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Global
Haiku Tradition An
Interview Email to Alyson Ludek
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Dear
Alyson, In
response to your query of April 25, here are some answers
to your questions, as well as some miscellaneous comments.
My apologies for not responding sooner, and I hope that these
comments are still helpful to you. You
mention that Marlene Mountain was a great source of inspiration
to me. That was true for me around 1987 or so, when I first
began to realize that haiku is not a quantitative verse (counting
syllables) but a qualitative verse. Concrete poems by her
and others in Cor van den Heuvel's The Haiku Anthology
(second edition) flew so directly in the face of the "5-7-5"
concept of haiku that it made me confront my perception of
the genre and rethink it. Indeed, most of the poem's in Cor's
anthology made me confront my misperception, as something
like 85 percent or more of the poems in that edition were
not 5-7-5. So Marlene's work was a catalyst for rethinking
my understanding to form, though I can't say her work was
any overarching inspiration that I wanted to emulate directly. Where
do I get my inspiration for haiku? I believe it can come from
many places, and does not have to be as narrowly inspired
as some people think -- that is, primarily or only from direct
interaction with nature. I believe haiku can be properly inspired
by vivid memories (no matter how old), by other poems, by
television, by conversations, and a host of other things in
addition to personal experience. Haiku is, above all, a poem,
and a primary purpose of poetry is to convey something to
the audience. The reader should be able to experience and
feel and think about the poem based entirely on the poem itself
(or occasionally on its context). Ultimately, the reader can't
really know or prove whether the experience "really"
happened or not, so a different way to judge the poem has
to come into play. That method is one of assessing the poem's
authenticity -- does it come across to the reader as believable.
This assessment has nothing to do with whether the experience
depicted in the poem really happened or not (that's a question
of process), but whether the experience seems as though
it could have happened, or resonates with the reader's own
experience (which is a matter of product). I believe in the
value of the product ahead of the process of writing, because
valuing the finished product will lead the poet towards making
literary decisions (in crafting a poem) rather than towards
making decisions to preserve whatever the original experience
was (which may compromise the poetic value of the finished
product). So
what inspires me? Experience and memory, definitely. Reading
other poetry or fiction or articles with stimulating ideas
(even if they have nothing to do with haiku) can also get
me going. An image or a memory or *something* may lodge in
my consciousness. It may be something beautiful, or something
stark or ugly. Or it may be something simply intriguing. But
it does not begin to become a poem until I frame the image
in words -- starting with a single phrase. That may be all
that comes to me. A rusted wheelbarrow. The pull of someone's
hand. Watching a meteor fall. I let the phrase swim around
for a while, and look out the corner of my eye (at right-angles
to what's in front of me, literally and figuratively) to see
what else is happening, so that I might find a suitable juxtaposition
or context (my haiku frequently have a background/foreground
structure, or a context/focus structure, not necessarily in
that order). And soon (though not always), something will
resonate with the primary image I began with, and the poem's
two parts will begin to formulate. I also don't like to discount
the value of selective randomness, because sometimes picking
something that seems unrelated to juxtapose with a
primary image may not be all that unrelated after all -- the
subconscious gravitates towards certain juxtapositions for
a reason, and the conscious mind might not always realize
why at first. So poems happen, and I let them work themselves
out. I usually carry a notebook with me, but I usually work
out a poem in my head extensively before I write anything
down -- and often I make very few revisions to the poem at
the time I originally write it down. But then I let the poems
alone for many months, sometimes more than a year. Eventually
I'll go through my notebook and fish through it for poems
to consider publishing. At this time, with fresh eyes, I may
revise some poems, though there are definitely many that I
feel I don't need to change at all. Because of this process,
and partly because I write a lot of haiku, most of the poems
I publish are usually one to five years old before I send
them out for publication. I hope that readers who happen across
them will find something in them that resonates for them,
as that is the ultimate reward and motivation for me in writing
haiku. And in reading haiku, too, the reward is finding an
experience and image, carefully implied, that resonates with
one's own experience and perception. Thus haiku is ultimately
an act of sharing and commiseration. You
also ask if I have a favorite subject to write about. My first
reaction is to say no, that anything will do, whether light
or dark. To me the subject has to click, to resonate with
me somehow, and then I trust myself to write about it, believing
that it will resonate with others. Otherwise, I imagine one
would be too paralyzed to write. Haiku need not be all sweetness
and light, at least not all the time. Likewise, haiku had
best not be dark all the time, either. Robert Bly talks about
the dark side of human existence, the shadow side. Perhaps
we need more of that in our Western haiku, even in a poem
that presents something beautiful. Shiki's cheerful poems
are somehow tinged with the urgency of knowing he would die
young. Beyond this, though, Cor van den Heuvel has written
in The Haiku Anthology (third edition, which has twenty
of my poems) that much of my work is "domestic,"
and I think he's right. I do write about people and home and
relationships frequently, though this isn't conscious. I write
fewer "pure nature" poems, I suppose, though now
that I'm aware that I tend to write mostly domestic poems,
I've tried to also explore "pure nature" haiku more
than I have before. Other people are better at writing the
pure nature poem than I am, though, but sometimes they leave
me cold because of their impersonal-ness. To
me a haiku perception, even of a purely natural image, also
presumes a human observer. This fact cannot be escaped. Even
the objective depiction of a natural occurrence has the poet
choosing to write about the image, and the reader who interprets
it. A tree that falls in the forest with no one to hear still
makes a sound, yet what is the value of that sound without
someone to hear it? Thus the relationships of people to images,
even images in nature, are important. They are important to
me as a reader and a writer of haiku. So your comments about
my poem, "toll booth lit for Christmas-- / from my hand
to hers / warm change," the human element is important.
In this poem nature is nearly absent (present only in the
temperature, an implied cold at Christmastime). I think both
nature and human nature can be important in haiku, and there's
no need to exclude one or the other, yet, at least for me,
the relationship of humans to nature amplifies the value of
nature. I also like to remember, of course, that humans *are*
natural. Birds build nests. Humans build houses. Why is one
less or more "natural" than the other? You
asked about Zen and haiku. I recently heard Sam Hamill respond
to a comment about his poetry. Someone had said that she really
liked his Zen poems. He replied, "Which ones are not
Zen poems?" I think that's the way it is with haiku,
too. Everything is Zen. Yet unfortunately haiku has been over-zenned
in North America because of the influence of the Beat poets,
translators such as R. H. Blyth, and commentators such as
Alan Watts, D. T. Suzuki, and Eric Amann, and because of the
lure of the exotic and the tendency of Americans to pigeonhole
foreign imports into neat boxes that enable them to apprehend
what might otherwise seem too foreign. Haiku isn't Zen. The
vast majority of haiku poets in Japan are puzzled by the American
association of haiku with Zen. Yet haiku is Zen, too, for
everything is, isn't it? I don't believe haiku should be presented
or taught as a "Zen art," though of course there
are overlaps with Zen precepts and the haiku aesthetic. My
own approach to haiku, after initial exposure to it in high
school, and writing many haiku amid the other poetry I wrote
for years afterwards, was that my understanding began to solidify
through my reading of many books on Zen and Taoism as a young
adult. In a sense, I came to a greater understanding of haiku
through Zen. Eric Amann's The Wordless Poem deepened
that understanding. Amann has since renounced that book, and
says that he overdid the Zen association with haiku, but still
it is an informative book on matters of haiku aesthetics.
Amann was right about haiku aesthetics, pretty much, but less
right about casting those aesthetics in Zen terms. And for
me, too, haiku both is and isn't Zen. The suchness is what
the haiku poet is after. That's what matters. Whether it's
"Zen" or not is a separate question. You
also asked about form in haiku. Traditional haiku in Japan
is chiefly a quantitative verse form (fitting a set number
of syllables), but in English, a set number of syllables such
as 5-7-5 (or other variations of syllable and beat count that
have been explored) has no intrinsic real value or aesthetic
effect in English. Thus I pay no attention to a set syllable
count when writing haiku, though I do tend to write most of
my haiku in three lines (though I do sometimes vary the indentations,
punctuation, and other structural elements within the poem).
I approach haiku using principles of "organic form,"
a topic that Denise Levertov has written about, based on ideas
of "inscape" and "instress" from Gerard
Manley Hopkins and other poet-theorists. Rather than let the
haiku be truly "free form," which could be anarchic,
I seek the "right" form that best fits the internal
structure of what needs to be said, revising the poem until
the "form" seems so natural and unobtrusive as to
be invisible. The crutch of an external syllable count can
easily make the reader aware of the scaffolding. Why not remove
the scaffolding and let the structure itself shine? As
for emotion versus objectivity, that's a crucial question
for haiku. I believe haiku is a deeply subjective sort of
poetry. However, it uses *objective* means to produce such
subjective results. A haiku should not be about one's feelings,
but about what *caused* those feelings. This way, if the poem
is about the causes of feelings (the things we see, smell,
hear, taste, and touch), then the reader is free to interpret
those experiences in the same way (or hopefully similar way)
that the poet originally experienced them. Then both reader
can experience the same emotional reaction to the cause of
emotional (or intellectual) reaction that the poet felt. If
the emotion or other response is spelled out in the poem itself,
then it closes the poem, in direct opposition to the "opening"
nature of haiku. Haiku should engage, and subjectivity stated
overtly in a haiku tends to detach rather than engage the
reader. I believe it's important for haiku poets, following
the lead of scientists, to know the difference between inference
and observation. We can observe a dog's leg twitching while
it sleeps in front of a fireplace. We may infer that the dog
is dreaming, and maybe even of chasing a rabbit, and though
we can never know for certain, we may well be correct. However,
haiku is the realm of observation, not inference, and frequently
a beginning haiku fails because of not limiting itself to
observation so that the "reader" may make inferences
just as the poet did. Yes,
I believe haiku and photography have a lot in common. Both
arts rely on objective means to capture a moment, though of
course there is a level of subjectivity even in its objective
means. That subjectivity amounts to the choice of pointing
the camera at a mountain rather than a valley, or for the
haiku to write about a dog's toenails rather than the shape
of a cat's tail. We choose what to photograph or write about,
and that act is subjective, framing the photo or poem as we
wish. But then, beyond that, the poet and photographer rely
primarily on objectivity in capturing the moment. The results
are different, though, as photography becomes art through
the effective application of compositional rules, though technical
mastery of equipment and film, and through a knowledgeable
relationship between the photographer and subject (whether
a landscape or a wolf). Haiku becomes art by the application
of refined haiku aesthetics and the mastery of language craft.
Haiku, too, like photography, can be improved through a knowledgeable
relationship between the photographer and subject. This is
what Basho meant when he said to learn of the pine from the
pine, to "interpenetrate" with the subject so you
truly understand it and capture it at its height of suchness. Photography
and haiku have other similarities. One can manipulate both
the photograph (especially digitally) and the haiku, creating
an image or poem that is entirely pleasing yet perhaps not
true to the experience or location. If one's goal is to create
art, then such manipulation, in both haiku and photography,
may be acceptable to some people. If one's goal is more "journalistic,"
then you might choose to avoid such manipulation. However,
if one's goal is create something that comes across to the
reader or viewer as *authentic* (where the finished poem or
photograph -- the product -- is more important than the process
of how it was produced), then one has artistic goals that
separate the art from mere reporting or awareness practice.
I see haiku as literary, not simply journalistic, though of
course its power for authenticity, as with photography, relies
on some degree of journalistic accuracy. Though
I am interested in photography, I would hasten to add that
there are limits to the similarities between haiku and photography,
and that one need not have an appreciation for understanding
of one or the other to appreciate either art. One further
similarity, though, is that in both arts one can train oneself
to "see" differently, to notice things that could
be captured photographically or in a haiku. Years ago, I had
a camera that was stolen from my car, and for about a year
I had no camera. When I got one again, I noticed that I had
to retrain myself to "see" photographically, to
frame images in my mind first before getting into position
with the camera. I believe the same is true of haiku, in that
you can train yourself to be sensitive to the images and experiences,
and ultimately words and phrases, that become haiku. In
my online haiku and photography collection, "Open
Window,"
I started by compiling a number of my favorite haiku and photographs,
and then tried to pair them together in ways that weren't
too overtly obvious (in most cases). I tried to create a "glancing"
or sideways relationship between each poem and photograph,
much the same way a renku verse links in a glancing way to
the preceding verse. In a few cases I sought out photographs
(ones I'd already taken) to match poems I wanted to use, and
I also sought out poems I'd written to fit photographs I wanted
to use. No poem was written for any photograph, and I shot
no photograph just to match a poem, as I wanted each poem
or photograph to have its own artistic motivation. I think
sequenced all of the photographs together in an attempt at
renku-like linking, where something connects the photographs
together if they are viewed in order. The links may very well
be tenuous and subjective, but more important to me is that
viewers enjoy the individual photographs and the poems that
go with them. I would hope that any one item should be able
to stand on its own, but perhaps also gain something from
the interrelationship. What
is the number one rule with haiku writing? That's a very difficult
question. I would say to capture the experience of something
on its own terms, objectively, so that a subjective reaction
can be implied by the poem. This way, the reader can make
his or her own inferences, making his or her own leaps of
understanding or realization, and that act of participating
with the poet is what gives the well-crafted haiku its energy
and reward. I routinely enjoy reading haiku, and it's because
of this restraint that enables me to participate in the poet's
experience that keeps me enjoying the genre. If others might
feel the same rewards in reading some of my haiku, then I
am gratified, and the circle is complete. I
hope these comments are helpful to you in your research. I
appreciate the attention, and wish you well with your project.
My name is Alyson Ludek and I am a student in Millikin University's Global Haiku Traditions course, instructed by Dr. Randy Brooks. One of our assignments for the semester is a contemporary author project in which we do an in-depth study of a current haiku author. I have chosen you for this project, and would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. I'm very interested in your work and would like to know as much as possible about its creator. If you don't wish to answer a particular question, or have additional information you would like for me to include, please feel free to let me know! I am very invested in making this project as informative, accurate, and in-depth as possible. For starters, I have already reviewed your website for Open Window as well as Tagged with Ribbons, and so I have some knowledge of your background and how you got started in haiku. For instance, I know Marlene Mountain was a great source of inspiration for you and that you see haiku as a window into both ourselves and the world around us. When you are writing haiku, where exactly do you get your inspiration from? And relatedly, what is your favorite subject to write haiku about? One element of your work that I have really grown to appreciate is the incorporation of human nature into your haiku. Even in haiku that contain seasonal elements, you often include some reference to human nature that makes the poem easy to relate to. For instance, one of my favorites is
The seasonal element exists, but the focus is still on human nature. Am I interpreting this right? Or, more specifically, how do you view the conflict of humans vs. nature? Is one more important in haiku, or neither, or both? It has been said that aspects of Zen are apparent in haiku; in fact, Eric Amann argues in The Wordless Poem that the two are practically intertwined. What is your opinion of Zen in haiku? Do you consider elements of Zen in your work? Also, what consideration to elements of form do you take while writing your haiku? Do you make conscious efforts to vary your haiku structurally by line and punctuation breaks or by varying your links? Or do you find form to be more unconscious and developing naturally as part of the writing process? Another aspect haiku critics consider is emotion vs. objectivity. How do you feel about this topic, and where do you think your work stands in this area? From
looking at Open
Window,
I know that you feel haiku and photography share a lot in
common. How has the relationship you have built between haiku
and photography been enriched by your work with both of these
mediums? And what exactly is your process for matching the
haiku with the photos? Do you complete one first then seek
out a mate, or do you create both independently then match
them later? (This one isn't for the paper, I was just curious
after looking at the website. The photographs are absolutely
beautiful.) Finally, there has been a lot of debate over rules of haiku writing. What would you consider the number one rule to consider when writing haiku? In advance, thank you so much for taking the time to assist me with this project. I know this email is incredibly huge and long-winded, and I apologize for that. I am a big fan of your work and am anticipating learning more about both you and your haiku.
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©2003 Randy Brooks, Millikin University, Decatur, Illinois || all rights reserved for original authors