Writing Haiku (1)

In each haiku I'm seeking a continual balance between the definite and the mysterious. A haiku which is too definite is uninteresting -- too obvious -- and often carries a feeling of being over-explained. But a haiku which is too mysterious -- too inexplicable -- can frustrate the reader, can feel too hidden.

Who is to say, though, when a haiku veers too far either way? I might see a particular haiku one way at one time, and then a day, a week or a year later, another way. And, of course, you might see the same haiku in a much different way. All I can do is publish what I like, and hope you too will enjoy it. Its very much like running a restaurant -- be the best cook you can, and hope that whoever you serve enjoys the fare.

If you don't like subjectivity, then I would suggest that you not write haiku. I have learned to love subjectivity more and more, have learned to relax into it.

One of my favorite poets, Barbara Guest, has said the same thing that the musical composer Rameau said (and I paraphrase): "learn the rules, think about them, use them, but in the end, go with what feels right, even if it flies in the face of all the rules."

I must admit to you, though, that if I'm going to veer one way or the other I most definitely like to steer toward the mysterious. I'd rather be confused than bored.

Today I wrote this haiku:

inviting the wind
an alchemist's
fabled curtain

I am happy with this. It started this way: the photograher Joel Witkin has a photograph in which there is a very large curtain -- about the size of a theater curtain. It's white, and in front of it stands a nude woman, among many other curious and interesting artifacts and details. But the one thing you can't do with a haiku is stuff it full of stuff. I knew I wanted this haiku to be just about me feelings about that curtain.

Is the curtain just a backdrop? Or does it conceal something? I knew I wanted the word "curtain" in the haiku, but what then? A white curtain? Is knowing the color really necessary for feeling the essence of the curtain? In the photograph the curtain doesn't look particularly clean, and white tends to always imply clean.

And how to describe the size. Size words seem difficult to me -- "immense," "great," "gigantic," -- they're not specific and in many contexts can end up sounding an upoetic note.

For awhile I entertained "high curtain." It's vague. Does it mean that the curtain is tall, or high in the air, meaning off the ground? I like that ambiguity. Then I realized I wanted to see what was behind the curtain. I couldn't lift it -- I didn't feel like I wantedc to be in the haiku, but the wind could. Yes, the wind had to be in the haiku. Then it occurred to me that the wind wouldn't come on its own -- it had to be invited.

And what about the fact that the curtain was in an artist's studio? I couldn't just use the word "artist" to describe Joel Witkin. The word "artist" has, unfortunately, become too prosaic. Witkin's work is extremely cosmic, terrifying even, transformative, transmutative. In my mind, Joel Witkin is an alchemist. And that's what I shall call him!

The last thing to fall into place was the word "fabled." We might think that a curtain would be in a theater and would open to enact a fable for us. Witkin's photographs feel to me like fables. What fable would it be? Who knows? The curtain remains closed. The curtain is the fable! The fabled curtain! And there it was, the pieces of the haiku falling into place.

When I read the finished haiku I had qualms at first. Is it too simple, too mysterious? Without even asking him I was sure that the Japanese haiku poet Ban'ya Natsuishi would say "no!" So trusting his imagined judgement, there it hangs, the alchemist's fabled curtain -- waiting for the wind!