first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

Sydney Griggs

her tongue
and her snowflakes
illuminated by streetlights

Micky McNaughton

no leaves
the wind
is silent

Gage Whittington

damp leaves
a tree branch clouded
in a witch's touch

Maggie Kusar

first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

damp leaves
a tree branch clouded
in a witch's touch

first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

top quarter champion

TOP half Chamption

first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

bottom quarter champion

in the darkness
of my mind . . .
I see stars

“try not to sleep”
i say . . .
dozing off

in the darkness
of my mind . . .
I see stars

feather pillow
an empty room at home
my neck hurts

Adrian Sanchez Rodriguez

“try not to sleep”
i say . . .
dozing off

Grant Unruh

in the darkness
of my mind . . .
I see stars

Rebecca Murphy

in so much dark
there's nothing
and you

Gage Whittington

TOP half champion

first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

CHAMPION
 

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

BOTTOM half champion

patient poem . . .
how morning fog
clings to the grass

Mara Currens

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

Kyle Jordan

the violin
cries for forgiveness
echoing our plea

Bryn Sentnor

the worn pages
of the thoughts
I forgot about

Danica Brezovar

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

the worn pages
of the thoughts
I forgot about

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

top quarter champion

BOTTOM half champion

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

bottom quarter champion

green hoodie
spares her of undergarment
and insecurities

green hoodie
spares her of undergarment
and insecurities

in the emptiness
of space
I still hear noise

after dark
pulling up her hoodie
to look like less of a target

Sydney Griggs

green hoodie
spares her of undergarment
and insecurities

Binny Tamang

trying to write
haiku, but it's
super smash bros time

Emily Kemp

in the emptiness
of space
I still hear noise

Sadie Scott

first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

Sydney Griggs

her tongue
and her snowflakes
illuminated by streetlights

Micky McNaughton

no leaves
the wind
is silent

Gage Whittington

damp leaves
a tree branch clouded
in a witch's touch

Maggie Kusar

This match was the first pair of haiku on the Matching Contest 1, and I think they work together exceptionally well. Living in Minnesota, snow was a pivotal part of my childhood. Winter breaks and snow days where filled with sledding, snow angels, and forts at the end of the cul-de-sac. At the end of the day, my cheeks would be rosy and numb, my hair would be mussed from layers of hats, and my socks, although covered in layers and snow pants, would be dripping wet. On the way back home, trudging up the hill, we could see our breath and feel the squelch of our socks. We didn't care though. There was a simple joy that gave all of us a thrill, the childlike joy of seeing snowflakes begin to drift down from the heavens, barely illuminated by the streetlights. Therein it's place would be the hope that maybe we could have another snow day tomorrow… Mara Currens, Fall 2020

I really enjoy these haiku because of the way that both of these poems both encapsulate fall. The first poem kind of feels like the nature of fall and like the leaves have fallen and it's a little colder and windy. The second kind of grabs more of that Halloween spooky feeling with the witch's fingers. I really like that imagery of the branch being like a witch's touch, because I feel like I can see the shadows of the bare branches on the ground. With both of these, I see a barren tree with damp fallen leaves surrounding the trunk in a cool, windy, moonlit night. Kyle Jordan, Fall 2020

I really enjoyed this original pairing from the first matching contest. For the first one, I like how it brings the image of stars because normally, when you think of having your eyes closed, you think you're going to see nothing. But oftentimes, there are those imprints from what you just looked at in the light immediately before your eyes closed, and those lingering imprints do tend to look like stars. For the second one, I like the image of seeing one specific person when you close your eyes, that the person you see is important enough that you can still picture them with your eyes closed. I like these haiku as a match because they both counter the normal thought of seeing nothing when you close your eyes. Instead, they bring the thought that you see amazing things or important things when you close your eyes—stars, even though it's just lingering imprints from light, or a person who you can picture perfectly even when you can't see them in front of you. Maggie Kusar, Fall 2020

feather pillow
an empty room at home
my neck hurts

Adrian Sanchez Rodriguez

“try not to sleep”
i say . . .
dozing off

Grant Unruh

in the darkness
of my mind . . .
I see stars

Rebecca Murphy

in so much dark
there's nothing
and you

Gage Whittington

I felt like this pairing has an excellent juxtaposition to one another. Both speak to discomfort but one while awake and one asleep. The first one feels lonely with the empty room. There is nothing to stray the thoughts away from the fact that such a luxurious thing as a feather pillow is uncomfortable. In the second, someone is distracting them from their desire to sleep, but their body is betraying them. in another interpretation of the second, I have had a few head injuries and they make me scared to sleep alone and I'd rather just stay awake then sleep without some there to know if something happens. The first one speaks to the frustration of being alone, while the second speaks to the frustration of your body betraying you. Micky McNaughton, Fall 2020

I really liked this pair because they both have hope even when the writers think they are in a tough stage in life. The first one seems like the writer is thoroughly disappointed in something and is feeling absolutely terrible, but they also see it as a remarkable lesson to learn from in the future. And the second one's hope is some person or animal, I imagine, and I like the second and the third line. The third line gives us hope. It's like although the writer feels lost in the dark, he sounds like he's happy that he is at least not alone. Binny Tamang, Fall 2020

Just reading this haiku made my eyes heavy. I struggle with getting all of my work done and often stay up late doing work, thus I am very tired the majority of the time. This haiku brought me to class where I am watching a lecture and just trying to keep my eyes open. I tell myself over and over to not fall asleep, then ultimately get woken up by either my hand slipping from under my chin or from the professor asking a question. Danica Brezovar, Fall 2020

patient poem . . .
how morning fog
clings to the grass

Mara Currens

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

Kyle Jordan

the violin
cries for forgiveness
echoing our plea

Bryn Sentnor

the worn pages
of the thoughts
I forgot about

Danica Brezovar

This haiku is incredibly relatable. It reminds me of those moments when you look through old journals. As you read through the words you once wrote, you relive moments that you forgot happened. You get caught up in these old feelings you forgot you ever felt. There is such a strong sense of nostalgia that comes with that, and it is expressed beautifully in this piece. Sydney Griggs, Fall 2020 

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

Kyle Jordan

the worn pages
of the thoughts
I forgot about

Danica Brezovar

autumn breeze
we walk
through memories

Kyle Jordan

first snow
walking home with
wet socks 

Sydney Griggs

Even though these haiku talk about different scenarios, I feel that they are very well connected. Both talk about memories, and I think that the first lines complement each other. I can almost feel like they were born from the same “mom” haiku. There is an external factor that makes these thoughts and memories so vivid, which brings even more pictures and colors to my mind. In one case it is the autumn breeze, which makes me imagine memories flying into “our” minds. In the other case, it is those worn pages, probably yellowish and maybe filled with some illegible words. I believe that there is a very organized, gentle, and graceful mess in both haiku, and I like that. Adrian Sanchez Rodriguez, Fall 2020

I like these comparisons because they both evoke a sense of nostalgia. Both of these haikus deal with the passage of time but reflect on the past in different ways. While one evokes a sense of holding on, the other seems to be about letting go. For instance, the first haiku, autumn breeze, talks about time as if memories can be physically walked through. As if memories can exist in a grocery aisle, and we can take our sweet time strolling down reading ever memory's label carefully. The second haiku talks about time like a former heartbreak. Something you long to forgot for so much time, and slowly realize you've come to stop caring. All at once you realize you forget to care about something you used to care about so deeply. Sadie Scott, Fall 2020

I paired these two haiku together because the first line of each poem effectively transported me to each respective season. I could feel the cool autumn breeze blowing through my hair as I walked across campus in my cozy crewneck and leggings, watching as the trees changed colors and the leaves fell to the ground. In the second, I could sense the excitement of that first snow – it's not a very heavy snow, and it doesn't snow much, but there's a nip in the air and there's still about an inch or so of fluffy snow on the ground. The other reason I paired them together was because in both poems, the second line addresses the subject of walking, but that's where the similarities end. In the first haiku, the two people walking don't have a set destination – they aren't going anywhere in particular; they're just walking down memory lane and reminiscing about the past. In the second poem, the person does have a destination: they're going home, and the third line of the poem plays to our sense of touch by telling us that the snow has made the person's socks all wet. This haiku deals mostly with the present, whereas the first haiku deals with the past as well as the present. Bryn Sentnor, Fall 2020

after dark
pulling up her hoodie
to look like less of a target

Sydney Griggs

green hoodie
spares her of undergarment
and insecurities

Binny Tamang

trying to write
haiku, but it's
super smash bros time

Emily Kemp

in the emptiness
of space
I still hear noise

Sadie Scott

I really loved the juxtaposition and contrast between these two haiku. For the first one, I honestly feel called out by, because it is way too accurate. I have so many games I want to play and so many assignments I need to get done as well, so it hits pretty close to home when I'm stuck between recreation and homework. As for the second haiku, I imagined someone in a space where the silence is deafening, yet they're still alone with their thoughts and the noises inside their head. Wherever you may be, it's never truly quiet enough, and you'll always find some sort of noise that breaks the “silence.” It was a really interesting image, bringing to mind the slogan for the movie Alien: “in space, no one can hear you scream”. Grant Unruh, Fall 2020

patient poem . . .
how morning fog
clings to the grass

Mara Currens

the worn pages
of the thoughts
I forgot about

Danica Brezovar

the soft violin
silence
breaks their gaze

Danica Brezovar

the violin
cries for forgiveness
echoing our plea

Bryn Sentnor

I matched these poems because of the longing feeling they both give me. They also have a possessiveness to them. The words “clings” and “worn” give me similar feelings. They both show connections and make the poems for me. Both these haiku are also short and to the point. I immediately have an image of what they look, smell, and feel like. The pages and the fog are both smooth but have weight to them. Rebecca Murphy, Fall 2020

Obviously, I paired these two haiku together because they have the subject of the violin in common, but I also think that they contrast each other nicely. The violin in the first haiku is soft and seems sweeter and more delicate, while the violin in the second haiku is clearly more loud, raw, and desperate. Bryn Sentnor, Fall 2020