Tony Pupello
Essay #8 March/April 2022
When examining the plight of poverty in haiku and senryū, we are forced to take a look at, forced to confront, the “other”. And we are put in positions that are sometimes very uncomfortable for us. As many fine haiku are capable of doing for us, we are often made to realize, in that moment, that the other is not so different from us and, in some cases, we are the other.
autumn mist
in the beggar’s hand —
his empty stare
In this poignant poem by Terry O’Connor, we are confronted with a situation of dire poverty. Not only is this individual reduced to begging but many times the act of begging produces little or no results. The stated “empty stare” – the crux of the poem – I am sure is matched by an “empty hand” as well. The only thing filling the beggar’s hand is the cold sting left by the autumn mist. We can almost see the beggar cupping, as it were, the emptiness within. And, to be clear, this autumn mist is not a burst of springtime spray nor a refreshing summer sunshower. The days are growing shorter, the temperatures are dropping and a coating of moisture is not good for one who can’t escape the cold, as we may assume is the case here. Of course, even if we believe this is a benign mist, welcomed even, we cannot escape once again the beggar’s “empty stare”. This is an other who has hit rock bottom.
In the following piece by Jeffrey Rabkin, a sense of stark hopelessness is replaced by a sense of incredulity. It is bad enough that one is forced to beg, but what happens when the act itself is questioned?
rain turning to snow
a beggar in the subway
that no one believes
Has the everyday been so overrun by beggars that people have tuned them out? Is the economy so bad that the act of begging itself is questioned? There is an active state of disbelief here. The beggar is not being ignored, which would be bad enough as it is in most cases; she or he is simply not being believed. “I am pleading for a handout” is rebutted by “you are a fraud”. I acknowledge your presence, but I refuse to believe your premise. In some way I have to hope the beggar is a fraud, perhaps having been spotted in a not-needy light by some of these straphangers after their ride is over, the oft-used theatrical example being the blind beggar who is seen taking off his dark glasses and walking away without need of a cane. Unfortunately, I have witnessed this in real life myself! At least then the disbelief is merited. Else a really sad state has resulted, one in which we have become overwhelmed, and inured to the plight of those much less fortunate than ourselves.
I have read and re-read the following poem since it was submitted to, and published in, the pages of “tsuri-dōrō”. Vicki Miko, by her own estimation, is not an experienced haiku poet. And yet in no uncertain terms I find this poem and its layers to be extremely complex and wonderful in their exposition of the other. On the surface there is a lightness to the poem. Perhaps we can actually chuckle at it. Beneath the surface, in my reading, there is an undeniable resonance cutting across many streams.
city fountain
the ragged man
steals a wish
The scene of course is very simple: a public fountain or wishing well into which we toss our coins in hopes of being granted a wish. It matters not where the traditions began, whether tossing coins in temple wells in Japan, or tossing coins in Roman or Celtic wells in the west. Wherever their beginnings, it is thought the wishing well originated as a way to attain good health, as water was seen as the source of life in many traditions. The bottom line is that the near-universal tradition of the wishing well is one of currying favor with unseen powers greater than ourselves – be they gods, faeries, or whatever.
Enter the “ragged man”, the other who is down on his luck. Although many city fountains are simply not that deep and the coins tossed into them would be clearly visible – easy pickings as it were – there is a hesitancy, poignancy and a felt depth to this poem. By stealing the coins the ragged man is consciously choosing to cross a line – or he has no choice. It is not simply a matter of taking coins from a public fountain (which by definition would belong to all – bringing yet another layer of discussion and complexity) but that there is something inherently wrong with the act, and he knows it.
We all have heard and perhaps sympathized with the man or woman who was arrested for shoplifting groceries to feed their families. In hard economic times this happens more often than we would like to believe. Stealing material goods is a crime but perhaps an understandable one. In this piece the ragged man is not simply stealing material goods but, as Miko relates, he is stealing a wish and, probably, many wishes. In our eyes, which is the greater transgression? Perhaps we can forgive the theft of a loaf of bread, but how dare someone reach in and steal our dreams? Is this a forgivable act?
In the following two poems by Pat Davis and Peggy Hale Bilbro, respectively, we are confronted with the other as child.
lifting an empty cup Christmas package
to his lips … from the cousins
someone’s child hand-me-down shoes
In Davis’ piece, of course, the subject is not a child – which is precisely the point. We are reminded this is “someone’s child” – perhaps a vagrant that has lost their way. One of my favorite priests, unfortunately no longer with us, pointed out to me many years ago that everyone is a child in God’s eyes (if you believe in God, or a God) but, more to the point, everyone is someone’s child. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s son. Everyone was born to parents or at least begotten by parents. Perhaps they are even a mother or father themselves. “Someone’s child”, quite simply, is us.
In Bilbro’s piece, we come face-to-face with several complex layers of poverty with regard to the child. First and foremost we are confronted by Christmas. Christmas, I think most would agree, has lost much of the religiosity it once held except for the faithful. It has become a commercial, generic affair typified by the almost-universal Santa Claus figure. And yet, both for the secular and the true believers, it carries a multitude of feelings and sentiments exemplified by generosity, giving and the like. Getting a Christmas package, getting a Christmas gift, is the hallmark of the season. It should be a happy event. And yet for many – certainly for those who have received “hand-me-downs” – it is anything but. It is a reminder of a painful existence made all the more painful at this supposedly joyous time of the year. As clinicians have attested, often the most severe depressions are experienced at significant holidays.
To add to the misery and the layers of complexity, when the “charity” comes from one’s own family – this heightens all sense of shame and unhappiness. Psychologists tell us that the trauma caused by those closest to us is usually the greatest – whether intended or not. Clearly, we would hope that causing shame, pain and humiliation was not why the more fortunate cousins sent the shoes.
Having moved our discussion to charity, I present the following two poems by Susan Constable and Curtis Dunlap respectively. At first blush, this may not appear to be charity as we have come to know and define it.
cold moon … Labor Day —
a man and his blanket scraping mold off
on the back pew government cheese
In “cold moon” we find one of the simplest, purest forms of charity – the act of giving shelter to one in need. A perhaps unsettling question: is this the pew I sit in and attend weekly mass/service in? If we go beyond this, we see this as an institutional response to homelessness, at least during the very cold winter months. Drawing on my favorite priest again, I once commented on how much I really loved each of the four seasons in their own time in New York, enjoying the frigid winter months (the time of year in which we were having this conversation), as much as the beach weather of deep summer. He reminded me of the homeless in the deep winter and the extent of their suffering in the cold. I truly believe he did not do this to engender guilt.
In this poem the house of worship has invited in, has sheltered, one in need. This unfortunate finds at least a safe place to bed down for the night, albeit on a hard and cold bench. Regrettably, the simple act of a church or any house of worship leaving their doors open is no longer the norm at all in any part of New York City. Most houses of worship, for reasons of security, are locked up tight when congregants are not on-site – even in broad daylight.
In “Labor Day” we find an institutional charity of a different sort – what theorists such as Wendy Brown have likened to a “patriarchy of the state”. The “government cheese” referred to was in the shape of bricks of cheese given out to poor families during the Reagan years in the early 1980’s, although I would strongly assert that this practice began earlier, during the LBJ years, along with 5 or 10 pound cans of peanut butter. Whether the cheese was distributed as an act of charity, or was an attempt to subsidize dairy farmers (clearly it was both – it is the relative preponderance that is in question), I leave to the reader. Of course, the notion of government subsidy itself may be construed by some as yet another form of charity – but that is well beyond our scope here. There is absolutely no doubting, however, that this cheese was a real lifeline for many, providing sustenance in a time of need.
It is Labor Day, a day set aside for the celebration of workers. I have to believe that the unfortunate other in this piece is a worker who has fallen on hard times. She or he had to resort to a government hand-out in the form of cheese to get by. To add insult to injury, although the cheese was supposed to have – and did have – a particularly long shelf life, as it aged it was prone to mold. Here we have a double irony: the irony or injustice or having to correct a charitable offering as it were by scraping mold off of the gift – adding to the indignity of having to use the worker’s labor to do so! I would suggest that for the poor, a number of supposedly charitable acts have to be rectified by “scraping mold” off from somewhere.
Which brings us to our final two poems by Eva Limbach and Laurie Greer respectively. The active agents in these pieces are not those in need, but those capable of giving. They are not the recipients of the charity but the givers of it.
charity gala — thanksgiving volunteers
the optimal temperature feeding the homeless
to serve champagne once a year
Limbach’s piece highlights a scene familiar to many New Yorkers who have passed the New York Public Library (yes, that library!) or the famous restaurant that was a former bank on East 42nd Street – when attendees are leaving a gala event in the late hours of the night. The “swells”, to use a very apt parlance from another age, are dressed in gowns and tuxedos, (“decked out” if you will), sporting furs in the colder months, and are escorted to their waiting limousines. The gala is on behalf of this or that needy cause. No doubt huge sums of money are raised at these events which do positively impact needed services. Yet, of course, who can deny the actuality of the moment? The pressing issue is the “optimal temperature” to serve the guests champagne; the crux of the poem is the juxtaposition between a charitable event and its affective display. At its most fundamental, it is the juxtaposition between “charity” and “gala”. I believe the purest acts of charity are those in which the giver is anonymous. In this way asymmetrical power relations are avoided and feelings of shame on the part of the recipients are minimized. While not wishing to be overly puritanical about this, I do believe that an ostentatious display of giving is in very bad form.
The astute reader will note that in the above paragraph I mentioned “many New Yorkers” while clearly placing myself among them. The active agents in this poem are the gala attendees. The “other”, as it were, would be the invisible recipients of this charity. This begs the question, to the truly needy – from their perspective – are not we the active agents here as well? After all, wealth is a matter of perspective.
Closer to home, although many of us may not have actually attended a gala function, I believe most have taken part in a direct service effort for the needy, be it volunteering overnight at a winter shelter, a clothing pantry, a vocational training center or the like. Many have probably even served food to the less fortunate at a soup kitchen. Greer’s poem is therefore very familiar to us. The act of feeding or serving someone in need can be most gratifying. Clearly, there is a criticism inherent in the poem. Greer is criticizing not the act itself, but the frequency (or lack thereof) of the act: “once a year”. Although not an ostentatious gratification as in Limbach’s piece, is the “once-a-year-ness” not indicative of the act being more important to ourselves than to the recipients?
Finally, consider the experience of the “other”, if you will – those being served the meal in this piece. Although they are receiving a Thanksgiving meal, given their circumstances they no doubt line up for meals at least a few times every week. Imagine their feelings – on a significant day most often categorized as the quintessential family holiday – of being served by people they do not know, people they have never seen before and, in all probability, will never see again.
