful to Jonathan Epstein who recommended that my poem “cherry petal breeze” be considered for commentary. Again, I am pleasantly surprised and feel honored. And looking forward to reading the commentaries.

Much thanks as well to the Haiku Foundation’s re:Virals team—Shawn Blair (the week’s host), Melissa Dennison, Susan Yavaniski, and Keith Evetts (managing editor).

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

     
lost dog
I leave my voice
in every street
— Madhuri Pillai
  The Heron's Nest, September 2018, Volume XX, Issue 3

Footnote:

Archie G. Carlos is a retired Senior HR Professional, an amateur sociologist, and a relatively-recent haiku enthusiast. In early 2022 he decided to spend more time practicing haiku and senryu.

So far his verses have appeared at least once in the following: Asahi Haikuist Network, The Mainichi Haiku in English, Haikuniverse, Haiku Dialogue, Wales Haiku Journal, Presence, Under the Basho, LEAF, tsuri-doro, August Moon Haiku Journal, cattails, Espacio Luna Alfanje, and folk ku journal.

Recent awards: Third Place, 12th Golden Triangle Haiku Contest (2025); Sakura Award, Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Contest (2024).

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

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