Dee Evetts
Essay #15 May/June 2023
As I look back over my three previous essays published in this journal, I see can how they are weighted — by definition, and to that extent inevitably — towards all that can go awry in a long-term relationship. I have along the way managed to provide a few glimpses of harmony, but these have generally had a price-tag attached to them, in the form of collusion or silence or self-effacement.
Accordingly I have decided to conclude this series (for the present, that is) with what amounts to a celebration of loving union — a closeness that is overtly physically in some of these poems, as well as in a deeper sense as we contemplate them further. To create a context for this we need to rewind our notional timeline, all the way back from post-separation experiences (new liaisons, shared custody and parenting, extended families and separate holidays — all that fascinating stuff that we have been examining) to a period somewhere in the middle or early years of an established relationship.
When I was considering a title for this essay, the all too familiar expression “conjugal bliss” came to mind, and rather insistently at that. I rejected it for the very reason that it has become a cliché, and as such conveys really nothing at all. It belies the truth that no two relationships are the same, no two follow the same path. It glosses over the reality that nothing is a given, and that real closeness demands work. Or to put it less dauntingly, requires tending. Certainly that leaves as common ground the fact that sex can cement love; erotic love clearly, and more subtly the other forms which ideally will be woven into that. English is somewhat deficient in terms of a vocabulary for all of this, but the ancient Greeks can help us out here (as with so much else). Some two and a half thousand years ago they identified seven types of human love — categories that hold up well in any discussion on this topic today. I cannot claim any deep understanding of these distinctions, having only in recent years been reintroduced to them. (I do recall them from my schooldays, but they gained no traction then upon my young consciousness.) For our present purpose I want to focus on the four types of love that seem to be in play here. These can be briefly summarized as:
Eros: passionate sexual love
Philia: intimate, authentic friendship
Ludus: playful, flirtatious love
Pragma: committed, companionate love
Without attempting to go further into underlying theory (which in any case I am poorly qualified to do) my impulse is to seek out strong haiku that seem to embody, to a greater or lesser extent, those distinct qualities. I do not necessarily mean explicitly, but implicitly for sure — in their manner of presentation, as well as their tone or spirit.
This leaves a clarification to be made, and then a caveat. The matter to be clarified is that my use of the word “conjugal” in the title of this essay should not be taken to mean I believe marriage — formalized or not — is a prerequisite for this kind of bond. (Just to get that out of the way.) And the caveat? It is this. There is another popular cliché, this one from the world of media, to the effect that “good news doesn’t sell newspapers”. That principle could plausibly be extended to the world of haiku. All in all, it appears to me that more inspiration is derived from troubled relationships than from functional ones, and the poems that result are more likely to gain attention. I cannot substantiate that, but I am putting it out there for consideration.
I am more confident in stating that there is a question of mind-set here, from the reader’s point of view. The haiku that follow are of the kind that will repay staying with a bit longer than may be our habit. Only a boor or a complete novice makes love in a hurry, and equally as readers we should slow down in order to appreciate poems that are about making love. They are also pieces that — more than most — will repay revisiting. They have a quietness that bids us pay attention, to linger awhile. They invite us to empathize. Hoping to reinforce this mind-set, I have chosen as a preface this anonymous tanka from the Kokinshū imperial anthology, compiled in the year 905:
Grass of Kasuga Moor
Do not burn it, this one day;
My wife, tender as young leaves,
And I lie there together.
It is hard to imagine a more ineffable declaration of love, expressed (in this particular translation) in four short lines. I welcome the fact that we do not know who wrote it; somehow this renders it more available to all, and for all time.
To the haiku, then. And to get us started here are the voices of André Surridge and Susan Burch:
curve of the bay washed jeans
her hand in his his love note
back pocket still dirty
Both poets manipulate the reader skillfully, using misdirection and double entendre respectively. The tone of the poems is nonetheless muted, and they arguably have a domestic flavor. There is nothing to indicate categorically that either of these couples is married, or even that they are together in a lasting relationship. Either scenario could be imagined as taking place during a courtship, or indeed an affair (though scarcely a casual one). Nonetheless I find that they have the feel of long-term commitment. And that is any reader’s privilege, given no evidence to the contrary.
deep summer grass undressing for love:
how gently he removes the click of our spectacles
her glasses folded together
The tenderness of Roberta Beary’s haiku is palpable. (My imagination cannot but flit back to the sublime Kasuga Moor poem cited above.) There is often a kind of vulnerability apparent in a face that is routinely seen with glasses at the moment when these are removed. An eye-conversation is going on here, I imagine. The “gently” conveys that he has her assent, that they have a previous understanding, even that this is very familiar to them. This may be their special and private spot, where tall grasses screen them from view.
Brian Tasker is the author of the second haiku above. Which might be read — though this is not necessary — as depicting an older couple, in the bedroom they have shared for many years. They too have their intimate routines, with the removing of their spectacles a familiar prelude to lovemaking. Specific sounds are relatively rare in haiku, and I find that the “click” here serves to enhance the feeling of total absorption, as well as quiet anticipation.
Still indoors — very much so, and for good reason — the following two poems celebrate the act of sex itself, the penetration and the envelopment, with both poets using the warmth of the human body — of the other’s body — to express their intimacy and delight. Without warmth we will die, and this of course is true in more than just the obvious sense. The first of these was written by Tony Pupello, the second by Karma Young. I was fortunate to come across two such accounts of erotic union that just happen to have reciprocal but unique perspectives.
raging blizzard this winter night
the warmth inside you inside
the warmth inside you all of my curves
Something that strikes me about both these poems is that they are very private. This may seem an odd thing to say, given that the poets are describing their coitus right there on the page. What I mean is this: we are invited not so much to look, to be voyeurs, as to search our own experience and imagination for anything comparable. In a very particular sense they are inspiring.
There is no following these two haiku with anything other than a total shift of mood and circumstance. Here we are then; the weather is calm, and the skies crystal clear.
shooting star someone’s chin
the span of her hand on someone’s shoulder
across my chest summer stars
These are both very simple statements that make it easy to visualize what is happening. In the first poem, by Chad Lee Robinson, there is only the question of whether she is standing behind him, or they are face to face. Regardless, they are looking skyward, and he can feel how her hand is spread against his body. In a gesture of awe perhaps — or surrender? We make of it what we will. Some readers may connect the span of her hand with the arc of the meteor, and that will be a bonus. In the second poem Marcus Larsson uses more objective means for setting his scene, thereby offering readers the possibility of identifying with either figure in this vignette. It is almost as if the poet extends an invitation to all who encounter the poem: step up and put your chin here, you too can see the stars. I am being a little frivolous maybe, but in no way facetious. Few haiku are as generous as this one, inviting all and sundry into the poet’s private experience.
We are indoors again, and now the mood is one of surfeit and fruition:
after making love — I reach around
the slow click to cradle her belly …
of her knitting needles evening snowfall
The picture conjured by Michael Meyerhofer in the first of these haiku could hardly be more domestic, yet at the same time manages to be deeply erotic. It is as if the subject had settled into a post-coital trance of replete contentment. We could speculate that she is already pregnant, and that a small garment is being knitted in readiness for the infant. The poet is outside the picture for the moment, but witnessing and recording what he sees. In the second poem Joshua Gage evokes a pregnancy that is actual, and apparently quite far advanced. Are the couple in bed, or on a sofa? Regardless, the writer seems to be offering his partner some temporary relief from the weight of their child. And if not that, then simply enjoying a threesome embrace that presages the future.
Seeking an envoi suitable for closing this essay, I have chosen the poem below. It is one that I have had occasion to remark upon previously, when writing for the inaugural issue of tsuri-dōrō a few years back. The author is Nanneke Huizenga of the Netherlands.
A man and a woman
each sheet they fold
brings them together.
I have to call upon the vocabulary of our venerated Greek mentors to do justice to this poem. For it represents a rare amalgam of Pragma, Philia, and Eros (the sheets being all the hint we need). I detect also more than a touch of Ludus, for I see the couple making a game of this everyday chore. Their eyes are solemn but lively as they repeatedly approach one other; I think they are flirting. And even if they are not, this poem would still have my vote for the imperial anthology — were another to be compiled today.
A final thought derives from all of the foregoing. Let me frame it as a speculation. Is it possible that the greater number of distinct types of love a relationship encompasses, the more likely it is to endure over time, and the more people it is likely to affect?
