Many introductions to haiku attempt to
define it, in terms of content, tone or spirit. But the haiku has
been too many things to too many people over the centuries for any
such definition to hold true, and the story of haiku is as yet
unfinished, so we must also leave possibilities open for the future.
The following is an explanation of several of the basic, essential
features and principles of haiku, intended as a guide for those
unfamiliar with the genre, both for reading/appreciating the haiku as
well as beginning to write them.
Image:
The most basic building block of haiku is an image. Some have called this a “haiku moment,” or an “aha!” but it can also be a mental picture, a sound, smell or even an idiomatic expression, song or piece of art—it is a conceptual spark that stops you, pulls you out of your day-to-day routine and grabs your attention. In such a short form, there needs to be something for the reader to hold on to immediately and generally, and this tends to be a strong image and striking choice of words. Writing haiku regularly can become a practice of mindfulness, noticing the little moments in life that one otherwise would discard. Keeping a notepad with you to write these moments down is the first step in writing haiku. These details themselves are sometimes used as haiku on their own, if there is some level of insight in the moment captured, but usually they need a larger context to really “pop” as haiku. The most basic kind of haiku is just a description of a single image or moment from everyday life:
五月雨に鶴の足短くなれり
the crane's leg
has gotten shorter
in the heavy rain
Bashō
This is a single image, “uncut” haiku. It has no classical kireji (cutting word), though the “fifth month rains” that I have translated as “heavy rain” is a kigo (seasonal reference). Such unadorned, simple, straight out of life haiku would later come to be called “shasei.” which means “sketch of life.” This poem is not quite as plain and simple as it seems in English, however, for the rhythmic count is 5-5-7, instead of the expected 5-7-5—the middle “leg” of the haiku has been shortened, just as the crane's. Often, haiku seem much simpler in translation than the actual language of the original poem, which is often full of archaic spellings, elevated literary language and allusions to previous poems.
Fragment/Phrase:
Most haiku follow a two part structure, the technical terms for the two parts are “superposed section” and “base section,” but they are also commonly called fragment and phrase. I don't like that terminology, because the “phrase” is often a sentence fragment, and the “fragment” is usually a single image, and I see them as being more independent and complete. For our purposes in this essay, I'll call them the foil and the base, for the foil reflects and illuminates the base section, allowing us to find deeper meaning, and the base forms the substrate of the poem, the soil from which our understanding grows.
古池や蛙飛びこむ水の音
old pond.
a tree frog jumps in
the sound of water
Bashō
Bashō and his disciples would find a good base section then start working through foils, choosing the one that most fully fit the particular puzzle piece of the base section, unlocking its essence. In that sense, haiku can be artificial and not based on the initial moment that inspired the poem. You start with a moment or observation, but then you choose the foil that best reflects the deeper meaning of your insight. Earlier versions of this poem had elegant images like “mountain rose,” but Bashō chose an old, dilapidated pond. The base section in classic haiku often has some kind of mix of elegant imagery and the worn, the common or the strange. Here, the tiny tree frog known for its delightful call is not heard singing (as it would be in an elegant tanka) but slipping into the pond; there is only “the sound of water,” an innovative shift away from reader expectation. The base draws the reader in through some kind of playfulness, abnormality or obscurity, while the foil gives clues to the meaning or emotional subtext of the base.
Kigo:
蛸壺やはかなき夢を夏の月
octopus trap—
these fleeting dreams
the summer moon
Bashō
About 70% of modern Japanese haiku have kigo. In Japan there are some that say that without kigo, a poem is not haiku. Kigo are not just about season though, they have emotional subtexts in the way they refer to previous poems and evoke set associations. Thus, they are a kind of symbolism, in a sense, something beyond nature and simple realism. Oftentimes, the traditional use of a kigo will be twisted ironically, which will add a humorous element to the haiku. Here, fleeting dreams and the summer moon are the language of love poetry, the insinuation is that the octopus is having dreams of love, unaware he will be hauled up by the fisherman in the morning. Perhaps love is the tender trap.
winter moon
the name only he
knows me by
Carolyn Hall
In English language haiku, because we can't import an entire culture's worth of this kind of symbolism, and trying to do so can sound forced and perhaps even culturally insensitive if done in a heavy handed manner, many have opted for a more generic seasonal references or merely a natural image. Whatever it is you chose to replace kigo with, it should have some depth to it. It's not just two things you coincidentally saw together in a real moment. There is a kernel of truth and real experience at the heart of the haiku, but in terms of craft, one must choose details carefully in a way that they say something about the rest of the poem on a deeper level. That's the best way to approach finding a proper substitute for the use of kigo, whether it is a reference to other art or poetry, a natural image or a seasonal reference, it is used to convey emotion and meaning indirectly, through fraught language. Here, there isn't any direct metaphorical tie between base and foil, and yet when placed together, there is a deepening of feeling and we sense that the winter moon has a wistful melancholy that fits the haiku.
Kireji:
雪とけて村一杯の子供かな
snow melt,
the village teems
with children
Issa
In Japanese, classical kireji (cutting words) help mark and isolate significant words or images, and can add emotional shading and depth. Sometimes they come at the end and create a sense of the poem being unfinished, leading the reader outside the poem, or they simply lend a classical elegance and emotive tone. Other times, they are used to separate the foil and base sections. In the sense that they have a rhythmic component, they can't be translated into English, but they often function like our normal punctuation, or else as some kind of emphatic expression. Fortunately, they don't occur in every single haiku, and they aren't entirely necessary in creating a true “cut,” which is the actual sense of separation between the foil and base, inviting the reader to step into the poem and figure it out.
In the poem above, the kireji is the final word, kana, which is used when the speaker wants to add a musing, emotive tone, but doesn't want to explicate exactly how they feel. We are supposed to decide how we feel about the poem ourselves. Issa's children all died young, perhaps this village full of children brings joy to his heart, or sadness, but most likely it is a mixture of both. What point in his life the haiku was written in would tell us more, but the “kana” allows us freedom to put our own emotions into it. So here, the kireji adds emotional weight without spelling everything out, and isn't involved directly in any separation of the sections.
Image:
The most basic building block of haiku is an image. Some have called this a “haiku moment,” or an “aha!” but it can also be a mental picture, a sound, smell or even an idiomatic expression, song or piece of art—it is a conceptual spark that stops you, pulls you out of your day-to-day routine and grabs your attention. In such a short form, there needs to be something for the reader to hold on to immediately and generally, and this tends to be a strong image and striking choice of words. Writing haiku regularly can become a practice of mindfulness, noticing the little moments in life that one otherwise would discard. Keeping a notepad with you to write these moments down is the first step in writing haiku. These details themselves are sometimes used as haiku on their own, if there is some level of insight in the moment captured, but usually they need a larger context to really “pop” as haiku. The most basic kind of haiku is just a description of a single image or moment from everyday life:
五月雨に鶴の足短くなれり
the crane's leg
has gotten shorter
in the heavy rain
Bashō
This is a single image, “uncut” haiku. It has no classical kireji (cutting word), though the “fifth month rains” that I have translated as “heavy rain” is a kigo (seasonal reference). Such unadorned, simple, straight out of life haiku would later come to be called “shasei.” which means “sketch of life.” This poem is not quite as plain and simple as it seems in English, however, for the rhythmic count is 5-5-7, instead of the expected 5-7-5—the middle “leg” of the haiku has been shortened, just as the crane's. Often, haiku seem much simpler in translation than the actual language of the original poem, which is often full of archaic spellings, elevated literary language and allusions to previous poems.
Fragment/Phrase:
Most haiku follow a two part structure, the technical terms for the two parts are “superposed section” and “base section,” but they are also commonly called fragment and phrase. I don't like that terminology, because the “phrase” is often a sentence fragment, and the “fragment” is usually a single image, and I see them as being more independent and complete. For our purposes in this essay, I'll call them the foil and the base, for the foil reflects and illuminates the base section, allowing us to find deeper meaning, and the base forms the substrate of the poem, the soil from which our understanding grows.
古池や蛙飛びこむ水の音
old pond.
a tree frog jumps in
the sound of water
Bashō
Bashō and his disciples would find a good base section then start working through foils, choosing the one that most fully fit the particular puzzle piece of the base section, unlocking its essence. In that sense, haiku can be artificial and not based on the initial moment that inspired the poem. You start with a moment or observation, but then you choose the foil that best reflects the deeper meaning of your insight. Earlier versions of this poem had elegant images like “mountain rose,” but Bashō chose an old, dilapidated pond. The base section in classic haiku often has some kind of mix of elegant imagery and the worn, the common or the strange. Here, the tiny tree frog known for its delightful call is not heard singing (as it would be in an elegant tanka) but slipping into the pond; there is only “the sound of water,” an innovative shift away from reader expectation. The base draws the reader in through some kind of playfulness, abnormality or obscurity, while the foil gives clues to the meaning or emotional subtext of the base.
Kigo:
蛸壺やはかなき夢を夏の月
octopus trap—
these fleeting dreams
the summer moon
Bashō
About 70% of modern Japanese haiku have kigo. In Japan there are some that say that without kigo, a poem is not haiku. Kigo are not just about season though, they have emotional subtexts in the way they refer to previous poems and evoke set associations. Thus, they are a kind of symbolism, in a sense, something beyond nature and simple realism. Oftentimes, the traditional use of a kigo will be twisted ironically, which will add a humorous element to the haiku. Here, fleeting dreams and the summer moon are the language of love poetry, the insinuation is that the octopus is having dreams of love, unaware he will be hauled up by the fisherman in the morning. Perhaps love is the tender trap.
winter moon
the name only he
knows me by
Carolyn Hall
In English language haiku, because we can't import an entire culture's worth of this kind of symbolism, and trying to do so can sound forced and perhaps even culturally insensitive if done in a heavy handed manner, many have opted for a more generic seasonal references or merely a natural image. Whatever it is you chose to replace kigo with, it should have some depth to it. It's not just two things you coincidentally saw together in a real moment. There is a kernel of truth and real experience at the heart of the haiku, but in terms of craft, one must choose details carefully in a way that they say something about the rest of the poem on a deeper level. That's the best way to approach finding a proper substitute for the use of kigo, whether it is a reference to other art or poetry, a natural image or a seasonal reference, it is used to convey emotion and meaning indirectly, through fraught language. Here, there isn't any direct metaphorical tie between base and foil, and yet when placed together, there is a deepening of feeling and we sense that the winter moon has a wistful melancholy that fits the haiku.
Kireji:
雪とけて村一杯の子供かな
snow melt,
the village teems
with children
Issa
In Japanese, classical kireji (cutting words) help mark and isolate significant words or images, and can add emotional shading and depth. Sometimes they come at the end and create a sense of the poem being unfinished, leading the reader outside the poem, or they simply lend a classical elegance and emotive tone. Other times, they are used to separate the foil and base sections. In the sense that they have a rhythmic component, they can't be translated into English, but they often function like our normal punctuation, or else as some kind of emphatic expression. Fortunately, they don't occur in every single haiku, and they aren't entirely necessary in creating a true “cut,” which is the actual sense of separation between the foil and base, inviting the reader to step into the poem and figure it out.
In the poem above, the kireji is the final word, kana, which is used when the speaker wants to add a musing, emotive tone, but doesn't want to explicate exactly how they feel. We are supposed to decide how we feel about the poem ourselves. Issa's children all died young, perhaps this village full of children brings joy to his heart, or sadness, but most likely it is a mixture of both. What point in his life the haiku was written in would tell us more, but the “kana” allows us freedom to put our own emotions into it. So here, the kireji adds emotional weight without spelling everything out, and isn't involved directly in any separation of the sections.
Cut:
In the previous haiku by Issa, the actual cut, which I have signified by a comma, is not created by a classical kireji. Bashō made it clear that formal kireji were not necessary for cutting—for the actual separation of base and foil—so in English we can use whatever means we want to create a cut, and still be none the poorer. We don't need kireji to emulate the cut in a haiku.
half autumn color. Come take my hand in the ghost land and
David Boyer
In this single line haiku, Boyer has used a period to perform a strong cut, but he has also added a trailing off and incompleteness, showing two of the ways we can emulate both the use of cutting and the function of kireji in English, even without the aid of line breaks, like Issa's ku, this has both a cut that separates two ideas as well as a break with an emotive sense of discompletion and lack of closure, which invites the reader into the poem.
Juxtaposition:
Once cut, a haiku has two elements next to each other. The way they connect and interact is the most delightful aspect of haiku and makes it unique as a poetry. The most natural and easy type of haiku simply puts two similar things side to side, making a thinly veiled metaphor, as in these two haiku, which make similar comparisons.
花の顔に晴れうてしてや朧月
the flower
makes a shy face—
misty moon
Bashō
Here the comparisons are obvious and logical. While the ideas are technically separated by a cut, we can immediately connect the dots. The base section with the flower on its own might be slightly enigmatic, but the foil seamlessly ties into the base and explicates its meaning, there is a slight tension, and then release.
朧夜や顔に似合ぬ恋もあらん
a night of moonlit mist—
I should think that odd faces
must find love, too
Sōseki
In this second haiku, from the modern era, the distance in connection is slightly greater and sets a more pensive, psychological tone. Notice, here the foil comes first, introducing a reflective and mysterious tone, with the combination of moonlight and rain giving a slight hint of the supernatural or an otherwordly undertone, an association utilized in the ugetsu monotagari (Tales of Moonlight and Rain), a collection of ghost stories from the Edo Period, where love liaisons between humans and snake demons or departed ghosts are not uncommon. The connection between halves here is less direct, but still relies on the juxtaposition of two similar images or ideas that deepen each other through context.
Contrast:
Haiku can also have an ironic contrast or surprise, utilizing incongruities to create a humorous or pathos filled haiku.
愚に暗く茨を掴む蛍かな
a fool in the dark,
I snatch a bramble—
firefly
Bashō
A touch of comedy softens the nasty surprise awaiting Bashō in the darkness, here the firefly both explains the circumstances of the base section and provides contrast through the elegant, classical image of a summer firefly hunt and the stab of a thorn.
狼に蛍がひとつ付いていた
a single firefly
stuck on the fur
of the wolf
Tōta
Similarly, this modern Japanese haiku also makes a contrast with the delicate firefly, though here we see that what is essentially a single image haiku, without any classical kireji, can still exhibit a sense of base and foil through two contrasting elements.
Blending, Fusion and Pivot:
Blending is a technique used extensively in contemporary English haiku. Whereas punctuation or line breaks are often needed to create a sense of clear cutting, the recent tendency toward single line haiku with no punctuation opens of the possibility of one idea running into the other and the two blending together into a single compound image.
I look up
from writing
to daylight.
William J. Higginson
Here the grammatically correct sentence nevertheless is structured to shift into a paradoxical frame, the final line surprises our expectations and makes us go back to the beginning, realizing the implication of the ending, but otherwise the poem is seamless, without any clear caesura.
fossilence
Nick Virgilio
Blending turns into fusion when the poem makes an odd image pair sound connected by placing them side by side, or even by making a compound word of two separate concepts as in this single “poem-word” by Nick Virgilio.
leftover moon whitening the surrender of camellias
Cherie Hunter Day
Somewhat in between these two is a pivot, a technique used in Japanese, but also popular in one line haiku in English. Here, the word “whitening” can be seen as a transitive or intransitive verb, depending on whether we assume the moon is itself becoming more white, or if it is an agent that is “whitening the surrender of camellias.” The poem can be read with a cut, or as a single line. Other pivots can be read as two different parts, but with a single word both serving as both the end of one section and the beginning of the other.
Blending, fusion, and pivoting all exploit language in a paradoxical way, creating multiple readings that challenge the reader and deepen the suggestive power of the poem.
White Space and Misreading as Meaning:
In the absence of the symbolic and highly referential use of kigo in Japanese, English-language haiku has become a poetry of ambiguity or indeterminacy. Whereas, usually an astute reader can solve the puzzle of a traditional Japanese haiku by tapping into the traditional associations behind each image, in English, reading a haiku is more of an interpretive act of creation on the part of the reader. “White space,” and “misreading as meaning”are two oft used phrases that describe the manner in which the reader uses a haiku as a starting place and creates their own meaning through free association. Certain modern Japanese haiku adopt a more subjective and individualist stance, becoming more obscure and less tied to tradition, but these techniques are of primary importance to English language haiku.
pussy willow the phial of expired wishes
Alan Summers
Here, there are no explicit answers. We cannot rely on a set implication of “pussy willow” from a tradition of kigo to explain the undertones it provides, perhaps they have been cut and the catkins have died and dried as decorations, never to flower, but even then, “phial of expired wishes” is an evocative phrase that is much more than simply some buds that will never blossom—we are invited to explore the “white space” of what feelings pussy willows inspire in our own hearts, and what dried up wishes and stale desires they might contain.
just a touch of deer within tall things that just grow
Marlene Mountain
This haiku can almost only be “misread,” depending on how one tries to find a cut, the sense of meaning is slippery and we are left guessing intent—the poem splits and shifts into several different clusters of evocative phrases and images, and any sense we derive from it comes from an intuitive, creative act of discovery rather than pure, deductive reasoning.
Disjunction:
Without some kind of incongruity or aberration (generally found within the base section or at the point of juncture between the two parts) a poem as short as the haiku flies by and can have little lasting effect upon the reader. A common mistake for beginning haiku poets is to simply describe a scene or feeling. This might be vaguely pleasant, but it will immediately be forgotten and the reader will quickly move on to the next haiku. That's not to say these brief sketches aren't worth writing for practice, and some are even worth sharing or publishing. But generally, they make a good base section that remains in need of a foil. Leaving ambiguity or creating paradox draws the reader in to the world of the poem.
my fingerprints
on the dragonfly
in amber
Jim Kacian
This haiku inspired the title of Richard Gilbert's The Disjunctive Dragonfly, a book length exploration of the topic of disjunction. Like Tōta's firefly on a wolf, this is a single image, uncut haiku that nevertheless creates a layering and blending of ideas, exploiting many of the techniques explored in this essay.
Conclusion:
Variety in haiku is important, and simple poems compliment the complex. But the best haiku have to be read twice: the reader begins, becomes disoriented, then re-orients to find meaning and is satisfied with the insight they've gained. This is the true "aha!" Haiku can have a simple twist that quickly brings a smile of recognition to the reader's face, or be a labyrinth one can wander in meditation again and again, finding new possibilities or implications with every read. But any haiku should require at least some level of thought and searching for hidden significance on the part of the reader or risk being forgotten immediately. The best haiku create a palpable sense of place and presence, the microcosm in a single breath—they open doors to a space in our conscious mind that is more real and immediate than much of our everyday lives.
i can't find the time destroyed by the past
Marlene Mountain
