Continuing on my reflections from last week about art and poetry, and more specifically, what haiku should be, I found great comfort in these descriptions by Sam Hamill in his introduction to Basho’s Narrow Road to the Interior.
The poet strives for the quality called amari-no-kokoro, meaning that the heart/soul of the poem must reach far beyond the words themselves, leaving an indelible aftertaste.
As this critical vocabulary came into use, it was balanced by a vocabulary of the emotions. A contemporary of Saigyo, Fujiwara Teika (1162 – 1241), attacked structural criticism as hopelessly inadequate. “Every poem,” he said, “must have kokoro. A poem without kokoro is not—cannot be—a true poem; it is only an intellectual exercise.”
Here we find the idea that haiku (and art and poetry as well) should have a soul of some sort, a spirit of its own, and that this spirit should somehow remain with us—in thought or emotion. More than a soul of its own, I am tempted to say that what is being expressed here is that haiku should be the precise embodiment of the soul we find in nature, in objects, and in the human experience.
For those wanting clear answers, and possibly even for artists questioning the strength of their own work, Hamill’s words will provide no comfort. Have we written a haiku that possesses true kokoro? How can we know?
I’m reminded of Georgia O’Keefe’s quote, I don’t know what Art [insert haiku or poetry here] is but I know some things it isn’t when I see them.
He [Basho] would later write to a disciple, “Even if you have three or four extra syllables, or even five or seven, you needn’t worry as long as it sounds right. But if even one syllable is stale in your mouth, give it all your attention.”
Often when we talk about haiku, the question of form arises. Do our poems really need to be written in three lines of five, seven, and five syllables? Should we force our language into this shape for the sake of writing a poem?
I find it comforting to know that an old master once wrote that form is secondary to the sound of the poem (and I would imagine the feel of it, too).
When his disciple, Kikaku, overpraised a Basho image of a cold fish on a fishmonger’s shelf, saying he had attained “true mystery and depth,” Basho replied that what he most valued was the poem’s “ordinariness.” He had come almost full circle from the densely allusive Chinese style into a truly elegant simplicity that was in no way frivolous. He had elevated haiku from wordplay into a powerful lyric poetry …
Frankly, I was happy to read this, because in the book that I read last week, the author said haiku is not short, lyrical poetry; and something about that just didn’t sit well with me.
“Abide by the rules,” Basho taught, “then throw them out!—only then may you achieve true freedom.”
So there you have it. My takeaway from this is, use the form until you no longer need the form. Use the mold until you can break the mold.
of your leg on mine
deep in the night
the smell of molding leaves and
my father’s backyard
sparks cool before they hit the floor
honey, I’m home
on the rooftops this morning
like a welcome wink
as their house is torn down
knowing they’ll be next
cars drive by outside
their headlights on already
in the early morning hours
is cold once again
