EN340
/ IN350 Global Haiku Tradition
Dr. Randy Brooks
Spring 2003 |
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The
Haiku Guru
by
Brindin
Hill
Close
your eyes . . . take four deep breaths and let yourself relax.
Now, slowly open your eyes and let them fall gently onto the
page. Inhale one last time, and read the haiku aloud. Pause
for a moment and allow the words to sink slowly into your
mind. Visualize the poem with clarity and it will come alive
inside of you. This is the essence of haiku: live the poem.
You are not simply reading about the experiences of another . . . you
are living and experiencing a specific moment for yourself.
Now
that you have a sense of the art of haiku from the reader's
perspective, let's examine the creative process that leads
up to such a relaxing and meditative experience. Since different
authors have differing approaches to the composition of haiku,
I will simply give one example of this creative process . . . my
own. We will explore my compositional approach by asking one
simple question: what is it that creates my best and most
effective haiku?
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Most
of my highest quality and most effective haiku stem from
personal or real experiences of my own. Although I have
attempted to write from imagined experience in the past,
I have found that such attempts fail to convey a deeper
sense of understanding that only actual life experience
can provide for the poem. Additionally, when writing from
real life experience, I approach my haiku in two different
ways. I either write directly from immediate experience
or from my memories, translating them into a specific, concrete
moment.
Often
when I experience the world, I try to view it through
the eyes of a haiku poet—eyes that are much more
attuned to the beauty and significance that can be found
in the everyday events of life. When I recognize such
moments, I immediately run to a pice of paper and record
the event so that others mights share the appreciation
of that same simple, everyday moment in a deeper and more
meaningful way. For instance:
folding
laundry
among lacy underwear
. . . gray boxer briefs
Such
moments as these move me to write haiku, because they
capture an emotional significance in an everyday event
that would have gone unnoticed had I not been viewing
the world with my haiku eyes. Therefore, I do not just
write haiku . . . I live it.
The
second way in which I write my haiku is by taking a memory
of a specific moment or emotion and translating it into
a moment of immediate perception that will allow my readers
to experience my memory as their own. For example:
scent
of lilacs
sticky red fingers clasp
fresh raspberries
This
poem is one that is written from a childhood memory of
mine. In the summer, my mother and father would buy us
raspberries, and my sisters and I would sit out next to
our flower garden and eat as many as we could as fast
as we could. By capturing such a memory in the form of
a specific moment of immediate perception, I allow my
readers to appreciate the memory as much as I do and to
clearly envision themselves in the same situation.
When
writing from personal experience, however, something that
I always keep in mind is the need to write more objectively
than I would sometimes like to. In order to allow my readers
to fully experience the poem in terms of living through
it themselves, I find that the best technique is to completely
remove myself from the haiku. Even though I am writing
about moments of my own experience, I take the position
of an objective viewer . . . simply
reporting an event exactly as it is occurring. For instance:
syrupy
kisses
another pancake
poured on the griddle
Although
I wrote this poem from a memory of a breakfast that my
fiancé and I shared, I completely removed myself
from the action. Rather than talking about how his lips
were syrupy as they touched mine, I referred only to the
sensation of sticky lips and the action involved in making
the breakfast. This removal of myself from my poetry allows
readers to focus more on the involvement of their own
senses, perceptions, and images.
When
I do occasionally leave a small trace of myself in the
poem through the use of personal pronouns, however, I
am always careful to be sure that I am not stressing my
involvement. I try to focus the reader's attention on
the shaping of the outer scene so that when they come
across the use of the personal pronoun, they will feel
almost as though that pronoun refers to them. For example:
trembling
lips
the deep blue waves
caress our toes
By
beginning this poem with two objective images that involve
the readers' senses, by the time the readers reach the
word "our" they will have already adopted the
poem as their own experience and will simply imagine themselves
as saying "our," and imagine that they are sitting
with a loved one or a friend and watching the waves caress
their toes as their lips tremble due to the icy water.
In
this collection, I have included only what I consider
to be the best of my haiku efforts, and I hope that you
will enjoy exploring my world. Take my experiences and
make them your own. Read each poem aloud and slowly . . . but
before you begin, close your eyes. Take four deep breaths . . . relax.
Now slowly open your eyes and let them fall gently on
the page. Inhale one last time and completely clear your
mind . . . now you are ready to read
my haiku. Enjoy!
—Bri
Hill
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faded
footprints
moonlight swims
over the pulsing waves
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starless
night
a quiet lullaby
mingles with the shadows
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fiery
sky
shadow slowly devours
the red earth
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untamed
river . . .
its own
path
carved
deeply
in
solid
ground.
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feverish
kisses
a playful raindrop
tickles my cheek
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shower
of beads
the drunken man fumbles
with his zipper
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empty
parking lot
the sun rises
on a sea of plastic cups
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"That's
bullshit!" Her
one and only proclamation
of the evening hangs heavily
in the air and echoes in
the silence of the crowded
room. A tear silently slides
down her mother's cheek.
Her father, brow furrowed,
clasps his hands together
in order to prevent himself
from striking her. She stands
now, a woman, with fists
clenched and eyes ablaze,
preparing to attack. Beneath
the fiery surface of her
eyes, however, lies a young
child . . . a child afraid
to love, to hope, to laugh,
to play . . . a child captured
in the body of a woman who
trusts no one, loves no
one, and suffers. I recall
a time that she once let
down her guard and reached
out to me; she wanted nothing
more than to hold and to
be held. Throwing her tiny
arms around my neck, she
clung to me and cried. I
had never seen her cry before,
so I held her tightly and
stared at her long, brown
hair as it framed her round
cheeks and vulnerable, green
eyes. When she slowly raised
her head and met my gaze,
however, she quickly let
me go and slipped out of
the room without a word.
I haven't touched her since.
She now wears a mask of
angry green eyes and tousled
brown hair framing fiery
red cheeks. Even her speech
wears a mask. "That's
bullshit," she mutters
again, "just bullshit."
firefly
jar
tiny wings beat
against the glass
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white
horizon
. . . another snowflake
makes a home in my hair
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steaming
soup
small fingers numb
from the snowball fight
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white
comforter
she presses her palm
against cold glass
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wet
toes
distant thunder drowning
our whispered words
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chocolate
crumbs
on her pillowcase
. . . evidence
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scent
of lilacs
sticky red fingers clasp
fresh raspberries
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cold
tile
a barefoot waltz
on the kitchen floor
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stifled
laughter
another paint chip
quietly lands in her hair
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Toes
dangling over the edge of
the canyon, the gentle breeze
tickles my face as a drop
of sweat slowly creeps down
my back, carving its path
between my shoulder blades.
Exhausted from the hike,
I sigh deeply, inhaling
the scent of red clay and
dust. A miniature
tree, over one thousand
feet below me, clings to
the canyon wall with its
tiny roots, as if terrified
of losing its grip and crashing
into the river below.
Faintly in the distance,
the rush of water sings
a lullaby to the sun as
it quietly descends behind
a wall of red earth.
A chill night wind replaces
the warmth of the desert
sun, and a shiver tiptoes
up my spine. As the
dark of night slowly devours
the beauty of the canyon,
the rushing sound of the
river seems to grow louder,
and I pull my toes away
from the edge, tucking them
beneath me for warmth.
old
wooden staff
the traveler's home
. . . on his back
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wooden
path
a tiny lizard
darts across my toe
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night
rain
muddy sneakers slip
on wet grass
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trembling
lips
the
deep
blue
waves
caress
our
toes
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overgrown
path
the sun dips
below the horizon
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hushed
conversations
twenty
flames
dance
over
chocolate
icing
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old
minister—
weathered fingers grip
her wooden cane
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swollen
eyes
my
t-shirt
still
stained
with
his
tears
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steaming
rice
sticky fingers
roll the sushi
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in
a
sea
of
blankets
my
hand
dives
for
your
skin
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hauling
my luggage
stranger's hand . . .
on my ass
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Looking
for
escape,
she
runs
eagerly
against
the
pounding
raindrops
and
vicious
wind.
Clothes
plastered
to
her
small
frame,
she
gradually
moves
deeper
into
the
vast
blackness
of
the
night
sky.
Although
the
grass
is
slippery
and
wet
beneath
her
feet,
she
glides
gracefully
over
the
open
field
and
finds
freedom
in
her
solitude.
Suddenly
catching
her
toe
on
the
corner
of
an
invisible
stone,
she
flies
forward
and
finds
herself
disoriented
and
lying
in
a
mudpuddle.
Tears
suddenly
explode
down
her
face
as
though
running
a
race
of
their
own.
Glancing
down
at
her
white
fingers
caked
in
brown
earth,
her
tears
subside
and
she
quietly
begins
to
smile.
Her
smile
turns
into
a
giggle . . . into
gentle
laughter . . . into
shrieks
of
delight.
She
found
her
freedom
beneath
the
night
sky . . . crying
salty
tears
that
mingled
with
the
raindrops
and
flowed
back
to
the
earth . . . the
brown
earth
that
now
covered
her
body.
winding
river
even
the
rapids
lead
to
calm
waters
1st
Place
Haibun
Spring
2003
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Poignant
Playfulness:
A
Reader's
Introduction
by
Ryan
Jones
Every
once
in
a
while,
a
poet
comes
along
that
is
able
to
capture
some
essence
about
life
in
unique
ways,
who
is
able
to
take
common
themes
and
make
them
sing
with
a
new
voice.
Such
a
poet
is
Brindin
Hill.
Her
haiku,
as
appear
in
this
collection,
are
poignant,
funny,
sad,
and
real.
We
are
able
to
relate
with
each
haiku
on
a
personal
level,
as
Bri
takes
the
childlike
wonder
of
our
youth
and
puts
it
forth
in
her
poetry,
capturing
once
more
the
delight
with
which
we
all
once
looked
upon
the
world.
And
her
haiku
exemplify
a
few
Japanese
characteristics-mono
no
aware
and
yubi-which
will
be
discussed
in
this
preface.
Mono
no
aware
means
the
"poignant
beauty
of
things,"
and
Bri's
haiku
certainly
capture
this
feeling.
For
example,
she
writes:
faded
footprints
moonlight
swims
over
the
pulsing
waves
This
haiku
is
beautiful
in
that
it
captures
the
fleeting
essence
of
life.
An
individual
or
a
couple
is
swimming
in
this
haiku,
but
their
footprints
have
been
battered
by
the
waves
and
wind.
While
the
swimming
shows
a
communion
with
nature
and
wonder
at
the
sea
and
the
moon,
the
footprints
show
the
past,
the
temporary
reality
of
living,
that
we
too
will
be
washed
away
eventually,
no
matter
how
young
and
alive
we
might
feel.
This
is
mono
no
aware.
But
Bri's
real
gift
is
her
child-like
haiku.
Often,
we
feel
that
we
are
experiencing
the
situation
described
as
an
older
sibling
or
friend
with
a
small
child
who
still
may
not
have
learned
all
the
social
graces
but
seems
to
not
be
concerned
at
all
about
such
grown-up
traits.
An
example
is
scent
of
lilacs
sticky
red
fingers
clasp
fresh
raspberries
I
think
that
Bri's
favorite
word
is
"sticky,"
as
it
is
in
several
of
her
haiku
about
children.
The
world
sticky
makes
us
think
of
children
adults
are
too
refined
and
starched
to
be
sticky.
Her
word
choice
in
this
poem
also
invokes
an
image
of
children.
Clasp,
along
with
stick,
makes
me
think
of
small
fingers
bringing
their
delights
up
to
a
parent
or
friend,
and
the
sound
of
the
word
reminds
me
of
a
child
missing
a
tooth.
This
haiku
is
an
example
of
yubi,
of
a
delicate,
elegant
beauty.
Bri's
haiku
are
elegant
and
delicate,
and
if
any
of
the
characteristics
apply
to
nearly
all
of
her
haiku.
Another
example
of
yubi
is
found
in
this
haiku:
feverish
kisses
a
playful
raindrop
tickles
my
cheek
This
haiku
is
once
again
beautiful
and
elegant-the
image
of
the
raindrop,
a
cool
feeling,
juxtaposed
against
the
feverish
kisses,
whether
by
a
lover
or
a
child,
impassioned
or
actually
feverish,
is
superb,
and
we
feel
that
cool
trickle
wind
its
way
down
our
cheek.
Again,
her
word
choice
is
excellent:
feverish,
playful
raindrop,
tickles-all
are
examples
of
a
careful,
deliberate,
and
elegant
mind.
And
this
haiku
shows
Bri's
ability
to
be
playful
and
poignant
at
the
same
time.
The
Japanese
have
a
love
of
the
small,
of
the
tiny,
of
being
able
to
hold
and
cradle
something
to
them
that
is
intricate
and
small.
Brindin
Hill's
haiku
are
jewels
to
be
held
close
and
whispered
from
ear
to
ear
as
if
we
were
children.
Each
is
a
secret
so
beautiful
that
it
must
be
guarded
and
appreciated
for
its
love
of
the
small,
of
the
childlike,
of
the
poignant.
While
her
haiku
may
be
predominately
happy
in
character,
they
often
evoke
memories,
and
memories
and
nostalgic
feelings
are
plenty
poignant.
This
is
her
gift,
one
which
I
am
pleased
to
have
been
able
to
enjoy.
Find
a
comfortable
chair
and
relax
for
a
few
moments
as
Brindin
Hill
takes
you
on
a
pleasant,
yet
poignant
journey
back
into
childhood
and
the
times
when
all
of
the
world
was
beautiful.
—Ryan
Jones
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©2003
Randy Brooks, Millikin University, Decatur, Illinois || all rights
reserved for original authors
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