Tuesday, June 30, 2015

The Mainichi Times English Language Haiku Section

Haiku: June 26, 2015

all the small things
I see
midges in sunlight


Lynne Rees (Offham, Kent, UK)

Selected by Isamu Hashimoto

On Bob Lucky's Ethiopian Time

Ethiopian Time by Bob Lucky. St. Paul, Minnesota: Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014. Single signature, hand sewn binding, author hand-numbered edition of 100. 5.5" x 7," 52 pp. $12 USD, including shipping to USA & Canada, $20 USD International.

The blurb on the publisher's website says of this haibun and tanka prose collection: Bob takes the foreign and makes it familiar. Then he takes the familiar and the ordinary and turns it completely foreign.

That's a pretty good summary of my immediate response to the work. The opening haibun, "New Home," talks about exploring a new neighbourhood, the affluent area, teething problems with the house's electrical system. It also shows us the road from the house slick with mud; there are watchmen carry[ing] AK47s; and recounts the plumber's advice to wear flip-flops in the shower to prevent us from getting shocked. I don't know about you but I generally, extreme weather conditions excepted, take the hard surface of my roads for granted. There are no automatic weapons carried openly on the streets around my home. I do not worry about being electrocuted before stepping into the shower.

The haibun's concluding haiku reinforces the idea that violence and threat are the narrator's new neighbours:

sunset
along the wall the gleam
of razor wire

There are always literary risks involved in portraying a new life in a new country. I came up against it myself when I moved to France: the risk of idealising the novel and unfamiliar aspects because they excited and pleased me, alongside the risk of dramatizing the same because they challenged and threatened me. Although the challenges and threats in France, in contrast to Ethiopia, tended to be more bureaucratic than terror-based.

Bob Lucky avoids both the "rose tinted glasses" and the "bloody battle" effects by maintaining a measured and understated voice throughout the collection. He also balances his perceptions of a foreign and unfamiliar world—he spent four years in Ethiopia—with glimpses into the private (yet universal) and natural worlds, into the vagaries of the quotidian, ageing, health and climate.

I was particularly struck by the quality of the accompanying haiku in the collection. For the most part they're sparkling stand alones: something I aspire to and often fail to achieve in my own haibun. Here are the opening and closing haiku to "Keeping Track":

drool on my pillow
the thread of a dream
unravels

rainy season
the warmth of ironed
underwear

The brief paragraph of prose they sandwich does what we all want a haibun to do: expand the meaning of the two parts.

My wife reminds me it's my birthday. At a certain age, no one allows you to forget anything. Later, everyone's amazed when you remember anything.

We shift, with the first haiku, from a suggestion of ageing and the ethereal, to the pragmatism and irony of the prose, and finally to the juxtaposition of the natural and human worlds, of dry/damp, of discomfort/satisfaction, in the closing haiku. And we end up with more than just a prose sandwich; here's a vignette that captures our tenuous human grasp on life, the temporary footprint we make, the simple things that can make that life enjoyable, worth living.

There are a clutch of prose poems included in the collection: that is, paragraphs of prose without any haiku. (Please relocate for any discussion of whether haiku-less—or poem-less—haibun can exist: for me they don't.) And they sit comfortably within the body of work; surrounded as they are with the haiku offspring of other adjacent passages. I'm less sure of the tanka prose pieces because the tanka often feel more like extended haiku:

"Some Notes on Paradise" concludes with:

in the garden
my wife and I
take inventory
so many things
yet to be named

The two principal components, taking inventory in the garden and the concluding statement, produce, for me, a 5 line haiku. And that's fine. I'm only being picky because of the publisher's explicit mention of tanka prose.

My other picky point about the collection is the page orientation. The landscape format creates short, but wide, pages so, here and there, there's a "widow and orphan" effect of a few lines of concluding prose being shunted to the top of an otherwise blank page, or a final tanka drifting on its own in white space, and this oddness interrupts the flow of reading.

But I can tolerate these kinks within a framework of linguistic and tonal sleekness. These are deceptively simple haibun: no impression of textual leisure, of invitation and ease, are ever arrived at without the hard work of craft and editing. And Bob Lucky wears his knowledge gently too: references to Robert Frost. Ezra Pound, Slavoj Žižek, Bruegel, as well as Ethiopian culture and traditions, are seamlessly woven into the narratives without any whiff of didacticism.

The quiet subtleties of the writing are commendably illustrated in the following haibun:

Dead Cat

Dead from lack of love or food or simply a boot in the ribs, the cat outside my gate meows no more. I'd pay a beggar to take it away, but not one is willing to lose his turf for a few birr and a dead cat. It's a nice afternoon—cool in the shade, warm in the sun—but not a good day to be a dead cat. Or someone who has to remove a dead cat.

steady breeze
the warp in the sprinkler's
rainbow

There's a delicate balance between irony and emotion. There's no hint of the maudlin (a congratulatory achievement when writing about cats) and the closing haiku links (the outside environments in both prose and haiku) and shifts to the idea of imperfection that exists even in beauty. We don't leave the haibun mouthing a syrupy "Awww . . ."; we leave it with the epiphany of "Ahhh . . . ."

It's a personal tic but with any collection of poetry/poetic prose I always like to examine the final piece in the light of its position. Why might the author have finished here? How does it work as a finale?

A prose poem concludes Ethiopian Time.

Gravity

Gravity was strong today. My feet barely left the earth. The sky was bird-less. Pied crows, wattled ibises, kites, all the birds, gathered on the soccer pitch and pecked at the turf. Clouds crashed around me, sank underground, giving me the impression, in spite of the effort needed to drag my soul all the way to dusk, that this could be heaven on earth. So I began to pay attention.

I detect a slight shift in tone here. The playfulness ("My feet barely left the earth") is cloaked with seriousness (a synonym for the title). There's a more explicit reference to the narrator's mood, in comparison to the general implicitness, the "show not tell" approach, in the rest of the collection. As a reader I feel the "weight of the world" too as the narrator forces himself through the day. The realisation of "heaven on earth" placed on the final page reads like an acceptance of the "Time" spent in a country of other-worldness, of challenge. And "So I began to pay attention" could not be a better exhortation with which to move forward. To another home, another writing project, another day. Into the world. Writer and reader in companionship.

Sunday, April 05, 2015

Language as Vehicle: Theme & Meaning in Haibun


In his book Haiku: A Poet's Guide1, Lee Gurga points out the risk of writers attempting haibun 'before they have acquired sufficient skill at writing haiku'. 'Fine prose with poor haiku,' he says, 'makes poor haibun.' But the reverse is also true: fine haiku with poor prose also makes poor haibun.
What your story has to say will gradually reveal itself to you and your reader through every choice you as a writer make . . .2
The writer must decide what larger meaning the story represents and lead the reader to that.3
Both these quotes come from writers' handbooks I have on my bookshelf. The first is a guide to writing fiction, the second to non-fiction but they both share an acknowledgement that our written stories, imagined or experienced, need to mean something to our readers and that making writerly choices ensures meaning will be communicated.

Haibun writing possesses its own specific craft challenge, i.e. the effective balance of prose and poetry, but its effectiveness also relies on craft choices that are common with other genres, choices that will engage a reader, assist in elevating the writing above personal anecdote or pretty description, and help develop theme.

What do I mean by theme? For me, theme is what my haibun is about combined with what I think and feel about it and my aim is for readers to leave the page also thinking and feeling in response to my words. While the first spontaneous draft of my haibun might be, for example, about my teenage daughter leaving home, I recognise that it will also need to be imbued with meaning. So, what do I think and feel about that subject? What are the ideas and emotions behind this story that might engage a reader? Fear, perhaps, for my child's unchaperoned future? A sense of loss, an absence in my life that I feel, at least for the time being, cannot be filled? But what about the idea of freedom and the feeling of joy? After all, I suddenly have my own life back after 18 years of daily mothering.

Once I've identified my theme then I can begin to make language choices that will lead the reader towards it. But what I don't want to do is to be overtly didactic in my writing, metaphorically shouting at a reader, 'Look, this is about loneliness/fear/absence.'

Some haibun might be far less obviously idea-based; they might originate from a response to a natural or urban landscape. But, for the most part, we still need to locate an overall theme, whether it's the ability of a sunrise to make us believe we can start over again or the sound of rain that encourages us to question certain decisions we've made in our lives. I won't deny the success of some haibun where a single paragraph of beautifully written description is completed and expanded by the juxtaposition of a particularly fine haiku. But, generally speaking, description needs to be more than just pretty; do more than just literally describe. It needs to be significant too: i.e. suggest ideas and emotions to a reader.

One way we can avoid both the 'didactic' trap and the 'pretty description' trap is to use language as a vehicle for our ideas.

1. Concrete language: the sensory experience
Concrete language is expressed and experienced through the senses: what we can see, smell, taste, hear or touch – trees, the sea, strong coffee, a train, velvet curtains – as opposed to abstract words like hope, fear and success which embody ideas. That's not to say a writer should never directly express an idea, or use an abstract expression, but that abstractions and generalisations need to be realised through or balanced with an appeal to the senses.

Concrete language offers 'proof' of scene, character or even dialogue: it convinces a reader at physical and emotional levels. And our ordinary everyday language is rich with suggestiveness and innate metaphors that can help make our writing significant. At a very simplistic level, the image of a woman wearing a short, red dress carries connotations – ideas and judgements – that are very different from a woman in a long white one; even if a writer goes on to subvert the reader's expectations of those images.

Take a look at the following haibun by Cara Holman.
Counting4
"Did you know a plane flies over your house every seven minutes?" Dad asks. I didn't know that. Dad is checking his watch again. "There goes another one," he says triumphantly. I check my watch. He's right. It has been exactly seven minutes. Dad likes to measure things. He was a scientist, before he retired. He taught me how to measure my pulse, how many steps to take before letting the kite string out, and how to count the gap between lightning and thunder. In his world, everything is precise and orderly. The hospice nurse says he has six months or less to live. That's a lot of airplanes.
deepening twilight . . . 
one by one
stars appear
The language in Holman's haibun is the recognisable concrete language of daily life: planes, houses, watches, kites and the weather. Yet every image seems to reinforce the theme of the relationship between the elderly father and his daughter and of his approaching death. As a reader I did not consciously catalogue every image and its effect when I first read the haibun. I simply read it with enjoyment, felt the emotions of intimacy and loss, thought about my own ageing parents and pondered the man-made measurement of time that marks our days, in both senses of that word. But as a writer I'm interested in identifying why and how it affected me. I can learn by analysing the language choices Holman has made.

The images of the pulse measuring, the kite string and the thunder and lightning were the most vivid for me. And because the haibun explicitly states a father/daughter5 relationship the ideas of (i) caring for someone, (ii) letting them go, and (iii) teaching them to negotiate fear and danger all emerged from those three things.

After several readings other responses arise. The 'seven minutes' has an echo of the seven ages of man that Shakespeare identified and links to the father's age and ill-health. The measurement of time and its diminishment juxtapose poignantly with the eternity that the stars in the haiku suggest. And while the 'Counting' of the title is the father's time-keeping as well as something a child learns to do, it is also what an adult daughter finds herself doing as her father's life approaches its conclusion: the years already past, what time remains.

It's a wonderfully balanced haibun and although there are other elements that contribute to its success – e.g. the use of dialogue for immediacy and character development, the rhythm and variety of sentence structure, as well as that lovely link and shift from prose to haiku – the concrete language is a fundamental reason why it speaks so eloquently to me.

2. Figurative language: simile and metaphor
Anyone can make comparisons and our language is littered with 'dead' similes and clichéd metaphors – lonely as a cloud, he laughed like a hyena, the rosy fingered dawn – all of which might have surprised and delighted at some time but through overuse have lost their freshness. You might regret that expressions like, 'eyes like pools of stars' or even 'eyes that flood with tears' lack any energy for a contemporary writer but they have been repeated so often they have become shorthand for emotion and lack any vital force. As a writer if we record an emotion without that felt force, without felt depth, the reader can lose their trust in us as their literary guide.

We need to create new and surprising figurative images, not to decorate our texts, but to provide a sense of illumination. The goal of literary comparison is to enlarge and enrich the scope of our own and our readers' understanding. But there are pitfalls. Similes and metaphors that ask the reader to make too large a leap between the objects being compared, either explicitly or implicitly, or step to far away from the subject matter also risk losing the reader's attention. Executed with a heavy hand they call attention to a writer trying to be clever or entertaining. A good metaphor fits so neatly that it fuses to and illuminates the meaning. And perhaps the biggest pitfall: the overuse of figurative imagery. Think of it as seasoning rather than a principal ingredient. A lightness of touch is essential. One, or two, considered and well placed figurative images might be all you require to support your overall theme, the ideas you want your readers to take away with them.

Bill Gottlieb's haibun, below, confirms these points about appropriateness and lightness of touch. The single apt simile he employs (limbs like bats in a rack) both connects to the scene he describes – watching baseball – and is cruelly suggestive of how a terminal illness can affect the body: inactivity, dis-use, feeling wooden, perhaps, and numb.
Win-Loss6
Baseball is always relaxing, you said our last summer on the couch – in cancer's coma, limbs like bats in a rack, game over – as the Phillies, two years ago the winningest team in baseball, were losing, losing. Loss wasn't as fun for us. But the men were good men, trying as hard as men can, mostly failing, and you loved them. And you loved life around a diamond, a gem of time, a few hours when you could defer to fate, be a fan, a hopeful person, winning never out of the question until the last second, when the small dense ball massed into a mitt and they lost, you lost – my favorite enthusiast – and I lost. Tonight I lie on the couch where you died and narrate the ninth to another woman who has fallen in love with the game, my game. She admires a man who doesn't stop when he is losing, a determined man, a man who endures an ending, plays again.
I can never
catch you
full moon
And look at that subtle metaphor in the middle of the prose – a gem of time. It refers literally to the diamond of a baseball pitch or field but also deepens our insight into the preciousness of this moment of ordinary enjoyment that may not be repeated. And, of course, the ideas of winning and losing are threaded through the haibun as lightly but as firmly as silk and we are pulled between the losing baseball team and the characters' negotiations with life and death.

3. Language as symbol
In Gottlieb's haibun the 'small dense ball massed into a mitt' not only lives within the game, but also, given the context, symbolises cancer's vile and determined presence. The writing process itself is inherently symbolic. We work only with words but in structuring events, depicting character and atmosphere, choosing object, details and language, we are selecting and arranging for these words to signify much more than their material existence.

In everyday life too we constantly function symbolically. In quarrels or conversations, how often do we say one thing but intend something else? Did you pick up my dry-cleaning? can mean, I bet you were too busy thinking of yourself to even consider me.

Jonathan Humphrey's haibun uses everyday language to create a fantasy world that symbolises a very common human right of passage.
How To Disassemble Your Father's Ghost (Winter)7


We suffer each other to have each other for a while.
Li-Young Lee

The night your father's ghost appears, take his old pocketknife from the drawer in the study and have him sit down in the chair. First you must cut the apparitions of his ears. He will ask for you to skip them like stones across the wooden floor. He has always wanted to know this sound. Next, you must sever the opaque tongue from the back of the opaque throat. Cast it into the fire. He will smile, as it tastes like bourbon. Close the knife. Return it to the drawer. His heart will be easily retrieved from the cloud-like chest. It must be fed to the dog. Wake the dog and feed him heartily. Your father's ghost gives you this order without reason. Slowly he will stand and walk to the sliding door by the back porch. Follow him out into the snowy yard. Watch as he stretches his arms. Be prepared to stare until morning. When the wrens wake, they will dart through his body until it is riddled with holes. What remains will lift like fog, burnt off by a trepid sun.
were my father alive
green shoots
pierce snow
We suspect by the end of the first sentence that this might not be the territory of ordinary life. Once we've read the second we are in no doubt. The world Humphrey creates is both ethereal and violent: 'apparitions' and the cutting away of ears and tongues. We know this is imagined or dreamt yet we suspend disbelief because so much of this world is like our own: a pocketknife, a study drawer, wooden floors, bourbon, a fire, a dog, a door onto a porch, snow, a yard, wrens and fog. They are so familiar they provide a platform that persuades us to accept the fantasy. But, at the same time, because we know it isn't real we can't help but try and work out what these images and actions might symbolise.

To 'disassemble' means to take apart or dismantle, and we often do that to machinery to repair or to understand its workings so there's a sense here that the father's ghost is being disassembled in an attempt to come to terms with his death and even the man he used to be. The emotional tone of the haibun is mixed: the epigraph talks about us suffering 'each other' and the physical violence committed on the ghost prevents hearing/understanding, speech, and perhaps even the capacity to love with the destruction of the heart. Yet the violence is softened by the father's smile, by the childlike image of skipping stones, the 'cloud-like chest', the snow, the darting wrens and the fog. Somehow this makes sense. Grief is rarely one dimensional, rarely black and white; our relationships with parents can be complex and confusing too so the juxtaposition of imagery, the way the language shifts us between violence and softness, anger and compassion, dislike and relief, is entirely convincing.

***
Using language as a vehicle suggests some sense of movement, a way of transporting the reader towards thought and feeling. I recently came across the following words by American poet, Mary Oliver: 'Attention without feeling, I began to learn, is only a report.'8 Reports can be interesting, even alarming, for their factual content but they rarely move us. For me, Mary Oliver's idea of 'feeling' comes from the human element of a story, and a writer's honest emotional and intellectual engagement with the world, whether that's animal, vegetable or mineral.

But honesty is hard-earned by writers. It requires us to question ourselves, what we think we believe, our aims and intentions, and whether what we have to say is worth sharing. We need to go deeper into ourselves and deeper into the language at our disposal to do the best we possibly can. 



Footnotes:
1. Modern Haiku Press 2003 pp.121-122
2. Burroway, Janet, Writing Fiction, A Guide to Narrative Craft, Longman 2000
3. Kramer, Mark & Call, Wendy, eds, Telling True Stories, A Nonfiction Writers' Guide, Plume 2007
4. First published in cho vol 8 no 2
5. I've assumed daughter, as opposed to son, because of the autobiographical tone of the haibun. But the narrator could as easily be a man.
6. First published in cho vol 10 no 4
7. First published in cho vol 10 no 2
8. Our World, Beacon Press 2010

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Contemporary Haibun Online 11.1

Enjoy the April 2015 issue of CHO which includes:

  • Featured writer: Harriot West
  • The winning haibun in the 2014 Jerry Kilbride Memorial English Language Haibun Contest 
  • An interview with Ray Rasmussen
  • Lynne Rees tackling language choices in her essay exploring 'Theme and Meaning in Haibun'

And of course a selection of outstanding contemporary English language haibun from writers across the globe.

Here's a little taster from contributor, Lynn Edge.

Rancher's Wife

My husband can barely walk, but he goes out and checks his cows every day even though he's down to only fourteen head. He hopes to drop dead in the pasture. How can one compete with that kind of devotion?

a cow bawl
carries through the mist
almost winter



Contemporary Haibun Online 11.1 April 2015

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

haibun: death, life, life, life, life

death, life, life, life, life

crisp corpses of flies litter the floor of the conservatory, the low window-sills, the table-tennis table, little clichés of death – on their backs with their legs in the air – wings still fanned as if the end came so quickly there was no time or space to measure between flight and fall, the buoyancy of air 

and ground

clover and buttercups bunch across the lawn, new growth on the espaliered cherry trees reaches to a leaf’s length of their neighbours; one of us says, my hair grows so quickly 

in this heat

our daughter complains about her daughter – the scorn in her voice, her tossed head, the moods, the egocentric bounty of an eighteen year old who knows, of course, all there is to know, we know, 

we know

solanum dulcamara between the apple trees – bittersweet, fellenwort, snakeberry, violet bloom, bitter, blue or woody nightshade – easy to mistake for the deadly kind, atropa belladonna, hallucinator, the potion of witches, instrument of seduction, or destruction, the poisoned tips of arrows

red sunset
in the cat's mouth
the vole
fakes its death


Modern Haiku 46.1 Winter/Spring 2015

Sunday, March 08, 2015

tiny words




bonfire smoke
we talk about
our disappointments

Thanks to tiny words
for featuring my haiku on 4th March 2015

Saturday, January 31, 2015

KYSO Flash

Big thanks to Clare McQueen, Founding Editor of the dynamic and inspiring KYSO Flash online journal for publishing a selection of my haibun in the latest issue. There's also a call for submissions for haibun stories for the next two issues in June and November. Read more here.


Stories

once upon a time no one lived happily ever after

Their kids loved the stairs. They’d only lived in ranch-style houses around South Florida before that summer of ’88 when we stayed with them for three months. When we all sat around the table for dinner every night, late into the night, where we laughed and told stories and gave each other Indian names: Walks like Worm, Flies Alone, Lies a Lot.

“The two-storey house,” their kids still say when they talk about it, grown up now, some of them with kids of their own. It had an orange grove to one side, a kidney shaped swimming pool, a giant Melaleuca tree in the front yard. But it was the stairs they loved the most.

At the end of that summer, I heard their mother whispering into the phone behind a closed door at the top of the stairs. “I love you, honey,” she said. Her husband was downstairs watching TV.

When they moved to Georgia they lived in a three-storey house, but they never talk about that or how their mother’s new lover moved into her bedroom on the top floor and their father slept in the basement. The beginning of another story.

First published in KYSO Flash January 2015.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

running haiku

run, expect nothing

after stretching the gate creaks on its hinges

worn tarmac I have forgotten where the joy lies

sand drifts across the pavement I pick up the pace

a wave of pebbles washed up along the shore laughter

the road rises at a blind corner expect nothing

half-way mark the way the sun and the sea dazzle each other

between traffic and the crash of surf the seeds of umbrella pines

in the shade at the water fountain there is nothing sweeter

down-hill the scent of a man who passes me uphill

the yellow stone of the old town across the bay another day

the smell of coffee as I pass the bakery the final push home



Sunday, January 04, 2015

Contemporary Haibun Online: where prose meets haiku poetry (CHO 10.4, January 2015)


The team of Bob Lucky, Lynne Rees and Ray Rasmussen are pleased to announce the release of Contemporary Haibun Online 10.4, January 2015, for your New Year's reading pleasure: a stimulating assortment of haibun, tanka prose, articles, commentary, and haibun news.

Contributors include Mary Frederick Ahearn, Jose Araguz, Ludmila Balabanova,  Shelly Bryant, Alanna C. Burke, Carolyn Dancy, Marcyn Del Clements, Angelee Deodhar, Claire Everett, Ian Felton, James Fowler, Terri French, Ferris Gilli, Bill Gottlieb, Autumn Noelle Hall, Leslie Ihde, Kasturi Jadhav, Alexander Jankiewicz, Ryan Jessup, Roger D. Jones, Tricia Knoll, Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy, Chen-ou Liu, Doris Lynch, Fran Masat, Jonathan McKeown, Tom Painting, Marianne Paul, Ray Rasmussen, Jackie Maugh Robinson, Melissa Watkins Starr, Jeff Streeby, Frank J. Tassone, Paresh Tiwari, Pat Tompkins, Diana Webb, and J. Zimmerman

The Featured Writer this issue is Jim Kacian, and J. Zimmerman reviews A Japanese Perspective on the Haibun: The Same Moon Each Night A Different Moon.

And there’s more. There’s always more.

Writers are invited to submit haibun and tanka prose during the next reading cycle (15 January – 28 February 2015) for consideration for the April 2015 issue of CHO. Please consult our Submissions Page and Editors' Guidelines

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Workplace haiku

The Financial Times' workplace haiku competition is in its fourth week (of ten). Last week's theme - balancing work and home-life - netted me a runner-up place:

weekend overtime
the kids all smiling at me
from a photoframe

The discipline of a theme and deadline are proving good for my haiku writing: even if it's just an hour or so each week spent scribbling words and ideas.

Wednesday, October 01, 2014

Haibun Today

Dream Date

It's not going to work between me and Gerard Butler despite the way he hugs me, rocks me with his enthusiasm, his smile. Even though he turns away his ex-girlfriend who turns up in a gold lamé negligee. Even though he has a male assistant called Mitzi with a bald head.

He has four dogs. He feeds them on broken biscuits and crackers. His house is a warren of tunnels and secret doors. And the forest fire is getting closer, flames wrapping the hillside, running down towards the edge of the lake, which may save us, or may not. His father was Spanish, he says quietly as we leave the house with only a picnic basket.


Kind of Blue
believing I loved him
and all that fucking jazz



Haibun Today
Volume 8, Number 3, September 2014