Maureen Ritter • Maureen's Haiku •

What is haiku? Haiku is the power of a few carefully chosen words to propel us into a heightened perception and understanding of the world we live in. Haiku does not make you think; instead, it inspires you to embrace the images presented and make them your own, appreciating the gift the author has given you. It may often be tangibly defined as simple, brief, containing a seasonal reference, and employing a crafty method of “cutting,” but anyone who truly knows and loves haiku will tell you that defining the techniques of writing will never do justice to the essence of haiku. H.F. Noyes once said “What is most vital is that we expose ourselves to the spirit of the art form” (The Loose Thread 135). It is with this spirit in mind that I have delved into the works of Caroline Gourlay, a celebrated English haiku poet and editor. Ms. Gourlay has written poetry for many years, and became an active member of the haiku community in 1994. She spent two years as editor of the Blithe Spirit, a British haiku journal, and has published several collections, including Through the Café Door, Crossing the Field, and Reading all Night. Caroline’s haiku instantly attracted me because of the range of experiences the works deal with and also the simple, beautiful language she employs in her writings. The Poetics of Caroline Gourlay What strikes me as most fascinating about Caroline’s haiku is her ability to both play by the “rules” and still experiment at the same time. Many times, while reading examples of her haiku, I found pieces that did not seem to have clear images; in fact, many of them seemed to be built around an abstraction. While this generally runs contrary to what is deemed necessary for a “good haiku,” I believe that Caroline has not crossed the boundary into meaningless sentiment. One haiku in particular that I feel demonstrates her ability to use abstraction comes from her chapbook Through the Café Door: after your visit deciding what to throw away (Through the Café Door 28) This haiku doesn’t necessarily give an explicit image; “deciding” is, after all, a very passive verb, and not particularly descriptive. There is the implication of the aftermath of an ended relationship, but there is no dominant image in the haiku. The lack of central images, however, does not work against her, and in this case may even work in her favor. In her essay entitled “Some Thoughts on the Writing of Haiku and Other Poems,” published in The Loose Thread (2001), Caroline writes “Every good haiku points to the here and now, whether it deals with a moment relating to nature, or human nature, or successfully links the two – moments of intense awareness that can only be arrived at during those comparatively rare moments when we are truly living in the present” (123). In light of this quote, her “after your visit” haiku falls into the category of living in the “here and now.” It is the moment when the speaker of the haiku must make decisions – conscious decisions – of what memories to keep and what memories to destroy. Though there is not a necessarily concrete image, the haiku lives in the present, in that tender moment in a person’s life where they must deal with the pain of a broken relationship in whatever way best suits them. Because it is more abstract, I believe that more readers can take up and embrace this haiku; imaginations can run wild with the scene that Caroline has vaguely set up for her readers. In addition to a surprising number of abstractions, I found many interesting uses of punctuation in Caroline’s work. The best example of this comes from a haiku published in the Global Haiku Anthology, 2000: Without full stop you run. Childhood, a country with no paragraphs (Global Haiku Anthology 54) One of the most original and unique aspects of this haiku is Caroline’s use of punctuation. Too much punctuation, such as an excess of commas, periods, or semi-colons, seems to take away from the simplicity and the feeling of lack of completion a haiku should embody. This haiku, however, actually benefits from the unconventional use (and the unconventional placement!) of punctuation. Caroline has written the words that describe life from a child’s perspective – a world without organization or clearly defined beginnings and ends. However, the words by themselves lack the ability to grab the reader and make them understand the “country with no paragraphs.” It is with the placement of the definitive and oddly placed punctuation that the child’s world comes to life. What I have come to understand about Caroline’s poetics of haiku writing is that she remains unconcerned with “breaking the rules” of haiku. While adhering to somewhat standard definitions of a good haiku, she is free to experiment with punctuation and abstractions in order to create beautiful images and meaningful ideas for readers. I admire her innovation in this area, and yet also find myself appreciating the “simple” haiku as well. Caroline has a way with words that truly allow her readers to live in her “here and now.” Favorite Haiku by Caroline Writing at my desk, I look out across the sea— words slip their moorings (Global Haiku Anthology 53) This is my absolute favorite haiku by Caroline Gourlay. When I first came across this piece, I was instantly captured by both the images she uses and the idea behind those images. Caroline commonly uses an implicit image to conjure up a more specific picture for her readers, but I found that this haiku did indeed have a certain image already embedded in it. What I found delightfully ironic, however, was the way in which she used that concrete image to imply an intangible subtext: the ability for even the slightest distraction to loosen one’s grip on the words they hold in their head. I immediately imagine a woman writing at an oversized oaken desk, which is underneath a massive window in her study or den on the third floor of her home. The house is an old Victorian, with weathered wooden eaves and overhangs, and clapboard shutters that rattle when the wind blows behind them. It is settled on a small hill overlooking the harbor of a small fishing town, and when the woman looks out of her window, she can see the entire tiny town, with all of its residents busily going about their livelihoods. As the woman sits at her desk, pen poised above her paper, a fresh sea breeze drifts through the open window, causing the lacy curtains to flutter. The salt air mingles with the smells of the fishing boats in the harbor to create a scent she is familiar with, yet one that never fails to grab her attention. She glances up from her work and stares across the water, taking in the beauty of the sea and the town. When she returns from her reverie, she finds that the thought she was once in the middle of has now escaped from her mind completely. It is a frustrating moment for a writer, but one she will gladly surrender to, given the pure, natural moment of beauty she has just been given. Aside from the beautiful images this haiku calls to mind, I am delighted by the word play Caroline employs. “Words slip their moorings” is the perfect way to describe the feeling of an escaped thought while continuing with the context of the ocean as the distracter. It is a delightful, abstract image that still holds so much power; for one brief moment, we are drawn into the writer’s mind and given the ability to embrace not only the beauty of the scene before her, but also the feeling of a loss of words. This haiku is beautifully written and certainly creates a “new” moment out of something that might happen any day of the week. telephone ringing— two leaves settle on the garden seat (Through the Café Door 18) While many of Caroline’s haiku seem to have an abstract subtext, I appreciate this one for its sheer simplicity. It is, above all, a snapshot of a moment captured forever in the mind of the writer and shared with her readers. There is no underlying message or point she is driving home; unadorned and beautiful, it is another of my favorite Caroline Gourlay haiku. This haiku brings me to a high-walled garden on an unseasonably warm autumn day. Ivy climbs the red brick walls, and trees of all sorts fill the area. A cobblestone path winds itself through the expanse of flowers and shrubbery, all lovingly cared for by a young woman who currently sits on a wrought iron garden bench. She sips iced tea and reads leisurely from a book; the work of tending to the garden mostly finished, she relishes her time to enjoy the beauty of the weather and her surroundings. From inside her house, a telephone rings, but she chooses to ignore it, not wanting to be disturbed on this serene, peaceful afternoon. From the shady boughs of a maple tree fall two red leaves; though their colors have changed with the season, they have not yet turned to crispy, dead brown leaves. They flutter gently to the bench on which the young woman sits. The stillness of the scene in the garden is not disturbed, and the leaves make themselves comfortable next to their human companion. This haiku has so much seasonal beauty that the senses almost explode upon reading it. Though we hear the phone, it is faint and in the distance, and does nothing to distract from the scene. It is nice to see Caroline stepping away from haiku with subtexts and allowing her readers to simply enjoy small moments of beauty. dark night quiet after the storm your breathing (Through the Café Door 25) This haiku calls up a strong sense of family for me. After a particularly heavy rainstorm comes the inevitable silence of nature returning to its routine; the upheaval is over, now it is time to get back to normal. I see a mother, kept awake by the storm, tip-toeing silently to her small daughter’s room to check on her. Knowing her child is afraid of thunder and lightning, she has been unable to sleep, kept awake by her compassion for her child. The moon is not out tonight, and so no light is cast through the windows as she opens the child’s door. The only way the mother can be assured of the child’s comfort is to listen for the girl’s heavy, rhythmic breathing. Hearing this, the mother is calmed as well, and returns to her bedroom, satisfied that her family will sleep well after nature’s disruption. Without full stop you run. Childhood, a country with no paragraphs (Global Haiku Anthology 54) This is one of Caroline’s most evocative haiku; despite the lack of a clear central image, the idea behind the haiku presents endless possibilities for the reader. I imagine a young girl, five or six years old, in a field full of dazzling yellow dandelions. She runs falteringly on her little legs through the grass, the sun beating down on her bare arms, for no reason other than she loves the feeling of the freedom of movement, love feeling the wind on her face. She trips and tumbles to her knees; unfazed, she stays on the ground, absorbed in the new pleasure of the soft grass between her fingers and the up close and personal look at the dandelions. There is a smile on her face which seems to encompass her whole being. She glows with the look of complete contentment that all children seem to have when they have discovered simple joys without understanding exactly why they are so pleased. Although the only image Caroline uses is “running,” her haiku has a power to transport the reader into any scene their imagination can create. The feelings evoked by the simple idea of this haiku more than make up for the missing central image. leaving the concert hall the last note last note (Through the Café Door 10) Another one of Caroline’s haiku provides great visual and aural imagery, and also takes me to a very specific place in my imagination. I am seated in the Krannert Center at the University of Illinois, the auditorium where most of the music performances are held. The hall’s décor is beautiful, with plush, upholstered seats and dark wood throughout the room. The hall was built to be acoustically perfect, both with and without an audience present. I have attended many concerts there, and the final note of any song always echoes through the room for several seconds before at last dying away. I imagine myself in the middle of the auditorium during a performance of “Symphonic Metamorphosis” one of my favorite pieces of classical music. The conductor of the wind ensemble triumphantly cuts off the last note, but his hands stay poised in the air as the final chord lingers delicately in the room. The repetition of “last note” in this haiku reminds me of the way the final note of a symphony seems not to want to die away, as if it will mark the end of the performance in too finite a manner. It also gives a great aural image, and I can picture perfectly myself and my fellow audience members enjoying the spectacular performance till the very possible last second. after your visit deciding what to throw away (Through the Café Door 28) From this haiku, I imagine a woman sitting amidst piles and piles of battered cardboard boxes. Her long term partner has recently ended the relationship, but has just come back for one last visit, to check up on her. They have remained friends, but she is still understandably bitter at the loss of such an important part of her life. Torn apart by the break up, she views this visit as necessary closure, and after he leaves she feels ready to finally part with some of the things that remind her of their past together. As she sifts through years of letters, pictures, and other tokens of affection, she finds she is no longer gripped with the bitter anger that consumed her just after the end of the relationship. She carefully looks at each item and consciously decides what to save and what to toss, instead of callously throwing everything into her garbage bag. I love the sense of peace this haiku embodies. Caroline is extremely talented at weaving emotion into her haiku without allowing them to become imageless sentiments. As I read through many of Caroline’s works, I never lost my sense of the “spirit” of haiku. One cannot approach this type of poetry with a purely analytical eye. Analysis and critique have their place, certainly, but a reader must also surrender themselves to the beauty and simplicity that is haiku. Reading and appreciating Caroline Gourlay’s fine haiku have increased my love for the art form, not only the technique and elements of writing, but also the power encompassed in these simple lines. “A good haiku must demonstrate the only reality, which is the present,” says Caroline, “and will come out of an awareness of the true nature of existence” (The Loose Thread 122). Caroline’s haiku point us to that truth; her haiku are her eyes to the world, and we should thank her for the opportunity to see her reality. Works Cited: Swede, George and Randy Brooks, eds. Global Haiku Anthology: Twenty-Five Poets World-wide. Oakville, ON: Mosaic Press, 2000. Gourlay, Caroline. Through the Café Door. Liverpool: Snapshot Press, 2000. Kacian, Jim ed. The Loose Thread: The Red Moon Anthology of English Language Haiku. 2001. Winchester, VA: Red Moon Press, 2002.