on haiku

by Tim Chamberlain

after rain -
shining green leaves,
sound of birdsong.

You want to learn haiku? --------- Don't. --------- You already know how.

The art of haiku is clear - it is innate, something which everyone possesses. Haiku is. You see haiku. You feel haiku. Because haiku is. And because haiku is - haiku isn't so simple.

Although haiku looks short, it isn't short. Haiku is concise. Although haiku looks quick, it isn't quick. Haiku is mindful. As a form of verse haiku is centred upon brevity. Its virtue is to be pure and untrammelled. Haiku speaks. It says more by appealing to the innate virtue which resides in the heart of all living things. Haiku speaks of truth. Haiku works through honesty and clarity. Haiku is open.

There is a lot of discussion at the moment about haiku and its place in modern literature. Many people are reading haiku and many people are writing haiku. Today haiku is definitely an art form which is rapidly disseminating from its point of origin in Japanese literature. This is because the essence of haiku is universal. Haiku is nature. Haiku is mind. Haiku is a double reflection. The world as it is. The world as we feel it. Instance and response. Image and feeling. Haiku appeals because of its benevolence. To slam haiku (and certainly modern haiku does have its detractors) is to close one's mind.

Haiku is freedom. --------- Or at least, that is how I feel it.

through mist and
ripples of cloud
- evening sun.

plein air poems

a collection of haiku and short verse written on the coastal path, cornwall.

kemyel path

long pine needles
turned bronze
on the cool earth.

* * *

narrow path
descending to the cove
beneath low boughs of fuchsia.

* * *

low clouds
moving over
the calm sea

* * *

water lapping
over pink rock,
green weed
and anenome
- the sound of barnacles
all around.

* * *

merlyn rock

a deep pool of lapis blue,
fringed with salty fronds;
far below the calm rise and fall,
round boulders, stones and sand;
through a crevice in the pink rock
the lapis blue rising and retreating,
groaning like a walrus stirring
in the warm sun.

* * *

sailing boats
on the horizon

white triangles
weaving.

* * *

deep boom and
hollow echo -
clear water surging
through the chasm.

* * *

landfall

in the silent wake
of the storm -
the mariners' maids
stand looking out
from the quay.

* * *

driftwood

bleached white
and brittle as bone
beneath the bright sun.

* * *

white ghostly mops of hair
bobbing to the surface,
receding to the memories
of the coastline.

* * *

inside the sea cave
- wedged,
heavy sheet iron;
lifting brown flakes
to the salty wind
and white foam.

____

all text & poem copyright � Tim Chamberlain, 2003

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