It seems appropriate that this Viral, selected and commented on by Yu Chang, follow Viral 4.3 and Periplum #3, both of which accumulated such great discussions and so many interesting thoughts and readings. One of the key questions it seems that was being alluded to but not being addressed head-on was this: what is Nature? How do we define it?
It seems that because our definition of Nature is expanding to include us (humans) and our inventions—that human nature is indeed part of Nature and vice versa and not separate or divided from it—our definitions of haiku and senryu, and what they can be (and what they are capable of doing), must expand as well. The lines become blurred, as they should. Isn’t this a good thing, and a natural trajectory for haiku and senryu as they become more global? Kigo (season words) become less vital and exclusive, and more work that employs season-less, universal words (muki-kigo) become prevalent—the human nature of Nature becoming more central, more accented. Is this subjectivity, or a new objectivity?
This Viral (5.3) seems to be yet another example of this kind of artistic progression: a seasonless poem where human nature-consciousness-emotions and something physically perceived outside it are spiraling around one another, pushing and pulling, with deep connections that go all the way back to the origins of humankind (“Where there are rocks, watch out!” -Alan Watts). In many ways, the seasonless poem goes deeper than seasons, and, with the openness they create, require the reader to go deeper as well. You the reader, bringing your life experiences and imagination in tow, are allowed to come in contact with a world the seasonless poem creates more openly, with more freedom, and are given the chance to create your own season for it, or however the poem works through you. It’s a collaborative workout. What season does it leave you in and with, and why? Take a look. And watch out.
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Virals is a section in which one person choses a haiku by another person and comments on that haiku. Then the author of that haiku is invited to select a haiku by someone else and comment on that poem, and so on. For an introduction to this section, see Virals.
• Viral 5.1 (Metz ➾ Lyles)
• Viral 5.2 (Lyles ➾ Chang)
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Some by Yu Chang
a deep gorge . . .
some of the silence
is me
— John Stevenson
Franz Kline
“Ah, the color gray . . . a lonely man, in a deep gorge under a misty sky, not even a crow in sight.” That’s the picture I painted right after the first read. I find it curiously satisfying. Much later, after a closer read, I was delighted to find another portrait for the poet – centered, humble, and at peace with his surroundings.
The sense of elation has stayed with me since I first read this lyrical, and evocative poem. The gentle pull of the understated first line “a deep gorge . . .” sets the scene, and the invitation for the reader to join in is put forth in the second and third lines. The poem succeeds effortlessly, without raising a single decibel.
On a bridge in Ithaca, I caught a glimpse of the gorge after our (Route 9 Haiku Group) poetry reading at Cornell’s Mann Library to celebrate the 2006 Poetry Month. It’s like any other gorge just deep enough to rattle me out of my complacency.
A man on a bridge looking down into a gorge is a common scene, but a poet with an open mind has found a poem. Like my composer friend, Hilary Tann, says, “Composing music is making the commonplace incandescent.”
What was in the poet’s mind when he wrote the poem? Could it be that he just wrote it down with nothing particular in his mind? It really doesn’t matter. Each time I read the poem, I am thankful for the space and the freedom to let my imagination play a part.
The poem’s telescoping construct provides enough room between the first line “a deep gorge . . . ” and the third line “is me” to accommodate layers of unspoken emotions effectively juxtaposed in three short lines. Two concrete images, a man and a gorge, are brought together by silence, a word which could conjure up all sorts of sounds, from thunderous waterfalls to the faintest whisper of a wounded heart. A bridge is made, and the reader is invited to come in.
But what is the poet trying to tell me? A voiceless confession of some action/inaction in the past that gave rise to the formation of the gorge? The last two lines when read as a single sentence seem tinged with regret. Could this be a change of heart in the darkest hour of his life? Does he feel centered again and the poem is wide open? Could it be true that if we all open our hearts and talk to one another, the world would be a better place? We’ll never know. Maybe that’s why a poem like this is so tantalizing.
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“deep gorge” was first published in Geppo (July/August 1996)
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As featured poet, John Stevenson will select the next poem and provide commentary for Viral 5.4.
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Been doing my homework about Tan Taigi.
He might have been walking in his wooden clogs (geta) over one of these large wooden bridges in town … and believe me, that makes quite a noise on a lonely night …
have a look
http://wkdhaikutopics.blogspot.com/2009/08/tan-taigi.html
and also look at a nice picture by old Buson, his drinking companion in the pleaseure quarters of Shimabara!
Thanks for getting me started on Taigi!
)
Gabi
寒月や我ひとり行く橋の音
kangetsu ya
ware hitori yuku hashi no oto
（炭太祗）
I walk over it alone
In the cold moonlight—
The sound of the bridge
The translation might be different, since the cut is right after cold moon in the first line …
and my more free version would be
moon in the cold …
only my own footsteps
on the bridge
(kangetsu is a winter kigo, looking at the moon on a cold winter night)
Gabi
Thanks, Allan, That was well said. What is any poetry (haiku or any other kind of poetry) if it is not the use of language that allows the words to do more than abide quietly in the rules. There has got to be that cognitive leap or it will never cross the abyss of our unknowing.
Sometimes, it seems to me that I use the rules to look at a poem that has failed to identify just where that leap is necessary….where you have to break the rules in order to sing.
In response to a few remarks by David Giacolone:
“within a few years of the English-language haiku community reaching the revolutionary consensus that the 5-7-5 format is unnecessary”
There never was a consensus in elh that 5-7-5 was necessary. Harold Henderson is on record as being emphatically against it from the get-go. Blyth (as translator) and Kerouac did, thankfully, without it. In American Haiku many such as Virgilio with his famous “bass” and “lily” deviated from it. Few besides Hackett and Southard ever wrote well with much consistency in the form. And by the late 60s it was clear it was never, for all sorts of reasons, going to serve the purpose for major haiku in English. The vital direction, indicated decisively by poets such as John Wills, was toward greater concision and a concept of duration roughly equivalent to actual J haiku–which of course doesn’t always stick to 5-7-5 either.
“It seems to value (and classify) a haiku-like poem — and many that are scarcely haiku-like at all — according to who penned it.”
Why then does Roadrunner (one of your betes noires, it seems) hide the names of the poets?
“His movement toward ‘tell-ems’ (psyku)”
John Stevenson, contemporary giant that he is, did not introduce subjectivity into haiku. Last time you showed up, Mr. Giacolone, I provided you with exs. of extremely famous “subjective” haiku penned by Basho. Just to refresh your memory:
amusing, then sad: the cormorant boats
even in Kyoto, I yearn for Kyoto—the cuckoo’s song
autumn deepens…my neighbor, how does he live?
sick on a journey—my dreams wander desolate moors
As was pointed out to you last time, these are among the most famous and widely translated haiku Basho ever wrote. So this kind of subjectivity has always been part of the tradition, one option among many available to poets.
In addition, it should go w/o saying that poets are not limited to the techniques Basho employed any more than Basho was to those of his predecessors. Major poets are often trailblazers…like Basho.
“allowed poets who have far less interesting insights to think we want to see their epigrams, bumper sticker slogans, and cliched greeting card sentiments in haiku journals”
Speaking for myself, I’d rather see the least of such poems than a reactionary tirade.
And actually, there are a lot of fine contemporary haiku in this psychological mode. Paul Miller, btw, is a master of this style although it is not his only one:
deep winter
stars between the stars
I know
(from called home–just one ex. among many)
The key words in your discourse seem to be: “caution”, “standards”, “limits”.
They are not words I associate with great art.
“The barriers are not erected which can say to aspiring talents and industry, ‘Thus far and no farther.’”–Beethoven
Thanks, Paul, for adding a note of caution for all those who seem to equate new or different with growth and creativity, and therefore constantly need to denigrate tradition and the factors that made haiku a unique genre.
The problem with trends, of course, is that they attract many imitators and rather quickly lose their ability to attract a new audience. In the process,they also turn off those drawn to the genre because of its traditional features.
It seems more than strange that within a few years of the English-language haiku community reaching the revolutionary consensus that the 5-7-5 format is unnecessary, as are season words, and that “nature” includes our urban landscape, we are told that without more radical change haiku will die — and, that we must call virtually any tiny scrap of words haiku if the author or editor does, or be banished to the dustbin of haiku history.
Gene has a very good point about the haijin community. It seems to value (and classify) a haiku-like poem — and many that are scarcely haiku-like at all — according to who penned it. Although many readers would value “deep gorge” no matter who the author might be, there is no doubt in my mind that being John Stevenson is the only explanation for his one-liner “dust devils on a dead planet” being considered a poem, much less publishable haiku, and then even prize-winning haiku by the gang at Roadrunner.
As for this particular poem, its creation conjures up this image and question in my mind:
A renowned Master haijin stands at a quiet gorge (or imagines doing so), and has the interesting insight, “I’m part of that silence; some of that silence is me.” He then wants to use the moment as the basis for a haiku poem.
How does he [or she] do it? How does he invoke that insightful moment in his readers? If he wants to create a haiku of the highest order, he doesn’t, I submit, merely tack the insight verbatim onto the image of a gorge. He instead draws upon those masterly skills and uses the second part of the poem to unite with sensory images the silence and the observer at the scene. He then allows the reader to make the connection (or come to many other possible conclusions), rather than forcing the insight on the reader and closing the conversation.
No matter how interesting and insightful the idea, by choosing to merely tell us the insight, rather than showing what invoked it, John has made this poem much less than it could have been as haiku. I like “deep gorge” and posted it years ago at my weblog, but I’d love to see what a poet with John’s skills could have done if he had spent the time to show us rather than inform us of his conclusion.
Sadly, being John Stevenson — who I value as a master haiku poet and honored editor, and a friend — has made it possible for editors to throw out the “show ‘em/don’t tell ‘em” standard over the past decade. John at least offers us unique insights and perspectives. His movement toward “tell-ems” (psyku) has, however, allowed poets who have far less interesting insights to think we want to see their epigrams, bumper sticker slogans, and cliched greeting card sentiments in haiku journals — so, they attach them to what Lee Gurga used to call “half a haiku.”. Worse, it has allowed haiku’s editors and teachers to accept these psyku, either because John does it, or because the genre is no longer supposed to have standards or limits.
My apologies for covering so many topics.
I was interested in Scott’s comment about a new subjectivity in haiku with the arrival and our comfort with more seasonless poems. But also troubled, because it seems to imply a trendiness to the genre, and I don’t think poetry should be trendy. I think the best poets have more than one style to their writing–adapted from the circumstances of the particular poem. The strongest argument against a strict 575 form is that any poem may require less syllables. And what is more important: the picture or the frame? Likewise, if a moment (and I’ll get in trouble for that word!!!) can be enhanced by a season word, why not add one? If it gets in the way, leave it out. The lesson of Penny’s poem in the prior Viral seemed to be around how much description does her “bowl” require—if any?
To look at John’s poem. How would “deep summer gorge” differ from “deep winter gorge” or differ from his choice of just “gorge”? I can imagine a poem that would benefit from each. And each poem, no pun intended, would be just as ‘deep’ as the other. I don’t see how seasonality somehow closes a poem off to a reader.
this is off the cuff folks:
There isn’t anything here that can be decussed that is new to the genre.
Let’s talk about the 4th line [the author] for a moment:
John Stevenson.
Lets see how much weight John’s voice carries…
This is only an idea, since some folks feel that editors
let me get away with things because of my avian back-
ground, which isn’t true.
How may people here, liked John’s poem because John wrote it? come on, give up those hands!
Adelaide,
Great point about the formatting and the way it forms the image of a gorge. It becomes a concrete poem in a sense. Also, the way that the last line (“is me”) is so isolated and pithy at the end emphasizes a sense of smallness and isolation in the greater scheme of things, and in the presence of a gorge (physically, or, perhaps, even in a spiritual sense). The formatting really does carry a lot of emotional punch to it—a really cool poetic technique. Which would be lost, at least a bit, if it was read outloud.
Scott wrote regarding John Stevenson’s poem, “…a poem like this is so tantalizing.”
a deep gorge . . .
some of the silence
is me
It is tantalizing because the reader creates the poem along with the poet, which, for me, is what a haiku should be. I feel heat, mid-summer heat when the air is still. The silence fills the poet and there is nothing else he can say except that. To describe the weather, the depth, the width of the gorge is not possible. Whatever the conditions are or whatever descriptions others could make are not necessary. The gorge is there. Enough said.
One last point on the positioning of the lines. The diagonal slant and the tightness of the last line create a visual effect consistant with the image of a gorge.
Adelaide
You know, Theodore Roethke was convinced that rocks could breathe…there has been a lot of skeptisism about the “fact” but his belief
and experience in the green houses of his father as a child brought to light a great deal of fine poetry and many insights into nature itself.
What we lable things sometimes detracts from a greater truth…and there’s something inside us who delight in the revelations….
John’s poem is one of those and I am thankful for it.
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