Dee Evetts
Essay #12 Nov/Dec 2022
There is first of all a question of presentation that I want to address. It applies not only to this essay but equally to those that have preceded it, and those still to come in this series (on human relationships, specifically within marriage or any comparable union) as reflected by haiku poets. It has become evident to me that the very order in which the poems are offered for consideration — as well as the way in which they are grouped — can be taken as presuming an inevitable or predictable arc of experience. This can be misleading on several counts, not least in that it implies the commentator has some special insight regarding this, which is clearly not the case. It also suggests that such a natural template exists, and in my opinion that also is not the case. What does exist is an infinite number of individual experiences, from among which any given haiku can offer but a single glimpse, from within a singular relationship. We can generalize, certainly, and observe that once a partnership has gone seriously awry, it will tend to disintegrate further — unless it simply stagnates. But a relationship can also regenerate, albeit slowly and generally not without pain. It can also evolve, adapt, and be renewed, sometimes taking new form as a significant and lifelong friendship. (I would welcome seeing more haiku in print that celebrate this particular potential.)
At this point it may be timely to remind ourselves as readers that a haiku is not necessarily autobiographical. That is to say, the persona in the poem is not to be regarded as identical with the poet. This should hardly need repeating, yet it may be helpful to do so from time to time. As for any writer in any genre, alongside personal experience there may also be empathy, close observation, and imagination in play. I would assert that for the haiku poet in general — and for the senryū poet in particular — the true calling is not in the direction of, “Look at me”, but, “Look at humanity”. Meanwhile as readers I conceive our role to be not one of determining the poet’s intention (which may well be inscrutable) so much as asking ourselves, “Does this touch me and, if so, why? And how?”
It is on this basis that I have chosen the poems that follow. Certainly a loose kind of chronology, and also some grouping by theme, will be apparent. This is partly as an aid to organized thought, and also for the sake of enhanced interest — one hopes — generated by juxtaposition and contrast. We need to keep in mind nonetheless that any implied continuity is essentially fictional, and that in truth it is elements from various sources that have conspired to produce a kind of composite story. I see this as a variant of the so-called narrative fallacy. (Though this is a term I would prefer to avoid, being no fan of academic jargon.)
As a starting point for today, let us look at the following haiku by Penny S. Visser. I came across this only during the past few weeks, and would certainly otherwise have included it in my previous essay.
paper swan
folding myself into
your idea of me
As it turns out, this provides a useful backward glance at how the experience of conforming oneself to a partner’s vision or version of us — or conversely, making that demand of the other — can indicate a relationship that is already headed for trouble. I admire in this particular haiku the origami reference, providing as it does a plausible context and at the same time a striking image with which to anchor the poet’s perceptions.
I suppose that what we commonly call infidelity — based on a consensus still widely though not universally accepted — would generally be thought of as the seedier side of marital breakdown. (For present purposes this is leaving aside any form of abuse, which we have discussed at some length previously.) I fail to comprehend why this should be so; that is to say, I have never understood why straying from that very narrow path necessarily carries more odium than, let’s say, being unsupportive of a partner’s aspirations. I would argue that there are degrees of transgression; there is temporary or occasional straying, and at the other extreme there is outright womanizing. (I would use a gender-neutral term if one existed; that there does not could be viewed as significant.) And then there is everything in between those extremes. At worst, in my view, the behavior does in fact amount to abuse, not least because it is liable to undermine both self-esteem and self-respect. With the three haiku that follow, in each case things appear to have entered that territory. These are by Christine L. Villa, Ferris Gilli, and Anna Maris respectively:
car wash his easy lie
it doesn’t change another pecan pings
where you were last night off the tin roof
roses another way of saying horse shit
I hear a bitterness of tone in the first two of these, and outright rage in the third. Villa’s “car wash” is I think suggesting that no amount of ostensibly good behavior is going to make any difference here, while Gilli’s poem borders on the sardonic: a “so what’s new?” reaction strongly suggesting that the subject will not be living under this particular roof for much longer. (I enjoy the strong sense of location in this haiku: the American South surely?) And as an afterthought, it strikes me that the monoku achieves extra compression by virtue of the fact that roses do famously thrive on horse manure.
By contrast with the above, here is a poem by Chen-ou Liu that is infinitely more ambivalent.
office party
my female boss’s coat
on top of mine
How are we to interpret this? There are so many options. For readers inclined towards intrigue (and I do mean the idea of intrigue, naturally) there is the scenario wherein a message is routinely passed between these two — who are already clandestine lovers — that conveys, “Meet me afterwards at my place/your place”. (Depending whose coat is on top?) Obviously this is pure conjecture. Both of the coat-owners may in fact be single, which would rule out the issue of fidelity and simplify things to a question of what may be deemed appropriate in the workplace. Alternatively this may be purely a fantasy on the part of the narrator: the sight of his attractive boss’s coat on top of his own turns him on, or at least gives him ideas, and cause to speculate whether she is being suggestive. Or: he realizes that it must be accidental, and yet still it gives him a weird feeling, since he has never thought of her sensually before now. I shall close this paragraph out — probably none too soon — with the additional thought that the boss lady may prefer to be on top in any circumstance. Why did I select this poem in the first place? Because of how it packs so much into one simple picture. And also because it made me smile.
Would it be too flippant to ask how it can be that the amount of talk — the sheer quantity of verbal exchange — that a waning relationship can generate is rivalled only by the well of silence that surrounds it? (Be that silence hostile, indifferent, or simply a matter of endurance.) There is an apparent oxymoron here, but I think it is easily resolved. The Talk and the Silences are almost all that is left. Gone are the wordless glances, the shared joke, the animation of a lively and equal discussion, the supportiveness of good listening.
saying what I mean crosswalk counting down
the wind sock she presses me
changes angle for an answer
railway station:
the parallel tracks
of our argument
hoarfrost heatwave
he answers a question waiting for him to tell me
I didn’t ask what I already know
I wonder if there is something about tentative speech and difficult exchanges that leads us to focus on some external object to serve as a kind of prop or emblem for our mental predicament. (Notice how carefully I am skirting around the term projection.) In the first of these poems, by Polona Oblak, the speaker seems to be staring intently at a distant wind cone — are we at a rural airport? — while waiting apprehensively for a companion’s response. Jeff Stillman’s “crosswalk” transmits a sense of urgency — desperation even — about extracting a reply before the crossing light ticks down to zero. In “railway station” Philip Ashburner gives us little more than a metaphor, but the correlation is impeccable. There is strictly speaking nothing rational about any of the above, yet we can identify all too easily.
Putting “hoarfrost” and “heatwave” (written by Harriot West and Roberta Beary respectively) side by side we can see a certain symmetry that is interesting in more ways than one. Both poems illustrate the kind of elaborate dance of evasion and anticipation that such situations can engender. It happens also that both poets have chosen to start with what looks like a fairly standard reference to the seasons. At first look these might look like simply a nod to tradition. However, in each case I find that a larger purpose is served. This is particularly true of the second poem, where the word “heatwave” will for many readers evoke the claustrophobic experience of waiting out a particularly oppressive spell of weather.
For some, couples counseling can offer a path to restarting genuine dialogue. (It didn’t work for me — though closer to the truth is that I didn’t work for it.)
bare trees yanking up thistle
the counsellor waits the confession
for one of us to start I regret
what kind of compromise? the oscillating fan
Marcus Larsson’s opening line “bare trees” provides a visual focus for the stubborn silence that prevails. In their unwillingness to break it, the pair will look anywhere but at each other, and we can imagine that they are avoiding the counselor’s gaze as well. Once the conversation eventually begins, one or other party may come out with something — whether in counseling or outside of it — that they will quickly regret having revealed. In Nora Wood’s poem, has a bargaining point been conceded through some unintended or unguarded admission? Things may have come down to that. In any case the feelings of frustration and self-reproach in this poem are palpable, finding their expression in the violent tearing up of weeds.
The monoku authored by Eve Lucking is intriguing to say the least. We have a fragment of conversation, with a question left hanging. And then there is the fan, which may or may not convey vacillation; for myself it certainly implies waiting, and probably a lengthy pause. I was led to speculate how this might work as a two-liner: “what kind of compromise?/the oscillating fan”. My feeling is that the poem thereby loses most of its energy. Presented as monoku it comes across as an entity, and as such it transports me as the reader into the middle of that room.
talk of divorce — talking divorce
she leaves the map he pours his coffee
open on her desk then mine
morning rain first warm day
we talk about she asks me if I still
other options want a divorce
These four are by Pamela Miller Ness, Roberta Beary, Angela Terry, and Collin Barker. In the first two poems it is apparent that things are getting mean; defiant gestures are being made, and common courtesies going by the board. Meanwhile exhaustion sets in, and last-ditch ideas are floated. There is still time for second thoughts, and even an upturn in the weather can prompt hesitation. (This is what I mean by the narrative fallacy. It is fun, it is creative, and at worst it is a distraction from the original work.)
Presuming a shared life that has been largely imbued with caring and kindness, its conclusion can hardly be devoid of conflicted feelings. I find that both Adjei Agyei-Baah and Don Erlich have captured this finely in their different ways:
in her sleep last days together
the smile she keeps she sings softly
denying me in the bathroom
Life is moving on, though not without moments of poignance and regret.
