I never cared much for haiku because it didn’t rhyme and left me wondering if I had overlooked something remarkable.
Over the years, I learned more about this peculiar, short form of Japanese poetry, and it’s grown on me. Since the pandemic forced my office to close, shifting me to a work from home duty station last March, I began to harmonize with my new environment. I became more aware and curious about my surroundings and experienced an intense connection with nature.
I’m no expert on writing: It’s something I love to do. And writing haikus has become a daily challenge: To put words around my thoughts, observations, and experiences.
The more I read about haiku, the more poignant its artistry becomes. Haiku takes us on a journey, from weary existence to enduring beauty, so that all else is forgotten, if only for a moment.
I am new to haiku and have learned that the reader needs to read between the lines of haiku and complete the verse because it is unfinished.
Haiku is the penultimate economy of expression. It promotes balance and offers the best insight for eloquence. Likewise, juxtaposition is a common feature of haiku, painting a picture of contrasts with concepts. Traditional haiku doesn’t rhyme. It is written in three phrases with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern, a seasonal reference, and a cutting word, signaling a break in the line of thought. Modern haiku, however, varies widely from the time-honored convention and gives way to poetic license.
And what better way to fill up my new Field Notes memo books delivered to my mailbox at the start of each season? writing haiku has become therapy for me: Once abstract and out of reach, haiku is a frequent indulgence.
white lies like snow–sorrows cutting sorrowsfloating– Kristine Bruneau copyright © 2021
Pumpkins and change
