Poems Evolve

(Leaf 86) – Reflection

 

Tsuchiya Koitsu - Naga-ame, or Long Rain (c.1930s)

Sometimes it is hard to know if more is less, or less is more. One of the persistent pleasures in penning haiku is all its possible permutations. In many ways, it can pose an almost unresolvable dilemma, much like for a painter wondering which brushstroke will be the last when attempting to complete a particularly cherished painting? … Some poems spring from the poet’s head – like Zeus – fully-formed and divinely perfect. But others need a bit more work. Re-working can become laborious, or it can even span decades, until the poem finally “feels right.” I think the key thing to remember is not to rush things. If it takes decades, let it. And there’s no shame in revising an existing poem, if one feels a newer version works better. Time changes, and things evolve – we certainly do, so why not our poems too?

 

I recently wrote a poem which seemed to evolve of its own accord out of a haiku into a tanka, as follows:

 

#1. (Haiku)

Enjoying the soft,

pitter-patter  

– early morning rain.

 

 

#2. (Haiku >> Tanka)

Enjoying the soft

pitter-patter

beyond the screen,

early morning rain.

 

 

#3. (Tanka)

Enjoying the soft

pitter-patter

beyond the screen,

still feeling sleepy

– early morning rain.

 

I think the reason it evolved was because, like many of my poems, it is based on a real memory/experience. In this case, it reflects a specific moment sitting on the tatami-floor of a room at an onsen ryokan in Izu (the same ryokan in fact where the writer, Kawabata Yasunari used to stay, and which is the place that inspired his short story, ‘Izu no Odoriko’, or ‘The Dancing Girl of Izu’), where I stayed in June 2005. Hence, I think I felt like I wanted to include two specific elements of the memory – namely the gentle sound of the rain and the fact that I was hearing it through the meshed-screen drawn over an open window. If I could, I’d have probably tried to shoehorn in the strong scent of the tatami floor as well, but that really would have been overdoing it!

 

On the whole, I think this particular ‘haiku moment’ works best as either a haiku (i.e. #1.) or as a tanka (#3.), the middle verse (#2.) is merely a stepping stone, and one that’s only barely raises itself above the waterline at that. I posted all three on my Bluesky account, and quite rightly the haiku (#1.) won the most “likes.” And I think the reason for this is because, while haiku can be specific in terms of details, place, timing, etc., they still need to be universal. In order to aim for that, they need to retain an openness which makes them accessible to others – people reading that first haiku will not be seeing the same room/place/time/scene in the same way that I saw it, but rather their own internalisation of it. Hence the two subsequent versions get bogged down and become too heavy, too didactic.

 

But a curious thing happened almost a month after I posted the three versions of this poem on-line. I was sitting on the sofa in our living room here in Tokyo one evening, reading a book, with the window open and the mesh-screen pulled over to prevent unwanted insect visitors from simply wandering indoors, when it began to rain. It was the end of May, almost the same time of year as the “haiku moment” in Izu occurred twenty years ago. The same gentle pitter-patter of the rain heard outside, just as it is usually encountered here during the rainy season in Japan. Instantly, another haiku moment popped into my head. This one, fully-formed:

 

Gentle sound of rain,

beyond the screen

– moonless night.

 

There’s still no scent of tatami in this one, but that’s because we don’t have tatami floors in our apartment. And it’s now late night, rather than early morning. But I think this poem works equally well as does the first. In many ways, many haiku speak to the same moment, the same idea; essentially, they paint the same picture, they set the same scene – but it’s something ineffable which tells us when they’ve hit the right note and can be left alone at last, just as they are.

 

Kasamatsu Shirō - Passage (1962)

Hot Pursuit

(Leaf 85) – Senryu (or, witty tom-foolery)

 

Valdis Baskirovs - Bear Linocut Print (2018)

This 5-7-5 senryu attempts to marry two witticisms into a comedic confluence. First, the well-known aphorism or idiom: ‘Do bears [do something] in the woods?’, and, second, William Shakespeare’s most famous stage direction (from “The Winter’s Tale”): ‘Exeunt, pursued by a bear.’ The end result is hopefully an amusing, if somewhat coarse and bawdy mental image of life in the great outdoors and its occasional, unforeseen perils.

 

 

Having sought relief

in the woods, hiker exits

– pursued by a bear.

 

 

 

Nembutsu

(Leaf 84) – Reflection

 

The Daibutsu at Kamakura (from "Wonders of the World", c.1920s-1930s)

The Nembutsu, chanting 南無阿弥陀仏 ‘Namu Amida Butsu’, is a way of hailing Amitābha, the Buddha of Infinite Light, as practised in the Pure Land School of Mahāyāna Buddhist meditation. The Nembutsu was popularised in Japan by the Tendai monk, Hōnen (1133-1212), during the Kamakura Period.

 

 

Namu Amida Butsu

– outside, the sound

of someone sweeping.

 

 

 

The Viewpoint

(Leaf 82) – Looking Back

 

This poem is linked to Leaf 10, but separated by several decades and set in an entirely different season.

 

 

THE VIEWPOINT, HARROW-ON-THE-HILL

 

Climbing the green sward hill,

beneath wind-rushed leaves

of tall trees, reaching up around

the Church spire – just to look out,

once again, over a place called “home.”

 

 

 

Photograph by Tim Chamberlain

Rainbow

(Leaf 82) – Reflection

 

Ohara Koson - Pagoda and Rainbow (c1900-1910)
Rijksmuseum 

There is always something uplifting in seeing a rainbow, wherever we are …

 

 

Wet, clouds and sun

– a rainbow rising.

 

 

 

Rembrandt's Scholar

(Leaf 81) – Reflection

 

Rembrandt - Philosopher Reading (1631)

This was in fact something which happened to me one evening. It was a completely still night and I’ve no idea what prompted the breeze which altered the candle’s flame, nor did I feel it myself. Having since written this unusual happening down as a tanka, it seems to me that it much better befits a description of the types of oil paintings which show bearded old scholars sunk deep in their reading; paintings such as Rembrandt’s “Philosopher” of 1631.

 

 

A curious glance,

cast up at the candle’s

sudden slanted flame 

– tired eyes, slowly

drift back to the page.

 

 

 

Wind-battered Straw Hat

(Leaf 80) – Reflection

 

At first when I saw him – looking down from where I stood on the cliff above – I was worried he might have drowned. But then I saw his hat move as he turned his head. He was lying there fully clothed, but without his shoes, cradled in the rocks – simply letting the sea-swells rise and fall, foaming over and around him. It was a very, very hot and humid day at the height of summer. His recumbent and relaxed form certainly seemed to suggest he’d found a good place to cool off.

 

 

Wind-battered straw hat

– the old man immerses himself

in the restless sea.

 

Busan, South Korea.

 

 

 

Photographs by Tim Chamberlain

Tanabata

(Leaf 79) – Reflection

 

Xu Beihong - Double Happiness (c.1930s-1940s)

Tanabata is celebrated on 7th July, the seventh night of the seventh month. It marks the evening when the star, Altair (the oxherd boy) is thought to cross the Milky Way (the River of Heaven) to join his lover, Vega (the weaver girl), the one night of the year when they are permitted to meet. In some versions of the story, the two lovers are said to take the form of a pair of magpies in order to cross the celestial river that flows unceasingly, high in the heavens.

 

 

TANABATA

 

Journeying through the sky

– starlight, 

glinting off black feathers.

 

 

 

Haeundae, Busan

(Leaf 78) – Looking Back

 

Staying at a hotel which was set on the steep hillside, overlooking the bay at Haeundae, Busan in South Korea in 2005, I was often struck by the beauty of the view late at night. Sometimes, such views have the power to simplify everything and reassure us that all’s well with what matters most in our world.

 

 

Straightening the light

of a crescent moon

– the sea at Haeundae.

 

 

 

Photographs by Tim Chamberlain

36,000 Feet

(Leaf 77) – Looking Back

 

My old job used to require me to travel a lot by cargo plane. The amenities on such flights are very, very basic. The only entertainment was what you could bring with you in your hand luggage. Such journeys were often long and tiring. But the freedom to look out of the window and simply watch the world go by was often far more interesting and far more relaxing than watching an in-flight movie, or all the other distractions more commonly found on commercial passenger flights.

 

 

36,000 FEET

 

Silver crescent moon,

above the red clouds

of another sunrise.

 

 

Photographs: Tim Chamberlain

Simple Souvenirs

(Leaf 76) – Reflection

 

This was another poem written around the time of my visit to Nara’s Tōdai-ji in January 2004 (see, Leaf 75). I’ve written about simple souvenirs before, because they really are my most favourite way to remember a particular time and place which left a lasting mark in one’s heart. For example, a simple pine cone can become a long treasured memento from a day out with a friend, visiting a special place together (see, Leaf 20). One of my favourite sorts of souvenirs which you can collect in Japan are the souvenir stamps found at railway stations, museums, temples and shrines. They are a great way of illustrating travel jottings and wandering haiku (see, Leaf 73).

 

 

Simple souvenirs

– a red maple leaf,

or a temple hanko

in my notebook.

 

 

Photographs by Tim Chamberlain

Todai-ji, Nara

(Leaf 75) – Looking Back

 

Tim Chamberlain - Tōdai-ji, Nara (2004)

This poem was originally published (along with several others of mine) in the Asahi Shimbun’s Haikuist Network, I forget exactly when, but sometime around 2004-2005. Although this was the only one of my poems which was changed by the editor, David McMurray. He changed the words “through the pillar” to “through a gate.” I can perhaps understand why he did so. Presumably it was in order to make the poem less specific and perhaps more universal for the reader to understand, because without knowing it refers to Tōdai-ji in Nara it really doesn’t make much sense. Inside the temple’s Daibutsu-den, or Great Buddha Hall, there is a wooden pillar near the statue which has a large square hole cut through it at floor-level. The hole was probably cut for a wooden beam to pass through it, but for some reason it has remained empty and un-used for a very long time (the temple was last rebuilt/refurbished in 1709). It is said that being able to climb through this hole in the huge pillar will guarantee you a direct passage to paradise in the afterlife – hence, it is not uncommon to see parents watching while their small children try to wriggle their way through the opening. My poem was written having witnessed just such a sight on a cold day back in January 2004.

 

 

TŌDAI-JI, NARA

 

Passing through the pillar

– paradise contained

in a child’s smile.

Book Sale

(Leaf 74) – Senryu (or, witty tom-foolery)

 

This poem was written as an attempt to console myself for leaving a book sale empty-handed ...

 

 

Double negative

– 20% off nothing,

still a better saving.

Photographs by Tim Chamberlain

Poems Come and Go

(Leaf 73) – Reflection

 

For the best part of twenty years or so, I used to travel frequently and for extended periods as part of my work. I always used to keep notebooks for jotting down ideas, quotations, lists, and various bits of info which I might happen to gather somewhere along the way, but these were always fairly large A5-sized hardback notebooks. Hence when I began to travel more, I started to keep small, slim A6-sized notebooks, the sort that were stitched, with cardboard covers, because I found these handy. They were great for slipping into a pocket when going out for a walk. They soon became filled with Eki stamps, jotted-down poem ideas, and haiku or tanka verses. But there was always a great peril in discovering you’d left your notebook behind when you’d gone out for a day, because having to memorise an idea or a stanza of verse was always a challenge. It was something I found I had to do on more than one occasion though, but sometimes these are good ways of testing whether a poem actually works or is worth remembering and writing down later. Nowadays, of course, I tend to have a mobile phone in my pocket on which I can jot down a note or two if needed. But even still, I do like to leave my phone at home sometimes when I go out – something which might be an unthinkable nightmare for some people! But I do find I hanker for those days long since gone when life was smart-less and undigitized. And I do still like to jot down and work out my poems on paper, and probably always will. Leopards don’t change their spots.

 

 

Travelling –

poems come and go,

before I can write them down.

Photograph by Tim Chamberlain