Selected Haiku
by

Sarah Alexander

Global Haiku Tradition
Millikin University, Spring 2000

Author's Preface

While rummaging through some old school work recently, I ran across a few haiku I had composed while taking creative writing as a college sophomore. I think I may actually have blushed as I read them. Most of them were in the dreaded 5-7-5 form and contained an image that was either horribly contrived or downright silly. How had I written such embarrassing poetry? I decided that my less than stellar haiku attempts had been composed with a faulty definition of haiku in mind.

I didn't realize back then that a truly wonderful haiku does not need to be squeezed into any syllable pattern but simply flows as if the words couldn't be arranged in any other way.

I didn't know then that a haiku makes you shiver by offering spare but richly suggestive images that seem to waken all five senses at once.

And I certainly didn't realize that genuine haiku suggest a feeling of being "in the moment," that an immediate, almost tangible image is central to the composition of haiku.

In short, my definition of a haiku was very much like that of a typical fifth-grader.

The poems on the following pages demonstrate the ways in which I have amended my definition of haiku. Nearly all of them contain a seasonal reference, and a good number of them center around the tiny but significant moments that define and enrich the sort of relationship only couples can enjoy. The best part of my revised definition of haiku, after all, is that these "relationship moments" are completely legitimate topics for the rich poetic form that is haiku.

—Sarah Alexander • May 15, 2000

first day of spring—
the widow sweeps her porch
to a wartime tune

afternoon sun—
the arch of his wrist
as he straightens his hat

anniversary party—
as the last guest leaves
his arm around her waist

  

 

rain on the car roof . . .
the warmth of her laugh
on my arm

concert in the park—
after the Beethoven
she reaches for a fan

  

 

first rain of spring . . .
all the windows open
he plays Chopin

winter sunset . . .
suddenly missing
the reek of his pipe

  

 

another year is gone—
the memory of his voice
wakens her

sunday walk—
choosing a dandelion
for her mother's hair

 

 

father's art book—
her eyes linger
on the David

sunday morning sermon . . .
distracted
by the nape of her neck

  

 

as the light fails,
the change of her skin
from white to porcelain

last day of summer—
waiting for an excuse
to brush against his arm

  

 

spring cleaning—
her sister's romance novel
carefully hidden

wedding night—
just before bed
he offers to brush her hair

  

 

thinking of him
she bites into a strawberry—
summer wind

afternoon picnic—
he brushes from her shoulder
an imaginary fly

  

 

Easter service—
comparing my dress to hers
all through communion

June morning—
from the old couple's window
a Benny Goodman tune

  

©2001 Randy Brooks, Millikin University, Decatur, Illinois || all rights reserved for original authors