Soaking up the rays
after choosing ‘right’ cushion
Moments before this peaceful scene they jostled and jumped from cushion to cushion until everyone settled down. The fourth cushion could have been occupied, but our orange-haired cat tends to shun community events and the elderly dog currently visiting backed off when cushion selection became hectic (despite my efforts to help out).
I decided to write a haiku today after reading an essay by the late Haiku poet, Jane Reichhold (1937-2016) about composing haiku with a fragment and a phrase. Her fragment and phrase theory makes sense to me. Perhaps even more interesting are her words about how she related to haiku writing guidelines. Here is a small excerpt:
There is, thank goodness, no one way to write a haiku. Though the literature has haiku which we admire and even model our own works on, there is no one style or technique which is absolutely the best. Haiku is too large for that. Haiku has, in its short history been explored and expanded by writers so that now we have a fairly wide range of styles, techniques and methods to investigate.
To read her full essay please visit Carpe Diem Universal Jane #17 fragment and phrase.
Writing about ‘writing haiku’ captured my imagination. I woke up scribbling yesterday morning:
Poems float gently
in a breeze of syllables
From hill to valley
rushing waters stir my heart—
cleansing tears bear joy.
A word plops
on a silent pond
This is my second response to Carpe Diem Tokubetsudesu Special #1 “The Poet’s Craft”. In this Carpe Diem Haiku Kai episode, guest writer, Kim Russell, invites us to write haiku about writing haiku.
Breath suspended in space,
dew drops on a blade of grass,
fade in and out
As a guest on Carpe Diem Haiku Kai, Kim Russell challenges us to write a haiku about writing haiku. For her beautiful essay and poetry please visit Carpe Diem Tokubetsudesu Special #1 “The Poet’s Craft”.
Earlier this fall I came upon two domestic geese biding their time in the middle of the road. They had wandered from a nearby farm yard.
Two white geese,
honking on side road,
My feeble car honks had no impact, except to inform the driver behind me that there was a reason I had stopped. In moments, the other driver gaily walked by my window informing me she was ‘experienced’. It was a pleasure to behold: she waddled towards the geese and they promptly marched off the road.
Feathered tourists gaze,
waddling moves webbed feet.
I put this event on a back-burner about a month ago. When I saw a classical haiku writing tip on Heeding Haiku by Chèvrefeuille I decided to revisit a haiku I had scribbled. While I don’t always aspire to abide by classical form, I feel there is much to be learned from Masters. The writing tip is called ‘mixing it up’:
What is meant here is mixing up the action so the reader does not know if nature is doing the acting or if a human is doing it. As you know, haiku are praised for getting rid of authors, authors’ opinions, and authors’ action. One way to sneak this in is to use the gerund (-ing added to a verb) combined with an action that seems sensible for both a human and for the nature/nature to do. Very often when you use a gerund in a haiku you are basically saying, “I am. . . ” making an action but leaving unsaid the “I am”. The Japanese language has allowed poets to use this tactic so long and so well that even their translators are barely aware of what is being done. It is a good way to combine humanity’s action with nature in a way that minimizes the impact of the author but allows an interaction between humanity and nature.
From Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, December 14th 2016, Mixing It Up, a Haiku Writing Techniques
A moving pen inks—
words pour, summoned from unseen
fountain, well of life.
(Carpe Diem #1081 Feather Pen translated in my mind as being about fountain pens and so this haiku was born—as was my vampire pen haiku posted on Halloween and another poem that I will be posting soon).
Writer on trial
finds a doorway to meaning—
A response to Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Challenge #118: reward & trial.
chilled by the
imposing shadows of
your towering monuments.
How will I write,
write a poem?
You loom so LARGE—
adorned with literary acclaim and
But here is the sun—
I’ll lean against warm stone and
bask in radiant heat.
44 words makes a Quadrille. This is my first attempt in response to dVerse #17: Shadow.