The form clearly has great appeal for writers in English. This despite the obvious problems. The main one of course is stress. Japanese, according to G.S.Fraser[1], is unstressed. English can’t avoid being stressed. So simply counting syllables is not enough. It seems we have to take as much account of stress patterns in writing haiku as in writing any other kind of poem, even though the condensed form makes this more of a challenge.
By the way, I recently had the experience of digging out the notes for a poem called ‘The Allegri String Quartet at Fishguard Festival’[2], to do a display showing the writing process. To my surprise I found that I had used a syllable count (nine per line) to organise the poem. (This, to my embarrassment, after telling one or two fellow poets that I thought such an exercise was a waste of time!) The poem nevertheless has five definite beats to the line, though I think the rhythm is different from the usual iambic pentameter, no doubt because of the constraint of syllabics.
Fraser notes that in writing haiku Japanese poets ‘makes no overt comment’, and that they’re seasonal poems. So a lot of the 5-7-5 three-liners I’ve written aren’t really haiku. This doesn’t bother me at all: the form is such a satisfying way to deal with stuff. The only problem is what to call the little beasts. At one time I thought of using the word ‘traplets’—a heavy-handed pun on ‘triplets’ and the idea of a trapping an elusive thought. But I’ve gone back to calling them haiku . . . or rather, to overcome my misgivings, pseudo-haiku. Here are some, with the aforesaid misgivings.
The sea is making/love to each dark mound of rock,/coming with white foam.
Too clunky a metaphor, betraying the poet’s presence?
One thing about death:/you don’t have to clean your teeth/or the kitchen floor.
Hmm. Definitely not seasonal, and the comment much too overt.
‘Love your enemy.’/‘Whyja kill Bin Laden, bud?’/‘What we call tough love.’
Even worse . . . but I was very happy to nail a satirical thought.
Driving through Carlisle/we saw posters Shop at Binn’s./Dad said, ‘Cats do that.’
Is this close, even though not seasonal? Anyway, it’s one of my favourites.
The sheep have been shorn/and the wind is everywhere./‘Bare,’ they chorus, ‘Bare!’
Even closer?
Now the blade of dawn/laid along the eastern hills/peels away the dark.
No, no, more self-conscious metaphor . . . And finally
At Mum’s funeral/Reverend read her CV/for a job in heaven.
This goes down well at readings. But no way is it a haiku.
Do the stresses in all the above fall musically? (I haven’t marked them.) I’ve done my best. What do you think?
Finally, in this short passage in a short story called ‘The Now-and-then Dog’, Ruth’s cousin Leonard is talking about haiku.
‘I’ve realised how they often treat the last line. Almost like the caption to a picture.’
Ruth said, ‘Give me examples.’
‘Okay. Last lines from three haiku: “The summer moon.” “The fireflies.” “The willow in the garden.” None of those lines quite belongs to the previous two.’
Ruth studied her cousin’s profile, his intense expression. She smiled.
‘Are the poets saying, “Yeah, okay, there’s that, but also—hey, look at this”?’
‘Exactly.’
[1] Fraser, G.S., Metre, Rhyme, and Free Verse (Methuen, 1970)
[2] Published in Stand magazine, March 1999.