Brock Peoples • Brock's Haiku • Profile of Southard

O Mabson Southard and Chiyo-ni: Masters of Buddhist Tradition by Brock Peoples Ordway Southard (O Mabson Southard) began writing haiku as a result of a fascination with Zen Buddhism in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. This Zen influence can be seen throughout his haiku. He is best known for writing English-language haiku that follow the five-seven-five syllable structure. Southard also followed many Zen concepts in his haiku. His haiku often have a season word, are "selfless," have "suchness" (things are included in themselves), and are about "nothing-special." Southard observes nature purely and separate from humanity. Chiyo-ni was a Buddhist nun in eighteenth century Japan. Her haiku, like Southard’s, centered around Zen concepts. Her haiku illustrate strong Buddhist convictions as well. Unlike Southard, Chiyo-ni didn’t remove humanity from the scope of her haiku. Instead, she illustrates humanity and nature as one. Her haiku demonstrates that humanity and nature are not separate entities, but two parts of a greater whole. These two poets, one from twentieth century America and the other eighteenth century Japan, share some spectacular moments across time and space through their haiku. The following pairs of haiku have been taken from various sources. Southard’s work has been taken from The Haiku Anthology and the manuscript for the forthcoming book, Deep Shade, Flickering Sunlight. Chiyo-ni’s work has been taken exclusively from Chiyo-ni Woman Haiku Master. Mirrored by the spring under the pines, a cluster of Indian pipes O Southard, The Haiku Anthology, p 189 only in the river darkness flows: fireflies Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 152 These two haiku share a paired image of moving water. To me, Southard’s spring and Chiyo-ni’s river connect an image. There is a spring that I frequent deep in the wood that is the Salt Fork River Forest Preserve. They only flow in the Spring and, at times, become fountains with water shooting up to three feet out of the ground. From the spring flows a spring which feeds a lake. My memories of this spring are tranquil ones, which both of these haiku are quiet in nature, further connecting them for me. Across the still lake through upcurls of morning mist— the cry of a loon           O Southard, The Haiku Anthology, p 188 sounds enter the water on this night— hototogisu           Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 131 Two things connect these haiku: the water and the birds. Southard’s haiku is capturing the moment when the still of the misty morning is suddenly shattered by a loon’s cry. Chiyo-ni’s subject is similar. With her image at night, hototogisu, a nightingale, breaks the silence that had fallen across the water. Both of these haiku are following the same Zen principles as well. The both share a sense of "suchness," of "nothing special," and of "selfless." The old rooster crows... Out of the mist come the rocks and the twisted pine           O Southard, The Haiku Anthology, p 191 one mountain after another unveiled— the first mists           Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 95 The mists are thick enough to bring visibility down near zero, but eventually, they thin and begin to recede. Sunrise is a brightening of the gray world, and the rooster crows. The mists move slowly, revealing close objects such as the rocks and the pine tree. They linger longest in the valley, but, several hours after sunrise, the mountains begin to unveiled. This is the shared image that link these haiku. When traveling through southern Tennessee at dawn two summers ago, I witnessed this sight first-hand. The Smoky Mountains are famous for their mists, and I was not disappointed. The mists had thickened in the hours following midnight, producing patchy areas of low visibility along the road. However, when the sun came up, mountain after mountain could be seen. I watched the sun rise while crossing a bridge near Chattanooga, the mists covering the lake retreating before its rays like graceful spirits. So these haiku also contain a shared memory for me. This morning’s rainbow shares its deep violet edge with the misty moon O Southard, The Haiku Anthology, p 193 touching the fishing line— the summer moon Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 130 These haiku are linked by the image of the moon touching more earthly objects. Southard writes of the moon sharing and edge with a morning rainbow. While the rainbow is in the sky, it is still of the earth when compared with the moon. Chiyo-ni’s moon is sharing an edge as well; with a fishing line. Both of these moons are near to setting and are close to the horizon, and both are summer moons. Southard’s morning rainbow associates his haiku with summer, as early morning rains are common that time of year. While Chiyo-ni states that the moon is a summer moon. squatting the frog observes the clouds           Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 123 Chanting, the pond’s frogs... among the lilies’ dark pads— the twinkle of stars           O Southard Frogs are a classic subject of haiku written by authors following Zen principles. These two haiku are linked through their frog imagery. Chiyo-ni’s haiku gives an image of a solitary frog, sitting, with the passing clouds reflected in its eyes as it watches them go by. Southard’s haiku is focused on the chorus of frogs that live in a single pond. They are singing in the starlight. Like Chiyo-ni’s frog, they are observant of the heavens, gauging their behavior on the time of day the sky tells them it is. A small river flowed by my hometown of St. Joseph. In the summer, if you drive a short distance out of town, stop the car and roll down the window, the sound of thousands of frogs is brought to you on the wind. This chorus performs every year, exactly as it has down for thousands of years. The song of the frogs is timeless and knows nothing of its human audience, carrying only for its own natural purpose. Mingled in the falls— the water-tones of others higher and lower           O Southard sound of the waterfall diminishes in the peaks— cicadas’ voices           Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 147 This haiku are linked in their image of the waterfall. Waterfalls are beautiful natural wonders. Personally, I have only seen two true waterfalls. One was at Shades State Park in Indiana and had a vertical drop of a little more than a hundred feet. It fell gently down a hill side, creating a water-slide effect on the rock. At the time, I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, as it danced over the rock and into the pool at the bottom of the slope. The other water fall I have visited is Niagara. While standing at the railing on the Canadian side of the precipice, I was amazed that only a three foot tall railing and a two foot drop separated me from the very edge of the mighty falls. While the two are hard to compare, they share a certain magic. Their sound can be heard down stream for miles, giving the visitor a constant reminder of the wonder as he continues his journey. This shared magic of waterfalls connects these haiku as well. Southard abhorred literary criticism that looked for the symbolic in his haiku. He felt "Whatever symbolism might be construed by others, the poet avowed that the verses he wrote flowed from concrete moments of enhanced sensibility," (Barbara Sothard). This differs from Chiyo-ni’s work in that many of her haiku require interpretation and are not pure observation. Zen in haiku teaches us to deal with the ordinary in an extraordinary way. This requires slowing down our fast paced lives and taking the time to appreciate the world around us. Zen works through the work of both Chiyo-ni and Southard. The pairings are made between haiku that share Zen influence. The principals of Zen in haiku are what best connect these two writers. Southard strove to reproduce the pure image of the pure moment that he was observing. Chiyo-ni, however, followed Zen, but was primarily influenced by haiku artistry, even metaphor. at the crescent moon the silence enters the heart           Chiyo-ni, Chiyo-ni Women Haiku Master, p 158 new moon lessons of the past silence — semester’s end           Brock Peoples, April 28, 2002