Virals

                                                        burial at sea—
                                                             the horizon
                                                        so much nearer

                                                                 Rich Youmans

I read this haiku in Without Halos, a New Jersey literary magazine that was big-heartedly open to all poetic forms. This poem punched a hole in my consciousness and was promptly added to my sacred store of frequently recited and treasured utterances. “burial at sea—” is like when I first learned what Ash Wednesday was really all about . . . contemplating one’s own finitude and the multitudinous energy transformations that await, could give even a tiger mystic the heebeegeebees.

My grandmother used to say an Irishman is old by age six. I have always felt a craggy wisdom behind this haiku. Naturally, “burial at sea—” brings one to a solemn place. I don’t know what the poet’s intentions might’ve been, or whether I am completely misreading him, but I do know I use his poem as a kind of reminder to hurry up and pay attention to what I have to get done. My Japanese friends tell me there is no horizon and I smile and bow and continue to pray.

                                                    under the nitrogen blue sky
                                                    the white horse
                                                    of my life

                                                                 —Patrick Sweeney

SM: For me, this ku is about the fleetingness of life, motion, and also transformation. By invoking a gas (nitrogen), something ungraspable, yet definitive, is conjured. It’s a peculiar thing to use in a haiku poem—something scientifically named—yet it’s 78 % of the earth’s atmosphere, and so not that very peculiar at all. It feels modern though and part of our world and slang. The use of the word conjures exactness; it is precise and elemental. Again though, it has a vacuity to it, something odorless, escapable, always in motion, something that can not be held or tied down. What is “the white horse”? For me, it conjures speed, beauty, strength, freedom. It’s a strong (even mythically mighty) image that takes us from the infiniteness and ubiquitousness of the sky/air to something concrete. Yet, at the same time, it’s abstract and metaphorical. Could it, in fact, simply be a cloud that looks like a horse? And does this cloud remind the poet of their own life? Of our own lives? How simple; how beautiful. There’s a purity and evanescence that i love about this ku. All in all, it leads me, ultimately, to disintegration.

PP: We may instantly recall a number of storybook tales ending happily with a knight or a prince charming riding in on a white horse. We may think of gods riding chariots drawn by white horses, or the Book of Revelation (19:11-16), where Christ appears as the Word of God. A white horse as a symbol has no shortage of meanings. If it is, in fact, a metaphor, it’s unpretentious. “The white horse” could represent someone or thing that rescued or completes the poet—a lover, a child, a friend, a place. Regarding the latter, years ago, it was mountains that set me straight, and I don’t see it being too far of a stretch to see the likeness between snow-capped mountain humps bearing resemblance to a white horse. And there are literally White Horse Mountains that I know of in China (Yunnan and Zhejiang provinces), America (California), in Japan (Nagano Prefecture), and there may be others. We know Patrick Sweeney lives in Japan. Just a thought.

Virals is a section in which one person chooses 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.

                                                         crickets . . .
                                                         then
                                                         thunder

                                                                                             —Larry Wiggin [1]

In February of 1974 I received my copy of Modern Haiku and as I was reading thru it two haiku by Otoko Tomodachi made the proverbial leap off the page:

cold rain
bare bulb shining
on the bathroom bowl

alone
fall grass caught
in the wooden door [2]

The two haiku made a great impression on me and by someone whose name I had not seen before. I sent a letter of appreciation to the writer via Kay T. Mormino who was the editor of Modern Haiku at that time. It was a sad day when she wrote back that Otoko Tomodachi was the pen name of Larry Wiggin and he had died the previous November. I was disappointed that I had not made contact with him about his work and that there would be no more new haiku from him.

Later that year in August I received my copy of The Haiku Anthology edited by Cor van den Heuvel in which there was a selection of haiku by Larry Wiggin. The haiku placed at the beginning of this essay was in the group. It made a strong and lasting impression on me. It displayed a powerful simplicity. It was precise and to the point. It swiftly recreated a delightful moment of time. It conveyed a powerful use of words. There was a penetrating intensity in its three words. A grand explosion in my world of haiku. It has remained one of my favorite haiku. Three words from Larry Wiggin—a gift over the many years.

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Viral 7.1 (Metz ☞ Gordon)

Viral 7.2 (Gordon ☞ Hotham)

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.

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                                                     Lingering
                                                     in every pool of water—
                                                     spring sunlight

                                                            —Issa (trans by Stephen Addiss)

This is a gentle haiku. It invites the reader to rest with it awhile. I feel myself being lulled by the soft flowing sound of the water. I feel the warmth of the spring sun, a bit higher in the sky now. After the cold long winter, these first warm days, we wait in anticipation, and hope, of spring—the season of renewal.

This poem is universal. Our species is attracted to water. Whether one is participating in an activity associated with water or simply lingering in the light, we love sunshine and water. We are never in a hurry to leave this restorative and healing atmosphere.

At first, my imagination takes off with all that could occur at this moment in time. I wonder what life is teaming under the pools of water? Are there koi fish in Issaʼs pool, or frogs? Are there cherry blossoms on the surface? Is there a reflection, perhaps of a plum tree? What birds are singing? What color is the water?

I stop thinking about all that is not mentioned. I focus on the water and the sunʼs reach to every pool. I think of how three-quarters of the planetʼs surface is covered by pools—and the sunʼs reach to all of these bodies of water. And I think of how water and the sunʻs light are requirements for survival.

As I look out my window, I see several temporary pools that were formed by flooding rains. But Issaʼs pools are not temporary. They remain, centuries later, in this timeless haiku. Let us linger.

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• Viral 6.1 (Metz ➝ Robinson)
• Viral 6.2 (Robinson ➝ McClintock)
• Viral 6.3 (McClintock ➝ LeBlanc)
• Viral 6.4 (LeBlanc ➝ Christian)
• Viral 6.5 (Christian ➝ Lynch)