Haikai & Haiku—A Short Introduction Part 4: One Plum Slowly Ripens

Issue #4: Kana | Kireji | Kigo

Most Westerners are taught in school that haiku are poems comprised of 17 syllables, arranged over 3 lines, with 5 syllables on the first line, 7 syllables on the second, and a final 5 on the third (5-7- 5). There are two problems with this definition, which need to be addressed by anyone wishing to translate haiku, or write haiku in English. Problem 1: The poetic rhythm of the Japanese language is measured in kana which are, on average, significantly shorter than English syllables. Because of this, while 17 kana usually contains around 7 to 9 words, 17 syllables typically uses anywhere from 10 to 15, and will often require the addition of unnecessary words and ideas to reach the necessary syllable-count (in many cases, using up to twice as many words as the original).

Transposing 17 kana onto 17 syllables, as some early translators did, can produce enjoyable short poems, which ably convey the meaning of the original. However, they often miss the unique poetry of haiku, found in compression. Translation is always a delicate balance between the literal and the lateral, and it seems prudent when dealing with poems composed of so few words, to add as little as possible. In this sense, the haiku is not an abstract “form” (syllables to be counted, a blank to be filled in, a law to be followed) but a linguistic phenomenon (an approach to language, a relationship with language, an ethics of language).

Problem 2: In Japan there are many types of poetry written in 5-7-5, meaning that while its form is definitive, it is not necessarily unique to haiku. The salient features of haiku, in a Japanese context, are its use of kire-ji (cut-words) and ki-go (season-words), as these historically distinguish haiku from other types of 5-7-5 ku (hiraku, tsukeku, senryū, biraku, zappai, etc.).

Kireji are specialist words (-ji) used in Japanese poetry to ‘punctuate’, ‘cut’, or ‘join’ (kire) the poem. While similar to English punctuation, which is commonly used in translation, kireji differ in two key respects. Firstly, they are voiced rather than unvoiced and contribute to the kana count (unlike Western punctuation, which is not syllabically counted). Secondly, the cut does not simply ‘punctuate’ the poem, but operates like a mathematical function: dividing the poem into elements (events, images, ideas), while virtually suggesting their combination: some assembly required. In this sense, the haiku remains ‘fragmented’ and ‘incomplete’ until the reader puts it back together (toriawase: to join, combine, connect, compare, contrast, juxtapose, superimpose; to place things together in harmony, resonance, etc.).

The poem is never finished on the page: a multiplicity of possible “complete” poems exist in the space/time (ma) opened up by the kireji. Not an abstract or empty space/time, but a virtual field (of grass, of energy, of potential) in which reader and poet meet. In traditional Western conceptions of poetry the relationship between poet and reader is usually understood hierarchically. Meaning is put into the poem by the poet, and then interpreted by the reader. In haiku the reader is encouraged to participate, to collaborate with the poet in the production of meaning, to experiment with the poem rather than simply interpret it. To become poet themselves.

Functions of the cut: 1) The way in which haiku “means” is not static. It is dynamic and relational: always becoming. Picture a straight line in the distance. Now draw it closer. The line starts to thicken. Closer still, it splits apart, slowly coming into focus. It is not a line after all, but a river running through a field. The river is the cut, always flowing. The banks of the river and fields are the fragments made by the kireji’s flow; 2) A successfully “joined” haiku maintains a balance or flow between the parts. If they are too distant or analytical, the join will feel overcomplicated and obscure (concealed, cloudy, dim: yin). If the parts are too close or synthetic, it will feel over-simplified and obvious (revealed, clear, bright: yang). If too much is said, the poem won’t say anything. If too little is said, it will say too much.

NOTE: Of course, this should not be interpreted as a “rule” or “requirement”. Sometimes a close association is needed (earth combinations), sometime one which is very distant is needed (sky combinations). But it will be difficult to tell if one does not first practice balancing the flow (water combinations). Once the varieties of lateral association are well practiced, one might even experiment with vectorial association (fire combinations).

Alongside kana and kireji, haiku are also customarily required to contain a kigo. Kigo are specialist words (-go) used in haiku, to indicate the season (ki). This can be done in a number of ways: 1) By directly mentioning the season (spring rain, summer moon, etc.); 2) By indirectly mentioning the season, using something from the natural world (cherry blossoms and camellias bloom in spring, summer nights are short); 3) By suggesting the season, through reference to shared cultural practices, events, and celebrations (the doll festival in spring, the airing of clothes in summer); 4) Through the use of kigo derived from historical poetic conventions, rather than direct experience (bush-warblers sing all year round, however in haiku they traditionally suggest spring).

Kigo have three primary functions: 1) The first is to embed the poem in a particular season: an environment, a culture, a planetary cycle (the sun, the earth, the moon). It links the poem to the motion of the universe: naturally and culturally, celestially and spiritually, practically and poetically. This is what gives haiku its sense of belonging. 2) The second is to imbue the poem with emotion (a feeling, a mood, an atmosphere): everything feels. 3) The third is to open up an intertextual space, in which each kigo connects to every other kigo, in a vast historical network of relations. Like kireji, using kigo successfully requires care: make it too emotional, too sentimental, and it will feel full. Make it too detached, too intellectual, and it will feel empty.

Kireji reaches into the poem, embraced by the virtual (potentiality: entanglement). Kigo reaches out of the poem, embracing the actual (possibility: motion and emotion). Perhaps this line of thinking is too cerebral. Let’s take a different path, there are many to chose from. Kireji is a seed unfolding, from which the plum tree grows. Kigo are the roots and branches: digging down into the soil, reaching up into the sky. One plum slowly ripens. Eventually it will fall and begin to rot, returning to the earth. In a house on the hill someone is cooking rice, and it starts to rain . . .

That brings this introductory series to a close. To recap, in “Part 1” we briefly unpacked kana and line structure, in “Part 2” we introduced kireji, and in “Part 3” we discussed kigo. “Part 4” brings all these ideas together, in a more formal setting. For the next series on Haikai & Haiku, we will be looking at the history of haiku, beginning with chōka (long verse) and tanka (short verse). See you there!

Okay that’s it for this week. Hope everyone is having a lovely day, and as always, please feel welcome to leave a haiku in the comments. Here are a couple of my own ku, written in the week, the first inspired by one of April Whalley’s wonderful post of haiku on old chapels, and their history;

     
      stones
      the earth is waiting:
      old church
     

And the second, written as part of a discussion with the fantastic senryū and tanka (among other forms) poet Shōnen, over on Twitter;

     
     old sky:
     you are a sack
     for songs


                   xoxo
                   dw
     

Haiku Thursdays

Notes for an unfinished miscellany on haiku in English, including poems, translations, histories, theories, et al. Explore the archive . . .