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.

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: Literary Device: Objective Correlative

An objective correlative is a literary device in which a writer uses a specific arrangement of objects, situations, or events to evoke an emotional response without directly naming the emotion itself.

The concept was first introduced by the 19th-century American painter Washington Allston, who explored the relationship between the mind and the external world. However, the term was popularized by poet and critic T.S. Eliot in his 1919 essay "Hamlet and His Problems." Eliot defined the objective correlative as "a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion." He argued that the artist's task is not to state emotion directly, but to discover an external equivalent through which that emotion can be experienced.

In poetry, particularly haiku, the objective correlative often appears as a carefully chosen image or juxtaposition that allows readers to discover emotional meaning through perception rather than explanation.

For example,

her last letter

in cursive ...

willow in the wind

hedgegrow, 142, 2023

Kelly Sargent

This haiku presents two distinct images: "her last letter / in cursive" and "willow in the wind." Rather than explicitly describing grief or farewell, it allows the emotional connection between the two images to emerge through association.

L1, "her last letter," immediately suggests finality, absence, and separation. L2, "in cursive ...," shifts attention away from the letter's content and toward its physical form. The ellipsis slows the reading, allowing the flowing movement of the handwriting to linger before the haiku turns outward toward the natural world.

L3, "willow in the wind," echoes the visual quality of cursive writing through its graceful, curving movement. The looping lines of handwriting and the bending branches create a subtle correspondence between human expression and nature. The willow also deepens the emotional atmosphere: its movement suggests vulnerability, tenderness, and remembrance.

Importantly, the willow is not merely a symbol of grief. It functions as an objective correlative because the emotion is embodied in a physical image. The reader experiences the feeling through the interaction between letter, handwriting, wind, and willow rather than through an explicit statement of sorrow.

By leaving the relationship between the two images open-ended, the haiku creates space for reflection. Its restraint gives it an elegiac quality, allowing feelings of farewell and memory to arise indirectly.

Another two haiku from mine below:

her side of the bed

slanted winter moonlight

in the crease

L1, "her side of the bed," immediately establishes both intimacy and absence. The relationship is implied, but the haiku does not explain what has happened. L2, "slanted winter moonlight" adds coldness, distance, and seasonality without directly assigning an emotional meaning.

L3, "in the crease," is the haiku's most powerful detail. A crease is a physical trace—a mark left behind by a body that is no longer present. The moonlight illuminating that crease draws attention not to emptiness itself, but to the lingering evidence of a former presence.

The haiku avoids the more familiar image of an empty pillow or an untouched side of the bed. Instead, it focuses on a subtle remnant of human presence. The emotion emerges from the arrangement of bed, moonlight, and crease rather than from commentary or explanation.

no reply yet ...

a spider repairing

its moonlit web

L1, "no reply yet ...," creates an immediate human situation: waiting, uncertainty, anticipation, and perhaps anxiety. The ellipsis visually extends the moment of waiting. The cut after the first line creates a meaningful shift from the human world of unanswered communication to the natural world.

The spider repairing its web in Ls 2&3 is an especially effective objective correlative. A damaged web suggests disruption, while the spider's patient act of repair suggests persistence and quiet resilience. The spider is not simply a symbol attached to the speaker's emotion; its actual behavior corresponds to the emotional condition of the haiku.

The adjective "moonlit" adds atmosphere without explanation. It also creates a subtle parallel between the speaker and the spider: both exist in a quiet nighttime moment, one waiting beside a device for a response, the other working to restore its fragile structure.

The strength of this haiku lies in its restraint. It does not say, "I am anxious" or "I feel abandoned." Instead, it presents a human silence and a spider's repair, allowing the reader to discover the emotional connection between them.

The objective correlative is especially compatible with haiku because haiku relies on concrete images and indirect suggestion. A successful haiku does not force an emotion upon the reader; it creates the conditions through which the emotion naturally arises.

The strongest objective correlatives do not function as simple symbols. They do not say, "this object means sadness" or "this image represents loneliness." Instead, they allow external reality—a crease in a bed, a willow moving in wind, a spider repairing its web—to become the physical form through which human experience is felt.

Added:

his last call missed ...

the porch chime 

in a winter night wind

Added:

a weeping willow

leans slightly downstream

life between gigs

Added:

construction fence

with a torn poster flapping

harbor night fog

To the Lighthouse: Ghost Imagery

Ghost imagery captures the instant after action disappears, emphasizing what lingers rather than what occurred. It evokes absence through residual cues—sound, motion, light, and atmosphere—forcing the reader to perceive the aftermath instead of the event itself.

For example:

empty basketball court

the faint sound of a swaying net 

in smoky twilight

In this haiku, L 1, “empty basketball court,” frames a space stripped of action, while L 2 preserves its echo through the lingering movement of the net. L 3, “in smoky twilight,” completes the ghost imagery by visually diffusing the scene. Smoke softens the edges of perception while twilight dissolves clarity itself. Together, they create an atmosphere of dispersal and aftermath. The emptiness feels consequential, as though something vital has only just vanished from view.

Another example:

her side of the bed

a hollow still visible

in moonlit dust

L 1, “her side of the bed,” establishes both a physical location and a human absence. The phrase creates a negative space: a territory defined entirely by someone who is no longer there, yet remains structurally central to the scene.

Ls  2 & 3 function together as a single perceptual mechanism: “a hollow still visible / in moonlit dust.” Here, “a hollow” is not an object, but a residual form—a shape created through subtraction. The mattress indentation is never directly described; instead, its existence is inferred through the way the surrounding space behaves.

The phrase “moonlit dust” becomes the medium through which absence is rendered visible. Rather than illuminating solid surfaces, the moonlight catches suspended particles, briefly revealing an otherwise invisible geometry. The drifting dust gives texture to emptiness itself.

The result is not the depiction of a memory, but the materialization of absence. The “ghost” is not a phantom figure, but the way empty space remains momentarily structured by what has just left it.

Added:

moonlit playground

swing chains sway in the echo

of far laughter

Added:

winter fishing pier

the slow knock of loose ropes

against pilings

Added:

empty bus stop 

the flutter of a ticket

in streetlamp light

Added:

vacant alley court

the backboard shining

in police lights

Added:

closed dog park

one tennis ball rolling back

through bloodied leaves

Added:

carnival grounds

ticket stubs against the fence

in misty rain

To the Lighthouse: Urban Onihishigitei

The urban onihishigitei style employs violent juxtaposition to "slay" traditional poetic beauty, crashing classical imagery into the grit of city decay. It utilizes abrasive, vulgar diction to confront the reader with the unvarnished reality of modern life, replacing aesthetic grace with a jagged, "demon-quelling" force (for basic information about onihishigitei, see "To the Lighthouse: Onihishigitei, the Style of Demon-Quelling Force")

For example, 

The Night-of: Aesthetic Sabotage

neon lights

fade in dawn's lilac glow

on the footpath

clubbers, drug-fucked

in bedraggled revelry

Christine Judd

This tanka is a quintessential example of onihishigitei. By intentionally shattering the "elegant" expectations of the form—traditionally reserved for nature or romance—Judd replaces classical refinement with the visceral grit of the street.

The tanka sets a "poetic trap" in L2 with "dawn's lilac glow." This soft imagery evokes a classic aesthetic, only to be "quelled" by the spatial descent to the "footpath" in L 3. This vertical drop from the sky to the concrete mirrors the physical and chemical "comedown" of the subjects.

The compound "drug-fucked" in L 4 is the definitive onihishigitei move. The diction is intentionally jarring and stripped of any romantic veneer, forcing the reader to confront the raw exhaustion of urban excess. This linguistic violence is sustained by the percussive weight of "bedraggled revelry" in L5—an oxymoron that perfectly captures the messy, depleted tail-end of the night.

The Morning-after: The Demon-Strike

Starlight on the Gutter of  Blossoms, I

cherry blossom rain ...

under a grey-veined sky

the park dump

with needles scattered

in mangy green

Chen-ou Liu

Chen-ou Liu’s work serves as a gritty thematic sequel to Judd’s tanka. The narrative moves from the "night-of" club scene to the "morning-after" in the public square. Where Judd ends with the physical state of the revelers, Liu pans the camera toward the literal remains of that excess.

Liu opens with "cherry blossom rain" in L1 only to violently sabotage the reader’s expectation by crashing into a "park dump" in L 3. The diction is visceral: "grey-veined" in L2 treats the sky like a bruised body or cold industrial marble, while "mangy green"in L5  acts as a stylistic "demon-strike"—transforming the grass into something sickly and flea-bitten. Finally, "needles scattered" in L4 provides the "vulgar" diction essential to the style, replacing the traditional "jewels" of dew with the hazardous refuse of addiction.

A Shared Atmosphere of Decay

Both poets employ the same structural logic: contrasting classical beauty (lilac glow, cherry blossom rain) with jarring realism (drug-fucked, park dump). Temporally, the lilac dawn of Judd’s poem bleeds into Liu’s grey-veined sky, creating a cohesive, hungover atmosphere. By tackling the "demons" of the city with such blunt force, these poets prove that the tanka remains a powerful tool for capturing the unrefined truths of contemporary life.

FYI: My new writing project, Starlight on the Gutter of Blossoms, applies the violent lens of the urban onihishigitei style to the modern landscape. Inspired by Christine Judd’s "neon lights" tanka, the title hijacks Oscar Wilde’s romanticism—"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"—and forces that celestial gaze down into the city’s filth to "slay" traditional beauty.

Added: Starlight on the Gutter of  Blossoms, II

summer stars

drip silver light on the river -- 

slick after slick

of oily black choking

the throat of a storm drain

Added: Starlight on the Gutter of  Blossoms, III

the wisteria scent

in cascading clusters --

moonlit shards

from a smashed windshield

in the asphalt's teeth

To the Lighthouse: Literary Ghost, A "Specific and Powerful Type of Allusion"

In literature, ghosts rarely just haunt—they speak. A "literary ghost" is one such spirit: a text, a phrase, or an idea from the past that refuses to stay buried. Unlike a simple allusion, which nods at another work, a literary ghost inhabits a new piece, creating a spectral presence that shapes meaning, mood, and memory.

Where an allusion informs, a literary ghost haunts. It can transform names, places, or words into conduits of history and memory, making the familiar feel strange, uncanny, and alive.

For example, in the latest entry of my writing project, Politics of Distraction, IV:

An Elegy

Silhouetted against twilight, the façade reads:

"The Donald J. Trump and John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts"

across slabs of vein-streaked marble.

will the past be past?

redbud petals curl inward

this spring equinox

L1 of the haiku alludes to a famous assertion by William Faulkner:

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

This line, from Requiem for a Nun, resonates with historical context: Faulkner’s work was deeply admired by President John F. Kennedy, who, following Faulkner’s death in 1962, led national tributes stating, "Since Henry James, no writer has left behind such a vast and enduring monument to the strength of American literature."

The effectiveness of "An Elegy" lies in how it uses the literary ghost not merely as a reference, but as a structural haunting, bridging the weight of prose with the delicacy of haiku.

1. The Haunting of Names

By invoking Faulkner through the line "will the past be past?", the haiku summons his Southern Gothic sensibility. This aesthetic haunts the names of Trump and Kennedy. They are no longer merely political figures but symbols enmeshed in a cyclical, inescapable American history. Faulkner’s ghost suggests that these men are not simply names etched in marble—they are echoes of a past that refuses to be exorcised.

2. The Intertextual Mirror

The effect is amplified by historical fact: JFK admired Faulkner. The prose presents the names, while the haiku whispers the words of the man they revered. This creates a ghostly dialogue across time. The literary ghost acts as a bridge, linking Kennedy’s legacy to Faulkner’s idea that "the past is never dead."

3. Material vs. Ethereal

The contrast between the physicality of "vein-streaked marble" and the ethereal Faulknerian question is striking. The marble evokes permanence, solidity, and closure, while the literary ghost—the haiku—suggests that history is alive, curling inward like redbud petals in spring. This interplay of material and immaterial reinforces the poem’s meditation on historical persistence.

4. The Uncanny Pivot

A literary ghost is most potent when it makes the familiar feel strange. By questioning the permanence of the past immediately after presenting a massive memorial, the poem generates an uncanny tension. Memorials suggest finality; the ghost of Faulkner transforms it into an open wound, reminding the reader that history never truly settles.

The literary ghost is the "engine" of this haibun. Without it, the poem is a sharp observation; with it, the work becomes a profound meditation on memory, history, and the haunting persistence of American legacies.

FYI: The Guardian, March 27, 2026: ‘Break your silence’: Jane Fonda leads rally against Trump crackdown on arts and media

Actor outside Kennedy Center urges Americans to ‘stand tall against authoritarianism’ and resist free-speech threats

The actor Jane Fonda joined journalists, musicians and writers outside Washington’s John F Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on Friday in urging US citizens to “break your silence” and “stand tall against authoritarianism”.

At a damp but defiant rally hosted by Fonda’s Committee for the First Amendment, around a hundred invited guests gathered to hear speakers and singers rail against book bans, political censorship and other threats to free speech under Donald Trump.

“Today, books are being banned, plaques and monuments depicting historical events this administration wants to forget are being removed,” Fonda said from a stage under a grey, rainy sky. “Museums, the National Endowment for the Arts, state arts councils, public broadcasting – they’re all being defunded.”

The choice of the Kennedy Center as a backdrop was pointed: the US president has seized control of the national arts complex, targeted so-called “woke” programming, had his name added to its marble facade and announced that it will close for two years of renovations. Dozens of layoffs began this week...

To the Lighthouse: Terminal Caesura

A terminal caesura is a literary device—a rhythmic pause or break—that occurs near the end of a line or poetic unit. It interrupts the flow just before the conclusion, often creating a “cliffhanger” or a sudden tonal shift. Most importantly, it gives the reader a moment to pause or reflect, heightening emphasis, finality, or emotional weight.

For example

under the shelter

of a weeping willow tree

she sleeps at last

on damp earth and newspapers --

a haven, for one night

NeverEnding Story,  February 23, 2026

Marion Alice Poirier

In this tanka, the weeping willow—a traditional emblem of grief and consolation—in lines 1 and 2 is set against the starkly modern, gritty detail of “newspapers” in line 4. This juxtaposition is thematically significant and emotionally resonant. The grounded, contemporary image transforms the poem from a simple nature vignette into a meditation on homelessness and displacement.

The comma in line 5, “a haven, for one night,”, functions as a terminal caesura—a deliberate pause that shapes the reader’s experience of the poem’s conclusion. This brief hesitation underscores the fragility of the refuge described in lines 1–4, sharpening the quiet irony at the heart of the scene.

And the latest entry of my writing project below:

Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCLXXXVI: "breaking the fast"

buzzing of drones

over a bomb-scarred alley

a family 

breaks their fast with a cracked pot

of lentils and rice,  and dirt

In line 5, the comma acts as a terminal caesura and serves multiple purposes:

Final Blow Effect: The comma isolates “and dirt”, forcing the reader to pause after the domestic imagery of food. This sudden intrusion mirrors how war penetrates even the most private, intimate spaces.

Rhythmic Disruption: It acts as a metrical “cut,” breaking the expected flow of the meal. This mirrors the brokenness already evoked by the “cracked pot” and the “bomb-scarred alley.”

Slowing the Pace: The pause allows the shocking image to sink in. The reader cannot skim past “dirt”; instead, its weight—the ultimate tragedy of the scene—is fully felt.

To the Lighthouse: Senbun: A Satirical Haikai of Humanity

Senbun is a haikai genre that blends prose with senryu, focusing on human nature and society, often in a satirical tone. It can be seen as a playful, critical counterpart to haibun.

For example, the following extremely short senbun responds to the 2026 State of the Union—the longest in history, lasting 1 hour and 48 minutes:

Trump Empire, Inc, LXXVIII

The Gilded Drone

Castro-length blah, blah, blah …

state of the union

the air grows thick as my heart

races slow

This senbun demonstrates a thematically effective “triple-threat” structure:

1. Title: Intellectual/Historical framing

The Gilded Drone evokes historical irony, recalling the corruption and excess of the Gilded Age, while simultaneously hinting at the monotonous drone of the speech itself.

2. Prose: Casual/Dismissive satire

The four-word prose, “Castro-length blah, blah, blah …”, uses sharp historical hyperbole to deflate the event’s self-importance, employing casual, modern irreverence to comedic effect.

3. Senryu: Visceral/Internal physicality

The senryu captures a sense of “stagnant panic,” with the oxymoronic phrase “races slow” conveying a heart struggling under a suffocatingly dull atmosphere.

Added: Trump Empire, Inc, LXXIX

flanked by stars-and-stripes

he puffs his chest, juts his chin

of wrinkled jowls

crows to the TV cameras

we're in a golden age

To the Lighthouse: The Impact of an Allusive Title

The Winter of Our Discontent

Its edges browned with age, another photograph, long buried beneath piles of boxes, has come to light in recent days.

His eyes meet the camera head-on. His hand rests at the curve of a young girl’s hip.

the man, once a prince

hid behind purple curtains ...

now cuffed in cold steel

This sociopolitically conscious haibun is inspired by Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor, formerly known as Prince Andrew, being arrested by UK police over Jeffrey Epstein ties.

The title, "The Winter of Our Discontent," is a famous allusion to the opening lines of William Shakespeare’s Richard III. It adds several layers to the piece: 

Themes of Villainy: 

In Shakespeare, the phrase is spoken by a character who resolves to be a "villain" because he feels excluded from a peaceful world. This subtly labels the man in the photograph as a predator or villain.

Moral Decay: 

The title also alludes to John Steinbeck’s novel of the same name, which explores the erosion of ethical standards and personal integrity. This aligns with the theme of a hidden, dark past coming "to light".

Irony and Timing:

Shakespeare’s original line (Now is the winter of our discontent / Made glorious summer by this sun of York) refers to the end of a dark time. Using it here suggests that the "winter" of secrecy and suffering for the victim is finally over because the perpetrator is now "cuffed"

For more about titling, See my "To the Lighthouse" posts: "The Title of a Poem Should Never Be Ignored,"  "The Art of Titling," and "Effective Use of a Run-on Title"

FYI:  See The New York Times, Feb. 19 2026: Live Updates: Former Prince Andrew Arrested in Britain Over Epstein Ties

And "The Winter of Our Discontent" is a sequel to my gembun below:

In a 2011 email to Ghislaine Maxwell, “… that dog that hasn’t barked is Trump.”

a pink-haired girl

seen through a telescope

of age-spotted hands

NeverEnding Story, November 14 2025 

Added: Trump Empire, Inc, LXXVI

inspired by a viral social media prompt:The U.K. just arrested a royal. Is the U.S. capable of the same?

The Next One

My boy lines the dominoes along the coffee table’s edge, their lacquered backs blinking ivory in the lamplight, and nudges the first with his forefinger.

In the armchair, I grip the remote, the blue glare of the television flickering against my tired eyes as a news ticker scrolls the arrest of Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor.

King Charles III’s words, “the law must take its course,” hang in the air like dust in the living room as I switch off the TV. I stand for a moment, facing the window, where the last of the light thins along the fence line.

the White House

shadowed against the sky

crow after crow ...

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: Smols , A Haiku Inspired Form

The word smol is an internet slang term derived from small, used affectionately to describe something or someone that is tiny, fragile, and exceptionally adorable. Smols, a haiku-inspired genre created by NeverEnding Story contributor Roberta Beach Jacobson, are ultra-short poems—no more than five words—built on effective juxtaposition.

Selected Smols:

redacting the free wor(l)d

Roberta Beach Jacobson

supernova an explosion of daffodils

Vandana Parashar

inkblot shapeshifting my shadow

Hifsa Ashraf

Arctic snap, sound of white

Chen-ou Liu

dizzying  ...                      

the Tru(mp)-man show

Oscar Luparia

FYI: L2 alludes to the 1998 movie, The Truman Show, about Truman Burbank, an ordinary man who discovers that his entire life, from his hometown to his relationships, is a massive, 24/7 reality television show broadcast globally, with everyone he knows being actors.

sunrise

the thunder

in light

Bonnie J Scherer

snowbound

and still

no vodka

Florin C. Ciobîcă

Added:

hands starfished 

against windows

flicker

Added:

roof icicle

dripping dawnlight

cascade 

Added:

chain-link

  life after 

MAGA Dream

Added:

White House entrance

         No Parking 

To the Lighthouse: Ju Roku, a Haiku/Tanka Inspired Form

Ju Roku is an invented form that Steve Wilkinson, editor of The Bamboo Hut, developed a few years ago. "It is a succinct form limited to 16 syllables or less with no restriction on subject matter or line length. The only restriction is the limited number of syllables. It can reflect the characteristics of haiku, senryu, tanka, ryuka, doditsu or aphorism." The October, 2025 issue was a special feature of Ju Roku only. Here are some fine examples: 

Selected Ju Roku:

every now and then

the road ragged mist

Bryan Rickert

his words, a storm

carried by the wind’s snarl

Marilyn  Humbert 

autumn stroll

by the river

i feel co(l)d

Pegah Rahmati Nezhad

                             kite

                        cloud

                      g

                 n

             i

                r

            t

         s

mind

Eric Sundquist

bent over

in ankle-deep water ...

a rice-planting song

no end to star(v)ing

harvest supermoon

Geethanjali Rajan

Cathedral reflections

the bells echo

across the river

Steve Wilkinson

a spiral of apple peel

(this longing)

snail track

the meander of thoughts

on life

river's edge ...

drowning the self

in myself

Chen-ou Liu

To the Lighthouse: Gembun, Untitled Minimalist Haibun

A sibling to cherita, gembun was conceived and created by NeverEnding Story contributor, ai li, on Friday 12 June 1997. 

It is made up of either a one-word first link or anything up to one sentence, to be capped by a haiku of up to four lines. It has to include an element of suggestion in either the opening sentence, the haiku or in both. For more details, see ai li's definition 

Selected Gembun:

the skipping rope in a cul-de-sac

a child

who looks like me

becoming dusk

Gembun, 2025

ai li

an intense Bhagavad Gita lecture in the open air but ah, my wandering mind

after a long search

the third-day moon found

between two branches

contemporary haibun online, 20:1, April 2024

Kala Ramesh

To conclude today's post, I would like to share with you my visual gembun

this season of my wounded heart

sunset glow

   red leaf

zig

     zagging

into my

      loneliness

The opening phrase includes an element of suggestion,  the melancholy of the season, autumn, and the layout of the haiku, with lines zigzagging like a lone red leaf drifting in sunset glow,  enhances a sense of lonely sadness that takes residence within the speaker ("my wounded heart" and "my loneliness").

To the Lighthouse: Effective Use of a Run-on Title

A run-on title is a phrase in the title space that starts a grammatical unit in the following poem text.

For example, my tanka prose below:

Sunflowers deepen into the soil 

striving to live.

more war news ...

weeding the flower bed

I don't feel deserving

of this small plot of earth,

an Eden of sorts 

Will these sunflowers flourish in this place I've claimed as my “own?”

Ribbons, 18:3, Fall 2022

The title, "Sunflowers deepen into the soil," is a run-on title, that segues into the brief opening prose:  "striving to live." When evaluated in the context of the Russian invasion of Ukraine as implied from L1 of the tanka, the opening prose can be used to describe both "sunflowers," intended to remind readers that they are the national flowers of Ukraine, in the title and the "I" in the tanka, one that conveys a feeling of guilt about the speaker's own relative good fortune when there's an ongoing war elsewhere.

And the concluding prose/question enhances this feeling of guilt by challenging the legitimacy/certainty of claiming for one's exclusive use any bit of this planet we share (in this place I've claimed as my “own?”) in a time of war with global consequences.

The use of a run-on title connects the fate of Ukrainians and the guilt of the speaker.

Another example, 

It is always three o'clock in the morning

day after day.

the ghostly past

lurking around the corner

of my mind ...

with a scalpel of words

I stab into its heart

However, my immigrant past is never ...dead -- gone and forgotten. It is not even past. 

Distressed and alone by the bedroom window, in the wake of a dream about a Taiwan blue magpie disappearing into the dark forest, I hear Time passing in the sound of snow.

Ribbons, 19:1, Winter 2023

contemporary haibun, 19, 2024

(annual anthology showcasing a state-of-the-art selection of haibun, tanka prose, and haiga from journals around the world)

The title, It is always three o'clock in the morning, can work as a run-on title because it, along with the opening prose, alludes to the following:

In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Crack-Up"

The use of a run-on title makes the "dark night of the soul" allusion effective, adding emotional weight and psychological depth to the poem.

To conclude today's post, I would like to share with you the shortest haibun I've ever written.

Against the Drowning Noise of Other Words, CCXVI: "Christ's thorns"

Smoky fireball

after smoky fireball ... the weight of this hushed silence.

a skeletal house

amid debris and pot shards

Christ's thorns

FYI: "According to a religious legend, the crown of thorns worn by Jesus Christ at the crucifixion was made from the stems of this plant, euphorbia milii , also known as Christ's thorn, a pretty succulent plant that can bloom almost year-round, even indoors."

Haaretz, August 16, 2025: 'They Need a Nakba' | Former IDF General Calls Palestinian Death Toll in Gaza 'Necessary' in Recording

The former Israeli military intelligence chief said the high number of Palestinians killed in Gaza is "necessary for future generations," according to recordings broadcast Friday on Israel's Channel 12 News.

In the recordings, Maj. Gen. (res.) Aharon Haliva can be heard saying that "50 Palestinians should die" for every victim of Hamas' attack on southern Israel on October 7, 2023. "There's no choice, they need a Nakba every now and then to feel the consequences," Haliva added, referring to the 1948 displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians out of what would become the border of the State of Israel.

"I'm not saying this out of revenge, but as a message for future generations," he added.

And Al Jazeera, August 16, 2025: Arab, Islamic countries condemn Netanyahu’s ‘Greater Israel’ remark

When interviewer Sharon Gal with the Israeli i24NEWS channel asked Netanyahu if he subscribed to a “vision” for a “Greater Israel”, Netanyahu said “absolutely”. Asked during the interview aired on Tuesday if he felt connected to the “Greater Israel” vision, Netanyahu said: “Very much.”

The “Greater Israel” concept supported by ultranationalist Israelis is understood to refer to an expansionist vision that lays claim to the occupied West Bank, Gaza, parts of Lebanon, Syria, Egypt and Jordan.

To the Lighthouse: Jisei, Japanese Death Poems

Thematically and religiously speaking, the death poem (jisei in Japanese) is a genre of poetry that has historically developed in the literary traditions of East Asian cultures, most prominently in Zen Japan as well as Chan China. It tends to offer the writer's reflection on death that is coupled with an insightful observation on life. 

In the case of Japanese literature, the death poem's structure can be in one of many forms, including the two traditional forms: haiku and tanka. Yoel Hoffmann's 1986 groundbreaking book, Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death, offers "hundreds of Japanese death poems, many with a commentary describing the circumstances of the poet's death. He explores the attitudes and customs surrounding death in historical and present-day Japan and gives examples of how these have been reflected in the nation's literature in general."

Here are some of haiku and tanka selected from his book:

In life I never was

among the well-known flowers

and yet, 

in withering

I am most certainly   

Tomoda Kinpei

And had my days been longer

still the darkness

would not leave this world --

along death’s path, among the hills

I shall behold the moon.

Oroku

Barren branches:

the autumn left behind 

a cicada’s hollow cry.

Kagai

Empty cicada shell:

as we come

we go back naked.

Fukaku

Farewell --

I pass as all things do

dew on the grass.

Banzan 

To conclude today's To the Lighthouse post, I would like to share with you two of my death tanka: 

midnight hush ...

I, a worker in words

straddle the line

between the abstract, death

and the concrete, aging body

the brick shack

with boarded windows

facing a graveyard

in gathering dusk

a torn-up chapbook: I AM

FYI: You can get a free PDF copy of the book here  and here is the link to Janine Beichman's detailed review of the book, "Yoel Hoffmann as Japanologist: Japanese Death Poems."

To the Lighthouse: A Rhetorical Device, Humor

Humor is a rhetorical device that writers use to induce laughter or amusement in their readers, or more seriously, to highlight societal flaws

This Brave New World, LXIV

written in response to Republican Governor Doug Ducey's end-of-term, 97-million-dollars gift to his beloved "Land of the Free"

mile after mile

of stacked shipping containers 

topped by razor wire

under the desert sun

this Border Wall of Hate | Fear

NeverEnding Story, December 13 2022

mindless culture wars

On the Brink of Trumperica, XIII

woke mind virus ...

this double-masked man mumbles

in the psych ward

NeverEnding Story, February 8 2025

(FYI:

‘woke’ just means you give a damn about other people...We must stay in community. We must help the vulnerable. We must find ways to project an inspiring vision of the future

-- Jane Fonda, Feb. 23, 31st Screen Actors Guild Awards speech)

political corruption, which is rampant in Trumpland (CREW (Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington) is tracking Trump’s unprecedented corruption (again), Feb. 3, 2025), 

On the Brink of Trumperica, XII

the people of Trump

                  by the people of Musk

                  for the people of the SuperRich ...

sun-bleached stars and stripes

atop the Capitol fencing

NeverEnding Story, February 8, 2025

Or complete incompetence.

Between Heaven and Hell, VI

ka-kis-to-cracy ...

my English teacher's voice

quivering

as U-S-A! chants get louder

from the crowd outside the school

NeverEnding Story, November 16 2024

(FYI: The first part of the word comes from the Greek kákisto(s), meaning “worst.” So kakistocracy means “government by the worst.” The earliest known use of the word was in the 1600s by Paul Gosnold, a loyalist to King Charles I during the English Civil War.)

Now, what literary device is being used for humorous effect? Hyperbole is one of the commonly used devices with a focus, thematic or visual, on exaggeration for humorous effect, or the effective use of pun, irony, sarcasm, or the combination of these devices, can also achieve the same effect.

For example, see the titling, structure, political jargons, and "scientific fact " (as shown in the third haiku 😆) of the following haiku sequence:

Trump Empire, Inc., IX

written in response to Bob Newhart's claim: "Humor’s a weapon if you want to make it one"

Easy as 1-2-3 When Humor Bombs

MAGA bar brawl between Trump jokes a thunderous echo-fart

floodafterfloodoftariffstaxcutMARA

King Trump's Castro-length shit-words

raising chickens for eggs

since wave after wave of DOGE cuts

I fart so often

(FYI: The noun shit-word has been obsolete since its recorded usage only in the Middle English period (1150—1500) (shit-word entry, Oxford English Dictionary). Now, it's revived by King Trump.

DOGE stands for the "Department of Government Efficiency", and MARA for "Make America Rich Again."

And eggs contain sulfur, which can contribute to the sulfurous smell of gas.  😂)

To conclude today's post, I would like to share with you the following remarks:

Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason.

-- Mark Twain

Politics is the gentle art of getting votes from the poor and campaign funds from the rich, by promising to protect each from the other.

-- Oscar Ameringer

One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.

-- Plato

Added: Trump Empire, Inc., X

wall-mounted TV

blasting Putin demands to keep

captured territories

as we buy stinky tofu ...

one adds, "including the White House"

FYI: Stinky tofu, also known as "chou doufu" in Chinese, is a fermented bean curd dish popular in China and Taiwan, known for its strong, pungent odor and unique flavor. 

To the Lighthouse: Atmospheric Tanka

The atmosphere in literature is the way a writer uses setting, objects, or internal thoughts of characters to create emotion, mood, or experiences for the reader. And atmospheric tanka, a subgenre of tanka with its focus on atmosphere, intends to communicate first of all a feeling rather than an idea.

For example, 

a dark

stand of cypress

where crows roost

watching me pass

night after night

Bright Stars, 3, 2014

Simon Hanson

This tanka deals with the eerie feeling associated with watchful night crows; This eerie feeling is effectively conveyed through well-chosen images/phrases: a "dark/stand" of cypress/ ... "crows" .../"watching" me pass/ "night after night."

In contrast with my tanka below:

a mob of crows

cawing in the wintry sky ...

a phalanx

of policemen

in riot gear

This tanka is about the intense, before-the-storm scene of rioting (as implied from a rectangular mass military formation, L3, of watchful riot police, Ls 4&5). The symbolically rich cawing crows in the wintry sky function like a foreshadowing of a bloody confrontation.

And

the rust-colored

twenty-foot-high border wall

draped with razor wire

stretches to the horizon ...

raven after raven croaking

This tanka tackles with the atmospheric border politics, manifested in the form of this seemingly endless border wall draped with razor wire, Ls 1-4, and  the symbolically ominous, croaking ravens in L5 foreshadow evil, harm, or disaster.

Added: The following is a response tanka (not atmospheric one) to the "border wall"tanka:

the howling

of winter wind

through barbed wire ...

an old man stares

in piercing silence

To the Lighthouse: Fable Tanka

A fable is a story told in prose or verse, the main purpose of which is to teach a life lesson or a moral. For example, the moral of "The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" is that the evil doer often comes to harm through his own deceit. 

Fables usually use talking animals to speak and act like human beings in order to demonstrate a lesson about human behavior. 

Throughout history, fables have served a sociopolitical function. They often act as veiled critiques of societal norms, political systems and leadership, providing a relatively safe haven for sociopolitical commentary in periods where dissent could be met with harsh consequences (FYI: Vanity Fair, Nov. 11, 2024: Donald Trump’s Extremely Long List of Second-Term Revenge Targets: Everyone from Democratic lawmakers to retired generals and major news networks appear to be in the crosshairs)

In times of dread, artists must never choose to remain silent. This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear.

-- Toni Morrison, "No Place for Self-Pity, No Room for Fear"

Strive to change the world in such a way that there’s no further need to be a dissident. Read between the lives, and write between the lines. "Be committed to something outside yourself."

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, "Poetry as Insurgent Art"

The following tanka is the first political fable I wrote for the cheering crowds of Donald Trump's  supporters:

Between Heaven and Hell, VIII

just a dream, and yet ...

the mountain lion roaring

to flocks of sheep,

once elected as your King

I'll be vegetarian

To the Lighthouse: Mood Haiku & Tanka

Mood haiku and tanka are the sub-genres of mood poetry, a type of poetry with the focus on moods, which are created by the poet for the readers and to evoke certain feelings in them. Mood is sometimes described as the “emotional landscape” of the poem. It is the feelings that the reader gets from reading the poem as a whole.

Selected Mood Haiku:

tiny sips

to make it last

autumn twilight

Bill Kenney

night chill

rearranging the order

of canned soups

Fay Aoyagi

falling leaves ...

reading the same line

over and over

Brendon Kent 

house clearance

room by room by room

my mother disappears

Alan Summers

living alone

telling one cry of a crow

from another

Elmedin Kadric

the news on mute ...

I'm quiet and quieter

as my old dog sleeps

Chen-ou Liu

                                                                 to be continued ...

Selected Mood Tanka:

at dawn

on a mountain pass

in the drifting fog

almost imperceptible

the smell of green tomatoes

Kenji Miyazawa 

into a pair of stars

we will turn—till then

let us never recall

autumn’s voice

we heard in the same bed

Akiko Yosano 

with each quiver

it is laying an egg

a white moth

why did it enter my mind

this frosty night?

Samio Maekawa

dusk gathers

with the alchemy

of ravens . . .

alone, in a clearing

my heart picked clean

Robin Anna Smith

and when 

the sand runs out? 

the stillness 

of the hourglass 

and I are one

Denis M. Garrison

a drizzly day,

with yellow leaves pasted

to wet black pavement --

returning the library books

she left behind

Larry Kimmel

migrant

detention

sunset

ladders

the sky

LeRoy Gorman

New Delhi draped

in layers of toxic haze

this sense of dread

as October rolls around

chokingly dark... and darker

a girl

sticks her tongue out

at snowflakes

her mother's smiling face

in the shelter window

Chen-ou Liu

                                                                 to be continued ...

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)