Criticism

(Leaf 37) – Senryu (or, a witty riposte)

 

CRITICISM

There’s always one, isn’t there. Someone who takes umbrage at other people’s enjoyment. One can’t help wondering why they don’t leave well alone. Horses for courses, etc. However, I suppose they feel they’ve had their toes trodden on, somehow, and so need to retaliate – when in truth, it would simply be better for both parties if they agreed to disagree, parted company, and continued to go about their business, each minding to their own.

 

Back in 1999, still – a journal of short verse was entering its third year of publication. It was a bold and stylish new venture in the world of small-press magazines. Innovatively, it published a poem a page. And very quickly it boasted a global contributor list which balanced big names and new poets alike. The ‘comments’ section in the journal’s back pages reflected the widespread enthusiasm and praise for its appearance, its style, and its ethos. But not everyone shared in this view. The editor very bravely chose to show the journal’s commitment to openness and honesty by including a very derogatory piece of literary criticism which the journal had received (see, still 3 one).

 

I won’t retrospectively dignify his action by reproducing the chap’s name, or quoting him directly – but suffice to say, he deemed the new journal to be onanistic, self-indulgent, self-serving, without meaning and frankly absurd. He knew what real poetry was; he had an honours degree in English literature. He thought much the same of the poets featured in still, he said, as Byron had thought of the poems of Keats: i.e – condescendingly. Amusingly, his dismissal was riddled with spelling mistakes, which certainly didn’t help to reinforce his case. Nevertheless, it was quite a shocking thing to read at the time, and I understand it provoked quite a few angry responses – a couple of which were featured in the next edition (still 3 two). And I’m now somewhat shamefaced to say that it was me who inadvertently led the rebuttals with a somewhat barbed senryu. I’m not ashamed of what I wrote, because it was an honest response which was written at the time. But it does now seem to me to have been a little undignified to have sunk to the level of responding at all. For what it’s worth, this was my response:

 

His mind –

like a small room,

without a lightbulb.

 

In some ways, our erstwhile literary critic’s acid and asinine remarks did get to the nub of the matter. They touched a raw nerve. One of the reasons still was being so applauded was precisely because it had opened up a space to confront such optically-nasal-descending dismissals. It was a forum for accepting and treating short verse with respect and dignity. Its open and honest ethos was genuinely trailblazing. It offered a space in which to share enlightenment without being dogmatic, proscriptive, or overly didactic. Its unflinching stance had clearly rattled some empty-headed birdcages.

 

I am sure many of us writing haiku and short verse at that time in the late 1990s were, like me, riddled with doubts about the validity of the endeavour. I know I felt mildly (or even, acutely) embarrassed by some of my early efforts in this arena. I remember one occasion when a very good friend of mine picked up a copy of still (still 3 one, as it happened) and began leafing through it. After a long while, he looked up and said he didn’t get it. He read out the poem on page 3, the first poem in the magazine, and said “What does it mean?” – I felt myself cringe inwardly. The poem he had just read expressed almost exactly the same sentiment which a poem of mine had expressed in the previous issue (still 2 four, p.73):

 

Leaving,

Her scent

remains.

 

For me, in my case, my poem was quite personal. It reflects a genuine ‘haiku moment’ which had happened to me when laying my head down upon a pillow in the absence of my (then) girlfriend. The other poem, I think, seems somewhat more abstract, given that it occurs in a public space. Mine is perhaps more ambiguous because it is less specific – there’s no hint of it referring to a pillow, a bedroom, a home, or a private space. It could easily be something which could occur anywhere. Anyhow, this friend of mine was then at pains to explain that he understood the words and what they were saying, but to him it “didn’t seem like poetry” – it was just too short. But, horses for courses, etc.

 

I did (and still do) feel some sympathy for this. It’s not unusual for me to read short poems by other poets which simply do not speak to me, or they evoke feelings, images or reflections which I don’t get, or simply don’t enjoy. Not all poetry needs to be enjoyed. There is just as much efficacy in being shocked or discomfited by a poem. But on the whole (and notably, only for me), how I feel I have evolved as a haiku poet since those early days is that I am very much in the traditional, zen-like mould of Matsuo Bashō and his followers. As he taught: poems should strive to be ego-less, although we know this to be impossible. All expression is essentially anchored by (and to) the ego. Therefore, it needs to strive towards something universal in which all our egos share. Hence, why I find it amusing when I hear or see people talking about the ‘Great Haiku Poets’ of our time. Because what does that even mean? – Surely that’s simply contradictory? – Well, it is to me at any rate. But, if it’s your thing: that’s fine. Each to their own, and long may that be the case! – After all, we must learn ‘to live and let live’, if we are to live well, and live well with one another.

 

Big name,

small world

– haiku.

 

 

Photographs of still 3 two [left] & still 3 one [right] by Tim Chamberlain.