2023 Interviews
jim kacian
This poem
add | | voice | | to | | sea | | rain
is one of a series of experiments I made to see how haiku might look and sound in Globish (a portmanteau of “global” and “English” describing a kind of minimalist English, with a vocabulary and grammar that has come to be shared by non-English speakers around the world). The words had to come from the limited vocabulary of Globish, some 1,500 words, and (I felt) needed to be spaced, and so be seen to be widely separated but yet having some connection to each other. To do this I wanted to create a series of breaks to visually suggest the gaps between these words, as well as the halts of speaking a non-native language. To this end, I settled on these vertical lines.
However, in the doing, the vertical lines seemed to take on a life of their own, to gather their own force even if you speak the language perfectly well — they are like markers or buoys at sea, between islands, and with wind and current racing around them. I expected the truncated language would make people leap from one island to the next, and I think this does in fact happen, but the way energy seems to move around and through the vertical interstices also is very much in play.
I don’t think there are an infinite number of ways to write haiku, but there certainly are many more than we have yet explored. You never know what following up an idea might lead to.
Thanks for finding value in my experiment, and I hope the poem resonates with many and suggests one more way of imagining haiku.
This poem
add | | voice | | to | | sea | | rain
is one of a series of experiments I made to see how haiku might look and sound in Globish (a portmanteau of “global” and “English” describing a kind of minimalist English, with a vocabulary and grammar that has come to be shared by non-English speakers around the world). The words had to come from the limited vocabulary of Globish, some 1,500 words, and (I felt) needed to be spaced, and so be seen to be widely separated but yet having some connection to each other. To do this I wanted to create a series of breaks to visually suggest the gaps between these words, as well as the halts of speaking a non-native language. To this end, I settled on these vertical lines.
However, in the doing, the vertical lines seemed to take on a life of their own, to gather their own force even if you speak the language perfectly well — they are like markers or buoys at sea, between islands, and with wind and current racing around them. I expected the truncated language would make people leap from one island to the next, and I think this does in fact happen, but the way energy seems to move around and through the vertical interstices also is very much in play.
I don’t think there are an infinite number of ways to write haiku, but there certainly are many more than we have yet explored. You never know what following up an idea might lead to.
Thanks for finding value in my experiment, and I hope the poem resonates with many and suggests one more way of imagining haiku.
Michael Dylan Welch
winter funeral--
lots of s’s
in our whispers
What inspired the poem?
Many of my haiku are inspired by memories, this being one of them, remembering a few funerals I’d been to over the years. More particularly, though, this poem was inspired by my Dad’s funeral in February of 2014 (he had died late in January, after a brief time in hospice care). And now, as I write this a few months after my mother died in April of 2023, I think of her too, and her funeral. No doubt readers of this poem will think of funerals they’ve attended. Shared experience lies at the heart of the best haiku.
What was your process for writing it?
As with most of my haiku, I usually work them out in my head, sometimes extensively, before I write them down. As a result, I seldom have drafts of poems, and that’s the case with this one. I wrote this poem on 7 March 2014, two weeks after my Dad’s funeral. While we waited for the service to start, which I helped to lead, I remember hearing lots of whispers from family and friends, and somehow the S sounds stood out. What did that mean? I wanted to trust that experience, and not explain it.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I don’t think haiku have to push boundaries. Those that do can be excellent, but so can those that don’t. I’m not inclined to privilege either one but welcome them both. And both can be hard to do. To me, the genre of haiku is fortified by moments of emotive immediacy, implication, empathy, and vulnerability, and if my poem does any of that, then I’m pleased to contribute to the fortification of haiku. And if each of my poems connect with just one reader, that’s enough. For me, a poem is a trailblazer if it finds a path to the heart.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I had not considered any other format or iteration, at least not in this case. Sometimes too much trickery can get in the way. I wanted to trust the image. Also, I recall the old Doritos slogan: Crunch all you want, we’ll make more. That’s the way I often am with my haiku. I keep making more. I aim for organic form in my haiku, and I stop working them out when they feel right in my mind and on the tongue. Kenneth Koch wrote that “When you finish a poem, it clicks shut like the top of a jewel box.” When this poem clicked shut for me, I moved on to writing other poems.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
Haiku, for me, is an art of empathy, for both writers and readers. We pay attention. We notice our own feelings, and if we write about what caused our feelings, rather than the feelings themselves, we empower empathetic readers to have the same feelings (or close to them) for themselves. It’s a sort of misdirection, and the ideal reader (“on whom nothing is lost,” as Henry James desired) will see what’s going on. What’s happening in my poem? Necessary socializing, politeness, and respect, and a bit of mystery. What words are being said often that make the S sounds seem to be prominent? That awareness gave me a feeling, but I wanted to write about what caused my feeling, so I leave the feeling itself up to each reader.
(Note: Our apologies to the poet. That is supposed to be an em dash at the end of L1 but our website automatically reformats it to two en dashes unless it is abutted by a word on each side.)
winter funeral--
lots of s’s
in our whispers
What inspired the poem?
Many of my haiku are inspired by memories, this being one of them, remembering a few funerals I’d been to over the years. More particularly, though, this poem was inspired by my Dad’s funeral in February of 2014 (he had died late in January, after a brief time in hospice care). And now, as I write this a few months after my mother died in April of 2023, I think of her too, and her funeral. No doubt readers of this poem will think of funerals they’ve attended. Shared experience lies at the heart of the best haiku.
What was your process for writing it?
As with most of my haiku, I usually work them out in my head, sometimes extensively, before I write them down. As a result, I seldom have drafts of poems, and that’s the case with this one. I wrote this poem on 7 March 2014, two weeks after my Dad’s funeral. While we waited for the service to start, which I helped to lead, I remember hearing lots of whispers from family and friends, and somehow the S sounds stood out. What did that mean? I wanted to trust that experience, and not explain it.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I don’t think haiku have to push boundaries. Those that do can be excellent, but so can those that don’t. I’m not inclined to privilege either one but welcome them both. And both can be hard to do. To me, the genre of haiku is fortified by moments of emotive immediacy, implication, empathy, and vulnerability, and if my poem does any of that, then I’m pleased to contribute to the fortification of haiku. And if each of my poems connect with just one reader, that’s enough. For me, a poem is a trailblazer if it finds a path to the heart.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I had not considered any other format or iteration, at least not in this case. Sometimes too much trickery can get in the way. I wanted to trust the image. Also, I recall the old Doritos slogan: Crunch all you want, we’ll make more. That’s the way I often am with my haiku. I keep making more. I aim for organic form in my haiku, and I stop working them out when they feel right in my mind and on the tongue. Kenneth Koch wrote that “When you finish a poem, it clicks shut like the top of a jewel box.” When this poem clicked shut for me, I moved on to writing other poems.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
Haiku, for me, is an art of empathy, for both writers and readers. We pay attention. We notice our own feelings, and if we write about what caused our feelings, rather than the feelings themselves, we empower empathetic readers to have the same feelings (or close to them) for themselves. It’s a sort of misdirection, and the ideal reader (“on whom nothing is lost,” as Henry James desired) will see what’s going on. What’s happening in my poem? Necessary socializing, politeness, and respect, and a bit of mystery. What words are being said often that make the S sounds seem to be prominent? That awareness gave me a feeling, but I wanted to write about what caused my feeling, so I leave the feeling itself up to each reader.
(Note: Our apologies to the poet. That is supposed to be an em dash at the end of L1 but our website automatically reformats it to two en dashes unless it is abutted by a word on each side.)
Julie Schwerin
Unearthed (multi-ku)
after years
of quiet mingling these bones
fasting
heavy
with the weight of
longing for
what I’ve never
heard one
moment
of silence
now nothing
interesting
to ponder meditation
still
in the dark
searching for meaning
I check the time
in my dream a head of lettuce
bursts
like the urgent
into this bubble rubble
I’ve
become
apostrophe-less
divvying up whats his
and whats
mine
What inspired the poem?
This is a poem about my divorce which is something I don’t really talk about except through poetry.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
Initially, I thought this would be a senryu sequence. I pulled out a number of senryu I’d written, each on notecards, and shuffled them until the order flowed the way I wanted. But even with careful ordering and linking, the sequence felt stilted. The three lines - space - three lines - space was too orderly for what was not at all an orderly ordeal.
What was your process for writing it?
All the senryu had been written with the theme of my divorce experience in mind. Then the eight senryu were sequenced in a way that would progress through an arcing narrative. Now to compress it further. Some lines, some fragments were shared among the senryu and didn’t need to be presented twice. Some fragments were dropped altogether as the theme rendered them unnecessary. I allowed the poem to escape the stringent format through line breaks and spacing that would bring certain words to stand alone while also bridging two parts within the poem and slowing perception for the reader. Other small connecting words needed to be added to lend to the flow and sound quality. “rubble” for instance, was not part of any of the original senryu but followed “bubble” so well in sound and added to the tension and conflict at this point in the poem.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre? And is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I was very much inspired by Wisconsin poet, Lorine Niedecker when writing this poem. When I first moved to Wisconsin, Dan took me to see her small cabin on Blackhawk Island in the Rock River. Her work is praised for its vivid imagery, subtle rhythms, and spare language. She described the poet’s work as a condensery. Many of her poems resemble contemporary haiku or haiku sequences, but with delightful spaces and line breaks that allow each word to soak in before the reader encounters the next one. Much of what I did with Unearthed was a combination of my senryu and Niedecker’s condensery style. I’d like to explore this style more and see where it will take me.
Unearthed (multi-ku)
after years
of quiet mingling these bones
fasting
heavy
with the weight of
longing for
what I’ve never
heard one
moment
of silence
now nothing
interesting
to ponder meditation
still
in the dark
searching for meaning
I check the time
in my dream a head of lettuce
bursts
like the urgent
into this bubble rubble
I’ve
become
apostrophe-less
divvying up whats his
and whats
mine
What inspired the poem?
This is a poem about my divorce which is something I don’t really talk about except through poetry.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
Initially, I thought this would be a senryu sequence. I pulled out a number of senryu I’d written, each on notecards, and shuffled them until the order flowed the way I wanted. But even with careful ordering and linking, the sequence felt stilted. The three lines - space - three lines - space was too orderly for what was not at all an orderly ordeal.
What was your process for writing it?
All the senryu had been written with the theme of my divorce experience in mind. Then the eight senryu were sequenced in a way that would progress through an arcing narrative. Now to compress it further. Some lines, some fragments were shared among the senryu and didn’t need to be presented twice. Some fragments were dropped altogether as the theme rendered them unnecessary. I allowed the poem to escape the stringent format through line breaks and spacing that would bring certain words to stand alone while also bridging two parts within the poem and slowing perception for the reader. Other small connecting words needed to be added to lend to the flow and sound quality. “rubble” for instance, was not part of any of the original senryu but followed “bubble” so well in sound and added to the tension and conflict at this point in the poem.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre? And is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I was very much inspired by Wisconsin poet, Lorine Niedecker when writing this poem. When I first moved to Wisconsin, Dan took me to see her small cabin on Blackhawk Island in the Rock River. Her work is praised for its vivid imagery, subtle rhythms, and spare language. She described the poet’s work as a condensery. Many of her poems resemble contemporary haiku or haiku sequences, but with delightful spaces and line breaks that allow each word to soak in before the reader encounters the next one. Much of what I did with Unearthed was a combination of my senryu and Niedecker’s condensery style. I’d like to explore this style more and see where it will take me.
Antoinette Cheung
peeling off
the best before label
childless by choice
What inspired the poem?
I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, probably doing a mental inventory of things in the fridge that should be consumed soon, when it occurred to me that I, too, have had a “best before” date stamped on me. Although my label is an invisible one, it has grown increasingly apparent over the years as unsolicited commentary about my biological clock has pervaded conversations with those around me.
What was your process for writing it?
Honestly, after that moment in the kitchen, this poem pretty much wrote itself and came out fully formed. I may have played around with the verb in the first line, but ultimately felt that “peeling” provided a level of slowness, care, and almost hesitation that felt appropriate.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I am so grateful for the work that has already been done by poets in the haiku community (including the judges of this contest!) to create a space where diverse experiences can be represented on the page. I acknowledge that the experience captured in my poem is not new, but I hope that seeing it gives others permission to explore the labels they feel are holding them back from living their own truth.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
As the judges so thoughtfully suggested in their commentary, this poem seemed to call for the traditional three-line structure used in English-language haiku as a way to insist on its existence regardless of the bounds of tradition.
peeling off
the best before label
childless by choice
What inspired the poem?
I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, probably doing a mental inventory of things in the fridge that should be consumed soon, when it occurred to me that I, too, have had a “best before” date stamped on me. Although my label is an invisible one, it has grown increasingly apparent over the years as unsolicited commentary about my biological clock has pervaded conversations with those around me.
What was your process for writing it?
Honestly, after that moment in the kitchen, this poem pretty much wrote itself and came out fully formed. I may have played around with the verb in the first line, but ultimately felt that “peeling” provided a level of slowness, care, and almost hesitation that felt appropriate.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I am so grateful for the work that has already been done by poets in the haiku community (including the judges of this contest!) to create a space where diverse experiences can be represented on the page. I acknowledge that the experience captured in my poem is not new, but I hope that seeing it gives others permission to explore the labels they feel are holding them back from living their own truth.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
As the judges so thoughtfully suggested in their commentary, this poem seemed to call for the traditional three-line structure used in English-language haiku as a way to insist on its existence regardless of the bounds of tradition.
Debbie Strange
What inspired the poem?
I am inspired to write experimental poems rooted in trauma-based life experiences and news events, and this kyoka/tanka is an example of that practice.
What was your process for writing it?
This poem revolves around word association and the asemic-like structure of proofreading marks. Their colour is reminiscent of welling blood, and the marks resemble the varied shapes of physical wounds and scars. I chose to use ragged lines to emphasize this aspect, and the uneven blocks of words represent the way humans are inclined to compartmentalize overwhelming emotions. I think we have a tendency to edit trauma into bite-sized portions so that it becomes more easily digestible. If one is repeatedly subjected to emotional or physical abuse, the senses often become numbed as a coping mechanism. The second block of words can be taken literally or metaphorically, and the third block is meant to be ambiguous. The ellipsis at the end of the poem indicates resignation, and it is a concrete visualization of the knowledge that there are more “cuts” to come.
cuts 1: emotional abuse
cuts 2: physical abuse
cuts 3: writers’ tools
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I hope the content and shape of this poem might encourage other writers to incorporate non-conventional visuals into their work, thereby extending the limits of the form, and broadening our idea of what is deemed to be suitable content.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
Though the initial poem was written as presented in the commentary, I quickly realized that this format was not challenging enough, and that it did not contain the gravitas for which I was striving.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I’d like to thank the panel for selecting this poem and for their thought-provoking, astute, and encouraging commentary.
I make art and write a little something every day, whether my muse is visiting or not, because I know the process will ultimately be cathartic, healing, and inspirational for me! This daily practice is a vital tool in helping to mitigate the isolating effects of chronic illness.
I am inspired to write experimental poems rooted in trauma-based life experiences and news events, and this kyoka/tanka is an example of that practice.
What was your process for writing it?
This poem revolves around word association and the asemic-like structure of proofreading marks. Their colour is reminiscent of welling blood, and the marks resemble the varied shapes of physical wounds and scars. I chose to use ragged lines to emphasize this aspect, and the uneven blocks of words represent the way humans are inclined to compartmentalize overwhelming emotions. I think we have a tendency to edit trauma into bite-sized portions so that it becomes more easily digestible. If one is repeatedly subjected to emotional or physical abuse, the senses often become numbed as a coping mechanism. The second block of words can be taken literally or metaphorically, and the third block is meant to be ambiguous. The ellipsis at the end of the poem indicates resignation, and it is a concrete visualization of the knowledge that there are more “cuts” to come.
cuts 1: emotional abuse
- cutting comments meant to inflict maximum pain
- cutting people out of one’s life
- cutting/ignoring others
cuts 2: physical abuse
- human-to-human: using torture during war, the escalation of world and domestic violence
- human-to-animal: using marking pliers to identify livestock, and the animal cruelty practices common in the production of our food
- human-to-self: I was reminded of a friend who slit her wrists and the fact that cutting is particularly prevalent among teen girls.
cuts 3: writers’ tools
- cutting words: a short-form poetry technique
- cutting: editing a writer’s work (“kill your darlings”)
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I hope the content and shape of this poem might encourage other writers to incorporate non-conventional visuals into their work, thereby extending the limits of the form, and broadening our idea of what is deemed to be suitable content.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
Though the initial poem was written as presented in the commentary, I quickly realized that this format was not challenging enough, and that it did not contain the gravitas for which I was striving.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I’d like to thank the panel for selecting this poem and for their thought-provoking, astute, and encouraging commentary.
I make art and write a little something every day, whether my muse is visiting or not, because I know the process will ultimately be cathartic, healing, and inspirational for me! This daily practice is a vital tool in helping to mitigate the isolating effects of chronic illness.
Rowan Beckett
from swallow to tail a ghost town hosts the body before
What inspired the poem?
I admit I compacted a lot of layers into one line, but I think that’s why the ideas in this particular poem were better suited for a Tanka, versus Haiku. I write a lot about my illnesses, but what I wanted to capture this time was more than the physical breakdown of my body. Many of the conditions I have are both rare and genetic, such as Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and (in my case) were inherited from my parents. I am Melungeon (Tri-Racial Isolate) from my father’s side and unfortunately there are high rates of connective tissue disorders, including EDS, among Melungeons. The image of a ghost town was not only to memorialize the generational suffering of my ancestors who were forced to flee their homes and go into hiding, but also because my illnesses physically make me feel like a ghost town. “from swallow to tail” is an abstract allusion to “from top to bottom,” meaning my sickness makes my whole body and soul feel completely isolated, as I’m sure my ancestors also felt before me.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I’ve written many Tanka, but never in one line. However, I was so inspired by Ash Evan Lippert’s one-line Tanka “sterile light” that I decided to try writing a few myself. I had themes from this particular poem in mind for a while, but didn’t know exactly how to put it into a Haiku. When I sat down to try one-line Tanka, this is what I came up with.
What was your process for writing it?
Honestly, it’s one of those poems that was written all in one breath. I keep every single fragment, phrase, idea, and edit in a document titled with that year (ex. 2023), even when they’re ragged and don’t make sense, which is most of the time. When going back and searching for this Tanka, there were no similar fragments or edits near the poem. It was probably an easier write because I had been sitting on the idea for so long, I just needed a vehicle and it turns out Tanka was it.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I tried utilizing uncommon imagery that can expand the knowledge of underrepresented topics through both language play and more common tanka techniques such as setting, storytelling, and pivot line. I think the one-line form also expands the idea of a pivot line by allowing multiple line breaks:
from swallow / to tail / a ghost town / hosts the body / before
from swallow / to tail / a ghost town hosts / the body / before
from swallow / to tail / a ghost town / hosts / the body before
from / swallow to tail / a ghost town hosts / the body / before
from / swallow to tail / a ghost town / hosts the body / before
from / swallow to tail / a ghost town / hosts / the body before
The breaks are almost endless and I wanted this eternal feeling juxtaposed against the immortality of my ancestry line.
Thank you so very much to the 2023 Trailblazer panel for not only seeing something in my work, but for giving me the inspiration and opportunity to memorialize my family and personal history. It’s always an honor to win a contest, but especially one that encourages boundary- pushing and innovation in poetic forms I love dearly.
from swallow to tail a ghost town hosts the body before
What inspired the poem?
I admit I compacted a lot of layers into one line, but I think that’s why the ideas in this particular poem were better suited for a Tanka, versus Haiku. I write a lot about my illnesses, but what I wanted to capture this time was more than the physical breakdown of my body. Many of the conditions I have are both rare and genetic, such as Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and (in my case) were inherited from my parents. I am Melungeon (Tri-Racial Isolate) from my father’s side and unfortunately there are high rates of connective tissue disorders, including EDS, among Melungeons. The image of a ghost town was not only to memorialize the generational suffering of my ancestors who were forced to flee their homes and go into hiding, but also because my illnesses physically make me feel like a ghost town. “from swallow to tail” is an abstract allusion to “from top to bottom,” meaning my sickness makes my whole body and soul feel completely isolated, as I’m sure my ancestors also felt before me.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I’ve written many Tanka, but never in one line. However, I was so inspired by Ash Evan Lippert’s one-line Tanka “sterile light” that I decided to try writing a few myself. I had themes from this particular poem in mind for a while, but didn’t know exactly how to put it into a Haiku. When I sat down to try one-line Tanka, this is what I came up with.
What was your process for writing it?
Honestly, it’s one of those poems that was written all in one breath. I keep every single fragment, phrase, idea, and edit in a document titled with that year (ex. 2023), even when they’re ragged and don’t make sense, which is most of the time. When going back and searching for this Tanka, there were no similar fragments or edits near the poem. It was probably an easier write because I had been sitting on the idea for so long, I just needed a vehicle and it turns out Tanka was it.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I tried utilizing uncommon imagery that can expand the knowledge of underrepresented topics through both language play and more common tanka techniques such as setting, storytelling, and pivot line. I think the one-line form also expands the idea of a pivot line by allowing multiple line breaks:
from swallow / to tail / a ghost town / hosts the body / before
from swallow / to tail / a ghost town hosts / the body / before
from swallow / to tail / a ghost town / hosts / the body before
from / swallow to tail / a ghost town hosts / the body / before
from / swallow to tail / a ghost town / hosts the body / before
from / swallow to tail / a ghost town / hosts / the body before
The breaks are almost endless and I wanted this eternal feeling juxtaposed against the immortality of my ancestry line.
Thank you so very much to the 2023 Trailblazer panel for not only seeing something in my work, but for giving me the inspiration and opportunity to memorialize my family and personal history. It’s always an honor to win a contest, but especially one that encourages boundary- pushing and innovation in poetic forms I love dearly.
Alfred Booth
swallowing
pills from large to small
shrapnel
What inspired the poem?
This haiku was written deliberately for Trailblazer. Concerned about the need for uniqueness, I wrote quite a few. “swallowing //pills. . .” was my most unique effort.
As for this poem, two things principally came into play. Discussions with a dear friend suffering from esophageal cancer and her difficulties swallowing pills. And at least one episode of Grey’s Anatomy (yes!) where for a patient suffering from PTSD, the medical team discovered it was not his PTSD causing the current symptoms but a tiny piece of shrapnel that had been deemed too dangerous to remove initially.
What was your process for writing it?
It was a quick write. I believe PTSD can easily create compulsive behaviors that change how one deals rationally with daily events like taking pills. I had originally written L2 as “from small to large” but quickly changed it to mirror the order in which shrapnel is removed from the body in an OR.
Economy of words is usually essential in my poetic writing, otherwise I tend towards verbosity and over-explaining. For me, restricting words mirrors the incapacity of talking openly about one’s most private suffering. Finding people to include in one’s safe zone is not easy. I have another dear friend suffering from Menière’s Disease. She speaks freely of it, taking it upon herself to educate everyone around her as it is an extremely rare disease without enough financial support for proper research leading to even decently efficient medications, as is often the case outside of cancer and HIV. By educating myself, I have maintained my place in her safe zone.
As a victim of child abuse, I have my own triggers and a very restricted safe zone.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
In my humble opinion, pushing boundaries requires applying a deliberate thought process to specific areas of each form. For haiku, sequential writing as well as concrete presentations both push boundaries. With gendai haiku, I often feel that the two-image traditional haiku becomes borderline 3-line poetry. To answer the question “am I a boundary expanding poet?” I would have to answer no. Doing so, I believe, it has to become a raison d’être.
In my haiku here, the form itself breaks no common boundaries. My quick approach to writing haiku does not lend itself to a successful concrete poetry presentation. To do so requires too much thinking rather than an emotional outburst. But I’m sure this is debatable. However, I feel strongly that my subject matter — as well as other more taboo subjects — continues to need more exposure and exploration in haiku.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
It is obvious that my line “from big to small” might eventually, in a different context, benefit from a change in type size. I was not convinced doing so would add anything but cuteness to this haiku’s presentation, thus it remained in the traditional 3-line haiku format.
I did wonder for a while whether to choose punctuation after the initial phrase.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I am a quick and spontaneous writer, but not a prolific one. As a professional musician, I dreamed of becoming a singer. Except that I am incapable of remembering the words of songs or arias. That even applies to the few words contained in my own haiku. In the same light, when I go back to edit a poem after too much time, I have trouble remembering its genesis, and without the help of an outside reader, it is rare that I feel the text is improved. I am not organized enough to write down my state of mind for each poem I write as I write it.
In my own reading of poetry, I’m usually incapable of seeing different layers beyond the obviousness of the words themselves. When reading commentaries about poems, I usually follow other haijin’s explanations easily and will frequently say to myself “now why didn’t you see that? It’s so obvious!” (when properly explained!).
I was pleasantly surprised, when reading your commentary about this poem, to learn that for certain people, taking pills can be assimilated with inserting shrapnel into one’s body, thus adding “swallowing shrapnel” as a supplementary reading to my poem. I wish I could say I had had precisely this in mind! I will say that writing “swallowing pills” as the opening line was instinctively unacceptable to me. It is rare that I take the time to deliberately search for ways to layer my haiku as some haijin are perfectly capable of doing. Most times I do not succeed. I write when an external impetus is strong enough to get me emotionally involved in the creative process.
To close, perhaps…
swallowing pills from large to small shrapnel
…may indeed add a new dimension to these words. Let the readers decide.
swallowing
pills from large to small
shrapnel
What inspired the poem?
This haiku was written deliberately for Trailblazer. Concerned about the need for uniqueness, I wrote quite a few. “swallowing //pills. . .” was my most unique effort.
As for this poem, two things principally came into play. Discussions with a dear friend suffering from esophageal cancer and her difficulties swallowing pills. And at least one episode of Grey’s Anatomy (yes!) where for a patient suffering from PTSD, the medical team discovered it was not his PTSD causing the current symptoms but a tiny piece of shrapnel that had been deemed too dangerous to remove initially.
What was your process for writing it?
It was a quick write. I believe PTSD can easily create compulsive behaviors that change how one deals rationally with daily events like taking pills. I had originally written L2 as “from small to large” but quickly changed it to mirror the order in which shrapnel is removed from the body in an OR.
Economy of words is usually essential in my poetic writing, otherwise I tend towards verbosity and over-explaining. For me, restricting words mirrors the incapacity of talking openly about one’s most private suffering. Finding people to include in one’s safe zone is not easy. I have another dear friend suffering from Menière’s Disease. She speaks freely of it, taking it upon herself to educate everyone around her as it is an extremely rare disease without enough financial support for proper research leading to even decently efficient medications, as is often the case outside of cancer and HIV. By educating myself, I have maintained my place in her safe zone.
As a victim of child abuse, I have my own triggers and a very restricted safe zone.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
In my humble opinion, pushing boundaries requires applying a deliberate thought process to specific areas of each form. For haiku, sequential writing as well as concrete presentations both push boundaries. With gendai haiku, I often feel that the two-image traditional haiku becomes borderline 3-line poetry. To answer the question “am I a boundary expanding poet?” I would have to answer no. Doing so, I believe, it has to become a raison d’être.
In my haiku here, the form itself breaks no common boundaries. My quick approach to writing haiku does not lend itself to a successful concrete poetry presentation. To do so requires too much thinking rather than an emotional outburst. But I’m sure this is debatable. However, I feel strongly that my subject matter — as well as other more taboo subjects — continues to need more exposure and exploration in haiku.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
It is obvious that my line “from big to small” might eventually, in a different context, benefit from a change in type size. I was not convinced doing so would add anything but cuteness to this haiku’s presentation, thus it remained in the traditional 3-line haiku format.
I did wonder for a while whether to choose punctuation after the initial phrase.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I am a quick and spontaneous writer, but not a prolific one. As a professional musician, I dreamed of becoming a singer. Except that I am incapable of remembering the words of songs or arias. That even applies to the few words contained in my own haiku. In the same light, when I go back to edit a poem after too much time, I have trouble remembering its genesis, and without the help of an outside reader, it is rare that I feel the text is improved. I am not organized enough to write down my state of mind for each poem I write as I write it.
In my own reading of poetry, I’m usually incapable of seeing different layers beyond the obviousness of the words themselves. When reading commentaries about poems, I usually follow other haijin’s explanations easily and will frequently say to myself “now why didn’t you see that? It’s so obvious!” (when properly explained!).
I was pleasantly surprised, when reading your commentary about this poem, to learn that for certain people, taking pills can be assimilated with inserting shrapnel into one’s body, thus adding “swallowing shrapnel” as a supplementary reading to my poem. I wish I could say I had had precisely this in mind! I will say that writing “swallowing pills” as the opening line was instinctively unacceptable to me. It is rare that I take the time to deliberately search for ways to layer my haiku as some haijin are perfectly capable of doing. Most times I do not succeed. I write when an external impetus is strong enough to get me emotionally involved in the creative process.
To close, perhaps…
swallowing pills from large to small shrapnel
…may indeed add a new dimension to these words. Let the readers decide.
Margaret Walker
rose-colored glasses the frame
What Inspired the poem?
This was a poem of “a moment.”
I ordered some reading glasses online. I wanted something less boring than my usual black or brown. These had deep rose-colored frames. A nice summery touch. I put them on and immediately noticed that the color of the frames was reflected in the lens, giving everything I looked at a slight rose tint. For decades, I once viewed the world through my own rose-colored lens. Would these frames magically restore my Pollyanna world — or simply obstruct my vision?
What was your process for writing it?
As so often happens, this poem came into my mind fully formed. I put it into “Notes” on my phone. I keep a list of thoughts that otherwise might be forever forgotten.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I don’t know that it does push the boundaries. Minimalist haiku is not new, though, perhaps, it was a bit “lost” for a time. Three-line (tercet) haiku seems to be the more often-seen style.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I really did not consider anything else. This worked for me just the way it was. But would just four words have meaning for anyone else?
At the time I was re-taking Alan Summers’ “One-Line Haiku” course and waiting for inspiration for the prompt for that lesson. At the last minute, having nothing that seemed to relate to the prompt, I re-read my “Notes” list and sent this line.
My question to Alan was “Is there too much white space?” He responded, “the lines of text we do not reveal will often disturb those who expect a full reveal, with nothing excluded… and others … may succeed in anticipating the goals and meanings and symbolism/allusion.”
Is there anything else you want to share about your poem or your writing practice?
I usually prefer to leave space for the reader to bring their own interpretation to haiku, so I left this one with no further words. “More” seemed to lessen the meaning(s).
I often wonder how many different interpretations a minimal number of words might elicit. Will it have meaning at all?
Before I submit anything, I often ask friends or my husband if those words mean anything to them or if they are just the “gibberish” of my own mind.
If a poem is published, I never cease to be fascinated by what it says to the reader. With each interpretation I read I find myself saying “Yes, this reader ‘saw’ something I didn’t.” For me, this is often the magic of haiku.
rose-colored glasses the frame
What Inspired the poem?
This was a poem of “a moment.”
I ordered some reading glasses online. I wanted something less boring than my usual black or brown. These had deep rose-colored frames. A nice summery touch. I put them on and immediately noticed that the color of the frames was reflected in the lens, giving everything I looked at a slight rose tint. For decades, I once viewed the world through my own rose-colored lens. Would these frames magically restore my Pollyanna world — or simply obstruct my vision?
What was your process for writing it?
As so often happens, this poem came into my mind fully formed. I put it into “Notes” on my phone. I keep a list of thoughts that otherwise might be forever forgotten.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I don’t know that it does push the boundaries. Minimalist haiku is not new, though, perhaps, it was a bit “lost” for a time. Three-line (tercet) haiku seems to be the more often-seen style.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I really did not consider anything else. This worked for me just the way it was. But would just four words have meaning for anyone else?
At the time I was re-taking Alan Summers’ “One-Line Haiku” course and waiting for inspiration for the prompt for that lesson. At the last minute, having nothing that seemed to relate to the prompt, I re-read my “Notes” list and sent this line.
My question to Alan was “Is there too much white space?” He responded, “the lines of text we do not reveal will often disturb those who expect a full reveal, with nothing excluded… and others … may succeed in anticipating the goals and meanings and symbolism/allusion.”
Is there anything else you want to share about your poem or your writing practice?
I usually prefer to leave space for the reader to bring their own interpretation to haiku, so I left this one with no further words. “More” seemed to lessen the meaning(s).
I often wonder how many different interpretations a minimal number of words might elicit. Will it have meaning at all?
Before I submit anything, I often ask friends or my husband if those words mean anything to them or if they are just the “gibberish” of my own mind.
If a poem is published, I never cease to be fascinated by what it says to the reader. With each interpretation I read I find myself saying “Yes, this reader ‘saw’ something I didn’t.” For me, this is often the magic of haiku.
Tim Roberts
jackdaw mountain shapes mist-slip between dreams
What inspired the poem?
The inspiration was my grandmother — we called her Naini in Welsh. She was one of the most important people in my life. She lived at the far edge of a village, on a mountainside bordering a dark forest and overlooking the sea. Her family had lived there for generations. She was of her environment, so attuned to that place, she would call to wild birds and they would come close to her and even feed from her hand. She was simply where she belonged; she lived it and loved it. She cared for wood pigeons, thought jackdaws were mischievous rascals, scolded the blackbirds when they dug up her seeds but she adored robins. She would call to the owls at night and often take me to see wrens and pheasants in the early morning.
What was your process for writing it?
At the time I was reading Birth of a Poet by William Everson. I was using lectio-divina, a form of prayerfulness or contemplation. It consists of choosing a suitable text or texts and then very….very….slow….sacred reading…just a few words…until…something feels ready…then stop reading and sit attentively with the something, which could be an aha, or a “I wonder if...” or a new connection or maybe part of a synchronicity….
I opened the book at random…and read… Everson was talking about how shadowy figures in dreams can be our great teachers…I immediately thought of ravens…but that didn’t feel right…then jackdaws, then the memories came pouring back in and it was as though I ‘remembered’ the poem, as if I knew it, but it was actually just arriving.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I’m not sure it does anything for the genre…perhaps it is just a reminder to consider the hidden, non-rational, subterranean, mythic, dreaming, or even taboo contexts and stories that texture our thoughts, art, and dreams.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I didn’t really consider any other options…I wrote it because I was exploring the one-line format.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I would like to share 2 things, please:
This poem expanded my awareness like nothing else I’ve written. I struggled with one-line poems. I would find odd ones I could relate to but didn’t appreciate much of what the genre might offer. But despite this there was something about it that appealed so I went deeper. I read, wrote, doodled, drew, made pilgrim poles and driftwood dragons as a kind of creative seed sowing. I also took a one-line haiku course with Alan Summers and Call of the Page which I loved because it brought perspectives, examples, and feedback that I lacked. And the most striking part of this process was that I was reading through feedback when, in a flash, it was as though the whole form opened up to me — satori—it was clarity. I never would have expected that I could appreciate the potency, liminality, and flex of one line. I’m delighted. It reminds me of Kabir who points to the intensity of longing that does all the work (Kabir: Ecstatic Poems versions by Robert Bly, Beacon Press).
Haiku for healing: I love poetry and when I am absorbed in it, whatever the format, poetry can ease the Parkinson’s symptoms that I experience. Poetry, and especially short form, can dramatically improve my attention, awareness, clarity, focus, mood, and even physical movement, balance and energy for hours afterwards. When I go to a nearby beach or woods with my dog, gathering inspiration and writing poetry really cranks up the dopamine like nothing else… and it is dopamine that Parkinson’s disease destroys or disables.
Consequently, I spend more and more time immersed in poetry and art and it is life-enhancing and means I can do more for my family and others. I have heard similar accounts from others with Parkinson’s who also experience this. And yet, most of us found the health or therapeutic influence of haiku and poetry by chance. It would be better to know at or ideally before diagnosis.
Poetry really can change the life of someone with Parkinson’s and other health challenges and help mitigate stress. Please pause and ask yourself, who do I know who may benefit from this knowledge? Please find a way to tell them or offer to point them to helpful resources. You might like to share some of your own poetry or the haiku groups you’re part of. That might be all they need for a more fulfilling life. The World Health Organization recognizes the health-giving value of the arts and poetry and research is gathering pace.
Thank you for reading.
Tim
jackdaw mountain shapes mist-slip between dreams
What inspired the poem?
The inspiration was my grandmother — we called her Naini in Welsh. She was one of the most important people in my life. She lived at the far edge of a village, on a mountainside bordering a dark forest and overlooking the sea. Her family had lived there for generations. She was of her environment, so attuned to that place, she would call to wild birds and they would come close to her and even feed from her hand. She was simply where she belonged; she lived it and loved it. She cared for wood pigeons, thought jackdaws were mischievous rascals, scolded the blackbirds when they dug up her seeds but she adored robins. She would call to the owls at night and often take me to see wrens and pheasants in the early morning.
What was your process for writing it?
At the time I was reading Birth of a Poet by William Everson. I was using lectio-divina, a form of prayerfulness or contemplation. It consists of choosing a suitable text or texts and then very….very….slow….sacred reading…just a few words…until…something feels ready…then stop reading and sit attentively with the something, which could be an aha, or a “I wonder if...” or a new connection or maybe part of a synchronicity….
I opened the book at random…and read… Everson was talking about how shadowy figures in dreams can be our great teachers…I immediately thought of ravens…but that didn’t feel right…then jackdaws, then the memories came pouring back in and it was as though I ‘remembered’ the poem, as if I knew it, but it was actually just arriving.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I’m not sure it does anything for the genre…perhaps it is just a reminder to consider the hidden, non-rational, subterranean, mythic, dreaming, or even taboo contexts and stories that texture our thoughts, art, and dreams.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I didn’t really consider any other options…I wrote it because I was exploring the one-line format.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I would like to share 2 things, please:
This poem expanded my awareness like nothing else I’ve written. I struggled with one-line poems. I would find odd ones I could relate to but didn’t appreciate much of what the genre might offer. But despite this there was something about it that appealed so I went deeper. I read, wrote, doodled, drew, made pilgrim poles and driftwood dragons as a kind of creative seed sowing. I also took a one-line haiku course with Alan Summers and Call of the Page which I loved because it brought perspectives, examples, and feedback that I lacked. And the most striking part of this process was that I was reading through feedback when, in a flash, it was as though the whole form opened up to me — satori—it was clarity. I never would have expected that I could appreciate the potency, liminality, and flex of one line. I’m delighted. It reminds me of Kabir who points to the intensity of longing that does all the work (Kabir: Ecstatic Poems versions by Robert Bly, Beacon Press).
Haiku for healing: I love poetry and when I am absorbed in it, whatever the format, poetry can ease the Parkinson’s symptoms that I experience. Poetry, and especially short form, can dramatically improve my attention, awareness, clarity, focus, mood, and even physical movement, balance and energy for hours afterwards. When I go to a nearby beach or woods with my dog, gathering inspiration and writing poetry really cranks up the dopamine like nothing else… and it is dopamine that Parkinson’s disease destroys or disables.
Consequently, I spend more and more time immersed in poetry and art and it is life-enhancing and means I can do more for my family and others. I have heard similar accounts from others with Parkinson’s who also experience this. And yet, most of us found the health or therapeutic influence of haiku and poetry by chance. It would be better to know at or ideally before diagnosis.
Poetry really can change the life of someone with Parkinson’s and other health challenges and help mitigate stress. Please pause and ask yourself, who do I know who may benefit from this knowledge? Please find a way to tell them or offer to point them to helpful resources. You might like to share some of your own poetry or the haiku groups you’re part of. That might be all they need for a more fulfilling life. The World Health Organization recognizes the health-giving value of the arts and poetry and research is gathering pace.
Thank you for reading.
Tim
John Pappas
What inspired the poem?
The inspiration for the poem probably had to do with my thinking about different kinds of isolation, both during the pandemic and after. Seeing relatives move into environments that were more cloistered or confined, with limited opportunities for social interaction leaving them to experience the world more and more through real and virtual windows, thinking about how illness or age can limit connection and engender feelings of distance, especially in times of climate upheaval with increasingly damaging storms and magnified drought transforming landscapes and coastlines, and thinking about how for many people during this time each daily moment feels like waiting (for things to improve or for another apocalyptic shoe to drop) — these thoughts found their way into the imagery of the poem for me.
What was your process for writing it?
I had written a seed haiku, so to speak (“the patience of a saint”) and wanted to develop the feelings of isolation, loneliness, waiting, but also hope but without creating motion like in a rengay. I had read about Saint Cian, a Welsh hermit, and have taught Waiting for Godot for years, and those experiences helped me think about the different, maybe more positive, meanings of isolation, solitude, and waiting. Formally, I needed to find a way to make it compelling without disturbing the stasis of the feeling and emerging themes. So I tried to bend it back on itself, or send it circling around, as one might pace over the same spot on the floor or return to the same window to look out over and over. I hoped to find language rich enough, especially at the joints, so that a reader could draw out different meanings and experience a multiplicity of feelings reading through the vertical and horizontal lines.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I wish I were qualified to answer this question! I just hope it helps to make poets more comfortable experimenting with and within this form. There is no paucity of traditionalists who may claim that poems like these have no place in haiku and related forms; I am thankful there is a space here for poets who may blur boundaries in inventive and imaginative ways and help us see unique ways of interacting with and appreciating the world.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I had sketched out a few single monoku but nothing really grabbed me. The idea of cutting or reading a monoku in different ways probably made me think of the joints in the form my poem ultimately took, however, and once I started experimenting with joining lines on the beginning and ending words, the poem took shape and the thematic material and imagery quickened.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I am so appreciative of the panelists’ thoughtful consideration, insightful commentary, and enthusiastic encouragement to be unafraid of wherever the haiku path takes us.
The inspiration for the poem probably had to do with my thinking about different kinds of isolation, both during the pandemic and after. Seeing relatives move into environments that were more cloistered or confined, with limited opportunities for social interaction leaving them to experience the world more and more through real and virtual windows, thinking about how illness or age can limit connection and engender feelings of distance, especially in times of climate upheaval with increasingly damaging storms and magnified drought transforming landscapes and coastlines, and thinking about how for many people during this time each daily moment feels like waiting (for things to improve or for another apocalyptic shoe to drop) — these thoughts found their way into the imagery of the poem for me.
What was your process for writing it?
I had written a seed haiku, so to speak (“the patience of a saint”) and wanted to develop the feelings of isolation, loneliness, waiting, but also hope but without creating motion like in a rengay. I had read about Saint Cian, a Welsh hermit, and have taught Waiting for Godot for years, and those experiences helped me think about the different, maybe more positive, meanings of isolation, solitude, and waiting. Formally, I needed to find a way to make it compelling without disturbing the stasis of the feeling and emerging themes. So I tried to bend it back on itself, or send it circling around, as one might pace over the same spot on the floor or return to the same window to look out over and over. I hoped to find language rich enough, especially at the joints, so that a reader could draw out different meanings and experience a multiplicity of feelings reading through the vertical and horizontal lines.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I wish I were qualified to answer this question! I just hope it helps to make poets more comfortable experimenting with and within this form. There is no paucity of traditionalists who may claim that poems like these have no place in haiku and related forms; I am thankful there is a space here for poets who may blur boundaries in inventive and imaginative ways and help us see unique ways of interacting with and appreciating the world.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I had sketched out a few single monoku but nothing really grabbed me. The idea of cutting or reading a monoku in different ways probably made me think of the joints in the form my poem ultimately took, however, and once I started experimenting with joining lines on the beginning and ending words, the poem took shape and the thematic material and imagery quickened.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
I am so appreciative of the panelists’ thoughtful consideration, insightful commentary, and enthusiastic encouragement to be unafraid of wherever the haiku path takes us.
Rowan Beckett
to have never existed through blinds the sunlight slices you naked
What inspired the poem?
This is a love poem for my partner, Joshua. While it was composed from a moment of intimacy, it’s also rooted in the fear that I might not have gotten to share my life with him, had various circumstances taken our lives in different directions. Both of us have mental health issues and I have previously been inpatient for wanting to end my life. To have never existed, to have never gotten these moments with this person I’ve come to know as well as myself… Well, it’s these moments that make life (even the bad parts) worth it and I am forever grateful to have existed, regardless.
What was your process for writing it?
Like my other winning one-line Tanka, I sat down with the intention of writing a one-line Tanka for the first time and this just came out as-is. The two were written back-to-back in one sitting. Although everything I write is rooted in authenticity, it’s not always written immediately. Sometimes I’ll play around with phrasing in my head before it makes it into my Haiku document for fragments and phrases so it is possible that it sat in my head for a while before coming to fruition.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
Humbly, I tried to expand the idea of Gendai (avant-garde/experimental) into Tanka. We’re familiar with Gendai Haiku, but there don’t seem to be many Tanka that utilize this particular tool. It’s something I’d like to see more of in the Japanese short-form community, as I think Gendai is useful for both limitless self-expression and the expansion of Language Arts.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I think, sometimes, the poem chooses how it needs to be written. An idea might be incubating for a while, but if it’s not ready to come out, it’s not going to. And most of the time if you try forcing the idea out, you just won’t be happy with the result. This is one of those poems.
Thank you to all the panelists for providing a comfortable place to not only speak my truth, but to explore the crevices of Japanese short-forms and expand their possibilities.
to have never existed through blinds the sunlight slices you naked
What inspired the poem?
This is a love poem for my partner, Joshua. While it was composed from a moment of intimacy, it’s also rooted in the fear that I might not have gotten to share my life with him, had various circumstances taken our lives in different directions. Both of us have mental health issues and I have previously been inpatient for wanting to end my life. To have never existed, to have never gotten these moments with this person I’ve come to know as well as myself… Well, it’s these moments that make life (even the bad parts) worth it and I am forever grateful to have existed, regardless.
What was your process for writing it?
Like my other winning one-line Tanka, I sat down with the intention of writing a one-line Tanka for the first time and this just came out as-is. The two were written back-to-back in one sitting. Although everything I write is rooted in authenticity, it’s not always written immediately. Sometimes I’ll play around with phrasing in my head before it makes it into my Haiku document for fragments and phrases so it is possible that it sat in my head for a while before coming to fruition.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
Humbly, I tried to expand the idea of Gendai (avant-garde/experimental) into Tanka. We’re familiar with Gendai Haiku, but there don’t seem to be many Tanka that utilize this particular tool. It’s something I’d like to see more of in the Japanese short-form community, as I think Gendai is useful for both limitless self-expression and the expansion of Language Arts.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I think, sometimes, the poem chooses how it needs to be written. An idea might be incubating for a while, but if it’s not ready to come out, it’s not going to. And most of the time if you try forcing the idea out, you just won’t be happy with the result. This is one of those poems.
Thank you to all the panelists for providing a comfortable place to not only speak my truth, but to explore the crevices of Japanese short-forms and expand their possibilities.
Gregory Piko
Gundaroo
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
sapphire sky
an old man
in a hat
wandering about
in the cemetery
grape hyacinths
a few sheets of iron
askew
in a rusty gutter
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
on the road out of town
an old man
in a hat
What inspired the poem?
I’ve written haiku for twenty years, but I also write other forms of poetry. As a result, I was interested in how I could incorporate the strengths of haiku into a longer poem.
Back in 2017, our local Canberra-based haiku group (known as Haiku @ The Oaks) was discussing various ways of presenting haiku to a live audience. Some of the options included repeating whole haiku, repeating individual lines from haiku or reading line 1, followed by lines 1 and 2, then finally reading all three lines.
This discussion prompted me to explore ways in which I might use haiku to build a longer poem, and resulted in a form I like to call a haiku shuffle. Essentially, I was wanting to use lines of haiku to create a poem with a contemporary feel.
My first haiku shuffle was published in Modern Haiku, Vol. 49.2, 2018.
My Trailblazer haiku shuffle came about after walking with other writers in the Australian village of Gundaroo.
What was your process for writing it?
To write a haiku shuffle, I begin by writing several haiku on a single theme or experience. Essentially, it’s then a matter of shuffling the phrases and fragments of haiku, and shuffling whole haiku, to build the poem. Nothing else is added to the poem.
I’ve written more about the way the shuffling process works here.
In the case of “Gundaroo,” I wrote four haiku (i.e. a total of 12 lines) which, with some lines repeated, gave me a poem of 16 lines. Even with the inclusion of blank lines, a poem of this length fits comfortably onto a single page. However, you can readily write a shuffle that is longer, or shorter, than “Gundaroo.”
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
When I was developing the notion of a haiku shuffle, I found some approaches caused the poem to become too disjointed. For example, employing link-and-shift between the haiku meant the subject matter was too varied, while shuffling all the individual lines of haiku left the poem with too many isolated phrases that tended to lose their meaning.
In the end, I found it was generally best to write the haiku around a theme and then combine, recombine, and repeat the phrases and fragments of the haiku to create the poem. This approach retains the strength and immediacy of the original haiku while the pauses and repetition give the poem an almost musical cadence. It also allows a phrase from one haiku to take on new meaning when it combines with a fragment from another haiku.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
My main aim in developing the haiku shuffle was to showcase the strengths of haiku in a form that might be appreciated by a broad section of the poetry community.
I was very pleased, therefore, when one of my haiku shuffle poems was Long Listed for the 2022 Liquid Amber Poetry Prize. As a result, a haiku shuffle was published alongside a wide range of other poetic styles in the 2022 Liquid Amber Anthology.
Gundaroo
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
sapphire sky
an old man
in a hat
wandering about
in the cemetery
grape hyacinths
a few sheets of iron
askew
in a rusty gutter
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
on the road out of town
an old man
in a hat
What inspired the poem?
I’ve written haiku for twenty years, but I also write other forms of poetry. As a result, I was interested in how I could incorporate the strengths of haiku into a longer poem.
Back in 2017, our local Canberra-based haiku group (known as Haiku @ The Oaks) was discussing various ways of presenting haiku to a live audience. Some of the options included repeating whole haiku, repeating individual lines from haiku or reading line 1, followed by lines 1 and 2, then finally reading all three lines.
This discussion prompted me to explore ways in which I might use haiku to build a longer poem, and resulted in a form I like to call a haiku shuffle. Essentially, I was wanting to use lines of haiku to create a poem with a contemporary feel.
My first haiku shuffle was published in Modern Haiku, Vol. 49.2, 2018.
My Trailblazer haiku shuffle came about after walking with other writers in the Australian village of Gundaroo.
What was your process for writing it?
To write a haiku shuffle, I begin by writing several haiku on a single theme or experience. Essentially, it’s then a matter of shuffling the phrases and fragments of haiku, and shuffling whole haiku, to build the poem. Nothing else is added to the poem.
I’ve written more about the way the shuffling process works here.
In the case of “Gundaroo,” I wrote four haiku (i.e. a total of 12 lines) which, with some lines repeated, gave me a poem of 16 lines. Even with the inclusion of blank lines, a poem of this length fits comfortably onto a single page. However, you can readily write a shuffle that is longer, or shorter, than “Gundaroo.”
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
When I was developing the notion of a haiku shuffle, I found some approaches caused the poem to become too disjointed. For example, employing link-and-shift between the haiku meant the subject matter was too varied, while shuffling all the individual lines of haiku left the poem with too many isolated phrases that tended to lose their meaning.
In the end, I found it was generally best to write the haiku around a theme and then combine, recombine, and repeat the phrases and fragments of the haiku to create the poem. This approach retains the strength and immediacy of the original haiku while the pauses and repetition give the poem an almost musical cadence. It also allows a phrase from one haiku to take on new meaning when it combines with a fragment from another haiku.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
My main aim in developing the haiku shuffle was to showcase the strengths of haiku in a form that might be appreciated by a broad section of the poetry community.
I was very pleased, therefore, when one of my haiku shuffle poems was Long Listed for the 2022 Liquid Amber Poetry Prize. As a result, a haiku shuffle was published alongside a wide range of other poetic styles in the 2022 Liquid Amber Anthology.
Anette Chaney
the secret song of the creek my mother asks for her mother
What inspired the poem?
My mother was very sick in the hospital with congestive heart failure. She asked me, “When is my mom coming?” Her mother died fifty-nine years ago. I was not sure how to respond. I didn’t want to tell her that her mother was dead. I also knew I shouldn’t lie. So I said she can’t come right now. But, I will be here with you now and won’t leave you by yourself. I hoped this would comfort her. It took me back to memories of when her mother was dying when I was ten years old. I considered that when I die I will probably ask for my mother also. My parents still live on land where my mother was born. A creek runs through it. Throughout the day, I hear the creek. The sounds are constant and change according to the level of the water. They are mysterious and beautiful, even haunting, although sometimes harsh and violent. There are no adequate words to describe the sounds. It’s as if the creek itself sings a song. I tried before to write a poem about this creek. The creek and my mother’s words meld together in my mind although I am not sure I completely understand the poem. It represents the matriarchal lineage being passed down to the next. The secrets between mother and daughter. The secrets never passed on. For instance, what actually happens when we die? Water passes between mother and daughter in the amniotic fluid. The creek continues singing its song even as they who live along it die and another life is born. These are just a few of my thoughts. Perhaps later, I may have a different answer as I understand more of what it means. I’m sure much of what I write is often unconscious material.
What was your process for writing it?
I wrote down my mother’s words in the hospital on my cell phone. When I returned home, I started playing with them. I was listening to the creek and remembered a prior attempt to describe the sounds of this creek. These two thoughts melded together. I used a process I learned from a video by Ben Gaa. I write out every version. This way you can see your thought process and compare all your versions.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I was not sure if it really pushed boundaries or contributed to the genre in its present form but I believed it was a personal best. It was more honest than many of my poems. I wanted to send it in a different form. I envisioned the words meandering like a creek, but I didn’t know how to type it that way.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
the secret song of the creek...my mother asks for her mother
the creek’s secret song my mom asks for her mother
the creek’s secret song my mother calls for her mother
the secret creeksong my mother calls for her mother
cryptic creeksong my mother calls for her mother
I felt like “the secret song of the creek” needed to remain simple and meandering in length like a creek instead of the shortened phrases I attempted. Using the words “asks” or “calls” was a harder decision. Both would have worked. I decided on “asks” it seemed less dramatic. I felt using a less dramatic word would increase the drama of what actually happened. My mom actually asked me, “When was her mother coming.” Using “asks” was more true to the moment.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
It is a great honor to have a poem selected as a Trailblazer winner. I want to thank all of the judges for honoring my poem and for the written commentary.
the secret song of the creek my mother asks for her mother
What inspired the poem?
My mother was very sick in the hospital with congestive heart failure. She asked me, “When is my mom coming?” Her mother died fifty-nine years ago. I was not sure how to respond. I didn’t want to tell her that her mother was dead. I also knew I shouldn’t lie. So I said she can’t come right now. But, I will be here with you now and won’t leave you by yourself. I hoped this would comfort her. It took me back to memories of when her mother was dying when I was ten years old. I considered that when I die I will probably ask for my mother also. My parents still live on land where my mother was born. A creek runs through it. Throughout the day, I hear the creek. The sounds are constant and change according to the level of the water. They are mysterious and beautiful, even haunting, although sometimes harsh and violent. There are no adequate words to describe the sounds. It’s as if the creek itself sings a song. I tried before to write a poem about this creek. The creek and my mother’s words meld together in my mind although I am not sure I completely understand the poem. It represents the matriarchal lineage being passed down to the next. The secrets between mother and daughter. The secrets never passed on. For instance, what actually happens when we die? Water passes between mother and daughter in the amniotic fluid. The creek continues singing its song even as they who live along it die and another life is born. These are just a few of my thoughts. Perhaps later, I may have a different answer as I understand more of what it means. I’m sure much of what I write is often unconscious material.
What was your process for writing it?
I wrote down my mother’s words in the hospital on my cell phone. When I returned home, I started playing with them. I was listening to the creek and remembered a prior attempt to describe the sounds of this creek. These two thoughts melded together. I used a process I learned from a video by Ben Gaa. I write out every version. This way you can see your thought process and compare all your versions.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I was not sure if it really pushed boundaries or contributed to the genre in its present form but I believed it was a personal best. It was more honest than many of my poems. I wanted to send it in a different form. I envisioned the words meandering like a creek, but I didn’t know how to type it that way.
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
the secret song of the creek...my mother asks for her mother
the creek’s secret song my mom asks for her mother
the creek’s secret song my mother calls for her mother
the secret creeksong my mother calls for her mother
cryptic creeksong my mother calls for her mother
I felt like “the secret song of the creek” needed to remain simple and meandering in length like a creek instead of the shortened phrases I attempted. Using the words “asks” or “calls” was a harder decision. Both would have worked. I decided on “asks” it seemed less dramatic. I felt using a less dramatic word would increase the drama of what actually happened. My mom actually asked me, “When was her mother coming.” Using “asks” was more true to the moment.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
It is a great honor to have a poem selected as a Trailblazer winner. I want to thank all of the judges for honoring my poem and for the written commentary.
Joshua St. Claire
What inspired the poem?
As many haiku do, this poem had a very commonplace beginning. I work as an accountant. I drove into the office one morning, parked my car, and noticed a Kousa dogwood blooming next to the parking lot. I looked down one way, and up the other way and noticed more dogwoods blooming. I looked at the flowers up close and then took a few pictures with my phone. Close up, I noticed those beautiful tetramerous flowers, and was struck by the juxtaposition of the four petals extending to the four cardinal directions and the lines of trees extending as well. My perspective kept going in and out—the line of dogwoods, this dogwood, the dogwood blossom. The dogwood blossom itself is complex. The petals are actually sepals, surrounding a cluster of “true flowers.” Flowers are plants’ reproductive organs and full of creation themselves. The whole experience was very pure and there was something of the Edenic in it—as if the flowers themselves could create a spring day.
What was your process for writing it?
I knew I had a haiku and I suspected that I had a concrete poem. I typically write in the notes app in my phone, but this I wrote out quickly on paper once I got up to my office. Later, I tried to type into a word processing document, but couldn’t get the spacing right, so I typed it up in Excel. Apart from jimmying around the spacing a bit, my only revision was to change the reading direction in the center whorl (“dog”) to indicate a second meaning (“God”).
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
In some ways, this poem is quite traditional form and subject matter:
Being firmly rooted in traditional haiku sensibilities, gives it the strength to push outside the lines. Concrete haiku are not new, but I think this poem does a few things well:
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
This poem came out, essentially, fully-formed. Writing this as a concrete poem greatly enhances the meaning of the poem itself.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
One thing I wrestled with is: is this a haiku (which I view as a juxtaposition of two things) or a minimalist tanka (whose essential nature is five parts)?
Many thanks to the Trailblazer judges for this honor. It is such a joy for something I created to resonate with someone.
As many haiku do, this poem had a very commonplace beginning. I work as an accountant. I drove into the office one morning, parked my car, and noticed a Kousa dogwood blooming next to the parking lot. I looked down one way, and up the other way and noticed more dogwoods blooming. I looked at the flowers up close and then took a few pictures with my phone. Close up, I noticed those beautiful tetramerous flowers, and was struck by the juxtaposition of the four petals extending to the four cardinal directions and the lines of trees extending as well. My perspective kept going in and out—the line of dogwoods, this dogwood, the dogwood blossom. The dogwood blossom itself is complex. The petals are actually sepals, surrounding a cluster of “true flowers.” Flowers are plants’ reproductive organs and full of creation themselves. The whole experience was very pure and there was something of the Edenic in it—as if the flowers themselves could create a spring day.
What was your process for writing it?
I knew I had a haiku and I suspected that I had a concrete poem. I typically write in the notes app in my phone, but this I wrote out quickly on paper once I got up to my office. Later, I tried to type into a word processing document, but couldn’t get the spacing right, so I typed it up in Excel. Apart from jimmying around the spacing a bit, my only revision was to change the reading direction in the center whorl (“dog”) to indicate a second meaning (“God”).
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
In some ways, this poem is quite traditional form and subject matter:
- it has a kigo (dogwood)
- it has a cut (between “dogwood” and the directions)
- it deals with nature and its interaction with the divine
Being firmly rooted in traditional haiku sensibilities, gives it the strength to push outside the lines. Concrete haiku are not new, but I think this poem does a few things well:
- the layout reflects and enhances the semantic content
- It produces new meaning
- It introduce ambiguity beyond the words themselves
What other forms, formats, or iterations did you consider, and why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
This poem came out, essentially, fully-formed. Writing this as a concrete poem greatly enhances the meaning of the poem itself.
Is there anything else you want to share about the poem or your writing practice?
One thing I wrestled with is: is this a haiku (which I view as a juxtaposition of two things) or a minimalist tanka (whose essential nature is five parts)?
Many thanks to the Trailblazer judges for this honor. It is such a joy for something I created to resonate with someone.
Danny Blackwell
in green pastures a lying cow says “無” still no rain
First off, I am very grateful to have had my poem selected as a Trailblazer, and to be in such good company with the other fine poets.
While I am wary of talking too much about my process for fear of being bloated and pretentious, I nevertheless enjoy a window onto other people’s creative process so, for what it's worth, I will purge a little in the hopes it is of interest to someone and doesn't make my poem seem less interesting by the end.
I'm not sure I can talk about a “process” as such, as the way this poem came to be is rather convoluted. However, I shall try to shed some light on its genesis.
I sometimes participate in the yearly challenge of NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month) and attempt to write a novel during the month of November. Last year I wrote an exploratory novel about a group of individuals who write renga together. As part of that process, I delved deeply into the genre. While the “novel” may never be finished, as often happens with my NANOWRIMO experiments, I often learn something new, expand my interests and knowledge, and generate a lot of material that feeds into my life and work—in this case, I began writing renga (more specifically renku in the style of the Basho school).
Regarding the poem selected for the Trailblazer contest, I can’t recall if it was originally written by one of the characters in my novel or as part of my online correspondence with friends, who I’d convinced to write this unusual genre with me—I just know that it got culled and placed with my haiku to work on and potentially submit.
In terms of the form of the poem, syllable counting surely played a part. Syllable counting is something I pay minimal attention to in most of my haiku writing, and I have, in fact, fought many a time with 5-7-5 fanatics over this issue. I generally write freely and pay little heed to the syllable count or meter—although I also have a trained sense of haiku rhythm and feel, after years of reading and writing haiku in various languages, with English and Japanese being my mainstays and each one influencing my poetry with their unique cultural idiosyncrasies. Nevertheless, syllable count is of importance to me when composing renga because otherwise there is no distinction between the alternating long and short lines. While some may recommend focusing on meter rather than syllables I decided to self-impose the aim of alternating 17 and 14-syllable lines in my renga compositions—being flexible where necessary; the syllable count being a general aim rather than an unmovable obstacle.
This poem, if memory serves correctly, was originally something like:
in a field
a cow says 無
still no rain
I'm not even sure if the rain was there at the beginning or not. I may have just begun with the idea of using the kanji 無 (mu) in conjunction with a cow. A pretty inane pun, to be honest.
The addition of the word “lying” almost certainly arised as part of a self-imposed obligation to add syllables and get closer to 17, and is an example of a seemingly annoying rule actually opening up new doors. The lying immediately creates a tension for the active reader between literally lying down and telling a lie. (Not to mention moments of anxiety handling my doubts around the verb to lie and the verb to lay: either way forgiveness ought to err on the side of common parlance.)
As the judges astutely mentioned in their comments, this references a superstition that when cows are lying down it will rain; it is a superstition that my grandma on my mother’s side never tired of mentioning whenever we were driving around the countryside.
I have a feeling I may have also amended the poem to bring in a Biblical reference that also plays with the verb to lie:
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
I am also conscious of the influence of a poem I discovered while preparing my book HAIKU FROM IBERIA AND BEYOND, an anthology and history of haiku—and haiku influence—in the languages of the Iberian Peninsula; a book which was published with the help of a grant from a cultural initiative of the Valencian government.
The poem in question is by Junoy, considered the first person to write haiku in the Catalan language (alongside Salvat-Papaseit), although the poem in my mind was actually first published in French, as part of a poem cycle in French and Catalan:
au milieu de la prairie verte
une vache tachetée
aux mamelles roses
A very literal translation would be:
in the middle of the green meadow
a spotted cow
with pink udders
Regarding whether my poem helps to push the boundaries or contribute to the genre, I’m not sure what to say. It could be seen as a trailblazing zen-koan-esque magic box or just a throwaway piece of nonsense. It certainly has an air of silliness, but there's also something else, that undefinable “duende.” What it most certainly is not is a sketch done in situ with real-life concrete experience. There is no concrete cow.
One thing I’ve discovered writing renga, and which has renovated/innovated my vision and approach to haiku is the use of fiction. The obligations of renga require the participants to invent many scenes. It would be impossible—and anti-renga—to compose poems all based in the location and moment, while respecting the demands to “link” and “shift” and the succession of seasons.
There are debates about the use of fiction in haiku, and it has generally been considered bad form by many haiku poets and haiku communities. I personally have no problem with the fact that when Buson wrote the famous haiku about stepping on his dead wife’s comb that in actual fact his wife was still very much alive.
Alongside my studies and experiments with renga, while preparing and writing my abandoned novel, I also spent a few months very slowly going through the complete haiku of Basho in Japanese and looking at various translations and commentaries. What I discovered was how many of the supposed rules of what to do and what not to do that have evolved in many haiku communities would make Basho a heretic of a form he is credited as defining. So I am currently much less hung up about poems that are just excuses for silly (or elegant) wordplay; and I’m not so worried about poems being more poetic than real, whatever that is. Here I could go on about the difference between Truth and reality, but I will spare you.
That said, while this isn’t a poem based on one a-ha moment (apologies to Alan Partridge), it is a condensation for me of all the times my gran said it was going to rain. Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. And I do recall very clearly one particular day when grandad got lost while driving on a day trip and gran insisted that he was “taking the scenic route.” On that day we saw cows lying down and gran said it would rain. For me, in this poem, these cows are those cows.
Over the last year or so I have also been studying two of the key texts that informed early renga/haikai masters and left their mark on the haiku genre: The Book of Tao (Lao Tse) and Chuang Tzu; and I might add that one famous example of cows in a Basho haiku is most definitely influenced by his reading of the rather zany Chuang Tzu. I feel that with such fellows as influences, I can maybe justify such an anarchic poem.
I don’t know why I’m so surprised that writing renga had such a profound effect on the way I now view haiku, considering that haiku was born out of renga. I feel like I am now writing in the past, before Shiki coined the term “haiku” and contributed to making it a far more limited and stale genre. Maybe in a few years’ time, following a chronological timeline, I too will renounce Basho-style haiku and become a still-life master. Who knows!
It seems to me that a great deal of what we currently compose and publish as “haiku” in the west is in fact often far more like the inner verse of a renga than the opening verse called a hokku, which is credited as being the origin of what we now call haiku. Thankfully, the popularity of some of the more innovative journals means we can give free rein to some of the more experimental types of poems that many haiku masters would have been composing for renga sessions back in the day.
I suppose the most innovative aspect of the poem I have had the fortune to have selected as a trailblazer is the inclusion of the Japanese language. Having lived in Japan for four years, and becoming more or less fluent in the language (something that has sadly now atrophied a great deal), I enjoy using Japanese in my poems but there are rare occasions when these poems are fit for general consumption as they require bilingual readers or very active readers, willing to do some extra investigation. Regarding active reading, I should probably mention as an aside that my final project during my MA in cross-cultural narrative studies was on Julio Cortázar and his novel Rayuela—titled Hopscotch in English—and focused on active (and also even disobedient) reading, something that has fed into my haiku over the years both as writer and reader, and convinced me to sometimes entice readers to do some extra work. I risk being obscure in the selected poem, but I felt that by context someone could probably imagine what the cow was saying and then ponder what a cow speaking Japanese means to them; and if they were left with an unresolved enigma that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either. If there was no clear answer then they just might enjoy the sensation that Keats termed “negative capability,” a useful tool for any haiku enthusiast. I certainly don’t want to come across as pretentious or elitist (although I imagine I am way too much of both). Furthermore, we live in a century with Google so I’m not actually asking that much. Whatever the case, Japanese kanji are so beautiful to behold in and of themselves, whether you understand them or not, and I get pleasure from the opportunity to make a poem more potent visually and I’m sure the uninitiated may enjoy spending time with these visuals, however enigmatic they may or may not be.
The judges also picked up on the wordplay of moo and mu and said all there is to say, which is “Nothing.”
So, at the risk of saying too much, and to show you gratitude for having read my meanderings this far, I shall now close with a terrible joke:
Two cows in a field.
One turns to the other and says “moo.”
The other one responds with:
“I was just about to say the same thing!”
in green pastures a lying cow says “無” still no rain
First off, I am very grateful to have had my poem selected as a Trailblazer, and to be in such good company with the other fine poets.
While I am wary of talking too much about my process for fear of being bloated and pretentious, I nevertheless enjoy a window onto other people’s creative process so, for what it's worth, I will purge a little in the hopes it is of interest to someone and doesn't make my poem seem less interesting by the end.
I'm not sure I can talk about a “process” as such, as the way this poem came to be is rather convoluted. However, I shall try to shed some light on its genesis.
I sometimes participate in the yearly challenge of NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month) and attempt to write a novel during the month of November. Last year I wrote an exploratory novel about a group of individuals who write renga together. As part of that process, I delved deeply into the genre. While the “novel” may never be finished, as often happens with my NANOWRIMO experiments, I often learn something new, expand my interests and knowledge, and generate a lot of material that feeds into my life and work—in this case, I began writing renga (more specifically renku in the style of the Basho school).
Regarding the poem selected for the Trailblazer contest, I can’t recall if it was originally written by one of the characters in my novel or as part of my online correspondence with friends, who I’d convinced to write this unusual genre with me—I just know that it got culled and placed with my haiku to work on and potentially submit.
In terms of the form of the poem, syllable counting surely played a part. Syllable counting is something I pay minimal attention to in most of my haiku writing, and I have, in fact, fought many a time with 5-7-5 fanatics over this issue. I generally write freely and pay little heed to the syllable count or meter—although I also have a trained sense of haiku rhythm and feel, after years of reading and writing haiku in various languages, with English and Japanese being my mainstays and each one influencing my poetry with their unique cultural idiosyncrasies. Nevertheless, syllable count is of importance to me when composing renga because otherwise there is no distinction between the alternating long and short lines. While some may recommend focusing on meter rather than syllables I decided to self-impose the aim of alternating 17 and 14-syllable lines in my renga compositions—being flexible where necessary; the syllable count being a general aim rather than an unmovable obstacle.
This poem, if memory serves correctly, was originally something like:
in a field
a cow says 無
still no rain
I'm not even sure if the rain was there at the beginning or not. I may have just begun with the idea of using the kanji 無 (mu) in conjunction with a cow. A pretty inane pun, to be honest.
The addition of the word “lying” almost certainly arised as part of a self-imposed obligation to add syllables and get closer to 17, and is an example of a seemingly annoying rule actually opening up new doors. The lying immediately creates a tension for the active reader between literally lying down and telling a lie. (Not to mention moments of anxiety handling my doubts around the verb to lie and the verb to lay: either way forgiveness ought to err on the side of common parlance.)
As the judges astutely mentioned in their comments, this references a superstition that when cows are lying down it will rain; it is a superstition that my grandma on my mother’s side never tired of mentioning whenever we were driving around the countryside.
I have a feeling I may have also amended the poem to bring in a Biblical reference that also plays with the verb to lie:
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
I am also conscious of the influence of a poem I discovered while preparing my book HAIKU FROM IBERIA AND BEYOND, an anthology and history of haiku—and haiku influence—in the languages of the Iberian Peninsula; a book which was published with the help of a grant from a cultural initiative of the Valencian government.
The poem in question is by Junoy, considered the first person to write haiku in the Catalan language (alongside Salvat-Papaseit), although the poem in my mind was actually first published in French, as part of a poem cycle in French and Catalan:
au milieu de la prairie verte
une vache tachetée
aux mamelles roses
A very literal translation would be:
in the middle of the green meadow
a spotted cow
with pink udders
Regarding whether my poem helps to push the boundaries or contribute to the genre, I’m not sure what to say. It could be seen as a trailblazing zen-koan-esque magic box or just a throwaway piece of nonsense. It certainly has an air of silliness, but there's also something else, that undefinable “duende.” What it most certainly is not is a sketch done in situ with real-life concrete experience. There is no concrete cow.
One thing I’ve discovered writing renga, and which has renovated/innovated my vision and approach to haiku is the use of fiction. The obligations of renga require the participants to invent many scenes. It would be impossible—and anti-renga—to compose poems all based in the location and moment, while respecting the demands to “link” and “shift” and the succession of seasons.
There are debates about the use of fiction in haiku, and it has generally been considered bad form by many haiku poets and haiku communities. I personally have no problem with the fact that when Buson wrote the famous haiku about stepping on his dead wife’s comb that in actual fact his wife was still very much alive.
Alongside my studies and experiments with renga, while preparing and writing my abandoned novel, I also spent a few months very slowly going through the complete haiku of Basho in Japanese and looking at various translations and commentaries. What I discovered was how many of the supposed rules of what to do and what not to do that have evolved in many haiku communities would make Basho a heretic of a form he is credited as defining. So I am currently much less hung up about poems that are just excuses for silly (or elegant) wordplay; and I’m not so worried about poems being more poetic than real, whatever that is. Here I could go on about the difference between Truth and reality, but I will spare you.
That said, while this isn’t a poem based on one a-ha moment (apologies to Alan Partridge), it is a condensation for me of all the times my gran said it was going to rain. Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. And I do recall very clearly one particular day when grandad got lost while driving on a day trip and gran insisted that he was “taking the scenic route.” On that day we saw cows lying down and gran said it would rain. For me, in this poem, these cows are those cows.
Over the last year or so I have also been studying two of the key texts that informed early renga/haikai masters and left their mark on the haiku genre: The Book of Tao (Lao Tse) and Chuang Tzu; and I might add that one famous example of cows in a Basho haiku is most definitely influenced by his reading of the rather zany Chuang Tzu. I feel that with such fellows as influences, I can maybe justify such an anarchic poem.
I don’t know why I’m so surprised that writing renga had such a profound effect on the way I now view haiku, considering that haiku was born out of renga. I feel like I am now writing in the past, before Shiki coined the term “haiku” and contributed to making it a far more limited and stale genre. Maybe in a few years’ time, following a chronological timeline, I too will renounce Basho-style haiku and become a still-life master. Who knows!
It seems to me that a great deal of what we currently compose and publish as “haiku” in the west is in fact often far more like the inner verse of a renga than the opening verse called a hokku, which is credited as being the origin of what we now call haiku. Thankfully, the popularity of some of the more innovative journals means we can give free rein to some of the more experimental types of poems that many haiku masters would have been composing for renga sessions back in the day.
I suppose the most innovative aspect of the poem I have had the fortune to have selected as a trailblazer is the inclusion of the Japanese language. Having lived in Japan for four years, and becoming more or less fluent in the language (something that has sadly now atrophied a great deal), I enjoy using Japanese in my poems but there are rare occasions when these poems are fit for general consumption as they require bilingual readers or very active readers, willing to do some extra investigation. Regarding active reading, I should probably mention as an aside that my final project during my MA in cross-cultural narrative studies was on Julio Cortázar and his novel Rayuela—titled Hopscotch in English—and focused on active (and also even disobedient) reading, something that has fed into my haiku over the years both as writer and reader, and convinced me to sometimes entice readers to do some extra work. I risk being obscure in the selected poem, but I felt that by context someone could probably imagine what the cow was saying and then ponder what a cow speaking Japanese means to them; and if they were left with an unresolved enigma that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either. If there was no clear answer then they just might enjoy the sensation that Keats termed “negative capability,” a useful tool for any haiku enthusiast. I certainly don’t want to come across as pretentious or elitist (although I imagine I am way too much of both). Furthermore, we live in a century with Google so I’m not actually asking that much. Whatever the case, Japanese kanji are so beautiful to behold in and of themselves, whether you understand them or not, and I get pleasure from the opportunity to make a poem more potent visually and I’m sure the uninitiated may enjoy spending time with these visuals, however enigmatic they may or may not be.
The judges also picked up on the wordplay of moo and mu and said all there is to say, which is “Nothing.”
So, at the risk of saying too much, and to show you gratitude for having read my meanderings this far, I shall now close with a terrible joke:
Two cows in a field.
One turns to the other and says “moo.”
The other one responds with:
“I was just about to say the same thing!”
Rowan Beckett
still born inside the after-black an ounce of moon
What inspired the poem?
As surreal-leaning as this poem is, it’s very much rooted in what was the darkest time of my life. I’m usually vulnerable in my writing, but I think this is one of my most transparent poems. In June of this year, my partner and I found out we were pregnant. When I went in for the second ultrasound at 7 weeks, there was no heartbeat or fetal pole and the pregnancy was deemed not viable. This poem was written after I found out, but before the miscarriage itself had actually occurred.
What was your process for writing it?
Honestly, I was grief-writing. For days I was purging fragments and phrases one after the other, most of them not making any sense. Although this poem was stitched together from abstractions, my word choices were very much on purpose. The first phrase from this poem that came out was “ounce of moon” which represents not only how physically tiny the yolk sac was, but also uses the moon’s symbolism of feminine energy, birth, death, and reincarnation. “still born inside” was written as one fragment as well. My reason for leaving “stillborn” as two separate words was because at this point, my body had not passed the pregnancy and my child was physically still inside me. Of course within my grief, there were many associated words such as “dark” and “gloom” written in my fragment compilation. After looking up synonyms, an earlier version of this poem read “inside the pitch black,” but that felt a little too hopeless. During this time I thought a lot about my own spirituality and what I believe the afterlife to be like, which is when it clicked. The poem needed some kind of hope of an afterlife, but I don’t know what that means, so the phrase became “after-black.” I believe the “ounce of moon” is also hopeful, in a way, because even when the moon is down to its smallest sliver, it still illuminates the black sky.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I’d like to hope the use of language experimentation and surreal imagery would inspire others to play around with these things as well. The English Language is constantly evolving and it’s fascinating to see what it's capable of. I’ve also always taken an interest in several avant-garde art and literature movements (surrealism, existentialism, dadaism, etc.) and am constantly looking for new ways to integrate them into my haiku. I think these styles and the theories behind them are a beautiful way to interpret the world, especially in the midst of a hellish reality.
Why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I’m not quite sure I could have processed my grief any other way. I was very broken and so were my words. This poem was the last in my Trailblazer submission. In fact, I had already selected all of my poems towards the beginning of the month, but switched out one of the haiku for this one when I ended up completing it just two days or so before the contest deadline.
I am more than honored that three of my four poems were selected as Trailblazer winners, but even more grateful for the opportunity to forever memorialize my daughter Eden Harper Gage with such an innovative and ground-breaking award. I know my poem was selected blindly, but I could honestly never repay the panel for this gift.
still born inside the after-black an ounce of moon
What inspired the poem?
As surreal-leaning as this poem is, it’s very much rooted in what was the darkest time of my life. I’m usually vulnerable in my writing, but I think this is one of my most transparent poems. In June of this year, my partner and I found out we were pregnant. When I went in for the second ultrasound at 7 weeks, there was no heartbeat or fetal pole and the pregnancy was deemed not viable. This poem was written after I found out, but before the miscarriage itself had actually occurred.
What was your process for writing it?
Honestly, I was grief-writing. For days I was purging fragments and phrases one after the other, most of them not making any sense. Although this poem was stitched together from abstractions, my word choices were very much on purpose. The first phrase from this poem that came out was “ounce of moon” which represents not only how physically tiny the yolk sac was, but also uses the moon’s symbolism of feminine energy, birth, death, and reincarnation. “still born inside” was written as one fragment as well. My reason for leaving “stillborn” as two separate words was because at this point, my body had not passed the pregnancy and my child was physically still inside me. Of course within my grief, there were many associated words such as “dark” and “gloom” written in my fragment compilation. After looking up synonyms, an earlier version of this poem read “inside the pitch black,” but that felt a little too hopeless. During this time I thought a lot about my own spirituality and what I believe the afterlife to be like, which is when it clicked. The poem needed some kind of hope of an afterlife, but I don’t know what that means, so the phrase became “after-black.” I believe the “ounce of moon” is also hopeful, in a way, because even when the moon is down to its smallest sliver, it still illuminates the black sky.
How do you think the poem helps to push the boundaries of or contributes to the genre?
I’d like to hope the use of language experimentation and surreal imagery would inspire others to play around with these things as well. The English Language is constantly evolving and it’s fascinating to see what it's capable of. I’ve also always taken an interest in several avant-garde art and literature movements (surrealism, existentialism, dadaism, etc.) and am constantly looking for new ways to integrate them into my haiku. I think these styles and the theories behind them are a beautiful way to interpret the world, especially in the midst of a hellish reality.
Why do you think the poem had to be written this way?
I’m not quite sure I could have processed my grief any other way. I was very broken and so were my words. This poem was the last in my Trailblazer submission. In fact, I had already selected all of my poems towards the beginning of the month, but switched out one of the haiku for this one when I ended up completing it just two days or so before the contest deadline.
I am more than honored that three of my four poems were selected as Trailblazer winners, but even more grateful for the opportunity to forever memorialize my daughter Eden Harper Gage with such an innovative and ground-breaking award. I know my poem was selected blindly, but I could honestly never repay the panel for this gift.
