Jack Kerouac, who was over appreciated as a cultural icon and under appreciated as a writer, had thoughts on American writers writing haiku. He was a an avid, or compulsive, writer of haiku, I do have a book of them, and some are in the classic form, but most are not. He called them "pops." I've posted some of my own pops here (below).

The difference, he thought, was that the language should fit the poem, and if there is a certain cultural slang, or twang, then it should be reflected.

What he didn't account for was sensibility. Your haiku make no attempt to be anything other than traditional haiku in form and content, which is why reading this, and your other haiku and tanka, seems entirely natural and fitting. We've talked about this before, you have embraced Eastern thought in many way, and have naturally enfolded it into your writing.

So, back at me is right. If I had the same sensibility I may have written:

november garden
winter too has its flowers
possum prints on deck

because it would be true. Instead, I would write something uniquely my own, probably in 17 lines (because that is my habit), and this is all to the good. There is a time and place for traditional haiku in my writing, when in a certain frame of mind:

This is how Laura would write it:

"Through the sidewalk crack
comes the first of spring's heralds.
Dandelion roars."

Regina writes on summer
by anticipatin fall:

"Mare beneath the elm
flicks her tail in impatience
for fall's cooling breeze."

Seventeen syllables is a mouthful
and then some for Colt.
He writes on fall:

"Fall calves butt heads while
mamas bring up their cud and
have themselves a chaw."

I ain't made up my mind
which season to write on.

"Winter seems so harsh.
Spring and fall all too easy.
Summer's but a blink."

And, here are some of my pops, it's all about the sound:

I set out
to touch the moon—
It looks so near


Poetry nearly is not—
separated from nothing
by a thought


Sound of mowing
calls the swallows


I have become
the cow, the calf, the bull


High on my poem
I have not found the flaw—yet


Whip-poor-will is insane.
Put a sock in it!


Spring leaves
dot the lawn after hail


Then it hits me—
you're gone


There is much
not to say


Another weekend gone!


Afternoon
brings a lull—
a stolen moment


Lush is the sound
of grass this spring


Every tick of the clock
brings us closer to immortality


Felipe Alou
Felipe Alou
Felipe Alou


God bless
the librarian
who says hush!


In the end, in truth, there is the beauty of haiku which you understand, and the beauty of that which comes from haiku. But, without a basic understanding of the form, neither works. It is a form to be respected. We're in agreement on that.
2013-11-30

Perfection.
2013-11-28