I wrote a long intro for this one, so if you’d like to skip down to the haiku, just click here. All I’ll say is: haiku are short, but read them slowly. I have put extra space between each one to try to give that sense of space and taking things slow!
In 2016, I was living in Plymouth, Wisconsin. And one of the good things about living in downtown Plymouth was the fact that the Plymouth Arts Center was within easy walking distance. In March of 2016, they had an exhibit of six Wisconsin photographers called Painting With Light…many ways, and I loved it. And something about the photographs made me want to write in a spare, imagistic style, so I spent the duration of that exhibit repeatedly walking down there, sitting in the exhibit space, and writing these haiku (although a few are from the walk there or back as well). A little more information on the exhibit can be found in this old Sheboygan Press article I tracked down with a little help from the kind folks at the PAC.
I also wanted to talk a little bit about what I mean when I say “haiku.” They are not in any strict formula of syllables; I believe that translating a poem into a different language is, if you want to be simply literal, impossible; you are really creating something new. And I believe the same thing is true of translating a poetic form from one language to another.
So what I have below are poems that are in three brief lines, and my goals in this form are trying to write as simply as possible, cutting out whatever is unnecessary, and being as absolutely spare as possible. If the haiku is complete, what should be left is the image; if it is good, what is left is an image that you spend time with. I suppose it is similar to my feelings on photography and why they inspired me in this way. And I will end by saying that there is some joy, as a poet, in considering so minutely each word, on weighing questions of capitalization, on turning a narrowed eye on each punctuation mark; perhaps the same satisfaction that people who work in miniature feel in any art or craft.
why make resolutions?
now, everything new
is buried by snow.
the clouds
reflections of clouds
both leave us behind
the slow river
wears away the rock–
nothing is still
colorless winter–
the world as simple
as a photograph
these rock pillars–
are they giants' teeth
or dirty fingernails?
a flower
decaying
keeps a terrible beauty
around the solid rocks
the river, gurgling
between fishermen's legs
spring tulips
bend with the wind–
break under my hand
in a photograph,
train tracks
lead nowhere
lonely tree,
climb down from those rocks–
I will sit under you
scattered lilies
fall apart
petal by petal
icy trees
by a clear lake–
the end of winter
in the museum,
each glass-covered photograph
reflects my face
Moon,
I am also
here alone
the church doors locked!
a no loitering sign
outside the museum.
farther, trees fade
into forest, clouds
into sky
how many hermit caves
in these cliffs,
how many empty skulls?
on the highest branch,
that smug crow
is free to make noise
the snow is creeping
down the mountains
soon, winter is here
solitary, twisting tree–
can't decide which direction
to reach out
at dusk
in the distance
the cloud-mountains appear
not a shivering songbird
locked inside my ribs
but a black crow, laughing
drunk
he fell off the bridge
and landed in the stars
