Tony Pupello
Essay #17 Sept/Oct 2023
Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
- Bashō
For those of us non-Japanese speakers, this is perhaps the most famous haiku ever written, Bashō’s “old pond”.
Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)
Whether looking at Fumiko Saisho’s literal translation, above, or the translations by Jane Reichold, William Higginson and Alan Watts, respectively below, we can’t help but note that sound is the essential element in each.
old pond Old pond … The old pond,
a frog jumps into a frog jumps in A frog jumps in:
the sound of water water’s sound Plop!
In this essay we will look at how sound is used most effectively in a variety of ways by several haiku poets, evoking no less than the realization of that “aha” moment we all strive for as haiku/senryū poets — bringing us full circle back to our haiku roots, as it were, to the archetypical “splash” into the “old pond”.
We start off with this incredibly evocative piece from L.A. Davidson demonstrating, I believe, that what we hear, how we hear is not always apparent:
for the first time
hearing the sounds of winter
alone at Christmas
What are the “sounds of winter” you hear? Are they urban, such as the scrapes of snowplows scratching across a city street? Or are they more rural, such as the tinkling of pine needles brushing each other in a passing gust? Davidson completes the moment as a superior poet does by bringing us, the readers, right into the poem. The “sounds of winter” could be any of the above, in any number of settings.
I will tell you what I hear. Late December. A cold, frosty night in a rather rural setting and the wind is kicking up. For me, the sound of the wind is elemental, essential. Davidson does not mention wind, but this is what I hear. If we follow this reasoning, at first blush this might appear to be a rather sad piece; witness, the poet alone on a cherished holiday, the harsh wind reflecting her aloneness and, possibly, her feelings of melancholy. However, I choose to read this poem in a very different light. Here the poet, who is often surrounded by friends and family on this holiday, does find herself alone. But in this quiet space, the time is taken, the circumstances allow, not for sadness but for a moment of pure joy to be found in a natural setting — “the sounds of winter”. Sounds that are normally drowned out by the din of family, friends and festivities. In my “rustic” reading of the poem, these sounds might be the crackling of a fire, the sound of boots/rabbits crunching through snow or the sound of the rush of wind through winter trees. To me Davidson is relishing this moment – the moment of found joy in hearing what is normally obscured. And we are right there beside her, relishing in our own “sounds of winter”. Quite apart from being a curse, being alone turns out to be a real blessing.
There are times in haiku when there is an internal cohesion and the lines of the poem reflect and reinforce the moment. There are other times when the lines of a poem are in contrast to one another yet still heighten the moment to be found. The following poems by Elizabeth Howard, Maggie Chula and Gary Hotham are examples of this using sound in cohesive and variant situations.
deep in the forest my tears come
deep in the night then the sound
cuckoo spring rain
distant thunder —
the dog’s toenails click
against the linoleum
In Howard’s piece we are presented with a deep, dark night in the woods. The first two lines conjure a stillness, perhaps a quietness. Out of this stillness comes the cuckoo’s call which, relative to most bird calls, is deeper and more robust. Perhaps even a bit unexpected. The moment crescendos in the cuckoo’s call from the depths, resulting in a wonderful assonance and reinforcement of the gravity of the moment. The question arises though, in how we hear the cuckoo’s call. Is the call soothing, serving as an invitation to breathe easily and deeply along with this rich cry; or is there some threat implied — is it serving up a warning? Regardless of our direction, there is a fundamental cohesiveness of the sound to the rest of the poem.
In Chula’s piece we are placed in the throes of an emotional moment. The poet’s feelings well up culminating in a silent flow of tears. At one reading the flow of tears are then followed by the reflective sounds of the spring rain. Is the spring rain, usually a sign of cleansing, meant as a sign that the hurt will be “washed away”? In this reading the cleansing tears (as they are often thought to be) are in direct cohesion with the sound of the spring rain. I do believe Chula is referring to the sound of the spring rain here resulting in a wonderful assonance. I do want to point out, though, an interesting digression. In another reading could “then the sound” refer not to the sound of spring rain but to the sound of sobs that usually accompany a cry? If the second line was “then the sounds” — well it would certainly be ambiguous.
Coming to Gary Hotham’s poem, moving away from assonance, we have a fine example of dissonance culminating in the moment. At first we are confronted with the banality of the poem. There is thunder which in all probability is scaring a poor dog witless. The dog, in turn, is literally running for cover. This is not merely a narrow cause/effect piece, though. Stop, listen, this is a master at work. Move beyond the confines of cause and effect. Listen. What do you hear? I hear the awesome power of nature, God or whatever you’d like to call it. Thunder, majestic in its booming resonance. And what else? What is playing against those majestic refrains? Why, the humble, small click-click-click of nails striking a surface. Witness, the majestic against the inelegant; the expansive against the withdrawn.
There are times in haiku in which the moment is found not in the assonance, nor in the dissonance of sounds, but in the indirectness of sound.
hot afternoon
the squeak of my hands
on my daughter’s coffin
In this beautifully crafted piece, Lenard Moore displays heartfelt emotion with the indirect use of sound — and not a sound we would normally expect. In this very deft turn, Moore brings us to the depths of grief not through the sounds of sobbing nor wailing as we might expect. When confronted with a casket many will pay tribute by running their hands very lightly across the surface of the sides of the coffin. Almost akin to rubbing the roof of a car when seeing someone off on a journey. In Moore’s piece, however, this is not a light rub on the surface. The “squeak” is caused by the tremendous force, tremendous pressure of this aggrieved father. He is rubbing the no-doubt highly-polished surface so hard it results in a sound, certainly not pleasant, perhaps akin to a cry. This is not a send-off, not a goodbye, this is a “please don’t go”. The grief of loss is so eloquently captured in these three short lines.
One cannot discuss sound in haiku without touching upon a discussion of jazz found in haiku. It seems to me of all the music forms written about or referred to in haiku, jazz is the most prevalent. Whether that is a remnant of the Beat poets who, some might argue, really brought haiku into the mainstream — a remnant of their fondness for the jazz idiom — witness the pairing of Jack Kerouac with jazz legend Zoot Sims in the collaborative piece “American Haiku”; or John Cage’s minimalist, truly experimental piece “Seven Haiku” — or simply because English-language haiku poets have, by their nature a fondness for the more eclectic or avant-garde.
There are a multitude of poems to choose from dealing with jazz and haiku, I have chosen to focus only on the following two for this essay for purposes of brevity and due to the nature of the sounds they conjure up.
a magnolia leaf a love supreme
falls between us the dawn chorus
tenor sax in Coltrane
I had debated using a second piece by Lenard Moore in this essay. For two reasons. First, I did not want in any way to belittle the grief expressed in “hot afternoon”; second, as said there is an abundance of jazz related haiku out there. That said, however, as anyone familiar with Moore’s work knows, he is arguably the foremost expositor of jazz in haiku. Hard not to include his work.
In Moore’s “a magnolia leaf” we hear a whole range of sounds. This is not a maple leaf, nor an oak leaf, nor simply a “leaf”. This is a magnolia leaf, a symbol of the southern part of the United States. The magnolia leaf conjures up sounds of the “south” — whether good, bad or otherwise, way beyond the purview of this essay. The tenor sax conjures up mellifluously sweet strains of a deep, mellow nature. At first blush, there is an assonance between the magnolia leaf and the sax — as we would expect. Note the second line however. Where exactly is that leaf falling? It is falling “between us”. Is the leaf “between us” a bridge? Or is it a wedge? I hear this poem in many respects as symbolic of the African-American experience — in jazz and otherwise.
In the second poem, by Jeff Hoagland, we are treated to a delightful cacophony of sounds. John Coltrane’s album “A Love Supreme” is considered by many to be the high point, culmination, of a brilliant musical career. Expansive and free-wheeling, it imparts an exuberant happiness to even the untrained listener. This is reflected in the sounds of an expansive and free-wheeling “dawn chorus” — the burst of chatter and birdsong at the start of the day. A life-long naturalist and environmental educator, Hoagland is certainly no stranger here. On the surface this is a deftly composed piece. I cannot help but feel there is a deeper, perhaps slightly more metaphysical, level to his poem. Coltrane composed “A Love Supreme” in appreciation of “by the grace of God, a spiritual awakening”. A “dawn chorus” heralds the start, in all of “nature’s glory” of a new day.
There are times when the absence of sound — not silence, mind, but the absence of a particular sound — can be just as striking as the sound itself. The following poem by Elizabeth Searle Lamb is a fine example of this.
spring morning
the raven goes
where the wind went
Lamb gives us a bright, beautiful spring morning filled, no doubt, with birdsong — perhaps coming on the heels of the aforementioned “dawn chorus”. However, it is not the cacophony of birdsong we “hear”. There is a bold absence of sound created, if you will. Listen to the incessant, loud caws of the raven which are no longer. Coupled to this are the sounds of a rushing wind which also has left us. There is almost a void created. We “hear” the raven and the wind precisely because they are no longer with us. As a coup de grace, we are left with the lingering notion that the raven went the way of the wind. Lamb has achieved a classic haiku whose phrasing will linger long in the mind.
For the most part, in all the preceding work the sounds we have heard have been “positive” for lack of a better label. As is often the case, though, there are times when silence is called for; when sound is not a comfort nor a friend but an intrusion. In the following two poems by Carlos Colón and Chad Lee Robinson we can see this clearly.
9/11 moment of silence Wounded Knee —
the clicks trying not to speak
of a thousand cameras above the wind
In Colón’s piece we have just that: intruding on the silence, ie: grief, the reverie, are the cameras’ clicks. But this is more than intrusion is it not? I think the poet is making a deeper statement here. The 9/11 Memorial has become a tourist destination. A place not so much to remember and reflect on, a place that has become a “must-see” on an itinerary. In my reading the cameras’ clicks are not only intruding on the moment of silence itself, but intruding upon the memory of those that perished. The site of the Twin Towers is supposed to be hallowed ground. The cameras invade that sacred space.
In Robinson’s poem we have a very similar situation — instead of camera clicks intruding on a moment of silence, however, we have voices, especially raised voices. Further, interestingly enough, given the juxtaposition of the voices and the wind, this is not a situation of sound intruding on silence, but sound intruding on another sound — the sound of the wind. Good haiku stands in the concrete here and now. The what is. Very good haiku transcend this. To the Lakota Sioux the wind carries spirit. The voices, therefore, are not only intruding on hallowed ground but possibly on the spirits of those who perished as well. We find the poet straining to respect those spirits and keep his/her voice volume to a minimum.
Before concluding this essay, it is clear to me there is an abundance of material on sound in haiku yet to be looked at. Perhaps I will endeavor to expand upon the sounds of jazz in an essay fully devoted to that. In addition there is material not presented here I would enjoy looking at — the resonance and earthiness of the sounds of bells in haiku, for instance. Finally, as below, there is much good material on the sounds relating to war in haiku that bear exploration.
flag-covered coffin
the shadow of the bugler
slips into the grave
In this piece by Nick Virgilio we are graveside; filled with mourning and grief for a veteran that has died. Knowing that this piece was written at the height of the Vietnam War and that the author’s youngest brother was killed in the conflict, we can’t help but think that this poem is about a soldier being laid to rest who was killed in battle. But whether or not this is the case, there is still a poignancy that abounds. There is an absence of sound here. Taps has been blown. Now the bugle is silent, its mournful cry no more. As anyone who has experienced the sonorous Taps knows, the after-effect is one of complete emptiness. Almost as though the bugler not only blew out but sucked us in. Compounding the desolation in this case, in a very, very quiet way — is the almost unnoticed slipping into the grave of the bugler’s shadow. The bugler, the music, the musician, is metaphorically buried with the soldier. Simply a masterpiece of a haiku that is as poetic as it can get.
