To the Lighthouse: The Art of the One-Liner, Mastering the "Enjambed Double-Take"

In traditional multi-line poetry, enjambment occurs when a phrase runs over a line break without punctuation, pulling the reader forward before the thought is complete. But how does this work in a single-line haiku, where there is no physical line break?

Instead of relying on layout, poets can create enjambment through grammar and semantics.

A double-take occurs when a reader initially parses a word or phrase one way, only to discover a moment later that it belongs to—and transforms—the next part of the image. The mind is forced to step back, take a second look, and reread the line with a newly configured understanding.

Here are two examples of how haiku poets can use this sophisticated technique.

Example 1: The Seamless Pivot

an ocean wave the wind through the grain

Stepping Stones: Haiku & Tanka Selected and New, 2007

Martin Lucas

The First Take

Reading from left to right, the mind naturally groups the opening words as “an ocean wave.” An immediate image appears: water breaking on a shore.

The Enjambment

The poem then moves seamlessly into “wave the wind.” For an instant, the mind may try to interpret wave as a verb—as though the ocean itself were waving toward the wind.

The Double-Take

Then comes the final word: “grain.”

An ocean does not have grain.

At that moment, the syntax and imagery reorganize themselves. The reader realizes that “the wind through the grain” forms a separate visual field: a field of wheat or grass moving in the wind.

Because there is no punctuation to serve as a stop sign, the space between wave and the wind becomes a pivot point. The mind must unconsciously remap the grammatical structure, shifting almost instantaneously from a seascape to a field: 

an ocean wave the wind [cut] through the grain

The effect is subtle but powerful: the poem does not tell us to change our interpretation. It makes us discover that we have been reading it incorrectly.

Example 2: The Political and Emotional Snap

Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCCVII: "Gazan girl's red balloon"

to Banksy

fireballs bursting into the dark a Gazan girl's red balloon

Chen-ou Liu

The Setup

The dedication “to Banksy” acts as a joshi (prefatory note). It immediately activates the reader's memory of Banksy's iconic Girl with Balloon, an image associated with childhood, innocence, hope, and loss.

By invoking and subverting that familiar symbol, the haiku connects a distant geopolitical tragedy to an image the reader may already carry emotionally.

The First Pass

As the eye moves across the line, it encounters:

“fireballs bursting into the dark…”

The words naturally form a coherent image. The mind assumes that the fireballs are what is moving or exploding into the darkness.

Then the line continues.

The Snap-Back

“…a Gazan girl's red balloon.”

The reader suddenly has to reconsider the grammar.

The phrase “into the dark” can also attach to the balloon.

The mind performs its double-take: the darkness is no longer merely the backdrop against which fireballs explode. It becomes the destination of the girl's red balloon:

fireballs bursting [cut] into the dark a Gazan girl's red balloon

The Dual Meaning

This grammatical ambiguity forces the reader to hold two images simultaneously:

The violence: Fireballs burst across a dark sky.

The loss: Amid the chaos, a child's red balloon slips away and drifts upward into the darkness.

The phrase “into the dark” therefore acquires a haunting, elegiac resonance. The balloon is no longer simply a toy. It can suggest a life, a soul, childhood innocence, or the last fragile remnant of hope ascending into an unknowable void.

The poem's meaning changes during the act of reading.

That is the crucial feature of the enjambed double-take: the reader does not merely encounter two interpretations. The first interpretation actively creates the conditions for the second.

Why It Works

The enjambed double-take, closely related to what literary theory might describe as a syntactic pivot or, in some contexts, an apokoinu, is a powerful way of making the reader participate in the construction of meaning.

Punctuation normally tells us where one grammatical unit ends and another begins. Remove that punctuation, and the reader has to supply the boundaries.

The poet can exploit that uncertainty.

A word initially appears to belong to one phrase, only to reveal itself as belonging to another. The reader experiences a tiny moment of disorientation, followed by recognition. The poem seems to change shape—not on the page, but inside the reader's mind.

That moment of correction can produce the sensation of a sudden realization, a sharp intake of breath, or an abrupt emotional shift.

In the best examples, the double-take is not merely a clever grammatical trick. The moment of rereading becomes part of the poem's meaning.

The reader is made to experience the poem's uncertainty, reversal, or shock rather than simply being told about it.

To the Lighthouse: Emotional Zoom-Lens Effect

In poetry, the zoom-lens effect occurs when a poem shifts the reader's focus, either zooming in from a broad scene to a close, detailed observation or zooming out from an intimate detail to a wider perspective. By directing the reader's visual attention, the poet creates a sense of movement within an otherwise static poem.

The eighteenth-century Japanese poet and painter Yosa Buson often composed with what has been called a painterly eye. One of his signature techniques is a gradual narrowing of focus, much like a camera zooming from a wide-angle view to a single, vivid detail.

For example:

the short night—

on the hairy caterpillar

beads of dew

Yosa Buson

L 1, "the short night," encompasses an entire span of time. It evokes the brevity of a summer night and is expansive and conceptual rather than visual.

L 2, "on the hairy caterpillar," suddenly narrows the perspective from the vastness of the night to a single living creature. The haiku shifts from contemplating time to observing one small inhabitant of the landscape. The adjective "hairy" prepares the reader for an extreme close-up by directing attention to texture.

L 3, "beads of dew," completes the dramatic zoom. The focus moves beyond the caterpillar itself to the tiny beads of dew clinging to its hairs. At this intimate distance, the droplets resemble a cluster of jewels. The haiku has guided the reader from an entire night, to a single creature, to microscopic detail.

Emotional Zoom-Lens Effect

I use the term emotional zoom-lens effect to describe a related but distinct poetic technique. While the traditional zoom-lens effect changes the reader's visual perspective, the emotional zoom-lens effect changes the reader's emotional perspective. Through a cinematic shift in focus, the poem moves from an external visual impression toward a deeper human or psychological awareness—or in the opposite direction. The result is not merely a change in what the reader sees, but a transformation in what the reader feels.

Emotional Zoom-In

For example:

detention silhouette

these faces then eyes

etched with age

L 1, "detention silhouette," functions as a wide establishing shot. The scene is stark and atmospheric, reducing the figures to a single dark, indistinct silhouette.

L 2, "these faces then eyes," steadily narrows the field of vision. The indistinct silhouette resolves into individual faces, and the focus settles finally on their eyes. The movement resembles a camera advancing from a long shot to an intimate close-up.

L 3, "etched with age," completes the emotional zoom. The gaze moves beyond facial features to what time itself has inscribed upon them. The haiku carries the reader from an impersonal outline to an intimate recognition of shared human experience.

(FYI: This could be read as a prequel to the following haiku below:

On the Brink of Trumperica, V

written in response to Convicted Felon Donald Trump's proclamation: "On Day One, I will launch the largest deportation program in American history."

detention camp in shadow ...

between the guard and holding cells

dialects of silence

NeverEnding Story, January 20 2025)

Emotional Zoom-Out

The emotional zoom-lens effect can also work in reverse.

one sunflower

in a patch of dandelions—

a Kyiv boy's gaze

L 1, "one sunflower," immediately draws the eye to a single, vibrant focal point.

L 2, "in a patch of dandelions," widens the visual frame by placing the solitary sunflower within a patch of small, common flowers. The dandelions create a fragile setting, while the em dash functions like a cinematic cut, momentarily suspending the image before the final reveal.

L 3, "a Kyiv boy's gaze," completes the emotional zoom-out. The camera pulls back to reveal the observer standing beyond the flowers, looking toward the solitary sunflower. What first appeared to be a simple botanical scene is now understood through the consciousness of a child. 

In the context of Ukraine, the sunflower carries profound symbolic weight as the national flower and an international emblem of resilience and resistance. By expanding the frame to include the observer, the haiku transforms a quiet landscape into a deeply human one, inviting the reader to experience the scene through the boy's emotional perspective.

Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCCI: "campsite of fireballs"

            fireball

a campsite of fireballs

  squadrons of drones

L1, "fireball," begins in medias res, stripped of both article and verb. This stark economy creates the sensation of witnessing a solitary explosion at the exact instant of eruption. The image is intensely localized, anchoring the reader's attention to a single coordinate of catastrophic violence while leaving both cause and consequence unstated.

L2, "a campsite of fireballs," dramatically widens the visual and emotional field. The peaceful, communal connotations of a "campsite" are violently subverted, weaponizing the landscape into a grid of simultaneous detonations. The solitary fireball is instantly absorbed into a broader pattern of destruction. This initial zoom-out effectively scales an individual catastrophe up into a panorama of widespread devastation.

L3, "squadrons of drones," completes the upward expansion by shifting the perspective from the burning ground to the sky. The line exposes the organized, automated machinery driving the terror. By pulling the lens past the visible wreckage to the remote systems operating above, the poem underscores the detached, industrialized nature of contemporary warfare.

The haiku’s emotional weight relies entirely on this progressive, cinematic expansion. Each line forces a shift in scale—from a localized blast, to a landscape engulfed in ruin, to the airborne formations coordinating the assault. Crucially, the poem completely excludes human presence; both victims and operators remain invisible. This eerie omission compels the reader to inhabit the silence, rendering the unseen human cost far more unsettling than explicit description. By pairing geometric visual expansion with profound human absence, the haiku perfectly captures the cold, mechanized alienation of modern drone warfare.

FYI: NBC News, July 15, 2026: Israel’s latest strikes kill a dozen people in Gaza, including police officers

A woman and six police officers were among those killed in an airstrike on a police station in the densely populated Jabalia refugee camp in northern Gaza, hospital officials said.

Added: Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCCIV: "star(v)ing eyes"

star(v)ing eyes

of a Gazan child

food trucks in flame

tanka example Added: Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCCIV: "marked with numbers"

forehead and body

marked with number 44

in dim light

a Palestinian detainee

stares through the iron bars

FYI: Haaretz, August 18, 2026: IDF Marks Palestinian Detainees With Numbers as It Expands Northern West Bank Operations

To the Lighthouse: Yūgen (幽玄)

Yūgen is often described as a profound, subtle awareness of mystery—something partially hidden, suggested rather than stated, that evokes depths beyond explanation. Rather than revealing everything, a haiku embodying yūgen invites the reader to sense what lies just beyond perception.

For example:

silhouette

through the closed shade

a crow's caw

NeverEnding Story, June 17, 2026

Marion Alice Poirier

In Ls 1&2, the narrator perceives only an indistinct form from indoors. The closed shade establishes both physical and psychological separation, allowing the silhouette to remain vague and inaccessible rather than fully seen.

L 3 introduces the sudden caw of a crow, punctuating the surrounding stillness. Because the visual scene remains unresolved, the sound deepens the mystery rather than explaining it. The haiku evokes the unsettling sense that something is present but ultimately beyond our reach. Its emotional depth arises precisely from what remains concealed.

Two examples from my own haiku explore yūgen in contemporary urban settings:

silhouette

across storefront ATM glow

moths circling

This haiku approaches yūgen through a stark, modern cityscape. Ls 1&2 place an unidentified silhouette against the cold, artificial light of a storefront ATM, creating an atmosphere of isolation and concealed identity.

L3 introduces the restless circling of moths. Their repetitive motion echoes the narrator's lingering gaze, as if both observer and insects are drawn toward something they cannot fully comprehend. By never revealing who the figure is or what they are doing, the haiku resists narrative closure, leaving the reader with an enduring sense of mystery unfolding in the stillness of night.

beneath the billboard

a shopping cart of blankets

frost in the moonlight

This haiku evokes yūgen by contrasting the imposing scale of commercial imagery with quiet human vulnerability. Ls 1&2 establish a bleak urban landscape: a towering billboard overlooks a shopping cart filled with blankets, suggesting a makeshift shelter.

L3 introduces frost illuminated by moonlight, transforming an ordinary city scene into one of quiet, almost transcendent stillness. By never directly mentioning the person beneath the blankets, the haiku preserves their dignity while inviting the reader to contemplate the unseen life hidden beneath the coverings. The mystery is not merely about who is there, but about the unknowable depth of another person's existence—a quality at the heart of yūgen.

To the Lighthouse: Toriaswase (Association)

on the blade of grass

drops of dew roll into one

dream within a dream

5-7-5 Haiku Journal, February 2 2026

Chen-ou Liu

The haiku begins with a concrete, sensory image: dewdrops rolling along a blade of grass (Ls 1&2). It then shifts toward an abstract realization in L3—"dream within a dream." This movement from the tangible to the metaphysical reflects the classic haiku technique of toriawase (association), in which two seemingly distinct elements resonate with and illuminate one another.

The verb phrase “roll into one” in L2 creates a gentle sense of motion and unity. It bridges the physical merging of droplets with the subtle blurring of reality suggested in L3. The literal coalescence of water becomes a metaphor for dissolving boundaries—between self and world, waking and dreaming.

Ending on “dream within a dream,” an allusion to Ryōkan’s well-known haiku below, adds further depth and poignancy. It gestures toward the ephemeral nature of existence while maintaining a tone of quiet acceptance:

This world—

a dream inside a dream.

And yet, how lovely.

Ryōkan

This dewdrop haiku also recalls James Clavell’s reflection—adapted from a Japanese death poem:

Like dew I was born.

Like dew I vanish.

And all that I have ever done

is but a dream within a dream.

In both echoes, dew functions as a classic symbol of transience. The merging drops become not only an image of physical unity, but a meditation on impermanence, illusion, and the fragile beauty of being.

To the Lighthouse: Experimentation with One-Word Haiku by Pravat Kumar Padhy

("Experimentation with One-word Haiku" was first published in Frogpond, 45:3, 2022, and reprinted here by kind permission of NeverEnding Story contributor, Pravat Kumar Padhy)

Experimentation with One-Word Haiku by Pravat Kumar Padhy

Experiments in writing haiku beyond the traditional three-line English-language haiku we all know have been attempted, including in one-line (monostitch), two-line, and even four-line haiku. Naturally, each of these, even the monostitch, usually contains two or more words. In this essay, I’m interested in focusing on haiku consisting of a single word. Before we look exclusively at one-word haiku, I first want to provide examples of effective haiku with explicit meaning and inter-juxtapositions by a few poets who have tried writing in the two-word format. The first by Cor van den Heuvel:

rain

tracks 1

The following two-word haiku by Marlene Mountain could in fact be a single word haiku, depending on spelling decisions, but I saw it as an example of a two-word haiku:

rain

dr p

   o 2

The following are indisputably two-word haiku, all that was needed to convey the haiku moment:

stars crickets              

- George Swede 3

puddles

                    bubble  

  

- Martin Lucas 4

beeline to 

-Chuck Brickley 5

How can we convey the haiku moment in a single word? If we do, is it still haiku? What, then, causes the juxtaposition inherent to the haiku form versus other types of poetry? When we view one-word haiku, even more so than two-word haiku, it seems the “poetic spell” has been compacted in a tiny cell analogous to the information stored in DNA. Only what is essential is there for the reader, who can juxtapose the word or image against their everyday experience. The varieties of urban life, landscapes, livelihood, etc., all tend to influence new images in complementing ways. You might say, more than other forms of haiku, the one-word haiku evolves the reader’s interpretation the furthest. In the same way it is wonderful to read extremely minimalistic fiction, or flash fiction, such as this six-word example by Ernest Hemingway “For sale: baby shoes, never worn,” poetic Minimalism has likewise evolved with an understanding of influence in modern life.

How long have we been heading in this direction? Marlene Mountain in a 1986 essay “One-Line Haiku” mentions: ‘sent Bill [Higginson] & V [Virginia Brady Young]’ of visual/unaloud and two one-word haiku”:

abovethecloudsthecloudsabove

and

skyinthecloudsinthesky 6

What differs between these haiku and the rest of my examples is that the poet is playing with making new words by combining several words to get their poetic moment across of unified experience with nature.

Before Marlene Mountain’s essay “One-Line Haiku,” true one-word haiku had been written. Arguably, the most famous one-word haiku of all time:

tundra

Cor van den Heuvel’s historical one-word haiku “tundra” stands out as unique with its image having a seasonal reference and its juxtaposition to the surrounding page. Tundra is a biome where tree growth is hindered by low temperatures and short growing seasons. The term tundra means “uplands, treeless mountain tract.” Cor van den Heuvel experimented with his much-debated poem “tundra”— written slightly below the center of a blank page in his 1963 book the window-washer’s pail. It is a two-syllable word. He candidly says of the poem “One may say that a one-word haiku is naming, but one could add that it is the exception that proves the rule. All haiku are descriptions except one-word haiku.”

In an interview with Carmen Sterba in the blog Troutswirl, van den Heuvel said:

It is what it is: a level or undulating plain characteristic of arctic or subarctic regions. The important things are to see it alone in the mind or in the middle of an otherwise blank page and to color it with a season, preferably spring when it is blowing forever with grasses, flowers, birds (with their nests and eggs), and insects; or in winter when it is covered with endless drifted snow. To see the vastness of it spreading out from the word across the page and across the world. And to hear the sound of it. The word. 7

He commented elsewhere further on the form as a whole:

I began to think of one-image and one-line haiku as a part of my approach to haiku. There is almost always something else in the experience of the reader that will resonate, if only sub- consciously, with a single image—if that image is striking and evocative enough. One may think of it as an invisible metaphor. 8

Critical about the use of the one-word haiku, Martin Lucas (author of the wonderfully insightful essay “Poetic Spell” and long-time editor of Presence) opined in his disagreement:

I agree that there are good reasons why ‘tundra’ should work where another single word might not. It is vivid, communicating a sense of landscape. The starkness of the single word reflects the bleakness of that landscape; so does the blank white page which (as originally presented) surrounds it. It becomes an isolated utterance dropped into a vast expanse in a way which parallels the hopping of Bashō’s frog into its pond; and yet, despite this, it remains an isolated, unrelated word, which it is absurd to consider copyrighted. I think the exercise of presenting a one word haiku does draw attention to the elemental character of the concrete noun: every concrete noun is an image which speaks to the senses and is a kind of proto-haiku. But does the trick bear repetition? The proper composition of haiku involves the combination of such elements, the arrangement of images so that they illuminate each other. 9

Marlene Mountain quoting Allan Watts feels differently about the “tundra” poem, not questioning it as a haiku but suggesting that tundra achieves “a silence of the mind in which one does not ‘think about’ the poem but actually feels the sensation which it evokes— all the more strongly for having said so little.” 10

Michael Dylan Welch has commented on the poem as well:

I would suggest that it is, especially if we interpret the word “tundra” to be like a rock first emerging from melting snow in spring. . . . [T]he tundra is far from barren. Rather, it teems with life, but on a smaller and slower scale. This unsaid hinting at things, this implicative space (“ma” as the Japanese call it), this appreciation for the small amid vastness, is why I appreciate this poem as a haiku.” 11

He further adds, “As a poem completed in the heart, Cor van den Heuvel’s peerless ‘tundra’ is part of a large poetic conversation, a large poetic territory.”

The following are some of the one-word haiku composed over the years.

!

rain 12

The haiku above is written by Paul Reps. It includes a pictorial image of rain!

shark 13

Probably the second ultra-minimalistic haiku after “tundra” is “shark” by Alexis Rotella, published in Frogpond in 1983. Jim Kacian commented:

These have proven to be very difficult to do, at least in part because maintaining a just balance between verbal and visual surface is an extremely challenging task. Sometimes these formal choices are combined, as, for example, in one-word haiku such as “tundra” by Cor van den Heuvel, and “shark” by Alexis Rotella. In both of these examples, a single word is arrayed against the solid whiteness of a whole page. Both are dependent upon context (or lack of context) for their impact, and so are more visual than one-line in function. 14

fossilence 

-Nicholas Virgilio 15

Nicholas Virgilio later categorized the haiku above as one of his “weirds.” In an article, “The Shape of the Things to Come: Form Past and Future in Haiku,” Jim Kacian termed it as the “overlap haiku.” Charles Trumbull termed it as “compressed word.” 16 Whatever term one might choose, this next haiku is a great example of the same style:

leaflight 

-Allan Burns17

I wonder if the following one-word haiku is meant to be a homonym, alluding to the author of “tundra”:

core 

-John Stevenson 18

Sad

 

-Nathan Braund 19

Martin Lucas commented on Nathan Braund’s haiku above in reference to “tundra”:

We have already encountered the one-word haiku, in the form of Cor van den Heuvel’s ‘tundra,’ which I can defend with the following justification: since haiku is the poetry of the concrete noun all concrete nouns are, in essence, haiku. In Nathan Braund’s ‘sad’ we have a one- word poem which is an adjective (the part of speech treated most suspiciously by haiku poets). How do we read this? 20 

In her 1978 essay “One Image Haiku,” Marlene Mountain theorized:

Though haiku is a three hundred year old modern art often anticipating concepts of the Minimalists of the 20th century, the Japanese poets were obliged to stop just short of such purity. Consider Bashō—in the land of cherry blossoms—writing: “sakura” [a cherry (tree); cherry blossoms]. He came close. But because of the seventeen syllable convention he was obliged to write: Many - many things bring to mind cherries kan. Today’s critics and poets would frown on such an unnecessary comment. But what Bashō was unable to do, Cor van den Heuvel did: “tundra.” Like sakura, tundra is a beautiful sound. However, while sakura is an immediately beautiful image, tundra is not. As crow on a withered branch enlarged ‘poetic beauty’ for the Japanese, so tundra should for us. 21

Recently, a one-word haiku featured on the Haiku Dialogue blog:

taiga 

-Simonj 22

The editor, Lori A Minor, comments:

This reminds me a bit of Cor van den Heuval’s “tundra” and both are just brilliant in very different ways. Given the theme of climate change, this poem, “taiga” is powerful in its one-word form. The white space around the word is necessary, not only for creating a snow-like effect, but also for creating the illusion of isolation which emphasizes the importance of the taiga forest. This particular forest, being the largest land biome, supplies so much oxygen. If we do not make positive changes to the environment, like saving the taiga forest, the world as we know it will cease to exist. ²³

 

Simonj has clarified that “taiga” is a direct reference to “tundra.” ²⁴ Although I consider “tundra” a concrete poem rather than haiku, it is a well-known work by another haijin. Perhaps, in summary, the common ground we’ve covered examining historical examples of one-word haiku is that the literal juxtaposition of the tundra/taiga biome boundary will no doubt move as the climate changes. So let the Minimalist pioneer, Marlene Mountain, have the final words:

 

I believe in change (one might as well, as it’s inevitable). Sometimes its evolutionary and we’re hardly aware of it, other times it’s revolutionary and all we can do is to hang on for dear life. Usually it takes quite a bit of time to understand, but it is in change that we get closer to life, to art, and to ourselves. ²⁵

 

Works Cited:

 

1. Cor van den Heuvel, “a stick over the falls: A Life in Haiku,” interview by Jim   Kacian, Juxta Two, Haiku Foundation (2016)

 

2. Marlene Mountain [Wills], The Old Tin Roof (Elizabethton, TN: 1976)

3. Cor van den Heuvel, ed., The Haiku Anthology, 3rd ed. (New York: Norton,  1999)

 

4. Martin, Lucas, “Haiku in Britain, Theory, Practice, Context,” PhD thesis, April 2001

 

5. Chuck Brickley, whiptail, 1 (November 2021)

 

6. Marlene Mountain, “One-Line Haiku” (1986)

 

7. Cor van den Heuvel, “Essence #3,” part 3, interview by Carmen Sterba, Troutswirl (blog), Haiku Foundation, 2010

 

8. Cor van den Heuvel, “Masaoka Shiki International Haiku Awards Memorial Lecture: My Haiku Path,” International Haiku Convention 2002

 

9. Martin Lucas, “Haiku in Britain, Theory, Practice, Context.” PhD thesis, April 2001

 

10. Marlene Mountain, “One Image Haiku,” 1978

 

11. Michael Dylan Welch, “The Territory of Haiku,” Blithe Spirit 28:4 (November 2018)

 

12. Paul Reps, Square Sun, Square Moon (Rutland, VT: Tuttle, 1967)

 

13. Alexis Rotella, Frogpond 6:4 (1983)

 

14. Jim Kacian, “First Thoughts–A Haiku Primer” (2005)

 

15. George Swede and Randy Brooks, eds., Global Haiku: Twenty-five Poets World-wide, (Niagara Falls, NY: Mosaic Press, 2000)

 

16. Jim Kacian, “The Shape of the Things to Come: Form Past and Future in Haiku,” Juxta (2015)

 

17. Allan Burns, Distant Virga (Winchester, VA: Red Moon Press, 2011)

18. John Stevenson, Live Again (Winchester, VA: Red Moon Press, 2009)

 

19. quoted in Martin Lucas, “Haiku in Britain, Theory, Practice, Context,” PhD thesis, April 200

 

20. Martin Lucas, “Haiku in Britain, Theory, Practice, Context,” PhD thesis, April 2001

 

21. Marlene Mountain, “One Image Haiku,” 1978

 

22. Lori Zajkowski, ed., Haiku Dialogue (blog), Haiku Foundation, December 4, 2019

 

23. ibid.

 

24. Simonj, comment on Haiku Dialogue (blog), Haiku Foundation, December 4, 2019

 

25. Marlene Mountain, “One-Line Haiku” (1986)

To the Lighthouse: A Brief Look at Honkadori (Allusive Variation) through a Frog Haiku Lens

                                                                                                             haze on the pond 

                                                                                                             an old frog

                                                                                                             there, or not there

                                                                                                      

                                                                                                             Chen-ou Liu

A Brief Look at Honkadori

Haiku poet and anthologist Cor van den Heuvel is often quoted for his succinct statement that “[t]he writing of variations on certain subjects in haiku, sometimes using the same or similar phrases (or even changing a few words of a previous haiku), is one of the most interesting challenges the genre offers a poet… some of the most original voices in haiku do not hesitate to dare seeming derivative if they see a way of reworking an ‘old’ image.”29 Van den Heuvel refers here to the ancient Japanese practice of honkadori, what Haruo Shirane has defined as “allusive variation on a classical poem.”30 Akiko Tsukamoto, in her article on modes of quoting in Japanese poetry, suggests (like Eliot) that images and phrases borrowed from “famous poems from earlier times” be put to new use, with “different meaning and atmosphere,” even as they connect the imitation to the original poem with “reverberatory effect.”31 No surprise, honkadori gets a fair amount of press in English-language discussions of haiku. Gabi Greve, for instance, takes a great deal of time on her website to educate the western poet that “[w]riting honkadoriis not the work of a copycat…but a work showing respect to the masters.”32

Let me remind you of a well-known set of examples assembled (and translated) by Shirane.33 Basho made allusions to foundational poetry before him; his poetry became fodder for the allusive variations of those who followed him, no poem more so than this one, written in 1686: 

                an old pond … 

                a frog leaps in, 

                the sound of water 

Almost eighty years after “an old pond,” the Basho-admirer Yosa Buson made an adaptive copy: 

                jumping in

                and washing off an old poem— 

                a frog

According to Shirane, Buson’s allusion to Basho made the point that Basho has ushered in a new perspective on the writing of haiku by wittingly copying a common frog motif and using it in a new way. Basho chose to ignore the frog’s song that others had typically singled out, and emphasized instead the sound of its entry into the water. Too, he related the frog, not to certain flowers or other sentimental associations, but to a stagnant pond. Image, meaning, atmosphere—all set the frog in a different context. Basho’s fresh take on spring, suddenly bursting winter’s stillness, offered a new twist on the poetic dimensions of haiku.34

A few generations later, the poet Shiki would have it that “old pond,” so simple and pure a poem, “is impossible to imitate.”35 Presumably he meant that the imitation could never be disguised, but would always announce its provenance. Nevertheless, as “old pond” gained in stature, it gained in copies or allusions. Shirane notes two. The first by the late-eighteenth century poet Ryokan:

                a new pond

                not even the sound of

                a frog jumping in 

and the second by the twentieth century American haiku poet, Bernard Einbond:

                frog pond …

                a leaf falls in 

                without a sound 

By borrowing the notion of no sound from Ryokan and replacing the frog with a leaf, Einbond’s award-winning poem substantially renewed and expanded contemporary dialogue with Basho’s old haiku. 

In “Beyond the Haiku Moment,” an essay appearing in Modern Haiku in winter-spring of 2000, Shirane argues that allusive variation is rare in English-language haiku, but I submit it may be more common than we think. As associate editor of Frogpond from 2012–2015, I had the privilege of reading several years’ worth of submissions. I was surprised by how many allusions I recognized—and, of course, variations on Basho led the pack. Over the course of ten reading periods, from autumn 2012 through autumn 2015, Frogpond received some 258 haiku using the word “frog” or “pond.” Ponds and frogs are common phenomena and a great many of these poems did not necessarily call “old pond” to mind. But some did, whether purposefully or not. Twenty-two haiku definitely invited comparison by using both “frog” and “pond.” An additional seventeen poems also invited comparison, either because they used some combination of “frog” or “pond” with “old,” “jump,” “sound,” or “silence,” or referred to Basho directly. 

What these figures mean is that, over the course of any submission period, Frogpond was likely to receive an average of twenty-five or twenty-six haiku imitating “old pond,” at least four of which aimed at direct allusion.From autumn 2012 to summer 2013, Frogpond published three: The first, by John Stevenson, in obvious allusion to Basho:

               without a sound

               a frog

               climbs out of the pond 36

The second, by Carolyn Hall, in less obvious, even unconscious, allusion to the classic: 

a frog fills the garden of our attention 37

The third haiku, by Alison Woolpert, may be read without reference to Basho—and yet, should the reader finger it just so, her frog, too, is ready to hop into the “old pond” pond:

                spring morning—

                each student’s paper folded

                in frog position 38

Note that all three poems place Basho’s amphibian in distinctly new waters. Successful allusions travel some distance from the original; without sacrificing the connection, they introduce an unexpected alteration that refreshes the imagery. Less successful imitations, those that did not make the Frogpond cut, for instance, tend to reiterate received thought, adding little to the poetic journey. In other words, “old pond” copies received by Frogpond ranged the copy continuum. So, too, did poems modeled on other iconic ku. Not only does it seem safe to say that imitation and emulation are alive and well in English-language haiku, they appear to reflect a learning and creating practice of use to both novice and seasoned haijin ...

-- excerpted from "Copying to Create: The Role of Imitation and Emulation in Developing Haiku Craft," first published in Modern Haiku, 48:1, Winter/Spring 2017 and reprinted by kind permission of NeverEnding Story contributor, Michele Root-Bernstein) 

Almost eighty years after “an old pond,” the Basho-admirer Yosa Buson made an adaptive copy: 

                jumping in

                and washing off an old poem— 

                a frog

Below is Buson's first adaptive copy of Basho's frog haiku that opens up a window into the lamentable situation of the eighteenth century haikai community.

Soo no ku o osoite                      Inheriting one of our ancestor’s verses

furu ike no                                   the old pond's 

kawazu oiyuku                            frog is growing elderly

ochiba kana                                 fallen leaves 

For detailed analysis of Buson's haiku, see Poetic Musings: Contextualized Reading of Buson’s Frog Haiku.

Below is my response haiku to Basho's and Buson's:

still pond

the moss-covered tomb

of a poet

Happy Reading

Chen-ou

FYI: For further discussion of honkadori, see "To the Lighthouse: Plagiarism or Honkadori (allusive variation)" 

Dark Wings of the Night: Jane Reichhold's Haiku Techniques

(Editor's Note: Today marks the fifth anniversary of the passing of Jane Reichhold, who was my friend and most importantly, a wholehearted supporter of NeverEnding Story. One of her influential essays, "Haiku Techniques," helped me to better understand how to write effective haiku durning my first year of learning. With her permission granted eight years ago to republish her work on NeverEnding Story, I would like to share her words of wisdom on writing haiku and my haiku written for her:

two worlds meet

on this sandy beach

her farewell note

Chen-ou

In my early years of haiku writing, I easily accepted the prevalent credo being espoused on how to write haiku. This was, sometimes implied and occasionally expressed, as being: if the author's mind/heart was correctly aligned in the "proper" attitude, while experiencing a so-called "haiku moment", one merely had to report on the experience to have a darn-good haiku.

One reason for rejoicing in the acceptance of this view, was that it by-passed the old 5-7-5 barrier crisis. This was certainly a plus for the whole 70s haiku scene as there seemed a danger of the entire movement bogging down in fights, arguments and broken friendships.

Another advantage of this system of defining a haiku was that it bestowed near-religious honor on the author of a passable haiku. No one knew exactly why a particular haiku was 'good' but it was clear from the ku that the author had experienced a moment of enlightenment (or satori for the Zen inspired). If the moment was holy and the form fit in with the group's philosophy publishing the ku, the haiku was said to be an excellent one. This happened more often if the person judging the ku was a good friend of the haiku's author.

Another plus for this viewpoint was it allowed endless articles to be written for magazines on the Zen aspects of haiku writing, and even fuzzier articles of how to prepare for, find, recognize, and advertise one's haiku moments. Books were even compiled around this semi-religious idea.

However, many of us, recognized that "haiku moments" were very much like other flashes of inspiration which, when transported into other media, became paintings, stories, dreams or even new color schemes or recipes. And many others shared the frustration of having a truly life-altering moment of insight and then never being able to write a decent haiku that expressed the wonder and majesty of that moment. They would ask, what was wrong with me? Was I not spiritually prepared enough? Was I too common? Too inattentive? Too word-numb? Maybe too many of my Christian beliefs kept me from the Zen nirvana of haiku?

The truth is: probably all of the above can weaken one's ability to write good haiku. Ouch, that hurts. However, I felt rescued when I came across Aware – a haiku primer written by hand and illustrated by Betty Drevniok, who was at the time she wrote the book (early 80s I am guessing as it has no date in it), president of the Haiku Society of Canada. Among the many great tips for writing haiku (and obtaining the questionable Zenniness of Zen) I came away with her precept: "Write [haiku] in three short lines using the principle of comparison, contrast, or association." On page 39 she used an expression I had been missing in the discussion of haiku when she wrote: "This technique provides the pivot on which the reader's thought turns and expands." Technique! So there are tools one can use! I thought joyfully.

And I practiced her methods with glee and relative (to me) success and increased enjoyment. Suddenly I could figure out by myself what was wrong with a haiku that failed to jell as I thought it should. I could ask myself if there was a comparison, a contrast or an association between the images and if this relationship was clear and understandable for the reader.

Slowly, over the years, I found by reading the translations of the old Japanese masters and the haiku of my contemporaries whom I admired, that there were more factors than just these three on which one could build a haiku. However, there seemed a disinterest in others wanting to study these aspects which I call techniques. Perhaps this is because in the haiku scene there continues to be such a reverence for the haiku moment and such a dislike for what are called "desk haiku". The definition of a desk haiku is one written from an idea or from simply playing around with words. If you don't experience an event with all your senses it is not valid haiku material. A ku from your mind was half-dead and unreal. An experienced writer could only smile at such naiveté, but the label of "desk haiku" was the death-knell for a ku declared as such. This fear kept people new to the scene afraid to work with techniques or even the idea that techniques were needed when it came time to write down the elusive haiku moment.

At the risk of leading anyone into the quasi-sin of writing dreaded desk haiku, I would like to discuss and illustrate some of the haiku writing techniques which I have recognized and used. In order to avoid my seeming to accuse others of using techniques, the ku quoted are all my own.

The Technique of Comparison -- In the words of Betty Drevniok: "In haiku the SOMETHING and the SOMETHING ELSE are set down together in clearly stated images. Together they complete and fulfill each other as ONE PARTICULAR EVENT." She rather leaves the reader to understand that the idea of comparison is showing how two different things are similar or share similar aspects.

a spring nap

downstream cherry trees

in bud

What is expressed, but not said, is the thought that buds on a tree can be compared to flowers taking a nap. One could also ask to what other images could cherry buds be compared? A long list of items can form in one's mind and be substituted for the first line. Or one can turn the idea around and ask what in the spring landscape can be compared to a nap without naming things that close their eyes to sleep. By changing either of these images one can come up with one's own haiku while getting a new appreciation and awareness of comparison.

The Technique of Contrast -- Now the job feels easier. All one has to do is to contrast images.

long hard rain

hanging in the willows

tender new leaves

The delight from this technique is the excitement that opposites creates. You have instant built-in interest in the most common haiku 'moment'. And yet most of the surprises of life are the contrasts, and therefore this technique is a major one for haiku.

The Technique of Association -- This can be thought of as "how different things relate or come together". The Zen of this technique is called "oneness" or showing how everything is part of everything else. You do not have to be a Buddhist to see this; simply being aware of what is, is illumination enough.

ancestors

the wild plum

blooms again

If this is too hard to see because you do not equate your ancestors with plum trees, perhaps it is easier to understand with:

moving into the sun

the pony takes with him

some mountain shadow

Does it help for me to explain how this ku came to be written? I was watching some ponies grazing early in the morning on a meadow that was still partially covered with the shadow of the mountain. As the grazing pony moved slowly into the sunshine, I happened to be focused on the shadow and actually saw some of the mountain's shadow follow the pony – to break off and become his shadow. It can also be thought that the pony eating the grass of the mountain becomes the mountain and vice versa. When the boundaries disappear between the things that separates them, it is truly a holy moment of insight and it is no wonder that haiku writers are educated to latch on to these miracles and to preserve them in ku.

The Technique of the Riddle -- this is probably one of the very oldest poetical techniques. It has been guessed that early spiritual knowledge was secretly preserved and passed along through riddles. Because poetry, as it is today, is the commercialization of religious prayers, incantations, and knowledge, it is no surprise that riddles still form a serious part of poetry's transmission of ideas.

One can ask: "what is still to be seen"

on all four sides

of the long gone shack

The answer is:

calla lilies

Or another one would be:

spirit bodies

waving from cacti

plastic bags

The 'trick' is to state the riddle in as puzzling terms as possible. What can one say that the reader cannot figure out the answer? The more intriguing the 'set-up' and the bigger surprise the answer is, the better the haiku seems to work. As in anything, you can overextend the joke and lose the reader completely. The answer has to make sense to work and it should be realistic. Here is a case against desk haiku. If one has seen plastic bags caught on cacti, it is simple and safe to come to the conclusion I did. If I had never seen such an incident, it could be it only happened in my imagination and in that scary territory one can lose a reader. So keep it true, keep it simple and keep it accurate and make it weird.

Oh, the old masters favorite trick with riddles was the one of: is that a flower falling or is it a butterfly? or is that snow on the plum or blossoms and the all-time favorite – am I a butterfly dreaming I am a man or a man dreaming I am a butterfly. Again, if you wish to experiment (the ku may or may not be a keeper) you can ask yourself the question: if I saw snow on a branch, what else could it be? Or seeing a butterfly going by you ask yourself what else besides a butterfly could that be?

The Technique of Sense-switching -- This is another old-time favorite of the Japanese haiku masters, but one they have used very little and with a great deal of discretion. It is simply to speak of the sensory aspect of a thing and then change to another sensory organ. Usually it involves hearing something one sees or vice versa or to switch between seeing and tasting.

home-grown lettuce

the taste of well-water

green

The Technique of Narrowing Focus -- This is something Buson used a lot because he, being an artist, was a very visual person. Basically what you do is to start with a wide-angle lens on the world in the first line, switch to a normal lens for the second line and zoom in for a close-up in the end. It sounds simple, but when he did it he was very effective. Read some of Buson's work to see when and how he did this.

the whole sky

in a wide field of flowers

one tulip

The Technique of Metaphor -- I can just hear those of you who have had some training in haiku, sucking in your breath in horror. There IS that ironclad rule that one does not use metaphor in haiku. Posh. Basho used it in his most famous "crow ku". What he was saying in other words (not haiku words) was that an autumn evening come down on one the way it feels when a crow lands on a bare branch. I never understood this hokku until one day I was in my tiny studio with the door open. I was standing so still I excited the resident crow's curiosity causing him to fly down suddenly to land about two feet from my cheek on the tiny nearly bare pine branch. I felt the rush of darkness coming close, as close as an autumn evening and as close as a big black crow. The thud of his big feet hitting the bare branch caused the tiny ripple of anxiety one has when it gets dark so early in the autumn. In that moment I felt I knew what Basho had experienced. It is extremely hard to find a haiku good enough to place up against Basho's rightly famous one, so I'll pass giving you an example of my ku. But this is a valid technique and one that can bring you many lovely and interesting haiku.

The Technique of Simile -- Usually in English you know a simile is coming when you spot the words "as" and "like". Occasionally one will find in a haiku the use of a simile with these words still wrapped around it, but the Japanese have proved to us that this is totally unnecessary. From them we have learned that it is enough to put two images in juxtaposition (next to each other) to let the reader figure out the "as" and "like" for him/herself. So basically the unspoken rule is that you can use simile (which the rule-sayers warn against) if you are smart enough to simply drop the "as" and "like". Besides, by doing this you give the reader some active part that makes him or her feel very smart when they discover the simile for him/herself.

a long journey

some cherry petals

begin to fall

The Technique of the Sketch or Shiki's Shasei -- Though this technique is often given Shiki's term shasei (sketch from life) or shajitsu (reality) it had been in use since the beginning of poetry in the Orient. The poetic principle is "to depict as is". The reason he took it up as a 'cause' and thus, made it famous, was his own rebellion against the many other techniques used in haiku. Shiki was, by nature it seemed, against whatever was the status quo. If poets had over-used any idea or method his personal goal was to point this out and suggest something else. (Which was followed until someone else got tired of it and suggested something new. This seems to be the way poetry styles go in and out of fashion.) Thus, Shiki hated word-plays, puns, riddles – all the things you are learning here! He favored the quiet simplicity of just stating what he saw without anything else having to happen in the ku. He found the greatest beauty in the common sight, simply said. And 99% of his haiku were written in his style. And many people still feel he was right. And there are some moments which are perhaps best said as simply as it is possible. Yet, he himself realized, after writing very many in this style in 1893, that used too much, even his new idea can become boring. So the method is an answer, but never the complete answer of how to write a haiku.

evening

waves come into the cove

one at a time

The Technique of Double entendre (or double meanings) -- Anyone who has read translations of Japanese poetry has seen how much poets delighted in saying one thing and meaning something else. Only insiders knew the secret language and got the jokes. In some cases the pun was to cover up a sexual reference by seeming to speaking of something commonplace. There are whole lists of words with double meanings: spring rain = sexual emissions and jade mountain = the Mound of Venus, just to give you an sampling. But we have them in English also, and haiku can use them in the very same way.

eyes in secret places

deep in the purple middle

of an iris

The Technique of using Puns -- Again we can only learn from the master punsters – the Japanese. We have the very same things in English but we haiku writers may not be so well-versed as the Japanese are in using these because there have been periods of Western literary history where this skill has been looked down upon. And even though the hai of haiku means "joke, or fun, or unusual" there are still writers whose faces freeze into a frown when encountering a pun in three lines.

a sign

at the fork in the road

"fine dining"

The Technique of Word-plays -- Again, we have to admit the Japanese do this best. Their work is made easier by so many of their place names either having double meaning or many of their words being homonyms (sounding the same). Still (there is one meaning 'quiet' or 'continuation') we have so many words with multiple meaning there is no reason we cannot learn to explore our own language. A steady look at many of our cities' names could give new inspiration: Oak-land, Anchor Bay, Ox-ford, Cam-bridge and even our streets give us Meadowgate, First Street, and one I lived on – Ten Mile Cutoff.

moon set

now it's right – how it fits

Half Moon Bay

The Technique of Verb /Noun Exchange -- This is a very gentle way of doing word play and getting double duty out of words. In English we have many words which function as both verbs and nouns. By constructing the poem carefully, one can utilize both aspects of such words as leaves, spots, flowers, blossoms, sprouts, greens, fall, spring, circles and hundreds more. You can use this technique to say things that are not allowed in haiku. For instance, one would not be admired for saying that the willow tree strings raindrops, but one can get away with making it sound as if the strings of willow are really the spring rain manifested in raindrops. This is one of those cases where the reader has to decide which permissible stance the ku has taken.

spring rain

the willow strings

raindrops

The Technique of Close Linkage -- Basically this could come as a sub-topic to association but it also works with contrast and comparison so I like to give it its own rubric. In making any connection between the two parts of a haiku, the leap can be a small and even a well-known one. Usually beginners are easily impressed with close linkage and experiment first with this form. They understand it and feel comfortable using the technique.

winter cold

finding on a beach

an open knife

The Technique of Leap Linkage -- Then as a writer's skills increase, and as he or she reads many haiku (either their own or others) such 'easy' leaps quickly fade in excitement. Being human animals we seem destined to seek the next level of difficulty and find that thrilling. So the writer begins to attempt leaps that a reader new to haiku may not follow and therefore find the ku to espouse nonsense. The nice thing about this aspect, is when one begins to read haiku by a certain author, one will find some of the haiku simply leave the reader cold and untouched. Years later, returning to the same book, with many haiku experiences, the reader will discover the truth or poetry or beauty in a haiku that seemed dead and closed earlier. I think the important point in creating with this technique is that the writer is always totally aware of his or her 'truth'. Poets of the surrealistic often make leaps which simply seem impossible to follow (I am thinking of Paul Celan) where the reader simply has to go on faith that the author knew what he was writing about. This is rare in haiku. Usually, if you think about the ku long enough and deeply enough, one can find the author's truth. I know I have quickly read a link in a renga and thought the author was kidding me or had gone off the deep end. Sometimes it is days later when I will go, "Ah-ha!" and in that instant understand what the ku was truly about.

wildflowers

the early spring sunshine

in my hand

The Technique of Mixing It Up -- What I mean here is mixing up the action so the reader does not know if nature is doing the acting or if a human is doing it. As you know, haiku are praised for getting rid of authors, authors' opinions and authors' action. One way to sneak this in is to use the gerund (-ing added to a verb) combined with an action that seems sensible for both a human and for the nature/nature to do. Very often when I use a gerund in a haiku I am basically saying, "I am. . . " making an action but leaving unsaid the "I am". The Japanese language has allowed poets to use this tactic so long and so well that even their translators are barely aware of what is being done. It is a good way to combine humanity's action with nature in a way that minimizes the impact of the author but allows an interaction between humanity and nature.

end of winter

covering the first row

of lettuce seeds

The Technique of Sabi -- I almost hesitate to bring up this idea as a technique because the word sabi has gotten so many meanings over the innumerable years it has been in Japan, and now that it comes to the English language it is undergoing even new mutations. As fascinated as Westerners have become with the word, the Japanese have maintained for centuries that no one can really, truly comprehend what sabi really is and thus, they change its definition according to their moods. Bill Higginson, in The Haiku Handbook, calls sabi – "(patina/loneliness) Beauty with a sense of loneliness in time, akin to, but deeper than, nostalgia." Suzuki maintains that sabi is "loneliness" or "solitude" but that it can also be "miserable", "insignificant", and "pitiable", "asymmetry" and "poverty". Donald Keene sees sabi as "an understatement hinting at great depths". So you see, we are rather on our own with this! I have translated this as: sabi (SAH-BEE)- aged/loneliness - A quality of images used in poetry that expresses something aged or weathered with a hint of sadness because of being abandoned. A split-rail fence sagging with overgrown vines has sabi; a freshly painted picket fence does not." As a technique, one puts together images and verbs which create this desired atmosphere. Often in English this hallowed state is sought by using the word "old" and by writing of cemeteries and grandmas. These English tricks wear thin quickly.

rocky spring

lips taking a sip

from a stone mouth

or

coming home

flower

by flower

The Technique of Wabi -- the twin brother to sabi who has as many personas can be defined as "(WAH-BEE)-poverty- Beauty judged to be the result of living simply. Frayed and faded Levis have the wabi that bleached designer jeans can never achieve." Thus one can argue that the above haiku samples are really more wabi than sabi – and suddenly one understands the big debate. However, I offer one more ku that I think is more wabi than sabi because it offers a scene of austere beauty and poignancy.

parting fog

on wind barren meadows

birth of a lamb

The Technique of Yûgen -- another of these Japanese states of poetry which is usually defined as "mystery" and "unknowable depth". Somehow yûgen has avoided the controversy of the other two terms but since deciding which haiku exemplifies this quality is a judgmental decision, there is rarely consent over which ku has it and which one does not. In my glossary I am brave enough to propound: "One could say a woman's face half-hidden behind a fan has yûgen. The same face half-covered with pink goo while getting a facial, however, does not." But still haiku writers do use the atmosphere as defined by yûgen to make their ku be a good haiku by forcing their readers to think and to delve into the everyday sacredness of common things. (In a letter from Jeanne Emrich, she suggests one can obtain yûgen by having something disappear, or something appear suddenly out of nowhere, or by the use of night, fog, mist, empty streets, alleys, and houses. Using the sense-switching technique can create an air of mystery because of the information from the from the 'missing' sense.) Some English writers have tried to create yûgen by using the word "old" which became so overused there was an outcry against the adjective. Others tried to reach this state by writing about ghosts or 'spooky' subjects which did not impress the Japanese at all. Jeanne's suggestions seem, to me, to bring the writer closer to this goal.

tied to the pier

the fishy smells

of empty boats

The Technique of the Paradox -- One of the aims of the playing with haiku is to confuse the reader just enough to attract interest. Using a paradox will engage interest and give the reader much to think about. Again, one cannot use nonsense but has to construct a true (connected to reality) paradox. It is not easy to come up with new ones or good ones, but when it happens, one should not be afraid of using it in a haiku.

climbing the temple hill

leg muscles tighten

in our throats

The Technique of The Improbable World -- This is very close to paradox but has a slight difference. Again, this is an old Japanese tool which is often used to make the poet sound simple and child-like. Often it demonstrates a distorted view of science – one we 'know' is not true, but always has the possibility of being true (as in quantum physics).

evening wind

colors of the day

blown away

or

waiting room

a patch of sunlight

wears out the chairs

The Technique of Humor -- This is the dangerous stuff. Because one has no way of judging another person's tolerance for wisecracks, jokes, slurs, bathroom and bedroom references, one should enter the territory of humor as if it is strewn with land-mines. And yet, if one is reading before a live audience nothing draws in the admiration and applause like some humorous haiku. Very often the humor of a haiku comes from the honest reactions of humankind. Choose your terms carefully, add to your situation with appropriate leaps, and may the haiku gods smile on you.

dried prune faces

guests when they hear

we have only a privy

The Above as Below Technique --Seeming to be a religious precept, yet this technique works to make the tiny haiku a well-rounded thought. Simply said: the first line and the third line exhibit a connectedness or a completeness. Some say one should be able to read the first line and the third line to find it makes a complete thought. Sometimes one does not know in which order to place the images in a haiku. When the images in the first and third lines have the strongest relationship, the haiku usually feels 'complete'. For exercise, take any haiku and switch the lines around to see how this factor works or try reading the haiku without the second line.

holding the day

between my hands

a clay pot

This ku is also using the riddle technique.

In searching for these examples, I found so many more of my haiku which did not fit into any of these categories, which tells me there are surely many more techniques which are in use but are waiting for discovery, definition and naming. I stop here, hoping I have given you enough to pique your interest in the quest and new ways of exploring the miracles of haiku.

(First published in Frogpond, 23:3, Autumn, 2000)