Spooks, Spectres and the Haiku Spirit
Are there any rules governing the composition of haiku? The rules appear to have a sort of spectral existence, combining insubstantiality with a frightening power to intimidate. I’ve never actually seen any rules, all I’ve seen are guidelines and a set of conventions characterised as an evolving consensus. To misinterpret such guidelines as rules is detrimental to the haiku spirit. If the ‘governors’ of haiku, the editors, were to insist on rigid constraints the result would be ossification. I’ve seen no evidence that this approach is being advocated, at least in theoretical essays, but I suppose it is possible to discern a drift towards homogeneity in some publications. The third edition of The Haiku Anthology, for example, maintains the level of quality of the second edition, but is noticeably less adventurous. But can we be sure that this is the result of an imposition of a constricting template? Is it not perhaps a consequence of the sheep-like timidity of the poets themselves, or, more healthily, the result of some mutual imitation and the establishment of a common poetic language? Stanley Pelter seeks to speak up for the ‘governed’ by warning that haiku is ‘becoming a programmatic discipline in which taboos break through the veneer of tolerance’ (1). This fear-factor, real or imagined, introduces an unhelpful mistrust into the relationship between poets and editors. Against this, I feel a need to renew my editorial vows, as it were, and underline my own commitment to openness. At the same time, I wish to make three key points which, I suggest, have the potential to provide a constructive underpinning for any further discussion of ‘rules’. If we work with these points in mind, we can maintain a sense of proportion and read and write with the courage of our convictions. Each point is illustrated with what I trust are pertinent examples.
[1] Haiku needs both a centre of gravity and an open boundary. Haiku needs to cohere, or it ceases to be a genre. The various attempts to define the genre have been necessary to provide that coherence. More useful, perhaps, is the practical cohesion established by the mutual intelligibility of the work in a high-quality journal or anthology. But these centripetal forces must be balanced by a commitment to questioning and continued evolution. The borders between haiku and senryu, haiku and tanka, haiku and poetry, haiku and non-haiku, are indistinct and mutable. Creativity necessarily challenges prevailing perceptions and encourages continual refinement of the sense of what is possible. We are looking at a two-stage process. The initial creation requires a free spirit, but the subsequent submission to the editorial filter is a necessary discipline. Editors can establish a culture of shared values, by being selective rather than wildly eclectic. This isn’t the iron hand of tyranny, it is simply the application of principles. The individual poem, however, exists at a single point along the axis between safe centre and daring boundary; it can’t simultaneously occupy both extreme positions. For the poet, then, it is only necessary to prioritise each moment of inspiration, forge without fear, and leave to others the judgement of whether, or where, the work ‘fits in’.
One very good reason for slackening the reins a little is the recognition that the historical Japanese understanding of haiku is less narrowly confined than our own. Timid reflex reactions can’t possibly equip us to appreciate Japanese haiku, which evinced a broad range of possibilities long before the rise of the avantgarde. We have heard, for example, that objectivity is prized and subjectivity isn’t. If this is our catechism we are unprepared for poems such as these:
Pomegranate seeds - how many must I eat to end my loneliness? Takako Hashimoto (2) |
Taking the sort of breath one takes before confession I swim Yasuko Tsushima (3) |
Although personal in expression, there is nothing impossibly private here: the poems are open, and we can enter into their spirit. If this kind of ‘subjective’ stance is beyond us, we are impoverished. We need to extend to embrace it.
[2] In order to ensure an open boundary, we must encourage sensitive reading practice. We must respond to each new poem on its merits, rather than by measuring it against a checklist of attributes. The perfect encapsulation of such a position is Colin Blundell’s
not a real haiku? / chuck it out of the window / and see if it flies (4)
In other words, what matters is whether the poem works, however it works. Genre definitions are a secondary consideration. It will assist this process if we shift the emphasis of commentary to the act of reading rather than writing. As Maurice Tasnier pointed out in Blithe Spirit 11/1, speculation on the state of mind of the poet at the time of composition can lead us into a morass of confusion (5). A haiku is a work of art, not a statement in a witness-box. Whether or not there is such a thing as ‘haiku mind’, it is highly problematic to attempt to use it to gauge a poem s worth. Collating a variety of readings, on the other hand, conducts the debate in accessible terrain. One reward of the workshop process of sharing readings is that we become aware of a broad measure of agreement and specific areas of disagreement. Not all of us prefer strawberries to raspberries; presumably all of us prefer strawberries to straw. This is the application of taste, discernment and appreciation, rather than the cumbersome invocation of ‘rules’.
General principles, then, must always give way to the individual case. For example, the injunctions against simile and metaphor, although based on sound poetic judgements, cease to serve us once they harden into absolutes. It is very difficult to use these techniques in a way that doesn’t undermine immediacy, but occasionally it is possible to find successes where the evocative power of the poem is enhanced:
Walking through leaves, the beech mast underneath popping like seaweed. Billy Watt (6) |
school gate mothers unravelling a tangle of children Maurice Tasnier (7) |
At first sight, Billy Watt’s simile fails because it proclaims an exactness of comparison that can’t be justified: only seaweed pops exactly like seaweed. But the merit of the poem is a by-product of the simile: it captures a drift of attention, unifies the ‘actual’ beechwood with the remembered seashore, and commends both actuality and association to the imagination of the reader. Maurice Tasnier’s ‘tangle’, meanwhile, is a fine example of poetic economy. It enables, rather than hinders, appreciation of the familiar scene and in no sense is the metaphor clumsy or obtrusive.
[3] When commenting on haiku, think in terms of resources rather than rules, virtues rather than defects. The rules that seem so intimidating are generally expressed in negative terms: no simile, metaphor or personification; avoid isolation in subjectivity, ornate diction, adjectival clutter, artificial concision, padding, redundancy. Et cetera. All such ‘rules’ are merely the shadow-side of a much more vital list of desirable qualities. The moods of sabi, wabi, aware and yugen all characterise attractive features of haiku, but they have yet to acquire sufficient currency in English. But we can identify: space, groundedness, honesty and transparency as strengths. Space is achieved by restraint, and has been identified as ‘wordlessness’. It has many applications, including allowing the poem to be completed in the imagination of the reader, not intruding and pre-digesting the experience with interpretative comment. Groundedness means writing close to actual experience, locating the poem in the concrete and specific rather than the abstract and general. Honesty is being true to the nature of things rather than the mundane matter-of-fact. It relates to suchness, the power of things to speak for themselves, as it were, the inner life perceived by the eye of the artist. Transparency means that the language of the poem honours the moment of which it speaks. It does not draw attention to its own status as poetry. These qualities combined result in simplicity and immediacy, or presence: the barriers between writer and reader collapse in a moment of sharing. Personally, I also seek, and respond to, authenticity, the vivid sense of a thinking, feeling mind at work, which can’t be achieved by compliance with external criteria.
Where the rule-bound mind detects problems, the creative spirit sees opportunities. One application is a commitment to imaginative truth, a higher value than scientific literalism. Many concrete nouns have power as ‘keywords’ in the sense that they open up the poem, making connection possible. There seems to me to be no reason why such keywords cannot include imaginative elements, so long as they possess a collective currency and do not erect barriers of privacy. One such keyword which lam keen to welcome is ‘ghost’. Here are four examples of possible uses:
alone on this hill ghosts of discarded kites drift into the sky Annie Bachini (8) moonless night ghosts singing in the long grasses Giovanni Malilo (10) |
These chestnut floorboards, Worn to a dark mirror By the feet of ghosts. Alan Malay (9) midnight on the river the ghost of a swan Frank Dullaghan (11) |
The keyword does not necessarily open up the poem in the sense of facilitating a paraphrase - although only in the Malito poem is paraphrase at all difficult - but what it does achieve is the stimulation of a rich array of imaginative associations. It enhances both a sense of silence and an awareness of absence. This possibility hasn’t been outlawed and nor should it be: we need such resources.
Without ground rules, dialogue is not possible; it would degenerate into formless chaos. As writers and readers, we need to feel that we are engaged in a process of dialogue, and the ‘rules’ are in place to facilitate, rather than frustrate, that process. But creativity always implies the potential to transcend limitations, and there is no value for editors in legislating against creativity. I believe we are open to challenge, to the unexpected, and reports of the stagnation of haiku are exaggerated. But the important point is that it is precisely confidence in the strength of our centre of gravity, a sense that the fundamental criteria of haiku have become soundly established, that propels the form to greater openness. With that security, haiku can unfold without disintegration. It’s not, and never has been, poetry-by-numbers; it’s an intuitive thing. Let’s trust our intuitions.
Martin Lucas’ paper is a substantial revision of, or sequel to, The Sound of Seaweed, his paper for the BHS Conference 2001 at Winford Manor in April. A copy of that paper is available from the BHS library.
(1) Stanley Pelter, ‘Haiku Pensées 2’ in Blithe Spirit 11/2, p52
(2) Kirkup, A Certain State of Mind (University of Salzburg, 1995), p13
(3) Ban’ya Natsuishi (ed.), Haiku Troubadours 2000 (Ginyu Press, 2000), p167
(4) Colin Blundell, My Dog Reads Haiku (Hub Editions, 1992)
(5) cf. Maurice Tasnier, ‘Of Sheep and Goats and In-betweens’ in Blithe Spirit 11/1, pp12-14
(6) Presence #14, p16
(7) Time Haiku 13, p6
(8) Blithe Spirit 5/3, p13
(9) Cobb & Martin Lucas (eds.), The Iron Book of British Haiku (Iron Press, 1996) p69
(10) Presence #13, p25
(11) Presence #8, p30
Page(s) 31-35
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