re:Virals 556

“More difficult than making your own verses interesting is understanding those of others…” ―Shinkei (1406 –1475). Citing this, Onitsura (1661 – 1738) wrote: “…this should be a way in which a person is completely given over to training.”

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

   
desert rose
the impossibility
of us both
— Ravi Kiran
 tsuri-dōrō Issue #32—March/April 2026

Introducing this poem, Dan writes:

Like a desert rose, perhaps Ravi’s life was shaped less by ease than by endurance. The desert rose is not truly a flower but a mineral formation created through evaporation, pressure, and time. For many of us, life has emerged from conditions that appeared barren on the surface: losses, uncertainties, long periods of solitude, and the slow erosion of expectations. Yet those same harsh conditions created unexpected patterns of resilience and meaning. The poem’s final lines, “the impossibility / of us both,” suggests that survival itself can feel improbable. Many, many lives, like desert roses, exist as quiet contradictions to the landscapes that formed them.

Host comment (Keith):

It’s a happy coincidence that we should get a verse with distinct philosophical overtones on the day when a week of philosophical haiku ancient and modern starts in Haiku of the Day. This one immediately sparked animated discussion among the re:Virals team concerning to whom “us both” referred. Romantics versus philosophers… First, though, there are two “desert roses:” the stocky succulent adenium obesum, that survives arid conditions, and the strange floral agglomerations of sand and crystal occasionally found in some deserts. Both are extraordinary, unlikely, improbable. But they exist.

Some interpretations of the verse depend on the living desert rose, some don’t. My own first thought was on the cosmic scale. The universe is so vast that statistically it is thought some form of life exists in it elsewhere even if probabilities are very low. International space scientists are hunting for signs of life. In the endless quest for knowledge, back in February 2025 I attended a Cambridge University webinar “Is the Earth Unique in the Universe?” The answer: we don’t know. But if you are looking for exoplanets where webinars are hosted, I conclude it probably is. We might die out without ever knowing whether Earth is the only living planet in the universe. And so, for me, the poet is reflecting on the extreme unlikelihood of “us both” —plant and people—being anywhere in the cosmos: yet here we are.

Which in turn brings reflection on creation, if one believes in a god (almost inevitably some external agency with human-like characteristics, that has time for this planet but nowhere else, as far as known), or on the long odds of evolution.

Much of the above could also apply to the mineral desert rose and us, though with less force, as it seems easier to imagine strange floral-pattern structures arising on other planets from mineral and winds or liquids, than to contemplate the remarkable origin and evolution of living things on other than this one.

Otherwise, there remains the romance-and-relationship interpretation. The oddness of the (living) desert rose, ungainly but with beautiful blooms, surviving even in unpropitious circumstances, compared with the unlikely and near-unique romantic partnership that the poet or reader and their lover—”us both”—have. What are the chances of meeting that person in all the world (if you like meet-cute movies)?  How strange and unpredictable seems the chemistry of love! How difficult it is to see inside someone else’s marriage. Let’s not go there!

two flies, so small
it’s a wonder they ever met,
are mating on this rose
—James W. Hackett
(in Blyth History of Haiku vol. 2, 1964)

Peter Jackson:

This haiku has striking immediacy, the balance of flower and ourselves is somehow incredulously linked.

The ‘desert rose’ grounds the poem in an unusual flowering plant while ‘the impossibility’ in line 2 preludes the final line. Then ‘of us both’ lands, the sheer implausibility of a human plant comparison.

Line 2 acts as both the balance point and the pivot between ‘desert rose’ and ‘of us both’. That, ‘the impossibility’, is such a huge word compared to the rest of the poem, that we slow down. Said out loud, it almost cuts the verse again, almost brings the whole poem to a full stop. It separates and juxtaposes the ‘desert rose’ with ‘of us both’ but does not explain the comparison. We have to fill in that space; plant vs human, beauty and intelligence, simple to complex.

Interestingly the poem has no verb so is a noun phrase – so much for verbs earning extra points! Apart from the 2 syllable ‘desert’ all other words are one – except of course ‘impossibility’, a huge 6 syllables making the second line a traditional 7 syllables, whereas lines 1 and 3 are 3 syllables apiece. There are plenty of soothing s’s, even a double s, giving the haiku a pleasing sibilance and continuity in the midst of each line.

The standout word of course is ‘impossibility’ and in the context of the haiku, not just impossible – but stretched out even further with the ending ‘ty’ – pronounced tea and impossible to stop going on and on..

I had to look up ‘desert rose’, never seen one. It’s not even a real rose or necessarily in the desert but definitely a floral beauty adapted superbly to the dry. Impossible to compare to us of course, but that is just what we have to do. In doing that we not only have to contrast ourselves to the rose but we have to wonder about the majesty of the creative process (be it divine or evolutionary) that can bring about such earthly diversity.

Sitarama Seshu Maringanti:

Enigmatic haiku this one. Is Ravi Kiran playing on triggering that curiosity element in our mental make up (or human psychology) to know more about a plant species that we find in arid climatic regions? Hailing as I do from a hot and humid coastal belt in India, I cannot fetch a desert rose plant in a thousand miles. That, in the poet’s words, is an impossibility. But the haiku has raised in me a perceptual curiosity – one that can not be assuaged. The desert rose and the ecology of my surrounding space are mutually exclusive. We are both an existential impossibility, if that is what the haiku means. I will, however, retire to bed tonight with that nagging thought of how to reconcile both!

A very intriguing haiku, indeed.

Sean Murphy:

The desert rose evokes themes of resilience, a bloom of life and color in a place where no life seems possible. In likening themself to it, the poet recognizes that resilience in themself, seeing in a moment of clarity the vast desert of hardship that they have endured to arrive at this moment, and the strength it took to do so; and in that recognition, like a magic spell, they conjure a still greater measure of strength into themself.

But beyond that, this poem to me conjures a more profound, universal likeness. I am reminded of a scene from Alan Moore’s “Watchmen”, in which Dr. Manhattan reflects on the statistical impossibility of any given human life:
“‘But… if me, my birth, if that’s a thermodynamic miracle… I mean, you could say that about anybody in the world!’

‘Yes. Anybody in the world… But the world is so full of people, so crowded with these miracles that they become commonplace and we forget… I forget. We gaze continually at the world and it grows dull in our perceptions. Yet seen from the another’s vantage point, as if new, it may still take our breath away.’”

Is the desert rose any more a miracle than a rose that blooms in a wood or meadow? We imagine it so, but did the commonplace rose not outlive a thousand other seeds and sprouts before it had a chance to bloom? Perhaps it is only because of the desert rose’s unexpectedness that we even pause to consider its impossibility. It’s a different kind of impossibility than the one I first imagined, a miracle not just that we have survived, but that we exist in the first place, and that the universe has arranged itself, just so, that we find ourselves at the right place, at the right time, to see a rose bloom in the desert.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

The desert rose at the first instance appears a contradiction in terms, the rose and the desert so alien to each other, the desert where no flower can bloom leave alone the beautiful rose. Yet it is a flowering succulent growing in the arid regions of Africa. The plant with its flowers of pink red and white, in spite of its beauty is considered toxic and needs to be handled with care.

The song Desert Rose coauthored by the British musician Sting and Algerian song writer Chab Rabah and sung by Chab Mami explores themes of longing, unattainable love and spiritual desire. In the haiku here, the desert rose is symbolic of romantic yearning, and unrequited love, the illusion the poet harbours that advances and recedes like a tantalising mirage even as he tries to reach it. He sees the impossibility of realising his love, feels disillusioned and finally resigns himself to acceptance though never giving up his obsession.

His yearning full of desire mixed with resentment is akin to chasing a rainbow he can never possess. The basic incompatibility between them, be it of temperament, status or social barriers prevents fulfilment of genuine feeling. Or perhaps it is an infatuation that takes hold of him like the sun in pursuit of the moon, or the sky that is always there watching the sea and its tides, always together, forever apart.

Who can better sum up the central meaning of the haiku than the romantic English poet Shelley: “the desire of the moth for the star / the night for the morrow / the devotion to something afar / from the sphere of our sorrow.”

The feeling in the haiku can also be an all consuming desire for the Divine as in Sufism -“Ishq”, the ultimate spiritual path and essence of existence driving the seeker to merge his ego with the divine and achieve a state of eternal union with God not as a distant entity but the Beloved

Radhamani Sarma:

Winter is gone. In summer’s bloom we step into the garden of flowers and fragrance. But Ravi Kiran has chosen a deliberate theme for his unique write. His ebullient pen has presented us with a different ambience, no garden, no aroma…  Beauty and pink, thick grown, and luscious – the topic of his subtle choice. Comparison with the human dilemma- that is the “desert rose” the individual mirrors here.

The first line, “desert rose” gives us a clue that desert requires a deep rooted scrutiny, the meaning and metaphor embedded in it. Nourished both as indoor and outdoor plant, it has got its own restrictions. The symbol of “rose,” its beauty but to what purpose?

the impossibility
of us both

The second line leading on to third, a full-fledged comparison between “desert rose” and the human condition in general – that is the crux of this haiku. Fully exposed to sunshine, it can not accept too much water. The author adumbrates that both cannot stand alone, a conditioned environment, constant care at every stage, minimal spot at which it nourishes: man is grieved, “now i am alone, I need vigil, minute by minute”.  Addressing the desert rose, he is saddened, giving vent to his isolation and both are sharing the same predicament.  Age is demanding, cannot step further ahead, hence impossibility. The same is applicable to the desert rose.   Among quotations for desert roses: “the universe stands aside for those people who know where they are going … — Paulo Coelho.

“A Rose is a Rose is a Rose” says Gertrude Stein, “Loveliness extreme.”  But what we see here in this haiku a different kind “desert rose.” To conclude, Ravi Kiran’s ebullient observation concentrates on dependence, limitations, with a philosophy deep rooted in it.

Ashoka Weerakkody:

A very narrow strait between conventional haiku and senryu may likely exist here. The phrase stretching from second line downwards to the third, readable as “the impossibility of us both” doesn’t distance the opening fragment either, holding the whole thing together seamless and integral.

In “of us both” the poem deploys two subjects, the rose and the other entity opposite to it; an entity undefined, making it harder to classfy whether bodily human presence or lively imagination roaming about in poetic space. In the second instance (just the mind without body) the haiku shall remain as such, not quite becoming senryu, but still I doubt my own settlement towards one and not the other, way.

Overall, the rather mesmerising verse by Ravi Kiran impresses me as a timely reference to the Buddhistic teachings we revisit this season of Vesak, celebrating the Birth of Buddhism.  The impossible can never happen, as Buddhism explains, and every event follows the law of cause and effect, universally, as laid out in the turning of the wheel of Dhamma, or Dhamma Chakka Pavaththana Sutra.  Hence, “the impossibility of us both” in this haiku carries a far reaching meaning in that the desert, being the most unlikely place for a soft-petalled rose to be in bloom, also has a visitation by someone or the ‘other’.

It’s an impossible coincidence at any given time as per the poem, and the poet finds no answer as to how it came into being. The answer may lie somewhere hidden, since only the effect is visible here and the cause remains obscure. To find that, one has to seek refuge in the path to enlightenment through the discourse the Buddha had given that still reverberates through the cosmic spaces. So apt for this season of Buddhist revival, and one might like to call this a haiku or senryu as the learned mind would have it  but this being Vesak time, I prefer to call it Zenryu, with and without apologies!

David Cox:

Kiran’s poem first drew me in with its initial image. In other contexts it might feel hackneyed, but here it is beatific and serves the poem’s continuing purpose. The phrase “desert rose” is quite paradoxical. The rose itself conveys a sense of almost virile fertility, in addition to its obvious romantic connotations, growing in the very place where nature gives life the diciest spin of the dice. For me, it recalls the unusual delineation of Catherine Earnshaw’s attraction to Heathcliff, the unlikely pairing in Wuthering Heights: “My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.” The initial motif is just as stark. Perhaps the writer is suggesting that, in spite of such impossibilities (the pronoun “both” is quite emphatic about the idea of their togetherness, coupled uncomfortably with its partner “us”), the rarest of things — even “star-crossed lovers” — can come together.

In summary, somehow life, like a precious ornate flower, finds a way; maybe love can too, albeit less tragically than Cathy and Heathcliff.

Jonathan Epstein:

The poet honors a succulent shrub, the desert rose, as a miracle of creation. Indeed it is. It thrives in tropical and sub-tropical climates; it blooms year-round. With fragrant red and white trumpet-shaped flowers and water stored in its individually-shaped bulbous trunks, the desert rose appeals especially to bonsai enthusiasts.

The compound noun “desert rose” is a juxtaposition that suggests a reconciliation of opposites (harsh conditions / profuse flowers). Beyond scientific descriptions of the desert rose, it is the mystery of existence and its evolution that kindle awe in the poet.

I take “us” (as in “us both”) to include all human beings, not the poet alone.“[I]mpossibility” stresses the incalculable odds against coming into being and arriving at its present form. Massive in syllabic-length — “impossibility” takes up half the verse — this single word also fills the haiku with yugen, which arises from considering the uncountable small mutations over the billions of years that have led up to now, “the impossibility of us both.”

And what about the “impossibility” of other physical forms — a flea and a whale? Sunshine and snowflakes? What about the human brain? This haiku re-awakens us from life taken for granted to the realization that nothing is ordinary.

Sébastien Revon—an impossible intimacy:

How strange that a mineral should resemble a flower — a rose, no less.

Ravi Kiran’s verse offers an ontological shift: we travel from the realm of the improbable towards the realm of the impossible. A desert rose is a cluster formation of gypsum crystals, or sometimes baryte crystals. As they form, the crystals trap grains of sand, giving them their textured, petal-like appearance. Their geological process relies chiefly on evaporation. The “flower” emerges through dryness, pressure, mineral deposition, and the absence of water. Desert roses can be found in the Sahara Desert, in Saudi Arabia, and in parts of Australia.

A fragile flower seems to bloom, symbol of life; yet this bloom is only an enduring stone amid aridity. What appears impossible is the union of both orders. The inorganic imitates the organic, and here lies the ontological paradox. One negates the other, and the mind oscillates between the two without fully resolving the puzzle: a bloom that is not a bloom, a living form without life.  Therefore, “us both” cannot exist. “You and I” cannot coexist. The living and the non-living, the organic and the inorganic, are brought into impossible intimacy. Romantically, one might think of Romeo and Juliet, but the poem goes far beyond that layer of meaning.

If one accepts that a haiku may make room for conceptual resonance, then this verse delivers a lot of food for thought in a well-crafted and elegant way. I can easily imagine that the word “impossibility” might be frowned upon. How can a haiku pull this off? Nevertheless, what precedes and what follows allows the whole to hold together, a bit like the improbable desert rose endures in its beauty.  The last line is obviously a revelation. Ravi Kiran did not write:
“of our love”
“being together”
“we”
but:
“us both.”
The “us” goes beyond the human; it refers to ontology. What does it mean to exist? What kinds of things exist? What is the nature of reality? How are different modes of being distinguished?  Therefore, this verse goes beyond the power of metaphor. It reaches a philosophical depth rarely visited in haiku.  I love the originality of Ravi’s approach here. It is a breath of fresh air amid the tropes of this genre we love.  Some readers may feel uneasy because the poem is quite conceptual. The phrase “the impossibility / of us both” is not a concrete image; it is an abstract idea. In a stricter haiku tradition, this could be seen as a weakness, since haiku often prefers direct perception, concrete images, and suggestion rather than explanation.  Yet here, the abstraction works because it seems to rise naturally from the image of the desert rose. The poem does not explain too much. It simply places the mineral “flower” beside the impossible “us.” The concept does not feel added from outside; it feels born from the image itself. That is quite a feat.

Author Ravi Kiran:

I had been an avid practitioner of Bonsai for more than a decade before I stopped. My first bonsai was a Desert Rose (Adenium Obesum). Watching it gave me great joy. As a haiku poet I was wondering about the name “Desert Rose” and how it is almost an oxymoron both — contradicting itself. Roses are meant to bloom in well-maintained gardens and not in deserts. And yet here we have a quirk or should I say miracle of nature not just surviving but thriving. I then extended the same to human relationship and realised that many couples are so different that it is impossible to believe that they can get along together but I see them getting along very well. That is how the haiku was born.

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Sébastien has chosen next week’s poem, which you’ll find below. We invite you to write a commentary to it. It may be short, to a maximum of 500 words (succinctness will be valued); 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:

     
deep moss
sinking into
the slow spaces
—Isabella Mori
 LEAF, Issue 8, December 2025

Footnote:

Ravi is an Electronics Engineer, a working professional. Ravi’s haiku have won international contests and are featured in many journals including The Heron’s Nest, Modern Haiku & Frogpond. He is web editor for Triveni’s journal haikuKATHA, and the lead editor for LEAF – the journal of The Daily Haiku.

—–

The quotation from Shinkei that heads this post is well-illustrated by the variety of takes on Ravi’s verse, with many a flight of fancy, followed by the author’s own account that re-grounds us. Yet again I think about the extent to which haiku is about communication, in which case it often falls short, or about koan-like postulates to seed meditation, in which it often excels. It can be either or both, of course. Particle and wave.

As often is the case, choosing between commentaries is difficult as I felt most were stimulating to read, and each was partly successful. In the end it came down between Jonathan’s, succinct, well-drafted and with an appealing strap line, which missed the romantic aspect, and Sébastien’s. Despite (or perhaps because of) focusing on a desert rose that seems far from the author’s inspiration, as did proposer Dan Campbell, Sébastien’s argument is good, with some considered general points about the verse and the genre. A commentary that conveys more about the content and issues posed by the verse, than about the creative genius of the commentator.

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

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