Tony Pupello
Essay #22 July/Aug 2024
When I encounter haiku that don’t quite work, written by beginner poets, it seems there is very often a stumbling block they have in common: the desire and the attempt to tell a story. It is not enough to try and capture the all-too elusive “aha!” moment that we all strive for. They get caught up in trying to set the stage, in attempting to provide the background to the moment. This is not to say that any such attempt is futile. As the poems below amply demonstrate, though the moment of insight remains paramount this does not preclude a hint of the underlying narrative — a glance into the history and circumstances behind the closely observed event. When successful, the author manages to convey the unique moment while at the same time suggesting a narrative that lies behind it. This requires a delicate (and very likely experienced) touch. Just to be clear, I am not suggesting that a quality poem has to have a back-story of any sort. I am merely pointing out that there are quality poems that do achieve this dual aspect.
We begin with two poems dealing with the very young. Two different moments are realized and two very different stories unfold in the poems below by Tom Clausen and Agnes Eva Savich respectively.
nursery school custody
to begin a breeze where my son’s
with holding hands hug was
In Clausen’s poem we revel in a moment, perhaps even a reverence, of pure innocence and joy. Who doesn’t feel this when a group of nursery-schoolers pass by? What a beautiful moment and yet the start of the most incredible story — the start of a life-journey! Toddlers are taught from the very beginning: “Hold hands”. Until very recently toddlers holding hands was the start of the socialization process. A “getting-to-know” an other, developing communication and trust. Of course these days, holding hands is also extremely important for safety reasons, especially to keep a safe and orderly process when traveling. We are taught to hold our partners, watch out for our buddies, etc. As we watch the nursery-schoolers there are infinite stories that may unfold for us.
In Savich’s piece we are confronted by, struggle with, a moment fraught with tension and loss. The absence of a child has to be the most painful feeling any parent has to grapple with, short of an actual physical loss. The son in question has been the object of a custody spat if not downright battle. What are the stories here? Why did the parents split up? Why did it come to a custody arrangement? Is this a shared custody? From the tone of the poem, I think it may not be a shared arrangement and the parent is clearly lamenting the displacement of the child. The author is feeling the tactile loss of the child. Note the delicacy of this piece: the central object of the poem is the breeze which is normally a consoling, comforting occurrence. Is it not? Yet in this poem the child is displaced by the breeze; the breeze is not a kindness.
We continue with another poem about a child, one not necessarily very young, by Charlie Trumbull.
alone
with my cheerios
and another missing child
The author has sat down to breakfast. Cheerios. A good healthy way to start the day. Although the author is alone, he is sustained and buoyed by this perhaps favorite cereal. Cheerios, could there be a happier name for a cereal? Not so bad being alone, perhaps he even rather enjoys it. However, he is not alone, is he? The moment has struck. There, in front of him as he goes to pour milk in the bowl, is a picture of “another missing child”. This is certainly not a happy way to start the day. The author realizes he in fact is alone — alone with this sadness and sense of loss — even if the child is not his own. Simply, a lousy moment that punches one in the gut. So we have the moment, what of the narrative? Another missing child. Not the first, not the last. What has happened to this missing child in front of him? Did that child come from a dysfunctional family and so ran away? Was the child abducted? If so, by whom? He looks at the date the child went missing and sees that it was a few years ago. What does the child look like now? Where is the child now? What are they doing?
The following poem by Fay Aoyagi is, I believe, a deeply personal piece.
my shadow
in the lost and found
Pearl Harbor Day
The author is checking the lost and found at a venue — could be a concert hall or an amusement park — by the third line we know full-well it is not. Unlike the poems we have looked at so far, this poem does not start off in the light; whatever the venue, a shadow is being cast over a lost and found box. Not necessarily a dark portent, we soon discover it is indeed. In my reading the moment to be found in this poem is the moment the author comes to the realization that in the lost and found box is her shadow. It is not only cast over it, but is actually in it — a part of the lost and found. The author, who seems very likely to be Japanese or of Japanese descent, is searching through the lost and found of what we can assume is a museum or memorial site where Pearl Harbor Day is commemorated.
We have the moment. What now is the narrative resonance that follows? A masterpiece on so many levels, not least of which is found in the psychological realm, there are stories within stories that could be spun. What is the author’s shadow made of? Is it a reflection of the country of her birth? Or of her adopted country? Has the author reconciled the past with the present, or is there a shadow — her shadow — still hanging over it. An entire essay, perhaps even of an academic bent, could be devoted to this one piece. I think I shall let it rest here.
In the next piece by Annie Bachini, the commonplace quickly becomes something very alien and unfamiliar. It would not be too over-hyped, I think, to categorize this poem as Hitchcockian.
on the bus
snagged by something
her hijab tightens
Reading the first two lines, we encounter a very ordinary, regular occurrence, on a bus. (It could be any public conveyance such as a train). A tote bag or backpack strap has become caught on the seat or a pole. But then comes the third line: it is not a bag or a pack — it is someone’s hijab. This could be, very likely is, a moment of terror for the wearer of the hijab and, by extension, for us. Opening up a world of possibilities, this seemingly light poem has become heavy indeed. As “her hijab tightens” we can feel her chest tightening — as well as our own. Now the narrative resonance kicks in. Is this a simple occurrence or something much more sinister? Is the snag an accident, or has someone reached out and tugged on the hijab? Unfortunately in today’s highly polarized world, as most of us are well aware, this is an all-too likely possibility. And if it is a purposeful act, what is the wearer’s response? This story could unfold in multiple scenarios.
The following two poems, by Gary Hotham and Joseph Robello respectively, deal with military men and women. Haiku about soldiers are often fraught with stories told — and stories hidden.
knowns war story
among the unknowns our tattoos
Gettysburg fading
In Hotham’s piece we are presented with Gettysburg, site of the Civil War’s bloodiest and costliest battle — which houses a cemetery. This is no ordinary cemetery. We come to the realization that he and we are standing, literally, in a national military cemetery dedicated to military members killed in action. We are surrounded by graves of men and women who died in combat. The gravity of being in the midst of this is overwhelming. Compounding this realization comes the realization that although most of the graves contain the “knowns” — those who were identified and whose headstones bear their identities they — therefore we — are also surrounded by the “unknowns”. It is a deeply stunning moment, to say the least. The average Union soldier’s age was about 26 years. Many of those who died and are buried here would certainly have had the beginnings of their own families. Where did these men and women come from? Were they mourned by those left behind? Did their spouses realize when they left to serve it would be the last time they would be seen?
In Robello’s poem, interestingly enough, we do not start with the moment — we start with the narrative. “War story” — is this a good story or a bad story, a story of valor, honor and heroism or a story of grief, despair and depravity? Actually, by invoking “story” it really doesn’t matter. It could be any of these. Any member of the military, male or female, who has served in combat will have a host of stories — whether or not they want to share them. What is most interesting about this poem is that with the passage of time the tattoos are fading. This is the moment of the poem. The author has reached a certain age where these symbols of youth and vigor have aged as well. They no longer stand out as they once may have. Now we double-back. What is the author suggesting here? Is he suggesting that the story as well is fading, if not disappearing then perhaps shifting in the cloud of time? Is the story getting lighter with the passage of time? Or, more probably, is it growing heavier?
I will end this essay with a quiet, fairly non-descript piece from Jim Kacian. Unassuming on the surface, perhaps even banal, there are strong currents running beneath.
waiting room —
slipping the renewal card
from a magazine
One might imagine a hospital waiting room. Waiting for test results? Waiting to be called in? Waiting for a loved one visiting a physician? Waiting for someone to come out of surgery? Well, we simply don’t know. This proves to be a prime example of narrative resonance. Where in this is the moment? That aha! moment I have described as elusive and a stumbling block for novices and veterans as well? “slipping the renewal card …” No matter what the story, this is a moment of hope. The author intends to be around to enjoy the next issue of the magazine, and probably a few after that. And so, with hope, will we.
