The World is a Single Flower by aghori

Tethered horse;
snow
in both stirrups.

Simple and beautiful, Haiku is a much-misunderstood form of poetry to the western mind. When reading the opening poem, most people will see the horse, and recognize that the scene is winter, but few will move beyond this. In fact, this poem written by Yosa Buson (1717-1783) is a Buddhist metaphor commenting on the nature of suffering and human existence. In Japanese, snow, “Yuki” implies an exposure to the elements and is a comment on our mortal bareness, the fact that we are all sooner or later exposed to death, and the horse’s tether is a symbol of attachment, the root of suffering in Buddhism. It is understandable that a reader unfamiliar with Japanese language or poetry will miss these connections, as we are not commonly taught to look into words like “snow” and search for deeper meaning unless instructed to do so. This does not mean that Haiku is not for everyone! Even the simple image is pleasing and can conjure a wider picture to a western reader, almost like a Polaroid found on the street. Without context it is meaningless, but can nevertheless cause us to paint a picture of this unknown person or place in our heads.

The essence of Haiku is the capture of a single moment or scene in the most precise way possible, in common speech. Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), often credited with being the father of modern Haiku, said it best when advising his students to “Prefer vegetable broth to duck soup.” There are many rules one is supposed to follow when creating a “true” haiku, syllable count, seasonal and natural references being the most commonly known. Counts and meters do not matter as much as the moment itself, and many a good Haiku has been placed in an early grave by being over worked into what is commonly called “desk-ku” or the not so fine art of writing revisionist poetry and calling it a Haiku when it meets with ones satisfaction. When writing Haiku, whether following the rules or not, a good guideline is “First thought best thought, always”.

The traditional 5-7-5 syllable structure is deeply rooted in Japanese grammar, and in the 1950’s when Haiku became popular as a form of poetry in the United States, it was the traditional form that was adopted. It is now generally accepted that it is possible to convey much more information in 17 English syllables than in 17 Japanese, and that 11 English syllables are the equivalent “word weight”. In response American poets have developed a 3-5-3 pattern that has become the standard for “proper” English Haiku. While rigid structuring can be accomplished in 5-7-5 Haiku with relative ease due to a greater degree of freedom provided by the extra syllables, such structuring in shorter Haiku often has the effect of imposing much more stringent rules on English Haiku than on Japanese Haiku, thereby severely limiting its potential.

I would like to share one of my compositions, in a form called a min-ku, typically expressed in 3 one-word lines, which was inspired by my attempts to sew:
Prick!
red
beads.
This, to me is Haiku, but it obeys none of the traditional rules or forms. There is no seasonal or Buddhist metaphor, no nature references and the whole thing is at least 10 syllables to short! However, the language is simple, all the fat is cut away, there is nothing but the moment and the observation there of. Haiku is just as much about what is not there, as what is.

It is sometimes asked, "Is this a Haiku?" but I feel the real question should be, "Do I want to accept this poem as Haiku for myself?”. The necessity of asking this question becomes more important when we realize that we are responsible for what Haiku is; and what it is becoming. By writing, we define form. When separating yourself from “proper” form, you have an even greater responsibility to make sure people see the finest work you can do in your style. Someday someone may be inspired to work harder with the same rules you have taken up for yourself.