The Magic of Noticing – the Haiku

The Japanese minimalist form of poetry, the haiku, celebrates the art of purposely focusing your attention on something than you could easily pass by without noticing. 

R.H. Blyth, in Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics, suggests that: ‘A Haiku is the expression of temporary enlightenment in which we see into the life of things.’

In essence, Haiku is about capturing a moment, sometimes a moment in which nature is linked to your life. Other popular themes are movement contrasting with inactivity, or change with continuance, or time with timelessness.

Here is an example written by the most famous master of the haiku is the 17^th century, Japanese poet Basho Matsuo:

Autumn moonlight—
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut

Another haiku master was Yosa Buson. Here is one of his:

Pressing Sushi
after a while,

a lonely feeling

And below is one from yet another master, Kobayaski Issa:

Don’t worry spiders
I keep house
Casually

The Japanese can be very good at noticing. Take the practice of hanami – or enjoying the beauty of flowers. This custom has its origins in the admiration of the flowers of the ume tree, a species of plant related to both plums and apricots. But it later became associated with the delicate cherry blossom, a flower that is said to represent life itself, luminous and beautiful yet fleeting and ephemeral.

Flowering cherry trees are a great excuse of a party in Japan, and where ever they are you’ll find large gatherings of Japanese, eating, drinking and generally being merry.

Another form of poetry, besides the haiku, that often capture fleeting sensations, or swift impressions, or things seen by chance, or a flash of insight, is the Spanish gregueria. It’s also known for its playfulness.

The acknowledged master of this form was Ramon Gomez De La Serna.

This one is called Diamonds:

At night, passing the empty windows of a jeweller’s shop, one infers that all the diamonds have gone to the opera.

This is another one:

The spider astounds us with his feats; launching himself into space from cross-bars, moving to and from in nothingness. Watching him, our pulse – that inner music! – seems to stop, just as circus-music stops during the most sensational act. 

I couldn’t leave Ramon’s greguerias behind without reproducing this one, called Globe. It’s a little longer, but I’m sure you can relate to this moment caught in time:

The child’s favourite plaything was a globe. He was always hanging over it, like an aviator looking down from the sky, gazing at the ocean of blue paint as if he were gazing at the ocean itself. Sometimes he was motionless as a fisherman waiting for a trout to jump. When his parents asked: “What are you doing? What is the matter with you?” the child didn’t answer, or said evasively: “I’m Just looking.” 

But his secret was that in that great globe-sea he had, for himself alone, discovered an island.

Of course, people from elsewhere appreciate the magic of noticing things too. Martina Lowden writes in the book Klara Kristalova:

“There is a Swedish expression, ‘celebrating the twilight’: letting the greyness spread across the floors, letting the darkness deepen in the nooks and crannies, and yet not turning out the lights…”

There are Russians too who, before leaving on a journey, traditionally sit as a group in a room, quietly reflecting on that moment of being in that place, of leaving that place, of setting out on an adventure, and anticipating what’s to come. Perhaps you can do the same before you next rush out of the door on the way to the airport. Turn your head as you leave, take one last look, and maybe, while you’re at it, thank the place you have been staying in for a while.

How to write a Haiku

A traditional Japanese haiku is a non-rhyming verse made up on 17 phonetic sounds. The English equivalent, more or less, is a syllable. There are three phrases, each in turn consisting of five, seven, and five syllables. This is easier to do in Japanese than it is in English, so don’t let a stray syllable or two put you off.

A haiku is also ‘cut’ into two parts by a cutting word. These two parts have to remain, to a degree at least, independent of each other, yet they are a juxtaposition of two images or ideas. Each section exists to enrich the understanding of the other. When writing a haiku in English, a long dash, a colon, or a series of dots indicating an intentional omission of a word or sentence (or perhaps an unfinished thought) is often used to join these sections together.

A seasonal season ‘word’ is important too. So ‘lightning’ might mean it’s summer, or ‘cherry blossoms’ spring. Sometimes the season word isn’t that obvious, such as ‘frog’, which also relates to spring in Japanese haiku tradition.

Where l am living at the moment, spring to me means jasmine and lemon blossom, flocks of crying black cockatoos before the fires of summer, hope, spraying the apple trees, the first cabbage-white butterflies, and chicken eggs after the winter lull.

I’ve tried writing a haiku, but they are so bad that I am reluctant to give an example here.

Instead I give you one from my father-in-law, Rob Pigott, who wrote this haiku on a rather sad Halloween evening after he and his lady friend, armed with sweets and chocolates, waited for the local kids to come down the driveway, as they had done when they were young parents.

Listening
With Halloween treats
Children pass the door
Without knocking.

Image credit: David Evans/flickr