A Learning Compendium
The answer to this question is not as easy as it may seem. Tanka is a poetic form that requires 31 onji (syllables or sounds), and is divided into 5 lines of 5-7-5-7-7 onji each. A Tanka is further divided rhythmically; the earliest Tanka were divided at the end of the 12th onji with a new rhythm beginning at the 13th and continuing to the end of the poem. Later, the trend became to divide the poem rhythmically at the end of the 17th onji and begin a new rhythm from the 18th onji to the end (or the last two 7 onji lines). Modern Tanka utilizes either rhythm break position, but though the break point is less important today than earlier times, rhythm and rhythm changes as an integral part of the structure of Tanka is of primary importance still.
As the rhythm break points have changed over the years; so, the function and basic content of Tanka has also changed. Therefore, to answer the question, "What Is A Tanka?" properly, a trip back in time to the very beginning is essential with a slow return to the present occasionally stopping at different periods along the way. I will do my best to answer all of the questions a beginner to reading and writing Tanka may have in the paragraphs that follow. I hope that this brief essay will help them begin enjoying Tanka right out of the blocks. If I succeed, then all the time and energy used to piece this discussion together will have been worth the effort. If I do not succeed, then it has still been a pleasurable experience for me.
In 712 AD, the Kojiki, the oldest Japanese anthology of poems, was presented to the Emperor's court. In it, the god Susanoo is alleged to have written the first poem to appear on the opening pages of this book. This poem was written in the Tanka form or "Uta" or "Waka" as it was called then. This poem is presented below in Japanese and in English for bilingual readers:
yakumo tatsu
Izumo yaegaki
tsumagomi ni
yaegaki tsukuru
sono yaegaki wo
Eightfold rising clouds
Build an eightfold fence
An eightfold Izumo fence
Wherein to keep my bride--
Oh! splendid eightfold fence.
The interpretations of this poem vary from its being a wedding song to a poem denoting the building of a newly wedded couple's home to an incantation to the Izumo gods for protection of the newly married couple. However, it is not the meaning of this poem that is most notable today; it is, instead, the exact use of metrics that would be the prescribed format for what would later be called "Classical Uta, Waka or Tanka". This classical form consists of 5 lines as stated above in the now standard form of 5-7-5-7-7 onji with appropriate rhythm and rhythm changes. Whether or not this form was written by a god or not may still be in dispute by some Japanese scholars and readers familiar with the Kojiki, but of even greater debate is whether or not this poem was actually written in the Tanka form, or whether it is, in fact, a re-write of some older form or forms also found in the Kojiki from primitive times to fit the aesthetics of the current time when the Kojiki was compiled.
The Kojiki also contains other forms of poetry that read as incantations with obscure meanings as well as pieces with rhythmic units and fixed structures. There are also pieces in the Kojiki that have no specific overall structure and irregular line lengths. These are classified by the Japanese as "Utterances"; short statements, poetic or otherwise, spontaneous in word sequence and emotive in nature that last about one breaths' length. An example of perhaps the simplest of these can be found in a book by Kenneth Yasuda on Haiku in the history of Japanese poetry section of his book:
How happy I am! I have met a handsome man.
How happy I am! I have met a lovely maid.--Translator unknown/undocumented in the book
The above is recorded in the Nihonshoki (720 AD) as greetings exchanged between two gods. Recordings such as this one above are followed or recorded along-side poetic forms with a similar nature in terms of functional structure called Katauta. Katauta are also listed in the Kojiki. Though, on inspection these two poems appear different in format and presentation, they have more similarities than differences. The one above may be dissected to conclude that each line has two parts: the first part is an exclamatory question, the second part a response. Each line has a specific rhythm with a change in that rhythm where the change from question to answer occurs. Each takes about one breath length to recite.
The Katauta was a specific form of Japanese poetry 19 onji in length that was written in three lines of 5-7-7 onji (approximately one breath length) each with a specific rhythm and in the form of either a question or an answer. Once thought to represent primitive songs, the Katauta is now believed to be a means of conveying a question and an answer among primitive people.
These Katauta are believed to have developed in primitive societies, as stated above, as part of spring festivals similar to the fertility rites and planting/harvesting rituals of other primitive societies and cultures. However Katauta, by themselves, may be interesting, when placed together with an answer following a question, they become even more interesting poetically. For example:
Katauta #1:
Passing across
The new land of Tsukuba,
How many nights did we sleep?
Katauta #2:
Counting my fingers,
It has been nine times by night
And will be ten times by day.
Putting the two together we get:
Passing across
The new land of Tsukuba,
How many nights did we sleep?
Counting my fingers,
It has been nine times by night
And will be ten times by day.
The above is called a Mondo and structurally consists of two parts: a question part and an answer part, each 5-7-7 onji making the total poem length 38 onji, structured 5-7-7-5-7-7 onji per line. A distinct rhythm break occurs in the middle of this structure where the question and answer join; however, it is common for rhythm changes to occur at the end of the 12th onji of the first (question) part of the poem, and occasionally at the end of the 31st as well. The reasons for this rhythmic pattern is quite interesting:
The unique part of the Katauta is that "it is a poem consisting of 3 lines of 19 onji/syllables; one short (5 onji/syllables), one long (7 onji/syllables) and a third line equal in length to the second used primarily as a prop to *help harmonize the rhythm*." This has been described by recorders in the ancient books and by researchers studying Japanese poetry over their life-times as the *basic unit of poetry*.
So, what we have in the Kojiki, the oldest book of Japanese poetry, is a poetic form described as the basic unit of Japanese poetry, consisting of approximately 19 onji (or about one breaths length to recite), with a stress on the importance of rhythm as inherent in this basic unit, and, therefore, one could conclude--all Japanese poetry. Other characteristics found within the Katauta are the use of ellipsis, condensation of thought or image, spontaneity or intuitive intonations and/or a nakedness of treatment in general.
For those interested, the Mondo above was composed by two men; Takeru Yamato crossed the eastern country of Japan to a place called Kai and recorded the first or question part of the mondo. The second or reply part of the mondo was recorded by an old man responsible for tending the fires.
So, here we move back to the beginning of the discussion, to the first poem in the Kojiki which was recorded as a Uta, Waka, or Tanka: Is it possible that this poem is really a rework of an Utterance or a pair of Utterances? Is it possible that this poem is really a rework of a Katauta or Mondo? As stated earlier, this question is still being debated by students and Japanese poetry historians today. The possibility of taking a poem originally written in 5-7-7-5-7-7 onji and restructuring it to meet the current aesthetic 5-7-5-7-7 at the time of the Kojiki is an interesting question to ponder in light of the essential nature of both poetic structures, essential rhythm requirements and the tying together of two thoughts or components (question to answer; statement or observation to response e.g.. a lovers approach and a maidens reply: commonly seen in older Tanka)) Unfortunately, I can not answer this for you; since, I am far less an expert than those who argue poetic history.
Before going into the Tanka form itself, there are two other forms that should be understood, or at least discussed. These two forms and the others already discussed, again point to the significance of alternating line lengths of odd numbered onji, specifically, 5-7-7 or 5-7-5 to the Japanese aesthetic. The first form is called a Sedoka; the second is called a Choka.
A Sedoka is similar to a Mondo in that it also consists of two parts or one pair of Katauta. The difference is that Sedoka were written by a single author and did not generally consist of a question and answer part. Incidentally, while the norm for writing Katauta was 5-7-7 onji, it was also acceptable and common to see them in 5-7-5 format. Remember, the last line was used to fill out the poem, and while this was generally done with 7 onji, 5 onji (also an odd numbered line) was considered a pleasant variant from the norm. This (Katauta) poetic form was respected for it's variance as well as its conformity. So, it can be said that the Mondo and Sedoka were written by combining two Katauta. Each Katauta consists of three parts (lines) with two separate rhythms, a consistent overall form length of 17-19 onji and each line carries an odd number of onji. The major difference between the Mondo and Sedoka was that the Mondo was written by two authors and the Sedoka was written by a single author.
The next form is the Choka or the Japanese long poem. This poem was structured 5-7-5-7-5-7-5-7-5........7-7 onji in line length, and could be of any overall line total; many of which exceeded 100 lines. As stated earlier, the Katauta could be called the basic unit of Japanese poetry. Here in the Choka, the 5-7-5 or 5-7- 7 (17-19) onji pattern is easily found. It seems the preference for ending Japanese poetry in these early days was with the 5-7-7 onji pattern; however, as stated earlier, 5-7-5 was often used as a substitute and was equally acceptable in terms of aesthetics and appreciation. In fact, as time passed, the 5-7-5 onji ending became more prevalent rather than less in forms other than the Tanka, though never quite exceeding the originally preferred ending format in these older poetic form. With all of this in mind, it is easy to see why the Katauta is believed by some poetic historians to be the original basic unit of Japanese poetry, either as a 17 onji unit or a 19 onji unit. This is important to remember, not only for understanding and writing Tanka poems, but in understanding and writing in any Japanese poetic form, including Haiku.
Below is a Choka taken from Kenneth Yasuda's book, "The Japanese Haiku".
O palace maiden
the daughter of my subject,
Do you bring a wine holder?
If you hold it up,
Oh, hold it in your hands;
oh, hold it firmly,
ever firmly in your hands;
O you wind holding maiden.
In the above, this Choka appears to be written in a 5-7-7-5-7-5-7-7 onji format, varying from the norm in only line three. Actually, what we have here is a Choka composed by combining a Katauta in the form of a question with a Tanka poem in amplifying expression. This is considered to be a Choka, but within this Choka, one can find evidence that the early Japanese poets were not averse to combining poetic forms; so long as the basic unit of structure remained within the 17-19 onji range. So the answer to the question of whether or not Tanka arose from some other poetic form seems to be--quite possibly so; however, there are no records that concretely say that this is the case.
Now, with a historical background established, we can look at the Tanka itself , and , hopefully, be in a position to appreciate it as a separate poetic art form, and as an evolutionary piece of the much larger Japanese literary aesthetic. Of all the poetic forms ever written by the Japanese, Tanka is clearly the most rigidly adhered to form in terms of structure. It is constructed by 5 lines or units, each odd in number of onji, and ending in the traditional 7-7 onji pattern. Further, on the whole, Tanka consist of two separate divisions in terms of rhythm structures, each of about one breath length to recite. The earlier pattern for this rhythm change was:
rhythm unit 1: 5-7 onji---rhythm unit two: 5-7-7 onji.
Later, the dominant rhythm pattern changed to:
rhythm unit 1: 5-7-5 onji---rhythm unit two: 7-7 onji.
Of course, there were other variant tried and successfully used, such as:
rhythm unit 1: 5---rhythm unit 2: 7-5---rhythm unit 3: 7-7 onji
or:
rhythm unit 1: 5-7---rhythm unit two 5-7---rhythm unit three: 7 onji, and so on with other attempts.
In the earliest Tanka poems, the last line was used primarily as a repetition or summary line to rhythmically fill out the poem keeping the preferred odd number of lines, odd onji count structure, and rhythmic divisions associated with the aesthetics of the Japanese poets of that period:
Many clouds unfurled
rise at cloud-decked Izumo;
Round you spouse to hold
raise many folded barriers
like those barriers manifold.
While this poem seems to consist rhythmically of two parts divided 5-7; 5-7-7, it actually has three units, 5-7; 5-7; 7, with the last unit being used as a repetition and/or summary line common in the earliest of recorded Tanka. In the poem above, there are two distinct main rhythmic parts separated by a major stop at the end of the 12th onji. From there the rhythm starts out again and continues to the end of the poem; however, the repetition of the last line causes it to stand out in isolation from the remainder of the second part; thereby, giving the second part a technical second internal rhythm found by the ear. Remember that Japanese poetry is syllabic by nature and not metrical or rhymed. This is because, like the French language, the Japanese language lacks stress accents where the uniform stress on the last syllable of each word makes it impossible for poets to observe the kinds of metrical patterns favored by Western poets since the ancient Greeks. Rhyme is not used in Japanese poetry, not because it is too difficult, but, on the contrary, because it is too easy. Japanese words, for the most part, all end in one of 5 open vowels; therefore, without trying, a poet has a 20% likelihood of achieving rhyme. The other European metrical scheme based on quantity is also not possible since in "classical" Japanese vowels all end with equal weight. This may be a possibility in modern Japanese which has both long and short vowels, but has rarely been attempted. This left the Japanese with syllabics as the only true choice and has remained so ever since.
So, how does one write Tanka in English? This depends on how closely one wants to stay faithful to the Japanese model. The language differences between Japanese and English, touched on slightly above, are vast and complex. For this reason, most writers feel that converting onji to syllables is not a one for one process. English syllable are far too long and carry too much information to equate to the Japanese onji. English lacks the flexibility inherent in the Japanese language and this difference makes keeping strict adherence to a rigid form shorter than 5-7-5-7-7 English language syllables too highly restrictive. Therefore the trend is to write somewhat less than 31 syllables with some consistency in form, even if that form is only the expression of two separate rhythms divided by a full or major stop each of about one breaths length. A structure close to this would be on the order of 3-5-3-5-5. With rare exception, a Tanka written in English would be difficult to recite properly (in proportion to Japanese speaking lengths) in two breath lengths. Haiku written in 17 syllable would be as difficult to recite using the same comparatives as 17 onji and for this reason, similar variances in opinion regarding form and structure are ongoing in this poetic genre as well.
These differences should not deter Western poets who would like to write in a Tanka style from using English syllables in a one for one format, or from using rhyme, meter, or accent weighting or other such technique or structural form. Again, this is a matter of personal taste and is reflective only as to whether one wishes to stay close to the Japanese model, or stray from it for personal reasons or aesthetics to incorporate the heritage of the West into their poetic works. If you are concerned with your English based Tanka being translated to the Japanese language in a format that readers in that language are accustomed to, then one may wish to stay closer to the Japanese model and modify the structure somewhat to make it work. If this is not your choice, then in order to keep the poem resembling Tanka, one must, as a consequence of using freer choice in language, become more restrictive in tone and theme to have ones poems recognizable as Tanka in the Japanese tradition. Of course, other possibilities exist, but making a claim that the outcome is in fact a Tanka poem becomes much more difficult to defend the further one strays.
Tanka, at least in the classical sense, was used to touch on all sorts of subjects; especially after the decline of the Choka. However, the tone of Tanka poems has always reflected the tone of the Japanese Imperial Court and its courtesans. This tradition is carried forward today in Japan for the most part, although there are exceptions. So, if one were to emulate the Japanese aesthetic, one would write Tanka in an elevated tone (one should note that this is not the same as elevated or sophisticated use of language) in English, avoiding harsh epithets, vulgarities and themes of a similar nature. Like Haiku, the language of Tanka is simple and common for the most part. It carries with it a sense of poverty as well. Some may find keeping an elevated tone too restrictive and wander from the established tone of Tanka, or find simple language too boring to use for the most part; however, these and other differences are purely a matter of choice and personal taste. Either way, one can work in relative freedom and originality, and achieve remarkable results in just 5 short lines of poetry. Tanka is a wonderful medium of expression, and because of its short form, it is a poetic form in which poets can produce highly memorable and memorizable works.
Tanka is also, but not always, used in a manner that includes nature in the expression of thought or feeling, similar to haiku, but because of its extra length, Tanka allows for deeper thought and expression of themes that would be too burdensome for haiku to carry. Again, the decision to use nature as a backdrop for expression is a personal choice. Those who think staying close to the Japanese model is important will do so with a great sense of commitment; while others who choose to stray will argue their view points with equal vigor. Whatever choice you make, it should be a choice that you are happy with, and one that provides you the means of expression that you seek. Whatever choice others make should be viewed as simply an alternative choice and not an attack on the traditions of Tanka. Like Haiku, Tanka is in its infancy in the West and its development will be determined by those who utilize its heritage and manner of presentation to greatest impact on readers BOTH in the East and West, in my view. By trying to appreciate the aesthetic of Japanese poetry and thinking, and incorporating elements of this aesthetic into the West, we bring the two cultures closer in terms of understanding and fellowship. There is nothing to lose in this process. All can only gain by the experience. So, when embarking on this journey, remember the goal is fellowship and learning how to best live our lives by incorporating poetic experiences into them regardless of the source or manner of expression of those experiences.
In conclusion, I sincerely hope that this introduction to Tanka has achieved its goal of enabling writers, previously unexposed to Tanka to appreciate it as a poetic form and as a remarkable expression of the Japanese aesthetic. The only true way to begin seriously writing Tanka poems is to first understand what Tanka was, how it developed and changed, and what it is now by reading as many Tanka poems as you can: both classical Tanka and modern Tanka. Hopefully this piece will encourage others to try their hand at Tanka and to share their feelings and insights into the living world of which we are incorporated, and help to promote better understanding and achievable peace on the planet by expanding fellowship throughout.
-Richard MacDonald-
A haiku is a short poem of form (in Japanese) 5,7,5 syllables. It normally includes a seasonal reference and often conveys something deeper behind the superficial words. Haiku should ideally use simple words and describe experiences common to most readers, yet in a fresh and insightful way.
Many schools of haiku exist. The traditional school exemplified by Masaoka SHIKI believes haiku should speak only about naturally occurring things and that topics such as refrigerators and cars should not to appear in haiku. This school believes in objectivity, i.e., neither the author's thoughts or feelings nor the author themselves should appear in the poem. Some of the schools under the "traditional" umbrella have lost site of what a haiku truly is. Many are content to "word sketch" (shasei) and often suffer from a lack of depth. Other "traditional" schools have a firm grasp if somewhat limited view of haiku. Some examples of traditional-style haiku are:
‚±‚Æ‚³‚ç‚É–Ú—§‚‰ԂȂµ’Ö‚©‚È
-Dhugal
kotosara-ni medatsu hana nashi tsubaki-kana
-Dhugal
˜@’r‚Ìç–{‚ÌŒs–¶‚ðŽh‚·
- Dhugal
hasuike-no senbon-no kuki kiri-o sasu
-Dhugal
Is it an advertisement for the Buddhist teachings?
In the decades following the haiku renaissance at the turn of the century, several other schools of haiku emerged. One of these schools was the "humanist" school, led by KATOH Shuuson and NAKAMURA Kusatao. This school believes that haiku must be intrinsically subjective as the poet selects objects, or parts of objects, from the myriad that surround them at the time a haiku moment occurs. They also believe that humans are inseparable from nature, being a part of the grand scheme, and as such are a valid topic for haiku. The humanist school searches for truths of human existence using haiku as a medium. Some examples of humanist haiku are:
”’‘§‚ÌŽÔ‘‹‚Éu’Nv‚Å‚à‚È‚‚È‚è‚Ê
-Dhugal
shiroiki-no shasou-ni (dare)demo nakunarinu
-Dhugal
‘åŠA“ú—‘‚ÌŠk‚ð‚‚ԂµŽÌ‚Â
-Dhugal
oomisoka tamago-no kara-o tsubushi sutsu
-Dhugal
Yet another school of haiku is the Santoka school which does away
with the 5,7,5 form and works in a more organic form, using no padding words. These
haiku are often extremely short with only a single idea presented in each poem.
American haiku in particular often follow this pattern. An example is:
“S”«‚Ì’†‚Ö‚àèÅ
-Santohka
teppatsu-no naka-e-mo arare
-Santoka
One technique often used in haiku is contrast or juxtaposition.
‚Ă̂Ђç‚Ì…•ê‚É’¼–Ê‚·‚é–Ú‹Ê
- Dhugal
tenohira-no kurage-ni chokumen suru medama
-Dhugal
Popular haiku in the West is often far-removed from the original essence of haiku, although many talented non-Japanese haiku poets do exist. Read as many JAPANESE-STYLE haiku as possible until you get the feel for what haiku really is about.
Jane Reichhold
(Written for and first posted on the Shiki International Haiku Salon, April 16, 1996)
It is now generally agreed that the earliest poems were songs, prayers, and incantations to gods. One tentacle of the spread of poetry has been traced from Persia to India, up to China and over to Japan. Even before the written records in Japan (760 AD) people spoke tanka to gods and in praise of the reigning monarchy. Tanka, with its 5-7-5-7-7 sound syllable count, its lofty ancestry, its shortness and ease for recall, became the favorite poetical form of the Japanese Imperial Court. And thus, both reached their highest popularity and brilliance during the same centuries — ninth to eleventh.
As one of the oldest forms of poetry still active (in 1987-88 Machi Tawara's book Salad Anniversary sold over 8 million copies in Japan alone) the form has recently been discovered by writers around the world.
In those years — 9th - 12th centuries — when tanka was so fashionable, poets competing in contests revived an old Chinese form by linking tanka poems together in a novel way. The poem was "broken" in half so one author wrote the 5-7-5 part and another responded and finished the poem by adding his (mostly men did this though it was first done by a woman!) 7-7 part. Instead of stopping there, someone else wrote a new 5-7-5 poem to "answer" to the previous 7-7 link and they named the genre renga — meaning linked elegance. This proved to be so much fun poets were soon writing poems of 1,000 and even 10,000 links.
By the 14th century tanka had become stale and staid so renga became all the rage. Rules proliferated, schools were founded and splits naturally occurred. There were then two main styles: a serious, courtly style and the comic-bourgeois form favored by the newly rich merchants. Our beloved Basho (1644-94) was a renga master of the comic style and for that he was famous also in his day. Because of the popularity of renga and the extreme necessity for a really good hokku (starting verse), poets began to collect a backlog of "good" hokku to stick up their sleeves in case anyone asked them to start a renga.
From this, poets began to admire and write single 5-7-5 hokku and haikai (any verse in a renga). Even Basho's students collected enough for an anthology — Sack of Charcoal. Haikai/hokku were not as easy to write as Basho made it look, so the quality of the poems tended to fluctuate wildly peaking with Buson and Issa (and several other poets lacking good PR departments). In an effort to elevate their own poorer poems, writers began to rip apart Basho's old renga with other persons, taking out his poems and presenting them individually. Many of the haikai made little sense because the missing link was absent. Still, they were better than the then current crop of poems and served as examples and snake oil to sell poems of lesser quality.
At the beginning of the 19th century, M. Shiki declared renga officially dead and it died — in Japan, only to take regrow 60 years later in North America and Germany. Shiki also decided to end the debate about hokku/haikai by combining the name to give us haiku. [Thanks! Shiki, we needed that.]
Skipping to the present, one may ask what separates a haiku from any other short, light verse. The answers will be as varied and individual as are paths to a religious belief — a metaphor that is not too far off as haiku writers easily admit to living the Way of Haiku (in an awareness of just this — this moment) and in the Spirit of Haiku (to hold all things with reverence).
In the beginning is the form. In Japanese a haiku is traditionally 5-7-5 sound syllables. All languages cannot duplicate this method of counting syllables so foreign language writers must decide to either follow the method by writing 5-7-5 syllables in their own language. However if they prefer to imitate the product, the translated Japanese haiku, their poems must consist of fewer words. In English we cannot have both method and translated product correct in one poem so each of us must choose one system or the other. Beginners (especially if better acquainted with Western poetry) often do well to follow the 5-7-5 discipline at first. Later, when they become comfortable with saying what they want said in the least words, as it is easier to switch to the shorter styled haiku in a natural movement. This does not mean that 5-7-5 haiku are beginners' work; many, many very good writers insist on remaining with the form scheme.
In Japan haiku are written in one line vertically. Again we cannot imitate this, so some poets, following as closely as they can (heel to toe, heel to toe), write haiku in one horizontal line. This style, however, hides the natural pauses the Japanese person hears at the end of each 5 or 7 syllable phrase. We also can be trained to hear them in English, but lacking the time and training for that, it was decided to show the pauses with line breaks. Thus, the foreign language haiku took on the familiar three-line shape.
For many of us, an absolute indicator of a haiku is a break or caesura either at the end of the first or second line.
old pond
a frog leaps into
the water of sound
on a bare branch
a crow settles down
autumn dusk
Can you hear where the breaks are?
What is to be avoided is the so-called "sentence fragment." For example:
the strange shape
of the passion flower
and its legend
... which only needs to be rewritten to read:
strange shape
the passion flower
and its legend
As you see, having the courage to not follow 5-7-5 allows one to tighten up the poem so it fulfills the break requirement. In Japanese this break is indicated with a "cutting word" which is usually ignored in translation or replaced with a punctuation symbol. Remember the mention of old haikai being ripped out of the renga? The use of these "haiku" has given rise to the haiku which has its break in the middle of the second line; also a possible way of using the break which is now usually indicated with a dash, comma, or semi-colon. If there is a line break at the end of each line (as in the "grocery list" haiku) the poem sounds too choppy.
By reading aloud the Basho samples above you can hear the breaks made by syntax which is considered the best method of accomplishing this. It is also possible to indicate weaker breaks or reinforce them with punctuation.
Because the Japanese language uses articles less and differently than we do in English we must add them to our translations. In imitating this, new haiku writers are often puzzled when to shorten the poem by leaving out the articles (a, an, & the) or propositions (to, in, with, across, from, etc.). It has slowly evolved that it seems to sound best if one allows the shortest part of the haiku to be very brief by dropping these sentence parts. However, if in the two-line connected phrases, the poem can sound like pidgen-english or haiku telegrams if this is followed. It is often best to allow the longer two-line part all the articles and prepositions it needs to sound like a proper sentence fragment. When trying to shorten this part of a haiku you can often get some extra mileage out of using a noun that will also function as a verb.
In Japanese haiku pronouns (he, she, it, they, them, you, me etc.) are rarely explicit so the poem has an air of ambiguity — more variations are possible for the reader. When haiku were presented to English writers this aspect was lauded as the "humility" of the poet who spoke of things, not his/her person. And if you are writing a hokku for a renga this is a good path to follow. However, within a renga, Japanese and others commonly refer to themselves or other humans and this aspect is then, more or less (depending on the writer) possible to use in a haiku. Some will say that haiku are nature poems and can only speak of nature and then try to convince you humans are not natural and cities are not nature. Not so! every building, every thing is made of something borrowed from nature and its nature still surrounds it.
Haiku are and must be brief. Avoid adverbs (words describing the verb or action) and adjectives (words describing the noun or things) [meister_z Comment: I will add here, that Adjectives well-chosen are crucial to description and depicting the sensorial and sensitive images of Haiku in English. Yet, they must be used sparingly and conveniently to match the Form and Spiritualization of the Haiku.]. Use modifiers only to make your haiku images more exact and precise. Let us know if that gate is a garden gate, a prison gate or a swinging gate. Many adverbs and adjectives imply judgment (beautiful, graceful, ugly) so by avoiding them, and more importantly, your own opinion, the haiku is left with images of things just as they are.
By being concrete — using only images of things we can see, smell, taste, touch or feel — the haiku writer avoids those traps of Western poetry: abstract ideas such as love, hate, sadness, desire, honor, glory, of which we have had enough. Haiku demands you use your bodily senses instead of your intellect. Forget what you have been taught; write of what you experience with your body. Check your haiku. See if you can draw a picture (at least in your mind) as result of reading each line. If you have a line — "so that it was there" — you can be sure it is one to drop or rewrite. [meister_z Comment: The bodily senses and perceptions are NOT even close to enough of what you really need for Haiku, especially as created by Basho and other Masters of the Art. Haiku does begin with bodily senses, but even these are elevated or exalted to a higher state of consciousness where you let go of the censorship and repression which Western "morality" perforce trains us to adopt and use. Thus, by letting your mind transcend into a higher level of consciousness through this letting go of earthly and concrete prejudices, you will perhaps be able to travel even a little bit further into yet another and even higher level which leaves or departs from both body and mind, and enters into a Spiritual level of consciousness, thus reaching a state or condition of momentary and transcendental experience and existence which allows you to float into the unseen and so-much-mocked Spiritual Experience. At this point I must disagree with the author of this article since it is precisely this type of concreteness which EXCLUDES any degree of the "ABSTRACT" experience which so limits and impedes the Western Mind from even getting close to comprehending the Oriental MInd and its achievements, among them precisely Haiku Poetry. Sensitization (allowing yourself to become sensitive) to the experience is the "way" to follow. Anyone who can enter a "meditative" or "Spiritual" condition is apt to reach the exalted states the mind is capable of, but which Western education and social practices deny and lead people away from -- especially the young who are still highly sensitive and capable of coming into contact with such states and even developing them as another Human dimension and talent which mankind has forever been able to do with the right training and leadership. These capabilities were practiced by the ancients, at least some of them who were aware of such capacities of the Human mind. But, as we all know, but few prefer to acknowledge, all of this disappeared when the occupations came from the Western parts of Europe. Why, even in Japan today Tradition is being lost, human beings are beings "concretized" and "Westernized," but all at the expense of this great loss -- i.e., the ability to transcend the material and concrete existence of everything, and to exalt the mind and the Spirit into a liberated communion with Nature, with the Self, with the qualities of the objects of Creation, and with the Absolute and Supreme forces and energy permeating the unseen universal magma. It is precisely by abandoning our Western fixations and boundaries of ONLY the concrete and the superficial (which impede many in reaching and developing legitimate or valid Haiku), that we will be capable of flowing into the right state of mind and perception, requirements of legitimate Haiku. Only by becoming sensitive towards the finer qualities of sensorial experience, and by exalting the mind and the Spirit as well, can you ever be able to truly create authentic Haiku, because only these will allow you to enter the sensitized ability to fuse and commune with the elements of Nature, both within and without. (meister_z -- Apr. 7, 2K)]
Haiku are simple. Often beginners try to put too much into it. A good rule is to have at least two concrete images, no more than three. Some schools of haiku (think of fish) are happy with a couple images which paint a lovely scene wherein your mind can wander and wonder. [meister_z Comment: Haiku, as you have seen, is much more than simply painting a scene. The scene is only the commencement which must be taken even higher and further into a spiritual and completely sensitized experience.]
Others are more demanding. They ask that the 2 or 3 images to compare, associate or contrast. Here, if you find your way, you can use your ability to see metaphors and simile. You have to accept that by putting the images side by side, leaving out the words "like" and "as" and you will be letting your reader make the leaps of imagination and understand your unspoken point.
Here comes the real challenge of haiku. To express an image or two so well that the reader "sees" them in his/her mind, and then! ... you add another image that demands a leap or twist so the two previous images are seen in a new relationship (maybe even your metaphor, if you are lucky). An additional twist is to have images plus leap which reveal some deep philosophical truth or ideal without having to speak of it. Poetry is written vision. You have to show new ways of seeing things to be a real poet. Basho, again, showing us "real things" doing "unreal" things which feel real:
such stillness
the shrill of a cicada
pierces rock
Part of learning to write haiku is learning to read them. Read translations of Japanese masters. Read early haiku written in your own language, and read all the contemporary works you can find. Be picky. Decide if you like a haiku or not; if it speaks to you or not, and if it does — why? By analyzing the "Why?" you can discover techniques to help you say in haiku what you are experiencing. Go ahead and imitate haiku you like. Just never publish those poems because they are only exercises. Besides, the best-known haiku cannot be imitated.
lily
out of the water;
out of itself
jack-in-the-pulpit
out of the earth
out of ... (?) can you really say "itself" again?
Check a haiku. Can any word of it be changed out for another? If so, the haiku is flawed and can be rewritten. Only when each image is so dependent upon the other that whole thing collapses if one word is altered is the haiku "solid".
Because every image is interrelated, be aware of images that reflect a seasonal feeling or spirit. Springtime is for mornings, blossoms and babies, autumn for dying and old folks and evenings. Try to either know through study of kigo lists (lists of Season words) which things are associated with which season or by observation. If you use an image out of season, make certain you are doing it for contrast and not ignorance. We non-Japanese are poorly trained in this and it takes study and practice to do that which they do naturally.
Haiku should have a reverence for life and living. To write from the knowledge that even the dead are "alive", that the ugly has something beautiful in it, that even darkness will change to light, is the haiku spirit. Haiku has humor and there is a delight in word-play and puns and the comic of life. Haiku can be written on any subject as long as the writer refrains from being demeaning or sarcastic. If there are times and people who need to speak of things in this manner there is always the limerick.
Haiku can be seen as too "cool," too heartless, too objective. Yes, but then you have the tanka form which allows the addition of your subjective feelings and emotions. Accept that different poetry forms grew out of different situations and therefore have a built-in stance or spirit or uprightness. Be aware of what you are feeling and chose the proper genre for it.
Writing haiku is a discipline and if you are interested in haiku you are seeking more discipline in your life. Go for it. Make rules for yourself and follow them exactly, or break them completely, outgrow them and find new ones. We are all students and no one "really" knows how to write a haiku. That, however, does not stop us from trying...
moving into the sun
the pony takes with him
some mountain shadow - jr
This article was taken from John Hudak's "Chaba -- An Electronic Haiku Journal." I've added a couple of comments of my own at the end of this essay (Dhugal).
Reprinted with permission from Feelings Magazine, Volume 7, No. 3, Spring 1996
Many of the thousands of poets outside Japan studying and writing this brief form in English and other languages know what haiku was: that it originated in Japan, had a set form of 5-7-5 Japanese symbol-sounds, and was related to nature.
And most are becoming aware that it will be an accepted form of poetry for time to come, as long as people react to their environment with the perception of what is occurring at the moment, concisely without embellishment.
But to state in simple terms what haiku is will cause a hail of cliches and a fog of often contradictory or confusing opinions, rules, and lists of "do" and "don't." It very succinctly is a moment recorded of an observation, usually of nature, in which human nature is revealed however subtly.
A few things are generally accepted, such as that the observer does only half the process and the reader the other half, or as pointed out in Makoto Ueda's Modern Japanese Haiku, An Anthology, 1976, "Haiku, by its very nature asks each reader to be a poet." In its brevity, haiku does not attempt narrative, in fact avoids stating the poets reaction. It is an art of evocation, and if the result is successful, something of the moment recorded by the writer will trigger an emotion in the reader that may or may not be similar, depending on the reader's own experiences or interests. Haiku may be a simple note on nature:
The falling leaves
fall and pile up; the rain
beats on the rain
(Gyodai, 1732-93, tr. H.G. Henderson, Haiku in English, 1967)
Even here, R.H. Blyth, who wrote the six volumes that are the bible for the world of haiku-in-English (Haiku, Vol. 1 in 1949, Vols. 2,3,4 in 1952; and A History of Haiku, 1953 and 1954) presents Basho's view that "One thing is not used to imply another thing." However, the quality of growth, of the expansion of the writer's moment into another's perception, is the kernel that makes haiku an ongoing vital form of poetry after many centuries.
One great difference between haiku and other poetry is that there is no anthropomorphism in it, no giving human attributes to non-human things. Each thing, whether animal, bird, insect, plant, even a physical form such as a rock, is viewed as it is in its own right. Other forms of Japanese writing and myth use personification extensively, but not haiku. Western poetry has reveled in portraying other forms of life and nature with human characteristics. With rare exceptions metaphor and simile are not used, nor is rhyming. Epigrams and prose bits are not acceptable.
Everything else that follows here has been or will be hotly debated not only in Japan, but throughout the haiku world by different "schools." Japanese haiku writers have a sense of humor others have not yet developed so fully. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) wrote almost a century ago:
On how to sing
the frog school and the skylark school
are arguing.
(trans. Henderson, An Introduction to Haiku)
A few say that haiku is not really poetry. This is no place to get into a discussion of what constitutes poetry. When asked at a seminar to define poetry, Marianne Moore said it is something that is not prose. Or as Kamijima Onitsura (1660-1738) said in a translation by Amataro Miyamori: "The nightingale, ceasing to sing, is nothing, alas, but a green bird."
There are those who prefer a very truncated form of haiku, and also translations done word for word instead of capturing the inherent poetry in a necessary rearrangement of words in the new language. Cor van den Heuvel is credited with a successful one-word haiku:
tundra
(The Window-Washer's Pail, 1963)
His two anthologies of contemporary haiku are now out-of-print but well worth looking up in a library: The Haiku Anthology (Anchor Press/Doubleday, Anchor Books, 1974) and The Haiku Anthology (Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1986). William J. Higginson is a strong proponent of brief haiku and one who holds that everything on earth is derived from nature. Often this philosophy emphasizes a strong impact of a single image. Such as his memorable:
This Alamo
too small a place
for dying
(Haiku West, 1970)
Two examples from the movie theater marquee displays Haiku on Forth-Second Street, 1994 are Evan Mahls:
with his clippers
the florist prunes
his cigar
and Alan Pizzarelli's:
done
the shoeshine boy
snaps his rag
Briefly, haiku came about from a verse form of 5-7-5, 7-7 symbol-sounds, written by the upper class of Japan in the eighth century and known as tanka. By the end of the twelfth century a longer linked poem of alternating 5-7-5 and 7-7 verses was written as a party game and became what is known as renga. In Matsuo Basho's time (1644-1694), it was still the leading form, but his hokku, as the first 5-7-5 link was known, were gathered separately and sometimes written individually. He also wrote them interspersed at key points in essays known as haibun, recording his travels. Hiroaki Sato, noted translator of Japanese to English and English to Japanese, wrote One Hundred Frogs From Renga to Haiku to English in 1983, when interest of American writers surged. Now that a new abbreviated One Hundred Frogs dealing only with numerous translations of Basho's famous frog jumping into a pond, has come out, one may have to look in a library for the former. Senryu, the same form as haiku but dealing with human foibles (weaknesses) instead of nature and often satirical or even erotic, has been written for as long as haiku.
With their penchant for rules, Japanese helped Western writers who were not well-versed in that language to establish misinformation by insisting that one write in 5-7-5 English syllables. They are only now conceding that the differences in language often make this too long. There are no particles, such as 'a' or 'the' in Japanese, and their cutting words, which are akin to our punctuation, are not counted. Each vowel is a separate sound.
Several outstanding haiku writers in English like O. Southard, the late Foster Jewell, and the very much alive Zen poet J.W. Hackett held to the 5-7-5 syllables. A translation The Essence of Modern Haiku, 300 Poems by Seishi Yamaguchi, done by Takashi Kodaira and Alfred H. Marks (Mangajin, Inc., 1993, and distributed by Weatherhill Press in the U.S.) adheres strictly to 5-7-5. One American haiku group, the Yuki Teikei Society in California, was, until recently, adamant about that form, though they have now bent slightly. The late Nicholas Virgilio frequently wrote 5-7-5, though one of his early brief haiku gave impetus to the shorter work:
Lily:
out of the water...
out of itself.
(American Haiku, Issue 1, 1963)
Juxtaposition, the use of two images to enhance the effect of the observation, tends towards a longer haiku, whereas the current tendency of one-image haiku lends itself to shorter ones. Too much such impact dulls the reader's growth interest, one reading being sufficient. Because haiku are not intellectual exercises, a rereading is often based on the emotion aroused.
It isn't the cold
nor the dying leaves, just
that the birds have flown.
(Virginia Brady Young, Circle of Thaw, 1972.)
My father's silence...
remembering how he turned
bread crumbs into birds
(Rob Simbeck, Mayfly, No.8, 1989.)
lilacs in bloom
but no one now to decorate
the family graves
(Elizabeth Searle Lamb, Santa Fe, NM, 1988)
Aside from form, the second test of a haiku for the Japanese is the use of a season word (kigo). There has usually been seasonal reference in non-Japanese haiku, although there are many who insist that everything on earth is some form of nature even if not human nature. Some call it "psychological" haiku; others just go for an image impact. In recent years, haiku-in-English has begun to study more seriously the use of season words, but it is conceded even by the Japanese, that North America is never likely to agree to using the seasons of say Cincinnati for season words for the entire continent as once Kyoto seasons were for Japan. In fact, seasons vary so much for different areas that one assumes such a reference is to the season applicable to the area where the author lives. In Japan, there are volumes of lists, known as saijiki, of acceptable season words.
A few attempts have been made for lists in English haiku, notably a pioneer effort by American Haiku (1963-1968), the first haiku magazine in the U.S. Jane Reichhold brought out A Dictionary of Haiku Classified by Season Words with Traditional and Modern Methods, 1992. Currently Kodansha has published the first of two volumes of a project by William J. Higginson, The Haiku Seasons: Poetry of the Natural World. The second volume Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac is planned for the fall of 1996.
Haiku may be as brief as possible without exceeding 17 syllables. The arrangement of syllables on each of usually 3 lines may vary. Reference may be nature oriented although humankind-based, or psychological references have become accepted. Image, however, with some revelation of human nature or emotion remains the hallmark of haiku without the use of metaphor or simile.
If all this makes writing haiku sound difficult, it is not. One has only to be observant and follow the "qualities that distinguish the haiku form of poetry-simplicity, heightened focus, suggestibility." (Cal French in The Poet-Painters: Buson and His Followers, The University of Michigan Museum of Art, 1974). Read haiku at every chance for pleasure, classic and contemporary. Libraries, schools, bookstores and friends cut costs.
One comes to see as Foster Jewell did in his Passing Moments, 1974:
How a brook so small
becomes in its wanderings
a pathway for stars
L.A. Davidson is a charter member of the Haiku Society of America, Inc.(1968) and has been active in both that and the haiku world in general. She has done judging, won prizes, and has been widely published in magazines, anthologies and in articles. A chapbook of her haiku was published in 1982, reprinted in 1991, The Shape of the Tree.
flower arrangement:
just two yellow daffodils,
the first to bloom
old people
in the locked park
bench sitting
a song sparrow
on the locked garden gate,
grass in its beak
on the subway stairs
an old shopping-bag woman
shrinks into her rags
snow predicted:
on the coffee table
white narcissus
sealing
between wax paper
a leaf for winter
buffeted by wind,
the great oak tree dissolving
into swirling leaves
L.A. Davidson
Reprinted from FEELINGS, A Journal of Poetic Thought and Verse,published quarterly by Anderie Poetry Press, Carole J. Heffley, editor/publisher. FEELINGS, P.O. Box 85, Easton, PA 18044-0085.
L.A. Davidson writes:
"With their penchant for rules, Japanese helped Western writers who were not well-versed in that language to establish misinformation by insisting that one write in 5-7-5 English syllables. They are only now conceding that the differences in language often make this too long. There are no particles, such as 'a' or 'the' in Japanese, and their cutting words, which are akin to our punctuation, are not counted. Each vowel is a separate sound."
However not only does Japanese contain the particles 'a' (-ga) and 'the' (-wa) but the "cutting words, which are akin to our punctuation" are indeed counted in the final onji (syllable) count. She also states that "Each vowel is a separate sound" which is a little misleading. I assume she means there are no dipthongs in Japanese - in which case she is correct. However "ko", "hi" and "ya" are all single sounds/syllables. The "k" and the "o" in the first example is not 2 syllables but in fact one.
Although the reasons she has given for the length difference in Japanese vs English haiku are not really valid I too feel that 5-7-5 may be a little long. If one were, for argument's sake, to use a syllable count as the form requisite for haiku maybe 14 syllables or so would be a little closer?
If a haiku is made (through the imagination) rather than experienced it can often be easily understood logically. [(meister_z:) If Haiku is done, rather, as the product or expression of the spiritual sensations -- as an experience -- then it is legitimate Haiku. -jzr-] Haiku are not supposed to be fully understood logically [or analytically (jzr)].
A quote from Otsuji (Seki Osuga)
"If one does not grasp something -- something which does not merely touch us through our senses but contacts the life within and has the dynamic form of nature -- no matter how cunningly we form our words, they will give only a hollow sound. Those who compose haiku without grasping anything are merely exercising their ingenuity. The ingenious become only selectors of words and cannot create new experiences from themselves."
from "Ostuji hairon-shuu" (Otsuji's collected essays on haiku theory)
ed. by Toyo Yoshida, 5th ed. Tokyo: Kaede Shobo, 1947, p. 18.
If 90% of a haiku can be understood, it is a good haiku.
If 50-60% can be understood it is wonderful.
This kind of haiku we never tire of.
[meister_z Comment: As seen above, the use of KIGO (a "Season word" prescribed by the Japanese Haiku masters for Haiku) is traditionally a requirement for legitimate haiku. There is always the controversy, nevertheless, about the great differences in writing Haiku in English, very much so from Japanese, the original haiku tongue. Since haiku is based on syllables (or independent sounds), it is obviously going to be different from one language to another -- not just English. (The USA isn't the only other place outside Japan where Haiku is practiced.) Below is the article on kigo written by Dhugal followed by a much more important one from a historical point of view, written by Kametaro, from Japan. Please remember to read "critically" with an open yet thinking mind. Following these articles you will be taken to the kigo documents. [meister_z (Apr 7, 2000)]
The use of kigo is very problematic in Western haiku. It has been proposed by many poets, that kigo is not possible over a great geographic range. However Japan is also spread over a great geographic range and the kigo problem is overcome by having different season word dictionaries ("saijiki") for different climates. e.g., Hokkaido Saijiki, Okinawa Saijiki, Brazil Saijiki, Hawaii Saijiki.
A kigo does not necessarily have to invoke a particular season. Although "air conditioner" and "ant" imply summer, "sweater" implies fall, and "sunglasses" implies a summer noon, most poets I know personally use a kigo for information rather than to imply a specific season. Although a sweater may not always be worn in Winter, it does imply that it is cold. Sunglasses would imply that a Westerner or mafia member were on the scene. "Ripe blossoms," although normally a spring kigo, may bloom in Summer in cold areas such as Hokkaido.
The ability to provide "instant access" to a setting is a major plus in using kigo.
Just by stating "migrating geese" it invokes in the reader all of the images associated with Autumn, but it also invokes a feeling of loss. Even if I did not know that a rose was a summer season word I would imagine most Westerners would still equate it with love; Cherry blossoms with "ephemeralness" [brief existence]; Camellia with death.
Even if the season can not be guessed or inferred from the season word it still contains important information. However this association-conveyed information may differ with people of different cultural backgrounds. How do we know that "rose" in some country does not suggest death? This may be a problem in the internationalization of haiku. Kigo such as "the anniversary of Picasso's death" might catch on relatively easily internationally though.
Some purists would argue that this sort of association should not be considered when making haiku, and that only the association that the author actually experienced themselves should be written of. I agree with this if the haiku in question is simply about the physically existing object before the poet. However, my school of haiku (Dhugal) often uses such objects as tools in conveying other truths and, as such, these associations must be taken into account even if not used.
Kaneko Tohta believes that Westerners do not and will not accept kigo as being integral to haiku and that a 6th kigo category should be stressed: "zoh." They are not really season words at all, but rather everyday objects that contain associated meaning. More like a "theme" word. A common zoh category word in Western HAIKU is "grave," another is "clock".
I (Dhugal)do not agree with him. I feel that people use zoh already and that it needs no stressing. However the haiku tradition of kigo does need stressing as many Westerners believe it is unnecessary. (If it isn't stressed a little, it may disappear and a very useful haiku tool with it). Haiku must have kigo. This is a prerequisite of the haiku form. Most haiku poets put one in automatically and in very few cases is a haiku made which upon retrospect has no kigo. (It happens sometimes to me too). I personally believe that these are no less haiku (if the "haiku way of thinking" is present). However the conservative school maintains that anything without one is not a haiku. The addition/reinstatement of zoh as an accepted kigo category would solve this, but I personally feel it unnecessary.
In any situation there will always be more than one kigo present. The challenge in haiku is to pick the right one to use to get your message across. "a skilled choice of words" is very important. However you must use that which is present at the scene and that which caused your experience/haiku moment. (Looking in retrospect can sometimes cause you to forget what it REALLY was that caused the moment and this is where "intellectualism" -- in the "making" of haiku -- rears its ugly head.)
Part of the fun of haiku is the challenge of inserting a kigo and seeing the unthought-of increases in imparted information that suddenly present themselves as a result. Things you might have thought of subconsciously when you experienced the Kigo-Rest of the poem-bonding moment, but which you may not have been aware of.
At the present time some five thousand haiku magazines, most of them monthlies, are being published in Japan. Almost all of them belong to one or another school of haiku, though some declare themselves to be independent.
The oldest of schools is Hototogisu, founded by Masaoka Shiki; other large schools are Tenro, founded by Yamaguchi Seishi; Banryoku, led by Nakamura Kusatao; Shibugaki, organized by Matsune Toyojo; and Kanrei, headed by Kato Shyuson (Shuuson). All of these schools observe, more or less strictly, the rule regarding season-words ("kigo" in Japanese), but there are a number of minor schools who rebel against convention in haiku and who disregard either the 5-7-5 form or the use of a season-word or both. However, even those who omit the season-word reveal in their haiku some awareness of season. Personally, I advocate the orthodox way that gives due regard to the season-word; it was a principal ingredient of the haiku when it was differentiated from linked verse(renga) and gained independent stature, and it has remained an essential ever since.
The Japanese seem to be more season-conscious than Western peoples. From its earliest stages, Japanese literature has been rich in words concerning the seasons. Certain descriptions of the seasons are much admired. For example, Sei Shonagon, writing in the late tenth century, opened her "Pillow Book (Makura no soshi)" in this way:
"In the spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful...In summer the nights...In autumn the evenings...In winter the early mornings."--giving her reasons for each pronouncement [translation by Ivan Morris].
And in the fourteenth century Yashida Kenko in his Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa) debated the merits of each season in a celebrated passage that begins:
"The changing of the seasons is deeply moving in its every manifestation. People seem to agree that autumn is the best season to appreciate the beauty of things. That may well be true, but...[translation by Donald Keene].
In Western languages the names of the four seasons became complete only a few
centuries ago. Words for winter and summer appear quite early but in English "spring"
came to be used as the name of the season as late as the sixteenth century, and in
German 'fruhjahr', "spring" appeared about the same time. Similarly, in India
"hemanta(winter) and vasanta(spring)" appear in Sanskrit literature very early, while
other seasonal terms come much later.
Because Japanese literature is so rich in seasonal terms it was not difficult for early haiku masters to select and establish certain words as a special vocabulary to denote the seasons.
All through Japanese history until well into the Meiji period (1868-1912) the Japanese regulated their lives and celebrated their festivals by the lunar calendar. When the Gregorian calendar was adopted it caused some difficulty in the choice of season-words. For almost a century, both calendars were used side-by-side, and even today some events are governed by the lunar calendar, especially in the countryside. As a result of this change of calendars many other old season-words that fit the lunar calendar do not fit the new calendar, but we continue to use them. On the other hand, many other old season words have been discarded and many new ones adopted; changes take place continually. The number of season-words for Japanese haiku has never been constant, varying from tree to five thousand at different times and according to different authorities.
We use a glossary of season-words to check whether a word can be used to denote a season. Glossaries are of two kinds: kiyose, which merely lists seasonal terms, and saijiki, in which each term is accompanied by examples showing proper usage by well-known haikuists. Because the saijiki is more helpful, it is more widely used. Since the middle of Edo period (1600-1868) great numbers of these books have been published.
Most haiku practitioners rely on a saijiki. It usually takes a beginner five or six years to learn how to identify and use season-words properly. In the process, the consciousness of seasonal transition and its significance is deepened, and the student is introduced to a new and alluring realm of poetry.
Saijiki are available in pocket edition, usually of five to six hundred pages. These contain the words that occur most frequently, usually limited to about fifteen hundred. Larger books contain two or three times that number.
Zusetsu Haiku Dai-Saijiki (Great glossary of season-words illustrated) was published in 1974 by Kadokawa Publishing Company. This is the most authentic and comprehensive season-word glossary ever published in japan: about forty scholars participated in compiling it. Almost every season-word used from the Edo period to the present is included with a full explanation and examples of its usage from both classical and modern times. An outstanding feature of this glossary is the abundance of illustrations; they cover about a third of every page. Edo period drawings, prints, and paintings are shown, and there are also numerous photographs, so that the reader can see the things and places referred to. There are five volumes, headed New Year, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. Each volume is divided into sections: weather and climate, heavenly bodies, geography, human affairs (subdivided into court events, popular events, clothing, diet, dwellings, sports and games, etc.), religion, animals, and plants.The entries are in the Japanese alphabetical order and each volumes make them a good companion for any writer of haiku, advanced or beginning.
As the section in these volumes indicate, season-words are not omitted to aspects of nature, nor do most of them have to do with flora (trees, flowers, grasses) and fauna. To illustrate this I have counted the season-words in each category in the first two volumes:
Volume I Volume II
---------------- ----------
The New Year Spring
Astronomy 14 59
Climate 31 63
Geography 5 38
Human
Affairs 406 300
Religion 201 156
Animals 9 155
Plants 22 339
As is evident, human affairs together with religious rites and rituals predominate in haiku. For instance, October is the time for the Harvest Festival. Here in Matsuyama for three days beginning October 5, men and boys parade and young women in gala clothes come to watch them. This is Omatsuri, The Great Festival; Omatsuri is a season-words.
During the Edo period more than fifteen hundred season-words were assigned to human affairs. Volume V, Winter, of this saijiki has 408 season-words relating to human affairs and 147 relating to religion, but only 106 relating to plants. These figures seem to indicate something about the nature of haiku in general,though it is taking liberties to judge haiku by graceless mathematical calculation.
I think it is interesting to note that Japanese saijiki list no season-words relating to domestic animals or birds; chickens, dogs, and cats (except for cats' love-making) are excluded.
Another important publication I should like to call to your attention is Kindai Haiku Taikan (A comprehensive survey of modern haiku),published in 1974 by Meiji Shoin Publishers. This is a volume of 781 pages in large format, compiled by five haiku scholars,including Ono Rinka, and supervised by three prominent haikuists: Tomiyasu Fusei, Mizuhara Shuoshi, and Yamaguchi Seison. Included are representative haiku by a great many authors from the time of Shiki to the present. An exhaustive explanation of each haiku makes the book a good text for the study of haiku. The indication of the season-word used in each haiku is very useful. The appendix gives a short biography and bibliography for each author, a list of important collections of haiku by modern authors, and a short history of modern haiku. There in an index to all the haiku included.
Perhaps I am mistaken but it appears to me that most Westerners think that every season-word relates exactly to the time of year it denotes. In haiku this is not the case:
Many season-words have only an arbitrary connection with their season. For instance, koromo-gae, "changing clothes," is a haiku term arbitrarily assigned to early summer. De-gawari is an old term meaning a change of servants, when an old servant leaves the master's house and new one comes as replacement; traditionally, such a shift took place either in March or in September, but in haiku de-gawari was assigned to March. "Moon," used without a modifier, means only the moon of mid-autumn. The same plant can stand for different seasons when the name is given a prefix: hasu (lotus) stand for midsummer; maki-hasu ("curling lotus," when the leaves roll up on the water) signifies early summer; yari-hasu ("broken lotus," when the leaves are broken and torn) indicates autumn and kare-hasu ("withered lotus") indicates later winter.
As a rule, only one season-word is used in a haiku, although two are allowed in certain circumstances.
The season-word has manifold functions. For one thing, it affects style, because almost all season-words have a literary flavor.
As the late Professor Terada Torahiko emphasized, the season-word establishes time and place. Very often the names of local festivals appear in a season word glossary. When one of these is used we understand where and when something is happening without further comment: the haiku thus conforms to the fundamental BASHO principle of "here and now" with economy words.
The season-word evokes associations in the mind of both the writer and the reader, and this too enables us to express ourselves in fewer words. After all, no matter how elaborate a language, one can say just so much in seventeen syllables.
Without the structure that the season-word provides, a haiku is likely to become centrifugal, to fly apart, because time and place are vague. The late professor Yamada Yoshio set forth a new theory concerning the adverb: that in a certain context it modifies not just a verb, an adjective, or another adverb, but the entire sentence, In like manner, the season-word modifies the entire haiku, giving it proper depth and width.
I have been informed that the American Haiku Society did not accept my recommendation that the concept of season be included in its definition of haiku. The reason given was the wide difference in latitude across the continent. But in Japan, Hokkaido in the north and Okinawa in the south are very different in climate, flora, and fauna, yet we all use the same season-word glossaries. For those who are only concerned with composing an English poem in the guise of a haiku, any definition will suffice, but those who want to write a haiku that conforms to the principles of Japanese haiku must consider the use of the season-word.
Let me also point out that modern Japanese season-word glossaries contain a number of words of foreign origin, such as Christmas, April fool, May Day, ice cream, biiru (beer), as well as Fukkatsu-sai (Easter), kosui (perfume), and juken (taking an examination for admission to a high school). As I have tried to explain, many season-words, like these, have nothing to do with latitude.
It seems to me that it is this tricky business of a season-word, with its semantic and formal functions, that, more than anything else, marks the difference between American and Japanese haiku. In this connection I should like to call attention to the theories of the American Benjamin Lee Whorf and his brilliant followers, who created metalinguistics, the study of the relation of a language to its cultural context -- to the way its users well in comparing the haiku of two countries and in discussing the distinctive traits of the season-word.
The cherry blossom season is here in Matsuyama. On a sunny day recently I climbed Siroyama, the hill on which our castle stands. I took a path bordered by cherry trees, and the blossoms were very beautiful , shrouded in the thin spring fog which is usual at this time of the year.
There are many season-words relating to cherry blossoms, showing how much we make of them in Japanese haiku.
The time of year denoted by the season-word doesn't necessary coincide with the actual climate. This is particularly striking in the case of cherry blossoms. In Okinawa, the southernmost part of Japan, the cherry blossoms are already gone, here in Matsuyama they are in full splendor, while farther to the north, in Tokyo, they are in tight bud or just beginning to open. Blossoms time in the south of Japan is at least a month earlier than in the north, but this difference is not bothersome in haiku. When season-words were first established, they were based mostly on the climate of Kyoto, the ancient capital of Japan. In my judgment this was a good compromise because Kyoto is in the middle of the country and it was for many centuries its cultural center.
In considering some of the well-known season-words relating to cherry blossoms, I must first mention hana, which in ordinary Japanese means a flower or blossom of any species, but in tanka (also called waka, the thirty-one syllable form) and haiku is a synonym for sakura, cherry blossom. Hana and sakura, both major season-words, have many variants that are also season-words.
Higan-Zakura and shidare-zakura have hanging twigs (sakura becomes zakura in a compound word); hitoe-zakura has single petals; yae-zakura has double blossoms; the flowers of uba-zakura are accompanied by tender leaves; inu-zakura (literally, dog-cheery) bears no blossoms but is fragrant; niwa-zakura are cheery blossoms in the garden; oso-zakura are late-blooming cherry blossoms; yo-zakura are cherry blossoms at night; yu-zakura are cherry blossoms in the morning; hatsu-zakura and hatsu-hana both mean the first cherry blossoms.
We Japanese attach great importance to the first of anything, as many season-words demonstrate. Hatsu-hinode is the sunrise of New Year's Day; hatsu-yume is the year's first dream, which is supposed to come on the night of January 2; hatsu-mode are the New Year's Day visits to Shinto shrines to send up prayers for prosperity and happiness all through the year; kaki-zome is the year's first calligraphic exercise, conventionally done on the second day; hatsu-hibari, the first skylark, is a season-word for spring.
Just as Sei Shounagon wrote that "In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful," so cherry blossoms and dawn have been closely associated in haiku and tanka. People adore the glory of the fragrant blossoms shining in the morning sun.
In addition, sakura has many synonymous that are recognized as standard or semi-standard season-words; for example, yume-mi-gusa (literally, "dream-seeing-grass'), kazashi-gusa (a spray of bloom overhead), and akebono-gusa (dawn grass).
Season-words are not exclusively nouns, as some Westerners seem to think. Many are verbs, gerunds, or phrases. Hana warau (smiling cherry blossoms) is a season-word for spring, as are hana chiru (blossoms falling) and hana o matsu (waiting for blossoms). Sakura gari,"blossom hunting," means a picnic under cherry blossoms, sitting on a blanket or straw mat under a cherry tree, enjoying the blossoms and making merry. Naturally, such a party offers abundant motivation for making haiku.
I am happy that some American haikuists have in their reading come across the names that the American Indians assigned to the moons of their calendar, and realize that they might be used as season-words in American haiku. I have long hoped that Americans would establish season-words of their own, perhaps beginning with a single state or group of states with similar climates. Maker of haiku would then become more conscious of the seasonal concept, giving their haiku greater breadth and depth.Japanese seasonal expressions should not be used. Many words will correspond but season-words for so vast a continent must be unique.
(April 1978)