Haiku
Treasure Trove is a feature designed to present relatively unknown haiku poets,
as well as excellent haiku and related poetry which has not been widely read or
even seen by others than the author and perhaps, a few close friends or family
members. We also wish to create a stronger bridge between haiku poets and
non-haiku poets as well as those poets who write in several genres, haiku being
just one of the forms of interest.
In
October, we corresponded with Richard Watkins, a poet from New Zealand who has
been helping Jane Reichhold with the selection of haiku on Aha!Poetry's
"Seashell Game".
After reading some of Richard's haiku, we proposed to publish some of them in
the Haiku Treasure Trove. Richard's open response with his biographical and
philosophical sketches reflect his journey in haiku with relationship to his
other poetry; as he wrote in a refreshingly direct and honest mannner, we asked
if we might also include the letter. This world-traveller, a poet who made his
first attempt at haiku in 1959, readily admits, as might we all about ourselves,
that he is ever a learner in haiku...
A Letter From Richard
Watkins
Monday, October 15, 2001 7:56 PM
Dear Debi,
It was good to attend to this request after I got over the shock of your
proposal. Earlier feelings of inadequacy have been replaced by uncharacteristic
feelings of humility.
And yes, I have been trying haiku for some time now. I was first exposed to
oriental culture in San Francisco in the early '60's when I discovered the I
Ching. I mean, my home town in southern Missouri had one Chinese restaurant,
"Minnie and Milts," with specialties of chop suey and sweet and sour
pork. Coincidentally, I made my first serious effort at poetry while in San
Francisco. I enrolled in a writing class at SF State College and wrote a few
pieces. (I've even located one of my first, if not the first, efforts at haiku.)
I carried the I Ching around with me for years, and ended up with a note book
filled with questions and hexagons generated by the coins. It went with me to
the village in Nepal where I was stationed for 18 months as a Peace Corps
Volunteer, surrounded by Hinduism in the hills, and Lamaism in the Kathmandu
valley.
After leaving Nepal, I lived briefly in Kamakura where I started Zen
meditation. While in Japan, I won several prizes in photography,
which to me is a visual form of haiku in that both are capable of producing snap
shots of reality. About that time, I bought a copy of Blyth's Haiku, Volume
4, Autumn-Winter. I figured what the hell, haiku was an easy art form.
Little did I realise how completely wrong I was.
I returned to Nepal a few years later and can remember sitting in my house in
Kathmandu, looking over the valley and taking a photo of a bank of clouds which
was hovering on the hills surrounding the valley, thinking to combine my
interests in haiku and photography. As yet, the haiga remain in my inactive
file. But those times generated several haiku, one of which will be used later
to illustrate some points.
I absorbed a great deal of oriental influence during that time in Nepal. One
could hardly avoid it with all the religious festivals and the ready presence
the Tibetan monasteries. Without realising it, I was becoming "more
connected with nature, others, himself and the divine", as you wrote in
your last email.
So far as poetic influences are concerned, I suppose the most negative and
harmful one was the strict injunction from public school literature classes that
ALL poetry had to have the A B B, B C B etc rhyme scheme. Eventually I
was able to overcome that suffocation and came under the influence of
Fitzgerald's version of the Rubaiyat Omar Khayyam to the point of
memorizing 25 percent of it. It is the oldest book in my traveling library.
Other influences include ee cummings, Ogden Nash, the current poet laureate of
the U.S., Billy Collins and the humorous philosopher, Ashleigh Brillant . . .
Fast forward from there to years later, when I lived on the Manakau Harbour in
west Auckland. I turned my hand to haiku again, but primarily as a means to
record the joy of my children -- very personal. I continued to write the odd
piece of standard poetry, almost with contempt, or certainly disregard for any
skill I may have. Then, I turned my hand to writing short stories and novels.
The first novel was based on my life in Nepal, and later I constructed an
account of the American Volunteer Group, the Flying Tigers, in the early days
of WW2. Although they were fun to write, they were potboilers.
Nonetheless, I'm still working on Tigers Over Burma.
Recently, I relocated my poetry files and renewed my interest in haiku, but
still under the assumption that it was an easy art form. By now, the copy of
Blyth had become dog eared and heavy with notation. I began surfing the web to
locate information about this increasingly elusive art form, and became even
more confused by the profusion of styles. I spent hours reading, searching and
trying to define haiku for myself. Initially, I was scornful of much of what I
found. I feel that much of it trivialised haiku, and I resented that. I have
since become more accepting of those efforts. Who am I to say what haiku should
mean to them? I can barely express a philosophy of poetry let alone haiku.
After hours of searching, filing, rejecting and evaluating, I came across Jane
Reichhold's website which included The Sea Shell Game. That discovery was a
major point in my interest in haiku. Soon after I located it, I would call up
one of the sets, then go through it, evaluating the paired ku without reading
her comments. I was delighted to see that, more often than not, we agreed in the
selection of the winners for that particular set. My interest in haiku
mushroomed. But all was not easy. In one of our email exchanges she
mentioned that she was too busy to attend to the usual weekly set. By that time
I had worked my way through all the games presented on the site. I did not want
to see that source dry up, so I offered to help in what ever way I could,
explaining to her what I had done in going over the sets, not reading her
comments, and that we usually agreed on the winner of the sets. So, I started as
the commentator on the sets and the learning curve really took off. That was all
very exciting on the one hand and discouraging on the other, because my
inexperience was being exposed more and more. But then again, that just
encouraged me to search more and ask questions.
You ask for my opinion on where haiku is headed. I can't answer where my haiku
is headed, much less something as amorphous as haiku. I consider myself a
traditional haijin (is that the correct word?) because that makes the most sense
at the moment. Now, all I have to do is just figure out what traditional haiku
encompasses. Blyth says there are five types of subject matter in haiku: those
that record sensations; pictures of life; self-portrayals; human warmth and
romantic verses. I am intrigued that the list does not include the depiction of
nature, nor does it forbid the human presence. I am puzzled by current
restrictions in writing haiku such as the use of capitals. I guess the puzzle is
that Blyth did not share the same restrictions on their use. One of my current
difficulties deals with that ineffable nature of *"exception" in
haiku. I can see/feel it sometimes but other times it is beyond my grasp.
Below are the selections of the surviving pieces from the archives non-haiku
followed by haiku. . . poems placed in order the place of their creation.
*What
is not said/what is left to the reader to discover.
- Richard
A lone song calls to moon light.
I walk the shores of endless time.
Formless thoughts ripple then take flight
glazed by the stars in their soaring climb.
A silent sea reflects the night
Anonymous voices bidding goodnight
..drift warm and friendly through the chill.
Metal clangs as a door shuts tight.
An engine chatters against its will
..then coughs to life and coasts down hill.
The house door closes to complete the call.
As the night echoes continues to fall
..they sketch a new scene of sibilant hue.
Soft sounds collect as a streetcar slides through,
..then scatter as heels clip a militant tattoo.
The book I was reading lies close by my sleeve
..set aside for a moment on this Easter Eve.
San Francisco, 1961
The Satyr's Reply to Last Night
It wasn't the cricket that beckoned us out
..to lull in the face of the stars.
T'was a song old as man and played since his dawn
..that lured us into the night.
The music we heard as we lay in the dark was that
..of an ancient clan.
Last Night, my Dear, in the shade of the mounts
..we danced to the pipes of Pan.
Bandipur, Nepal 1965
crickets!
how quiet.
Bandipur, Nepal April 1965
shades of silver grey
spread on a sheer granite cliff--
Himalayan moon
Bandipur, October 1965
across the river
cranes fly to Swayambhu
in green fields women sing
hills rise through sinking mist --
below leaves weave with rain
Kathmandu, April 1973
back home in Missouri
missing the crows of Nepal.
Joplin, Missouri, autumn 1965
a four stage progression:
stage 1:
held back by ridges
it slinks over and swallows
the sounds of Swayambhu
stage 2:
held back by the hills
it slips over and muffles
the sounds of Swayambhu
stage 3:
hills on the fog
fog on the temple sounds
words on thoughts
stage 4 -- a verbal haiga:
hills
fog
fog
sounds
words
thoughts
Swayambhu
1973? - 2001
vapour threads sewing
clouds with a silver needle
through the western sky.
San Francisco, April 1959
one of my first attempts at haiku
the lone phone rings
and the family is one less --
long nights of grief
Auckland, November, 1976
your mute face streaked with tears
knowing this was our last departure.
Missouri, August 1976
(Do not these last two qualify as legitimate topics for haiku?)
a
screeching green blur
disturbs the feeding Parson --
new moon on the tide.
a flag snapping gale
dries the soaked city
silencing the gulls
storm charged night--
the sky splits and
ships moan
| Nelson,
New Zealand, 2001 |
a
crisp dawn rises...
then sun down and
the pheasant's parched call
sparse clouds
sprinkle rain...
the drought sinks
deeper
iridescent drop
clinging to a blade of grass--
universal spot
beyond the far ridge
planes drone--
hear--
the bell bird trills
in the cherry tree--
sentry with plumed helmet
your flock is safe
sparrows huddle on the buddha
crumbs tossed on the frost
bye-bye buddha
no wonder
its called spring --
the way the blossoms come
clear skies with southerlies
a three blanket night
a freshly, scented breeze
brings the pheasants call--
hear, the tumbling brook?
early morning-
on the newly seeded lawn
seven quail and a pheasant
early morning sun
catches lines of fishermen
lashing the river
flowered mounds of color
eclipsed by the poppies
across the valley
the mist drifts
here the pond shatters
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