Tony Pupello
Essay #31 Jan/Feb 2026
“The first thing I shall do, as soon as the money arrives, is to buy some Greek authors; and after that I shall buy clothes.”
– Desiderius Erasmus
This is the original, more accurate translation from the Latin of one of my all-time favorite quotes attributed to Erasmus: “When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.” Beyond question, both capture my relationship with the written word, as I am sure they do for many of us. I do believe the sentiment that immaterial sustenance — spiritual, transcendent, intellectual — far outweighs the need for material sustenance. What follows is a brief survey of haiku/senryū written about the experience of writing and reading haiku.
safe for a while
around the haiku poets
the fly
I think a very fitting place to begin is with this poem from Mykel Board. As with most of Board’s work, this poem initially draws a broad smile. At least it does from me. Poets, women and men of the word. Possibly too passive to even think of swatting a fly. Little fly, you are safe here, among these cerebral creatures. They will not harm you. Perhaps, though, this is not exactly the case. Indeed, although some of the poets in the circle may be imbued with the Buddhist teaching of non-harm to sentient creatures, I think there may be something more going on here. Could it be that these warriors of the word — is the pen is mightier than the sword? — simply have more pressing concerns to deal with then swatting a fly? What do we haiku poets do in our writing sessions? Why, we perseverate — over words, most often a single word; over line sequence; and over the ever-important “dash” or “no-dash” closely followed by the equally important “ellipsis” or “no-ellipsis.” We are so focused, so embroiled, there is enough buzzing going on in our heads so as not to be distracted by a bit of buzzing from a little fly.
Should we continue on this path of how/what we perseverate over or digress? I think we can’t proceed without an homage to our ever-elusive, (oft mentioned), pursuit of the haiku moment as found in the poems of Lenard D. Moore and Mykel Board respectively. Both poems evoke a myriad of feelings as regards our pursuit of said moment.
the haiku snow
I didn’t write down writing its own
fireflies haiku
The adage “show don’t tell” certainly works in Moore’s piece. He brilliantly captures the elusiveness of the haiku moment not captured. I doubt there is one haiku poet reading this essay who has not had an instance of insight with just the right wording only to have had it slip away because it wasn’t written down “in time”. It was there, we felt it; we had the words. Something took us away from the moment — when we came back, it was gone. Literally in the blink of an eye, or in the flicker of a firefly. What I find most interesting about this poem is the lack of concomitant frustration. Perhaps that too is gone in a firefly’s flicker.
I apologize for bringing another Board poem into the essay, let alone so quickly, on the heels of his opening poem. Yet, I believe it fits very, very well at this point in the discussion. Some may perseverate over whether or not this piece suffers from anthropomorphism — gosh, I really do love that word (perseverate or anthropomorphism; I leave this up to you). Whether creating/re-creating or discovering a haiku moment, it is a wonderful feeling to be truly able to be in the haiku moment. In his poem, Board not only effortlessly captures the moment but he captures, for me, being in that moment. Living in Manhattan, I often lament the past twenty years of relatively no snowfall. When I read Board’s poem I am immediately surrounded by and enveloped in a moment of sheer delight for which there seemingly are no adequate words. How many of us have tried to capture a moment of “snow-ness” — or any such moment — which we truly feel but cannot adequately describe?
Clearly, writing is not an easy task as every one of us knows. It takes time, thought and perseverance. And it can take a toll. Some takes on the haiku process from Karen DiNobile and Vladislav Hristov.
winter solstice dawn
my pencil down to the lightness of a hand
half an inch without a pen
Winter solstice, just about the time of year I am writing this essay. The daylight hours are short, the nighttimes long. Is the poet encumbered by the solstice hours, stifled by them? Should the poet be? Not DiNobile. In her piece the poet presses on, perhaps even inspired by the solstice. But there is a greater depth here. There is the resonance between the daylight down to its lowest point and the pencil down to its lowest usable point. Further, I am drawn into the moment of process. I envision a writer hunched over their pad, perhaps with lights dimmed, working tirelessly on their latest effort.
Similar feelings are evoked in Hristov’s poem although — clearly — at the opposite end of the process as were. Following DiNobile, Hristov has also toiled tirelessly, has also pressed on, probably through the night. How many of us once “bitten” by a thought, a piece in need of attention, have worked far past the hour we should have? Hristov’s efforts have, hopefully, paid off. With the dawn the poet is able to lay down his pen, perhaps even to take a moment to admire and appreciate his efforts. Certainly, we feel the resonance of the lightness of the dawn and the lightness of the poet’s burden having been lifted.
So, if writing poetry, especially haiku, is not an easy task, why persevere? Why do we continue to labor in this way?
used bookstore
the creaking stairway
to poetry
I perseverated over where to place the above poem in this essay, not least of which because it is by John Stevenson and he will have another piece in the proceeding section. That said, overall I think it most appropriate at this point.
This poem is set in a used bookstore. As anyone who may have had a book/chapbook published knows, there is a very good chance you will find it at some point in a used bookstore! This bookstore, perhaps, with creaky stairs. Even if this is not the case, how many of us frequent these temples of the written word? I would venture to guess an overwhelming majority of us. Many of the poetry treasures we seek are out of print and mostly unobtainable. To be found only in used bookstores. Stevenson goes further though. Notice he situates the poetry section up the creaky stairs. Why does he do this, and where do these stairs lead? Are not these creaky stairs to poetry our “stairway to heaven?”
Having borne the burden and, hopefully, having seen the light of dawn, where then do we find our work? Perhaps as the poems by Janelle Barrera, Brenda J. Gannam and John Stevenson indicate, in the hands of those causing a bit of consternation.
at the Poetry Guild reading my poems
they ask if haiku she raves about my choice
is all I have of paper
writers’ conference —
from a toilet stall I hear
someone quoting me
I would truly love to be able to expound on Barrera’s poem, but what exactly can be said? Harsh enough that non-writers will often question exactly what haiku poets do, what they write, or the amount of work that writing quality haiku/senryū entails. “Oh, haiku, yes those ‘little’ poems.” “Ah, the three-line, seventeen-syllable nature poems.” Or the inevitable, “I can write a haiku, here’s mine …” Yes, and I can fly a plane! When “fellow” writers question our writing or the craft involved … This moment truly speaks for itself.
In Gannam’s piece I sense a slightly lighter tone — though not much. I envision the poet sharing her latest chapbook, in this instance to a non-writer (I honestly don’t think a writer would be that crass). Not appreciating the exacting nature of the form nor the work involved, the reader is more interested in the presentation than the substance. (Mind, I am one that really cares about and values presentation — but not over substance). In this way, the poet is taken aback. Or, in a much different reading which can’t be discounted as we really don’t know, perhaps this feedback IS from a fellow writer or, even, a fellow haiku poet. In this reading the reader is either being condescending or trying to be generous, depending on perspective. Knowing the quality of Gannam’s work, however, I highly doubt this to be the case.
Finally, as haiku poets we will generally take and appreciate praise from whatever quarter in whatever shape. To be quoted, whether of one of our poems, or from an essay or something we have said, is a mark of achievement. Something to be proud of. I have no doubt whatsoever that Stevenson appreciates the recognition. Still, the irony and lightheartedness of being quoted in a toilet is not lost. After all, although Stevenson is in the stall, the person quoting is in the bathroom as well! I think we can all chuckle along with Stevenson — hoping that is something he was indeed doing!
It is not enough our poems be written. They need to be read and shared as well, hopefully to a more discerning audience than Gannam’s above. The work below by Jim Kacian, Valerie Broadhurst Woerdehoff and Yvonne Hardenbrook, respectively, highlights this.
dusklight —
I read her poem
differently
pub poetry reading poetry reading
the sounds of being a bag lady drops in
shaken and stirred to warm herself
In Kacian’s piece, a changing hue, literally “seeing something in a different light”, leads to a shift in the reading of a poem. The reader’s perspective shifts in a dramatic way. The subtle beauty of this poem lies in the fact that we have absolutely no clue what “her poem” is about, nor where the reader’s perspective has shifted from and to. More to the point, we have no need to. It is enough that we are sharing in the moment of the reader’s new or different awareness.
Anyone having participated in a poetry reading is well aware of the vagaries it can entail. Normally, poetry readings are done in smaller, out-of-the-way venues. That is to say, they are normally not done on grand sound stages nor music halls. Bars, bookstores, libraries, community centers, these are most often the venues for poetry readings. Although grateful for the opportunity to be able to share our work, smaller venues ofttimes lack basic facilities such as a working sound system or even adequate space.
In Woerdehoff’s piece we are treated, first-hand, to these vagaries. The poet has to contend, most probably compete, with sounds other than the sound of her own voice. Pub sounds. Voices of patrons caught up in their own conversations. Voices of patrons possibly raised due to the influence of alcohol or, dare we hope, due to the inspiration of the poetry? Sounds of drinks being mixed in metal shakers, glasses clinking, and so on. In this piece is the poet merely reflecting on the extraneous sounds or is she herself being “shaken and stirred” by them? And, if so, in a positive or negative way?
Hardenbrook’s poem takes us down a slightly different path. Poetry venues, mostly, are “open to the public”; that is to say, open to all and most probably free. Audience members are comprised of those that have been made aware of the reading and are there specifically for it, but also of those passersby who’ve had no prior knowledge of the event nor probably no prior thought of listening to poetry. Poets in a reading have to accept this fact. We are grateful for what audience we can get. The “bag lady” drops in to this venue she probably frequents for warmth and a respite from the harsh street. This irony, of course, is not lost on the poet. Perhaps, though, the reading itself might offer the bag lady some spiritual succor and sustenance as well. We don’t know. We can only hope.
Nothing is profane nor off-putting to haiku poets, not even death. Not simply the death of others, mind, but our own shuffling off this mortal coil. A sampling of English-language haikuists’ take on the death poem below.
brittle leaves
we workshop
death poems
I was intrigued by this poem from Sarah E. Metzler for a couple of reasons. The first is a purely methodological reflection. Although it is clear most “traditional” Japanese death poems were not written at the moment nor nearness of death — indeed they were often written some time in advance to ensure the poet’s last reflections on life would be adequately captured — and they may have been shared, discussed, critiqued by others — these others would have been part of a poet’s inner circle. They would have been a group of trusted intimates, knowledgeable about the poet him/herself — disciples or trusted students. In almost fifty years of writing haiku, attending haiku workshops and writing sessions, I have never participated in “workshopping” a death poem — neither having offered one nor seen/critiqued one from other poets. This is not to say I may not be ignorant of such — hence the intrigue. English-language haiku poets often push boundaries.
As regards the poem itself, there is a nice resonance between the brittle leaves of fall/early winter and the onset of advanced years — necessitating the desire/need for the composition of one’s death poem.
Two “lighter” reflections on death poems can be found in the work of Ruth Holzer and Scott Mason below.
driving to Jersey my death poem
reciting rejected
Japanese death Poems I carry on
The poet is on a drive, in all likelihood with fellow haiku poets — else why the recitation of Japanese death poems of all things? Where is the drive to? Why, the state of New Jersey! With apologies to the great state of New Jersey, it is sometimes the butt of jokes to those of us in the northeast who do not live in New Jersey. Couldn’t tell you exactly why. But here it is. Here is the knock. Holzer seems to be equating, in very light-hearted terms, a drive to New Jersey with “death”.
Mason’s poem takes a slightly different tack, but lighthearted nonetheless. The poet’s death poem, an artistic statement/culmination/reflection, of the poet’s life as a poet. Most serious indeed. This rejection of a submission, experienced and felt by each and every poet reading this essay — whether a noted poet, a seasoned poet, a beginner — especially on a subject as close to us as our death — cuts to the quick. We would expect a lot of time and effort having been put into the writing of the poem, even more than “normal”. This rejection would hurt, to say the least, more than most rejections. Yet with grace and, no doubt, a tip of his jaunty cap, the poet carries on. In moving forward he allows us to share with a smile and a grin his misfortune.
We write, we share, we perseverate and we persevere. Our poems may end up in used bookstores, echoed in noisy pubs and shared with those who may not even have wanted or needed their insights. And where does that leave us? Where does that leave our words?
Cor van den Heuvel’s most evocative poem closes out this essay. To those of us from earlier generations, used to saving our work outside a digital format, the paperclip was an important tool. Is the rusty stain indicative of the poet’s negative reflection on the poem, perhaps questioning its worth? Has the stain somehow highlighted possible flaws in the poem? Or is the stain an indicator, part and parcel of a natural process to be expected? As the paperclip, the paper the poem is written on and the poet himself have aged, where does that leave his words?
the rusted paperclip
has stained my old poem
wind in the eaves
