re:Virals 561

“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 Susan Yavaniski. This week’s monoku, chosen by Alan Summers is

fading foothills the marriage lost in creeping sepia

— Shelli Jankowski-Smith
The Pan Haiku Review Inaugural Issue, Spring 2023

Introducing this poem, Alan writes:

I read this as both a single sweeping poetic line and broken up into two or three phrases:

fading foothills / the marriage / lost in creeping sepia
fading foothills / the marriage lost / in creeping sepia
fading foothills / the marriage lost in creeping sepia

I like to say “white echoes” hinting divorce, loss, or simply sun-faded results by a window at a home. Alliteration starts the haiku, a favourite poetic choice. A new phrase starts from its definite article [the]. Is “the marriage” in metaphorical brackets, fading foothills just barely visible, while the couple lose to the photo’s creeping sepia, perhaps too.

Host comment (Susan):

Read aloud, this week’s verse on a lost marriage offers clear breaks, and might readily have been written in a conventional three-line format. With the repetition of two ing’s, and the three participial adjectives, it doesn’t rely upon the laser-sharp economy of language often found in one-line verses.  Its striking music, the alliteration of f’s and l’s and p’s, the sibilance, and the assonance of the three long e’s, the mellifluous cadence of its stresses, would have been equally effective in three-lines. There are no obvious ambiguities typical of the monoku form, no contrary readings, no blurring of boundaries,  no multiplicity of poems within the single line.

Yet the one-line form succeeds by visually underscoring the topography of marriage, the flattening of dimension and emotion and even time itself. Likewise, the line’s length accentuates the inexorable, plodding,  “creeping” way that change happens to a long relationship, with no point to mark where loss occurred.  “The marriage” is subsumed gradually and rendered amorphous, the same way dusk darkens the hills, or autumn neutralizes the colors of the earth. Whether readers recognize “creeping sepia” as the subdued color of an old photo, as a trailing plant, or as a “modern kigo” suggesting a certain time of the year, there is a sense of gradual transformation — slow and immersive, without drama, and noticed only in hindsight.

Alan Harvey:

“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne

The shadows are lengthening. We begin with the alliteration of “fading foothills” and end with the central musical consonance of “p” sounds of creeping sepia. Time has slowed down. And we are left with the creep of time.

A marriage begins on such an emotional high, looks toward the future, and settles into a daily life. Time slows down and the days begin drifting by. Here, we come to Hawthorne’s quote: “Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” Over time, we are left in the shadows where colors are not as intense and life has lost some of its luster. Couples drift apart. Melancholy settles over the marriage foothills.

Sepia is most associated with old photographs and takes time. The alliteration of fading foothills at the end of the day is an apt metaphor for the ultimate fading of a marriage.

Jankowski-Smith has written a beautiful, bittersweet elegy for the death of a marriage. Lost to time and inattention, a shadow has slowly covered the relationship. The foothills are fading and the photographs are turning to sepia.

Dan Campbell:

As a novice digital artist, I often use sepia to create a melancholy or somber setting. Ultimately, “fading foothills the marriage lost in creeping sepia” is a poem about silently vanishing. It understands that some endings arrive not as storms but as weathering or erosion. The foothills fade. The color spreads. The marriage is lost somewhere inside that gradual transformation.

The poem’s impact lies in its restraint. It offers no accusation, no explanation, no final scene. Instead, it gives us a landscape slowly overtaken by the color of memory and asks us to contemplate a difficult truth: that time does not always destroy what we love. Sometimes it simply renders it distant, softens its edges, until one day it resembles an old photograph whose subjects are barely visible.

In that haunting image of creeping sepia, the poem captures the most elusive form of grief—the grief of watching something precious fade while it is still, in some sense, there.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

There is the immanent, lingering sadness of the moment that the poet captures in the reality of the fast-fading happiness of his marriage. He is at the foothills, at the base of the mountain where he began his ascent with hope in his heart and dreams in his eyes. He had scaled the roughs and reached the pinnacle of happiness in the love given and received in equal measure. Shakespeare in Sonnet 116 wrote: “…love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds,” but love does alter for many reasons and we are left searching for answers—could have been an act of indiscretion, could have been the tedium of a marriage where the spark has died.

The bright tints of life turn to sepia tones creeping in unobtrusively till he discovers with a bang the charade of a happy marriage. With the passage of time the bonds have loosened, the euphoria of the connection is lost, the joys and lights of life have dimmed.  Compatibility slowly turns into an incompatibility never imagined. The overwhelming sense of loss that transforms everything to a static memory.

A marriage is more than the coming together of two people, it is “the marriage of true minds” that overcomes all odds to achieve that togetherness that defines a happy marriage. To be surpassingly important to someone, to live as if to live and love were one. The undiluted, ecstatic happiness of the initial years yields to a state of contentment where each thinks of the other with concern, where each finds meaning in the presence of the other. A quiet consistent love where all hurdles have been crossed, where all flaws have been forgiven. Everything speaks, the routine gestures of couples that contain the unspoken steadfastness of love.

All human relationships are fragile and need nurture and in realising this truth lies the fulfilment of a relationship.

Jennifer Gurney

Such a poignant yet subtle monoku.

Our first image of “fading foothills” speaks to me. I’ve lived in Colorado for 34 years now and the foothills are nearly always in view. My last home’s patio looked out to a 180-degree view. It was spectacular, especially during the pandemic, when the world was upside down. And there was time to sit in awe of their majesty.

In the poem, I wasn’t sure if the foothills were fading in the sunset, perhaps as the sun slid behind them. I always loved this time of day at that house. Watching the sunset, then seeing the foothills come into contrast as the day’s light ebbed. The foothills seemed to soften in the magic of the gloaming.

Our next image is “the marriage.” It is the center of the poem, literally and figuratively. I’m not sure if it’s the author’s marriage, one they’re commenting on, or marriage in general. The use of the word “the” makes me think it’s singular. But it doesn’t say “my” or “our,” so I’m left wondering.

Also, depending on where you pause, the second image could be “the marriage lost.” This adds to the mystery of the poem.

The term “the marriage,” especially “the marriage lost” also speaks to me. I’ve loved and lost. More than once. Most recently, to cancer, which was the hardest loss to bear. This image pulled at the heart strings.

Our final image is “lost in creeping sepia.” The meaning of the first two images starts to come into slight focus with the third image. “Lost” is very clear. But “creeping sepia” could mean one of several things. A sepia photo fading over time. The foothills fading under an overgrowth of a plant named sepia. It sounds vaguely familiar. But Google confirms that there is no plant by that name. But curiously the sepia pigment used for photos comes from the ink sacs from the marine cuttlefish called “sepia.”

And snap, my brain connects the dots. We used to be under an ocean here, back in the day. A marine climate where Sepia likely once swam. Then the oceans receded, and the mountains and foothills were formed. Then the marriage’s rise and fall. And the photo and the foothills and the marriage all faded into creeping sepia.

Generations. Centuries. Eons. In eight words.

David Cox:

In the month of June, I don’t just think of marriage but of marriage equality. The right to marry was achieved just ten years ago by the Supreme Court of the United States and passed into law in 2013, 2014 and 2020 in the nations of the United Kingdom. If you haven’t seen the movie Freeheld (2015), it essentially conveys the emotional and practical reasons why marriage equality protects marital partners.

You may be confused by my apparent non sequitur. The reason I mention it is that progress can be retrogressive, much as the notion of marriage itself is ephemeral for multiple reasons: infidelity or death causing such parting. Jankowski-Smith’s poem, unusually spanning two lines, appears to physically emulate the increasing demands of marriage: after the honeymoon period, the sense of commitment becomes more real. The first line really does feel like the easier ‘foothills’; the second line represents the forbidding icy peaks, requiring both oxygen and sherpas. The rights and commitments of marriage are those of equal partners, founded on mutual dignity.

The photographic image of the married couple, perhaps implied by the “creeping sepia” — nowadays more commonly associated with filters that evoke a plastic sense of nostalgia — was originally an ageing effect caused by the breakdown of the substances used in the photographic process. The etymology of the word sepia suggests a root in the Greek meaning “to rot”, further reinforcing the poem’s preoccupation with decay and deterioration. The use of the less frequently used participle reminds us that this is a continual, encroaching and unstoppable process. The photo, the couple themselves and the “marriage” specifically all have a shelf life. The image of the photograph being eaten alive, a victim of the processes of entropy, is portentous of a poorly chosen union or a reminder to the married couple to value the preciousness and warmth of what remains, rather like a British summer.

Radhamani Sarma:

Beginning with a line reflecting somewhat a poignant and sad tone, making us ponder, “fading foothills the marriage lost in creeping sepia” could be interpreted as a vivid portrayal of the author’s emotional state — irreconcilable loss mingled with memory. Reality is submerged in a poignant feeling of the past. Creeping sepia means reddish colorful flowers, reared indoors and outdoors and nurtured by constant care. Its use implies life has withered, lost its glamour. The very word sepia has a vast dictionary of meanings. Another meaning of sepia could be the faded color in a painting or photograph. A thorough study of creeping sepia is required, it has so many variegated connotations and symbolic associations. It might also refer to new kigo. Alan Summers, winner of the First Modern Kigo contest (see editor footnote) writes of his winning entry “creeping sepia”:

“A combination of the transition into Autumn (Fall) as Summer fades, and a mixture of climate change effects bringing out an urge for a nostalgia of historically fixed and clearly defined seasonal shifts of the past. This might also include childhood/family photographs that might have been in color but now have a creeping sepia effect.” (Stella Pierides Blog)

An insightful monostich worth reading many times.

Peter Jackson:

The promise of early days is succumbing to insidious age and the relationship is adrift between.

The haiku is a single sentence without overt cut yet — ‘the marriage lost’ cuts and contrasts foothills and sepia separating both in time and space.

The f’s provide a linked opening pair separated from the persistent e’s at the end by the ended nuptials — lost.

This could be any marriage caught between the promise of vows and fading photos and the reality of a relationship over. We are left to fill that space.

Urszula Marciniak:

Marriages don’t always fall apart spectacularly. Sometimes they simply fade, burn out. One person feels so small, so insignificant next to the other. Over time, that person begins to look up not with admiration, but with hidden regret.

The charm of sepia, as the color of former elegance, begins to fade, bringing to mind something that has simply become a thing of the past and is not a pleasant memory to relive.

Perhaps both have experienced some personal tragedy and are now simply plodding through life, not supporting each other but drifting apart.

How can one restore the color and flavor of the beginnings of a relationship? It would be easier to nurture a relationship every day, but what if the deterioration has already occurred? One person didn’t notice, the other gave no signs.

Has the author come to terms with the situation, wants to fight, or perhaps wants to warn others? The richness of content and suffering in such a short work is impressive. Now there are no unnecessary words, but perhaps once upon a time, important ones were missing?

Adel Imhof — geography is memory:

This verse works by letting landscape do the emotional labor. Two images, one continuous sentence, no cut: foothills that fade, a marriage lost inside that fading. The grammar stays smooth but the perspective shifts — we start with geography, then realize the geography is memory.

The weight sits in four words: fading, lost, creeping, sepia. Nothing is declared. No “divorce”, no “grief”, no “goodbye”. Sepia carries everything: old photographs, time passing, color draining, nostalgia curdling into distance. Foothills don’t vanish at dusk — they soften, lose detail, turn monochrome. So does a marriage that ends slowly. Creeping tells us it wasn’t sudden. The loss happened at the speed of light changing.

Line breaks create the ache. “the marriage lost in / creeping sepia” makes us hang on “lost in” for a beat. For that pause the marriage is lost in the foothills themselves — misplaced, left behind. Then the next line resolves it: lost in time, in tint, in the way memory bleaches everything. That enjambment gives the poem its quiet turn.

It’s open enough to hold multiple readings. Literal: a couple watching hills fade at twilight as their relationship does the same. Psychological: the marriage now exists only as a sepia memory, no longer lived in color. Temporal: both foothills and marriage are subject to the same law — all vivid things fade.

Though it reads as a still image, it’s narrative. Beginning: foothills once vivid. Middle: marriage existed once. End: both now reduced to sepia. It’s cinematic, like the opening shot of a film dissolving from mountains to a yellowing wedding photo. No story is told, but a whole story is implied.

The poem succeeds because it doesn’t overstate. The sadness is proportionate, not theatrical. Like the foothills, it fades instead of breaking. And that’s what stays with you after reading.

Author Shelli Jankowski-Smith:

Such an evocative new kigo, “creeping sepia.” (see editor footnote) Long ago, I lived in a small New Hampshire village near the White Mountains at the time when my first marriage was slowly dissolving. It’s like looking at an old photo… the way things emerge from a seemingly undifferentiated landscape, the way they can suddenly overtake you.

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Adel Imhof  did not respond with a verse, so Susan 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. Please note that commentaries must be your own personal work.

Poem for commentary:

     
at the end of the diving board yes
— Mary Stevens
  Modern Haiku 51.1, 2020

Poet Bio:

Shelli Jankowski-Smith’s haiku appear in “Seeds from a Birch Tree” by Clark Strand (2nd ed. 2023), and “Smart Worry: Calm Actions for a Nervous World” by Ann Feldman (forthcoming 2026). Other publications include Asahi Shimbun, Haiku Avenue, Kyoto-X Haiku Project, Pan Haiku Review, Trash Panda, Tricycle, and Tsuri-doro. Shelli’s work most recently won 3rd prize in the 2026 Rockport International Poetry Festival Haiku Contest. She lives in Swampscott, Massachusetts, where she serves as the town’s poet laureate.

Footnote:

According to a British Haiku Society post on Facebook, The Modern Kigo Project was initiated by Réka Nyitrai and Alan Peat in 2021, with the aim to augment kigo that already exist with a range of new examples.  They sponsored and judged two contests, one in December of 2021 and another the following spring,  the results of which were published in the online journal Weird Laburnum.  Alan Summers, editor of the Pan Haiku Journal, where this week’s verse was first published, was awarded first prize in the first kigo contest for the entry “creeping sepia,” and its accompanying haiku, “creeping sepia / the rustle of non-humans / at first light.”

In the competition results, Summers defined “creeping sepia” as follows:  “The transition into Autumn (Fall) as Summer fades, with a growing mixture of climate change effects, and nostalgia for when the seasons were clearly defined.” You can read the full text of Mr. Summer’s competition entry here:  Creeping Sepia

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

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