Tony Pupello
Essay #28 July/Aug 2025
“To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Perhaps strange to begin a haiku essay with these words from an often misunderstood, misquoted and tragic soul. Perhaps not in light of the fact that Nietzsche — above all else — celebrated the artistic, creative Dionysian aspect. What better words to begin with than those from a philosopher who seemed to understand, perhaps embrace, the darkness that is part and parcel of nature’s — hence our — duality? In embracing the darkness is Nietzsche nonetheless equating it — as most westerners do — with something sinister to be feared? Or is he moving us in the opposite direction, past the superficial fear of darkness towards an appreciation of the Yin and Yang of dark and light wherein one cannot exist without the other? There is a profound truth that without the dark there would be no light; without knowing darkness we can never know light. I offer the following three poems as indicative of this; from the pens of Bryce Emley, Dian Duchin Reed and Margaret Chula, respectively.
seven sisters the moment that
some things are clearer indigo turns to black
in the dark first star
not seeing it
til darkness fills the pond
the white carp
It should come as no great surprise there exists a great many shades and textures of the dark in haiku — both as it exists objectively and how/what we subjectively perceive it to be. In this essay I hope to explore a few of these shades and textures.
city street Snowflake’s fall
the darkness inside into the darkness
the snow-covered cars of the tuba
The two poems above are from Cor van den Heuvel and Garry Gay. Both of these poems treat the darkness rather objectively — it simply exists; there is no judgement as to “good” or “bad”. Both poems capture the moment the poet recognizes what is clearly in front of all of us yet rarely, if ever, written about. In van den heuvel’s piece there is darkness in the interior of a snow-covered car. Perhaps a youngster has scratched their name in the snow or taken some to make a snowball, allowing the poet enough space to see the interior. Interestingly enough, while noting the contrast between the light color of the snow and the dark of the interior — a commentary perhaps on our interior darkness viz our exterior lightness? — I also note a more subtle assonance at play — a heaviness between the snow-covered car and the heaviness of the darkness found within.
Gay’s poem strikes a similar, non-judgmental chord. In it we “find” the darkness in an unexpected place. We have the big, round bell of the tuba which emits deep, rich tones. How many of us have pondered, let alone noticed, that dark space inside it? Most delightfully, notice the singularity — Gay is not talking about snowflakes plural. He is tracking the flight of a single snowflake into the bell of the tuba. Although there is, again, the play between the light snow and the dark interior of the bell there is an added depth to the poem as it tracks that single, fragile snowflake into the big, brassy depths of the unknown.
Penny Harter’s poem, below, offers a similar view of the “is-ness” of darkness yet I detect a slight movement away from the poems above. Although there is still no judgement as regards the darkness, again it exists and nothing else, there is the introduction of a clear foreboding about what is happening in the darkness — announced and amplified by the “distant thunder”. What is this satellite moving in the dark? Who does it belong to? Most disturbing what — besides “moving” — is it doing? Is it transmitting signals of our favorite programs or allowing us connectivity with the other side of the planet? Or is there something more nefarious afoot such as tracking or spying? We plainly don’t know but I have my suspicions it tends towards the latter.
distant thunder
overhead a satellite
moves in the dark
Gary Hotham and Edward Zuk continue the journey into darkness with two poems below that, although non-judgmental per se, perceive the darkness as not welcoming; not a space which they would want to inhabit.
dark darker Roadside graveyard –
too many stars I gaze at the darkness
too far between the stars
In both of these poems there is a contrast between the dark and the supposed light-emitting essence of the stars. In both poems the dark seems to “win out” against the light. For Hotham the light is not accessible; for Zuk it is not considered. In Hotham’s piece although there are “too many stars”, they are just too far away; hence so too their light. Thus the darkness prevails. In Zuk’s piece, perhaps having just visited the graveyard or having been reminded of a death as the poet passes the graveyard, he is focused on the darkness — noting the stars but not able to really see them nor enjoy the benefit of their light.
From the non-judgmental we move into more “familiar” territory wherein the dark clearly embodies the negative. Witness the dark shades of self to be found in haiku as exhibited by Cristina Povero’s “hangetsu” and Chen-ou Liu’s “dark thoughts”.
hangetsu — dark thoughts
retracing clawing at my mind
my dark side New Year’s snow
Povero’s multi-layered piece is very interesting to say the least. “Hangetsu” can be translated as “Half Moon”. As I understand it, hangetsu is an advanced form in Shotokan karate. When performing the hangetsu kata, a hangetsu or half moon stance is employed. Kata in any martial art is a series of moves. The kata is performed/practiced over and over. Hence the “retraced”. Further, the first part of the hangetsu form consists of a series of slow, rhythmic movements concentrating a build-up of energy. This is followed by a series of very dynamic punches and kicks. Is Povero’s “dark side” evidenced in this explosion? Is this how the poet releases her dark side? There is, of course, the underlying “dark side of the moon” which is alluded to but never by name!
Liu’s poem may appear to be a bit easier to grasp. On the surface we again find a contrast between the light snow and the dark thoughts. What makes this poem very interesting to me, however, is not this contrast. It is the assonance I find between the dark thoughts and the snow — the dark thoughts are clawing, chipping away at the poet’s peace of mind bit by bit; almost in unison, the continuously falling snow is piling up — flake by flake — bit by bit.
black orchid on the country road —
I enter a darkness turning off the headlights
that is not mine to feel the darkness
In Ravi Kiran’s celebrated “black orchid”, we move from the self to the “other” – as we are enveloped in the darkness of the “other”. As disturbing or disconcerting our own darkness may prove; to be so radically affected, so drawn into the darkness of another, may prove moreso. There is such a profound heaviness to the darkness in this poem that is simply inescapable. My use of “enveloped” in the first sentence of the paragraph is very deliberate — this poem, for me, is nearly suffocating. I feel the darkness.
Is it possible to “feel” darkness? Is there a tactileness that can be ascribed to darkness? How many of us have not felt — as captured in Andrew Detheridge’s “country road” — that moment, that split second of lights out — when light turns to a darkness so profound we find ourselves lost in it, we surrender to it, we are wrapped in it. Do we not thus feel it and perhaps become a part of it?
There is a darkness to be found in places or with those we’d rather it not be, as offered by Kevin James and myself below.
darkness — his black habit
between the folded hands the Benedictine monk
of the priest sips brandy
James’ poem is a very astute observation tied with what perhaps may be social commentary. As with van den Heuvel’s and Gay’s poems above, James captures a moment we have all witnessed or experienced, yet so beneath the surface we don’t pay any attention to it. There will always be a dark space within any set of folded hands. Of course, his tying it to the folded hands of a priest takes it to another, perhaps very deft, level. Where else does the darkness found in the priest’s clasped hands reside? In his heart? In his soul?
My own offering, is not quite as piercing. On the surface it may even be seen as having a bit of a playful quality. Of course, alcohol abuse is not a topic to be toyed with. I offer it here because I believe that priests, monks, rabbis, shaman’s are all too human to begin with. Most face the same trials and tribulations we do. The double entendre of the monk’s alcohol abuse — his black habit — combined with the black habit Benedictine monks wear is, I believe, fairly effective.
Bill Kenney offers a “lighter” shade of darkness in the poem below.
winter darkness
my place at the bar
already taken
In Kenney’s poem the winter darkness is exacerbated, perhaps even caused by, the loss of his regular place at the bar. Growing up I knew first-hand the tragedy that regular bar patronage could cause. I also knew of the many positive effects it could have for those who weren’t there to drink — or drink much — those who used it as a gathering place, a club, a refuge, a sanctuary. For those a generation or two before me, the neighborhood bar, akin to European pubs, was just such a place, serving just such a function. Witness the jingle from a very popular US TV show of the 80’s: “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name”. Kenney’s darkness is not a deep, tragic darkness. The poet is lonely, misplaced. His standing seat, (no pun intended), has been usurped; most probably by someone who is not a regular, someone who definitely wouldn’t deserve a seat at this table. But there will be other nights to come.
There is a darkness found in some relationships as offered by Pamela A. Babusci and Patricia Bostian below.
his white lies turning black arguing in bed —
half your face in moonlight
half in the dark
There is a duality presented in both poems. Babusci’s white lies — slight, meaningless half-truths often told to protect someone — turn into dark, insidious lies which, whether intending to or not, clearly hurt. Perhaps this is a lover or a spouse, certainly a significant other, who has morphed from trusted partner to disloyal if not outright double-dealing wretch.
Bostian’s poem is a bit more subdued, though exactly how much so remains to the reader’s interpretation. What I very much like about this poem is its subtleness — there is no outright statement of good or bad, someone deserving of trust or not. The scene is an argument between two intimates. Half of the other’s face is bathed in moonlight; our better angel’s part. Half is cloaked in darkness; our lessor angel’s part. Just how serious is this argument? Is it a tiff, or something deeper — perhaps relationship ending? We don’t know.
There are instances in a relationship wherein the negative darkness can have very beneficial effects. It can serve to bring us together when we most need to be. In each of the poems below there is a reaching out through the darkness from one to an other. And, thankfully the other is there; the other responds. Respectively, we have poems from John Hawkhead, Claire Bugler Hewitt and Beverly Acuff Momoi.
darkling waters solar eclipse
each night we find ourselves and at the darkest point
in a foetal hug you call my name
every night of Lent
my sister’s voice
through the dark
In Hawkhead’s piece the darkness causes an actual coming together of two people, most probably a couple, finding comfort and solace through the dark night. “foetal hug” adds an interesting dimension I think. Are the darkling waters indicative of such a dangerously dark place that the couple has to bind themselves in this way? Is the comfort we find in the other so deep it brings us back to our earliest selves? Together?
At the darkest point of a solar eclipse when the sun, the prime source of light in humankind’s universe, is literally blocked from reaching us — at our collective nadir — there is a calling out in Hewitt’s piece from one to the other. I am lost, I am afraid; then, out of the darkness, your voice brings me back. In that moment the reader may experience, as I do, a complete reversal — I am brought into the light.
Comfort from the darkness may be found in a family member. The “you” in Momoi’s piece is just that — her sister. For the many who “celebrate”, Lent it is a solemn time of fasting, abstinence, prayer and meditation. It is not a happy time. Those who celebrate it are called to deeply reflect on the darkest of times in the Christian calendar. Maybe through a visit, maybe through a phone call, in the deepest darkness Momoi finds comfort and light in her sister’s voice. These dark times will pass.
I think it fitting to conclude this essay with a fairly complicated poem that references a figure almost, if not quite, as complicated as Nietzsche himself; John Hawkhead’s:
dark church
we bow down at the foot
of a Rothko
Backstory in brief: as we may know, towards the end of his life, the celebrated artist Mark Rothko was despairing. During this time he produced a series of pieces generally known as “The Dark Paintings”. Fourteen of these paintings came to housed in the Rothko Chapel — a center for spiritual contemplation, meditation and a “sanctuary” of interfaith dialogue — which Rothko himself helped design. There is an abundance of material on Rothko and the chapel for those who want to know a bit more.
There is so much going on in this unassuming piece. To begin with, Hawkhead moves us from chapel to church. A chapel can be housed in a church or in any secular space. Indeed, the Rothko Chapel is a non-denominational space. Not only is the Rothko a dark piece, but the church itself is dark. We then find the referenced “we” bowing down but, interestingly enough, they are not bowing down to a religious icon of any sort — hence not to any particular religion. They are bowing down to a Rothko. Is this a questioning of organized religion? A slight on organized religion? Or am I reading too much into it and this has no comment at all on organized religion? Is this a simple homage to a painter of note or is the poet moving beyond the confines of organized religion to the celebration of a modernist figure who in essence attempts to use the transformative power of darkness to bring light?
