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 6.5
From Here On Earth
BY Judith Christian
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that star
seems close enough
to swim to
—Diane Gillen Lynch
We are, always have been, and always will be, among the stars. It was natural enough, pleasant enough, to choose this haiku by Diane Gillen Lynch. I first heard the rhythms of language in songs such as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and I am dazzled by the images sent by the Hubble Space Telescope. It is also easy for me to travel off into intellectual musings about our relationship to stars. Why do we travel among them? Why do we want to touch them?
Ancient Buddhist cosmology asserted the existence of multiple, if not infinite, world systems. Then, as now, the light that travels from stars is what defines, what gives us the knowledge of those worlds. Epicurus, about 23 centuries ago, wrote, “There will be nothing to hinder an infinity of worlds.” Is it that the light of our minds knows that the stars will never end, and so to be among them means that we, too, have no beginning and no end? Modern astrophysics edges closer and closer to the ancients’ belief in the coming into being and passing away of an infinite number of universes, the system itself having no beginning and no end.
But wait . . . Basho is shaking his head and warning me away from such musings. Look at the first line of this well-tempered haiku. That star . . . of course. One star, the particular (Venus?), shining in the night sky, and from its light, the coming into existence of the observer. From our position on the Earth, with the naked eye we can look at only one star at a time. We can see many, but to really look, to discern the color and brightness with the naked eye, it’s one at a time. It is that particular star, and this particular poem, we are to look at, with the same intense gaze that is required to look at the night sky.
Where is the star and where is the observer? I see the star on or near the horizon, and between that star and the observer is a lake, or more likely, an ocean; but even if there is no intervening body of water, the night sky has its own horizons, and its own endless black pool. And, yes, the star seems close enough, but to swim to? There is a longing set up by the word seems, and the wistful desire to rejoin our eternal star selves is mediated by that word. We are firmly on terra firma, we are, alas, stuck here on Earth, which is exactly where a haiku should be. There is a beautiful hesitation, a gap between the second and last line, a place of expectation. I’m hooked. I’m there gazing into the distance for a moment, until the wave comes in and wakes me: to swim to. There is a dark danger in the last line. Overcome by longing for the eternal, desperate, or just impulsive—there could be many reasons for a night swim to a star; but like a hand grabbing one’s elbow, “seems” keeps us safe. There will be no swim. There is only the wonder, the inscape, the lapping water, and the lasting light of this poet and this poem.
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As featured poet, Diane Gillen Lynch will select a poem and provide commentary on it for Viral 6.6.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
• Viral 6.1 (Metz ➝ Robinson)
• Viral 6.2 (Robinson ➝ McClintock)
• Viral 6.3 (McClintock ➝ LeBlanc)
• Viral 6.4 (LeBlanc ➝ Christian)
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Very interesting reading all the comments (and the poem itself, of course), what varied lives we all have led and are leading.
I’m literally in the water with his one, floating on my my back in the Arabian Gulf (think bath water) and looking at the night sky – because there’s so little light pollution (and maybe it’s the time of year and tilt of the planet), the stars seem large and close, close enough to swim to.
Leaving a family wedding last Sunday, we turned our heads upwards – far enough out of the city for the “milky” part of the way to be clear.
The stars enchant us and humble us at the same time and in about equal measure. The child-like “close enough to swim to” is beautifully realised.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar; Then the traveller in the dark, thanks you for your tiny spark; (and, of course), And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by …
Wonder is what makes life so very interesting.
A night swim in the country under heaven’s stream is what I experience when I read this poem. The darkness filters out the usual implicit perspective within which we place ourselves and our relative distances to other objects in our visual range. The stars can seem so much closer as we ourselves float separately unattached in the darkness. I like the poet’s choice of “that” instead of using the specific article “the” in order to bring about a narrower focus and pointing to a particular star.
I’m grateful to Ms. Lynch for her poem that helped me re-connect with some night swims of my own I had years ago in upstate New York. Those memories seem closer now
like her star.
Best,
Bill C
Thanks Lorin!
My excuse tonight is that I was at a reading by former US Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky, courtesy of Bath Spa University, followed by catching up with New York Quarterly poet and former assistant editor Yu Yan Chen. Ah, these fine American poets keeping me indoors!
Here’s a Mars haiku, I call them SFku:
mars landing-
a tendril of red dust
shifts from a footfall
Alan Summers
1)
Practical Haiku: How Haiku Can Change Your Life
Dylan Tweney (published March 2010)
2)
Tinywords (29th November 2007)
http://tinywords.com/haiku/2007/11/29/
Mars was particularly red and bright, viewed from here, last night, Alan.
….coincidentally, just as it goes from ‘retrograde’ to ‘direct’, ‘in’ the Leo constellation
Buson:
Ami o more tsuna o more-tsutsu mizu no tsuki
(wonderful sounds!)
(“Evading the fishnet,/ and evading the fishing ropes,/ the moon on the water”; trans. Yuki Sawa and Edith M. Shiffert)
Agreed that “that star” could be interpreted in the reflection trad, although it certainly doesn’t have to be–and what I’m seeing, myself, is a bright star, low to the horizon and just-now visible, against a background as yet uncluttered by dimmer stars, over the water.
And, Merrill, yes, of course–we are all stardust. That’s how elements heavier than iron are synthesized in our universe, in supernovae explosions. Our solar system, with its small star, is not of the first generation; we and our Earth and our whole solar system are made from the dust and gas of long-dead stars. Amazing when one stops to think of it.
The stars keep us company on clear nights, true, but at the same time the closest, besides the Sun, is approx. 24 trillion miles away. And that seems to me what this haiku is all about!–the gap between what seems and is; “here” yet unfathomably remote.
Lastly, it’s not crucial–but, folks, the difference between a star and a planet is at least as obvious as that between, say, a bird and a bat, a trumpet and a trombone. When a poet says “star”, I trust she means *star*–likewise, “bird” not bat, usw. “Evening star” as in Wally Swist’s
far into twilight
milkweed seeds cross the meadow–
the evening star
yes, means Venus. But no “evening”? I see twinkling, a literal point of light. Whereas the brighter planets show actual mass (esp. through binoculars or a telescope whereas stars don’t) and twinkle almost never, only when the atmosphere is quite turbulent. The planets–literally, “wanderers”–also move against the fixed background of stars and so stand out for being bright objects in the “wrong” spots. A practiced eye sees the difference instantly. Feel free to disagree, but, personally, I think haiku poets, of all people, should care about such things. End diatribe!
Correction … I misnamed the poet in the apocryphal story of drowning while trying to kiss the moon’s reflection. The tale was about Li Po, not his Chinese contemporary (Tang Dynasty) Tu Fu. Ah well . . .
Night fishing? I’ve fished a lot Lorin, but never after dark. In the US States it is illegal, but the ocean is probably fair. I love the invitation!
Hi Paul,
That star *could* be a star’s reflection, in fact that’s what I first considered, but it doesn’t have to be. Whether one’s swimming or on a beach or pier (perhaps) looking out to sea or even out at sea, in a boat at night, the division between dark sea and dark sky isn’t easily made out, as it is by day. I’ve seen stars that seemed close enough to swim to (and the dark sea and sky can have that dreamy effect on me), and they seemed to be floating on the water, not reflections.
That’s something I liked about this haiku: it isn’t necessarily another haiku about reflection, though the possibility is there.
well, perhaps one night we’ll go fishing together, and we can test this one out.
Allan, I really appreciate all the info on stars. Thanks. I tend to feel that seems does weaken the haiku somewhat – as the very fact of taking in the sight of the star is an act not unlike swimming…being immersed in the object of the experience. And yet it seems to add a quality not unlike swimming…fluid…
But it is not true that stars are so very remote that they are not part of us…heavens, I venture to guess we are all star dust… and the contact with stars that we have enlarges our concepts of being.
I see things as you do, Adelaide, but that the star is a reflection in the water, ocean or lake. Was it the poet in ancient times, Tu Fu (?) that while drunk tried to kiss/embrace the moon in reflection and drowned? In this case the giveaway is in the swimming. The reflection of the star “seems” withing swimming range, literally. It is the focus, as was Tu Fu’s moon, of the poet’s attention. The star above, the reflection, and the body of water are in the here and now. The thinking about perhaps swimming is not. This is derivative of, yet a bit different from previous haiku in ELH of drinking the stars, stars in cupped hands, stars/moon in buckets, puddles, etc.
Whether or not “that star” is a true star or a planet isn’t the important point for me. How often have we thought that a particularly bright star, the moon or clouds seemed close enough to touch? There is a perception of nearness, a trick of light or the imagination.
For the poet, one star seems close, but not close enough to touch. It is, however, close enough to reach somehow. That she chose swimming as the way to reach the star makes me think she was by a body of water, the sea or a large lake. If she were by a meadow she might have chosen walking or running.
This haiku has the child-like quality of imagination and spontaneity. For a brief moment the reasoning adult is set aside and the poet gives in to her imagination.
Adelaide
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