(Above Photos by Tom Clausen)
A very dear friend of mine, vincent tripi (who
always used the lower case when writing his own name) passed away on August
17th. I’d spoken to him on the phone about a month before—his passing was
completely unexpected and, to my shock, I learned about it on Facebook. vince and I became friends in 1988 when he sent me a
copy of his first book. We’d heard of each other through the Haiku Society and
various haiku journals, and I was honored to receive an inscribed
copy of his book.
A close friendship developed over the years that was
uniquely special—a long-distance friendship of sorts because (for much of the
time I knew him) vince lived in California, and I live in New Jersey. We only
met in person once after he moved to Massachusetts. On that one
wonderful afternoon, we talked, laughed, prayed, and ate peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches. He was the only person ever to call me “Delly.” The
inscription in one of his books reads, “Dearest Delly, You’re the gift. The
poems are the wrapping. God is the Giver.” I came to know vince as a believer, one with a childlike sense of fun and enthusiasm for life.
vince called often, and many times when my mom was
visiting me he would spend a lot of time talking to her on the phone. They,
too, became friends. After my mom died, he dedicated his book somewhere among the clouds, poems from a
year of solitude to her memory in the kind of loving and generous act for
which he will always be remembered.
vince was a haiku poet with immense vision and
superior technical skill. His expansive spirit informed his writing, and he
left a legacy of haiku that bears testimony to his dedication to the form.
His books (many from his own Tribe Press and meticulously designed and produced
by vince himself) will continue to delight and inspire all who read them. There
is so much richness in vince’s writings—they are filled with his love for
literature and the natural world, his philosophy, and his faith.
Although most of his haiku and reflections are
memorable, this one from paperweight for
nothing took on deeper meaning in August:
And change is forever ... it will not leave me here.
—vincent tripi
No, change did not leave you
here, my friend—
but wherever you have gone, you
remain with us in memory and through your words.
May your dear soul rest in light and peace.
____________________________________
Hereafter ...
pine cones falling
where i knelt to pray
—vincent tripi
(from between God & the pine)
______________________________________
For this prompt, I’m honoring vince’s memory by
revisiting haiku as a form for you to work with. So far, I haven’t been able to
write a poem in vince’s memory, so I’ll be working with you on this one.
About Haiku
Haiku, a minimalist form of poetry, has enjoyed
considerable popularity among modern poets. Allen Ginsberg and Pulitzer Prize
winner Paul Muldoon wrote collections of haiku, and haiku-like poems are found
in the works of such literary notables as Ezra Pound, Amy Lowell, Richard
Wright, and Gary Snyder. During the 1960s, a haiku movement began in the United
States, which catapulted haiku into popular consciousness. Since then, haiku
has been widely taught in schools, and hundreds of haiku journals have published
the works of numerous haiku poets.
The Haiku Society of America, Inc. was established
in 1968 and continues with a membership of many hundreds. Although something
other than “mainstream” poetry and very much its own genre, haiku are compact
and direct, and are usually written in the present tense with a sense of
immediacy (a sense of being “in the moment”). The natural world and our
responses to it are integral to haiku. While haiku appear to be light and
spontaneous, their writing requires profound reflection and discipline. Haiku
are about spiritual realities, the realities of our every-day lives, and the
realities of human and natural world relationships. Most importantly, haiku
honor the inside of an experience through attention to the outside.
Haiku inspire detachment. That is, detachment from
self-interest or self-absorption. The best haiku are life-affirming and
eternity-conscious. They are spontaneous and unpretentious but are entirely
focused and either gently or startlingly profound. Through haiku, both the
writer and the reader are invited to reflect upon minute details that lead to
larger realities.
Haiku may even be considered a kind of meditation.
Finely-tuned powers of observation reveal the haiku moments that happen
continually in the world around us. A haiku is a way of seeing, a way of
capturing experience, a kind of “aha” moment or instant when something in the
ordinary captures our attention and leads us to a closer, more concentrated
look at its connection to nature and humankind.
The haiku’s origins have been traced to a form of
Japanese poetry known as haikai no renga, a form of linked poetry that was
practiced widely by Matsuo Bashō and his contemporaries. Bashō infused a new
sensibility and sensitivity into this form in the late seventeenth century. He
transformed the poetics and turned the first link in the haikai no renga (the
hokku) into an independent poem, later to be known as haiku in the sense that
we understand the term today. Following is one translation of Bashō’s most famous
poem (certainly the best known haiku in Japan and possibly in the world).
Furu ike ya
Old pond!
kawazu tobikomu
frog jumps
in
mizu no oto
water’s sound
Traditional Japanese haiku were typically written
vertically on the page from top to bottom. Each “line” contained seventeen sound symbols. These were usually
divided into 3 sections, with the middle one being slightly longer than the
others, and often with a pause at the end of the first or second section to
divide the haiku into two thoughts or images. These thoughts or images
contrasted or pooled to create a sense of insight or heightened awareness and
uåsually involved nature. A kigo (season
word) was used to indicate the season or time of year.
While most traditional Japanese haiku contain 17
sound symbols, early translators were mistaken when they assumed that a sound
symbol is equivalent to a syllable in the English language and that haiku
should be written in three lines containing 5,7, and 5 syllables respectively.
Although incorrect, these “defining” qualities of haiku are still adopted by
many.
A more acceptable standard for English-language
haiku is 10-20 syllables in 3 lines having a longer second line and shorter first
and third lines. Three lines have become the norm, but haiku of one and two
lines are also seen, although less frequently. Typically, haiku contain two
phrases (or images) that are inherently unrelated but are juxtaposed to show
some commonality within a particular experience. That said, the parameters are
often stretched depending on content and meaning, and successful experimental
haiku of a single word have been written.
A structural feature of the haiku is
the kireji, or “cutting word.” In
Japanese, kireji is a word used as
punctuation, often signifying a question or an emotional subtext. It also
signifies a break or pause at the end of a line. In English, cutting words are
generally replaced by punctuation like exclamation marks, question marks, and
dashes, or less often, commas or ellipses, depending on how sharp a “cut” the
author wishes to achieve.
Haiku describe things in very few words—they never
tell, intellectualize, or state feelings outrightly. They never use figures of
speech (similes, metaphors, etc.) and should not rhyme, nor do they have
titles. Some haiku poets feel that one measure of a haiku’s success is its
ability to be read in a single breath. Note: The word haiku forms its own
plural; haikus is not correct.
Guidelines:
1. Bashō said that each haiku should be a thousand
times on the tongue. Before writing anything, read many haiku from a range of
sources (there are lots of them online) to get a “feel” for the form. Be sure
to read some haiku that have been translated from the Japanese, but spend more
time on good haiku written in English. Read some of the haiku aloud.
2. After you’ve read some haiku and have a sense of
what they’re about, think about an experience that you’ve had.
3. Remember the season in which you had the experience,
and then think of a word or phrase that suggests that season. For example, peonies is a season word for spring; snow and ice are season words for winter. A simple phrase like “autumn
leaves” can evoke feelings of loneliness and the approach of winter’s darkness
(shortened days, longer nights). While many haiku appear to have a nature
focus, they are more-specifically based on a seasonal reference that is not
necessarily about nature.
4. Organize your thoughts into approximately three
lines. First, set the scene, then suggest a feeling and, finally, make an
observation or record an action. Use only the most absolutely necessary words.
Write in the present tense, don’t use figures of speech, and keep things
simple.
5. Be sure to include a contrast or a comparison.
Many haiku present one idea for the first two lines and then switch quickly to
something else in the third. Alternatively, a single idea is presented in the
first line and a switch occurs in the second and third lines. Nearly every haiku
has this kind of two-part, juxtapositional structure. A Japanese haiku achieves
the shift with what is called a kireji
or cutting word, which “cuts” the poem into two parts. One of your goals is to
create a “leap” between the two parts of your haiku. Creating a haiku’s
two-part structure can become a balancing act because it’s difficult to create
just the right equilibrium without making too obvious a connection between the
two parts or leaping to a distance that’s unclear or obscure. At the same time,
you must work toward sparking the emotions (not ideas) that you want to
communicate.
6. Try to think of haiku in terms of your five
senses—things you experience directly, not ideas or your interpretation or
analysis of “things.” Think in terms of sensory description and avoid
subjective terms.
7. In a nutshell—focus on a single moment (detach
from everything else); recreate that moment in words.
Write simply and clearly,
forget about 5, 7, 5 syllabic
structure,
start with about 10-20 syllables in three-line format,
include a season word,
make sure you create a
two-part juxtapositional structure,
include a shift between the
two parts of your haiku,
avoid figures of speech,
rhyming, anything forced or contrived.
Making Connections—A Good Place to Start:
1. Spend a little time walking outdoors. Then find a
place in which you can relax. Stay close to your house if you wish or find a
more secluded place.
2. Once you’re settled and comfortable, look around
carefully. Notice things (objects, trees, plants, water, stones, birds, etc.)
around you and write down several sets of two things that capture your
attention (and, hopefully, your imagination). You might select two things that
are similar or the same (flowers, trees, blades of grass birds, clouds).
3. Now notice the details of those “things.” Jot
down some notes. Remember, you’re working in sets of two.
4. Next, pick one set of two things that you
especially like and write a haiku that’s based on, about, or that includes the
two things you selected. Look for connections between those “things” and
yourself. How do they “speak” to you?
5. Think about how you can link your two objects and
switch from one to the other.
6. Let your environment become the “landscape” of
the poem. Write in the present tense—here and now. Let the objects direct the
content of your poem. Let your haiku take you where it wants to go, but don’t
let your two “things” get lost.
7. When you finish one haiku, try another! You might
just find that writing haiku is a little like eating your favorite
candy—impossible to stop with just one!
Write one,
or maybe a thousand haiku
geese migrating
—vincent tripi
(from to what none of us knows)
