Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

In considering my response to the question do I write haiku in the same way that I write longer poems, I thought it a good moment to ask myself whether or not I believe haiku to be a form of poetry. As regards most aspects of haiku, there are varying opinions on this. In Traces of dreams, Haruo Shirane persuades us that Bashō saw himself in the context of the Japanese literary tradition and therefore must have thought of haiku as poetry and himself as a poet. RHBlyth on the other hand, maintained that a haiku was not a poem. ‘Haiku…has little or nothing to do with poetry, so-called, or Zen, or anything else’. (Haiku: Vol 1 Eastern culture) He goes on to say what he does think haiku is: ‘… a way of living, a certain tenderness and smallness of mind that avoids the magnificent…’ none of which to my mind rules out haiku as poetry. In fact, I believe that it is poetry, for if a haiku isn’t a poem, what is it? It certainly isn’t an epigram, a statement, or an aphorism; neither is its brevity a barrier to its claim to be poetry - several poems that find their way into collections and anthologies are no more than two or three lines long.

That said, it seems that there are comparatively few people who approach the writing of haiku and the writing of longer poems with the same degree of interest or seriousness. Many haiku poets, to give themselves a change, will occasionally write a longer poem but probably don’t bother trying to get it published, and we know that some mainstream poets make it their practice to limber up with the writing of haiku in order to get themselves going on what they regard as ‘proper’ poetry; for them haiku is a means to an end rather than an end in itself.

So, what is the difference between the method employed in the writing of a haiku and that in writing a longer poem? Having talked to several people who do practise both, it would appear that most have no difficulty in working on both simultaneously. I would like to be able to do this, but I find I can’t; for some reason when I am focussing on haiku I don’t seem able to write longer poems and vice versa. Although I believe that haiku is a poetic form, it is somehow unlike other poetry and consequently my approach for writing it is different; I almost feel that I inhabit different frames of mind, almost different selves, depending on whether I am writing haiku or a longer poem.

As every haiku writer knows, for a haiku to be effective it has to pack its punch in very few syllables -there is no time for an experience, idea or narrative to build up or unfold. The haiku has to be right here, now - indeed it cannot be set in the context of time, for it is instantaneous, fleeting, eternally present. A good haiku must demonstrate the only reality which is the present and will come out of an awareness of the true nature of existence, making connections below the level of rational thought. Three haiku that are good examples of this come to mind - ones that I feel were not consciously thought up, but have come to the writer unbidden:

Medical reprieve
wandering the streets
empty handed

Ken Jones

breakfast in silence -
both halves of the grapefruit
unsweetened

David Cobb

custody battle
a bodyguard lifts the child
to see the snow

Dee Evetts

There is nothing contrived or derivative in any of these; they are first hand, authentic. In their different ways all three reveal profound truths about human nature and have a quality that lifts them above the ordinary. Why would a medical reprieve leave one ‘empty handed’? With the rational mind the opposite would be true; but one knows immediately that it is absolutely right.

Every good haiku points to the here and now, whether it deals with a moment relating to nature, or human nature, or successfully links the two - moments of intense awareness that can only be arrived at during those comparatively rare occasions when we are truly living in the present. The writing of haiku is, if not a way of life, a way of seeing. However, we do not always achieve this ideal of fully engaging with the moment; for most of us any ordinary day brings its pressures and preoccupations when all we can do is sit down, knowing that what we attempt will probably be second rate. But that isn’t a reason not to write on a daily basis; there are techniques that can be employed, exercises that we can do that will help us to make language work for us. This aspect of working at it applies to the writing both of haiku and longer poems. I have never subscribed to the view that the ‘poet’ should wait until the spirit moves before sitting down to write. Waiting for ‘inspiration’ means that it will come less and less often. Writing is a craft and should be practised as such; only if the tools of the trade are kept in good shape is the writer prepared when the Muse does decide to visit.

The brevity of haiku demands a high degree of intensity and every syllable has to be not only the right one, but the only one. Maybe the reason that I cannot write longer poems at the same time as I am concentrating on haiku is because when I focus on the latter I build up a kind of ‘haiku mind’ (or ‘haiku no-mind’); I begin to form the habit of living more intensely in the present, of seeing the ‘ordinary’ as extraordinary. Writing a longer poem demands as much attention and energy as writing haiku, but maybe not in the same way. It requires different skills and, in certain respects, more stamina. In many longer poems the dictates of the form - villanelle, sonnet or whatever - discipline the poet, whereas in haiku the spirit is considered more important than the syllable count. Also, with the writing of longer poems, a familiarity with the subject one is writing about is necessary. Norman McCaig could not have written with such authority on countryside matters if he had not had a deep knowledge and appreciation of the natural world; likewise, Derek Walcott could not have written Omeros had he not immersed himself in the Greek myths. No haiku writer needs any such specialised knowledge, just (just?) an ability to see, to appreciate the moment and record it with accuracy.

One can be more relaxed about writing a longer poem; it gives one greater leeway than a haiku, for the writing of it will probably be spread over a period of time - anything from days, to years. You can meet it in the past, your own and/or the poem’s, accompany it through the present and follow it into the future. There is a sense in which a poem is never finished; it can stretch and yawn, venture up alleyways, only to return and change direction if a particular foray proves unsatisfactory. A writer can start a poem, nudged by a phrase or image that takes root in the mind, an idea that might open interesting doors, not knowing how the poem will end or which aspect of the writer’s experience or vision it will finally represent. One can leave it and come back to it; so long as it continues to hold one’s enthusiasm and remains alive in imagination, it will eventually flower. These kinds of liberties can never be taken with a haiku. If you don’t grab the haiku the instant it makes its appearance, the moment is gone, like a lizard leaving only its tail in your hand. With a poem there is more slack, greater room for manoeuvre; you can return to it, alter it, hone it and if you lose the original theme yet keep the impetus, a fresh approach, even after years, will often carry you through to a different but still valid result.

Many feel that the main difference between haiku and mainstream poetry is in the use, or non-use, of metaphor, simile, aphorism and anthropomorphism. There is insufficient space here to deal more than superficially with this topic, but suffice it to say I feel that in these areas there is more of an overlap than is often supposed. The writing of all poetry, haiku or otherwise, depends on using what is appropriate in the given situation rather than in the keeping or breaking of rules. Where anthropomorphism is concerned, I believe that unless used with the greatest subtlety it weakens all poetry and should be avoided. Aphorism in haiku is always inappropriate, telling rather than pointing, working through the intellect rather than the senses. Simile, which can be effective in longer forms, also rarely seems to work in haiku, lessening tension and taking up too many valuable syllables, but metaphor is more complex and used correctly has an important place in all poetry - it is a powerful tool in the hands of any poet and one of the most effective ways of creating meanings on different levels. It is not always appropriate in haiku: the kind of wild, idiosyncratic metaphors that make Sylvia Plath’s and Anne Sexton’s poetry so vivid and memorable, for instance, would be quite out of place in so short a form since the writer would lose touch with the reader.

Another area in which haiku and the writing of longer poems share common ground is in the extraordinarily difficult business of saying what we really mean, or rather knowing what we want to say. So often we think we are clear about what we want to communicate until we pick up the pen, then somehow the words elude us and we find that what we thought was a strong idea or image in our minds is only an intimation. Hunting down what lies behind this vague, yet pressing, reality takes a surprising amount of concentrated energy. It is so much easier to let the mind slide over what it was that first caught our attention and search out something more accessible. But though it might be more accessible and familiar, it will be less interesting, for herein lies the danger of derivative writing and clichés - the easy option. The difference between a strikingly original poem or haiku and a second rate one depends on the integrity of the writer. John Burnside, a poet I greatly admire, has just such an ability to honour the original purpose of the poem; his poems are well worth reading not only for their integrity and individuality but also for their intelligent use of language.

Harold Henderson has said that ‘haiku is more akin to silence than to words’. We know what he means and this statement sums up for me the main difference between it and other forms of poetry. Because haiku is more akin to silence than to words does not mean that it is not a valid form of poem, but it does mean that in some essential way it is different from other forms. In conclusion, I would say that because I perceive this to be an important difference, I can only approach the writing of haiku in a different way from the writing of a longer poem. Perhaps this difference is felt by many poets, even if they are not consciously aware of it, and accounts for the fact that at the moment anyway most tend to write either haiku or longer poems but not both. It remains to be seen which direction haiku will take in the future. If the view that haiku is ‘…evolving… into a new genre of short poetry that enables each individual to express something important in a few words’ (Ban’ya Natsuishi) supersedes the view of haiku based on the spiritual origins of the classical Japanese haiku - those encompassed in the 13 states of mind considered necessary for the writing of it, then it is almost certain that haiku will become indistinguishable from other forms of poetry. Its brevity, however, will never be in question. More important than having something ‘important’ to say is having the desire and the ability to say it effectively. With so few syllables in which to do so, this will always challenge the haiku poet in a unique way.