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The Delicate Balance
a selection of one haiku by
Susumu Takiguchi

 

The standards of haiku submissions for July issue are distinctly higher than usual. There are at least nine poems which I think very highly of. However, unlike past issues, there is none which is head and shoulders above all else, or which for various reasons moves me greatly. So, basically I have chosen the one haiku for this issue not because I think it is the very best one, but because it has given me food for thought.

Melancholy, a sense of futility or idleness and sadness seem to permeate many best poems submitted to this issue. Such things as a talk of divorce, loneliness in one’s reflection in shop windows, unrequited love, an inexplicable desire to get drunk in the middle of afternoon, toying with a knobbly stick without anything useful to do are skilfully woven into different scenes and situations, creating poems which I read with admiration and also with a wry smile.

Among them, the single poem I have chosen conveys the keenest sense of loneliness, coolest observation of stark reality and the most honest depiction of the sadness of human existence without saying so:

blinds closed at midday
she plays cards alone
without the full deck

Esther Theiler
Victoria, SE AU

What the poem describes is clear enough. There must be many people who would explain it more eloquently than myself. I would rather tend to compare it to some of the paintings by Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec or Picasso. Spot which paintings I am referring to! It thus seems more like a painting. Words are made into an image. However, it is not only a pictorial image but also an image of inner world of this lady. In the darkened room while it is broad daylight outside, this person and cards (and the table and chair) become merged into one -– loneliness itself not in the abstract but in the concrete.

Being a traditionalist, I would wish to have a kigo in many good haiku in English when they don’t have one. However, in the case of this haiku a kigo could in fact ruin the poem unless it is very skilfully applied. Because badly used kigo would almost certainly attract too much attention to itself and the delicate balance which is attained in this poem could be lost. Kigo for kigo’s sake is like a poor-taste tie on the wrong man, a lipstick on wrong lips, or curry spices on sushi. We could do without them. In this haiku the woman is not playing cards at one summer noon and puts the cards away two hours later, not to be used for the rest of the year. Hers must be an on-going thing and quite possibly the only thing she does while she is awake. That is why the poem is poignant and heart-rending. It could be in any season and to qualify it with one particular season by using a kigo would, though it may sharpen the poem, most probably jeopardise the timelessness and universality of the subject matter. This is a very good reminder that haiku is certainly not merely about the “haiku moment”.

I am not normally keen on the use of third person pronouns, or even, “you”. To me such use of pronouns would be a poor imitation of  “mohroh-tai” (literary vagueness). Why not disclose who it is? However, in this haiku the use of “she”, rather than “an old lady”, or “mother”, or “a spinster”, is very effective, and adds to the whole atmosphere of incredible loneliness. It makes the poem so much more universal. Who on earth is not lonely? Also, it could equally be “he”. It is a pity to have the gender distinction in English grammar and to have no pronoun to cover both sexes. If “it” can be allowed to signify both sexes as in the case of referring to a child, then the problem would be solved. I suppose one can use “the person” but it somehow would lose the effect which “she” creates. Lastly, anyone can see the wonderful effect of clever choice of words (almost all words), blinds, closed, midday, (without) the full deck. The last one, i.e. the cards are not even complete, is what clinches the poem which is already full of statement, and accentuates the over-powering sadness of it all.

I read as a child in Japan an excerpt from a diary of an old lady in England. Every single day, the entry starts, “No one came”, and ends with no other words added. This haiku is as strong to me as the diary in its expression of the predicament we humans are put: it is not only the person who is alone like in this haiku but anyone who may have someone’s company, or in the crowd even, that would be subjected to such intense loneliness. It looks as though in this haiku the extreme loneliness has turned into her sense of resignation until the loneliness disappears. Why such loneliness? This is probably because we all come into this world alone and go out of this world alone too. In between our birth and death we delude ourselves that we are not alone.

Why are we indulging in such negative sentiment as loneliness with this haiku? Why don’t we discard this haiku into the dustbin and be merry? If cheerfulness is far better than sorrow, then, why don’t we go for it? Why don’t we look at the bright side of things, instead of wallowing in negative sentiments? Why don’t happy stories make news headlines?

Among the many answers which have been given to this eternal question, the one which never pushes me into scepticism is that joy and sorrow are but one and the same thing. A kabuki actor’s rollicking laughter gradually turns into incredible tears. The same noh mask of a woman has the expression at once of sadness and smile. Again, the same noh mask of an old woman looks angry and wise, depending on the acting. A child’s cry turns easily into a smile. Babies cry and chuckle in quick succession. The contorted expression of face and body is the evidence of acme and death.

While one is busy talking about this haiku, the woman in the poem just keeps on playing cards regardless. She is detached from other people, outside world and perhaps from life itself. I wonder what the relationship of the author is with her? Even if she is the author’s mother, mother-in-law, aunt or partner, sister, friend or anybody else, she may not care what the author is thinking about her. She might as well be a figure in a painting on the wall.

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