Contents:

New:

Geert Verbeke: Reflections

H. F. Noyes: Favourite Haiku

Margaret Chula: Poetry and Harmony in a Bowl of Tea

Lee Gurga: Juxtaposition

Mohammed Fakhruddin: Land and Sea...

Richard Powell: Still in the Stream

Richard Powell: Wabi What?

Bruce Ross: Sincerity and the Future of Haiku

Lee Gurga: Toward an Aestetic...

Interview with Max Verhart

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Aleksandar Ševo: Our Daily Haiku

Anita Virgil: A Prize Poem

Dragan J. Ristić: Haiku: East and West

Jim Kacian: Speech on Haiku in the Balkans

H. F. Noyes: Silence and Outreach in Haiku

H. F. Noyes: A Favourite Haiku

Susumu Takiguchi: Can the Spirit of Haiku be Translated?

Saša Važić: Roads and Side-Roads

Jim Kacian: What Do Editors Really Want?

Interview with Dimitar Anakiev

Interview with Robert Wilson

 

Interview ~ David G Lanoue

by Saša Važić

SV. You were one of the WHA directors. What was your vision of that association? What experiences have you gained from your engagement in the WHA “business”? What was the reason of your stepping from it? How do you view it now after many changes, of which I believe you are aware of, occurred within it?

DL My vision of the WHA was that it could become a truly democratic, truly international organization promoting haiku while enabling poet-to-poet contacts. In the years I was a member, I was fortunate to make friendships with haiku poets from different countries, friendships that in some cases have led to interesting collaborations. I stepped down as a director (and as a member) shortly after the meeting in Sofia, Bulgaria (July 2005). My fellow director, Alain Kervern, did the same at the same time. We would have liked to stay, but, sadly, our vision and philosophy differed greatly from that of the current leadership.

SV. What are your personal inclinations in poetry, western and eastern? Who are your favorite poets? And why?

DL. In Western poetry I love Dante, Chaucer, William Blake, Walt Whitman, Pablo Neruda, and Jack Kerouac (I'm thinking here not only of Kerouac's haiku, as in the famous sound recording, “Blues and Haikus”, but also of his wildly risk-taking poetic prose). This list of names just now tumbled easily out of my head, but as I look at it, I see connections. Dante and Chaucer write poetry that challenged their societies, poetry to change the world. Blake's mysticism and social consciousness, Whitman's ecstatic “singing” of America, Neruda's elementary celebration of love and the common man, and Kerouac's daring project in which his life and art became one inseparable thing. . . these writers all understood the transforming power of poetry, and its importance. And all of them learned from tradition but dared to go, boldly, beyond it. In Eastern poetry, I love, of course, Issa—whose work I've been translating for the past twenty years. Lao-tzu, I think of as a poet, even though one Chinese scholar told me he isn't. And, rounding off the Eastern side of my list, Rumi of Old Persia. My reasons: Issa is down to earth, daring, comic, spiritual, immersed in the human; Lao-tzu dares to question our most precious preconceptions; and Rumi is an ecstatic seer whose work prepares us for a new consciousness. These are my favorite world poets because without them, the world would be a far worse place. Without them, my own poetry—so much poetry by so many—never could have happened.

SV. How would you relate haiku to other poetry genres?

DL. It relates to all poetry in at least two ways: its musicality and its ability to suggest or evoke more than can be said in logical, linear prose. But no other poetic genre does what haiku does, which makes haiku not only important but necessary.

SV. When and how were you introduced to haiku poetry?

DL. In elementary school I was introduced to haiku, like most American children, as an exercise in language arts. The counting of syllables was the main emphasis, which is too bad. Only years later, in my twenties, I encountered the haiku of Basho and Issa in translation and learned that there's more to it than syllable-counting.

SV. What is haiku to you and why have you chosen this ancient poetry form to express your inner being?

DL. Haiku, to me, is an opportunity to open myself to the here and now, the without and within; to stop, look, listen, and discover. It's a way of returning to the wisdom of the child: open, non-judgmental, excited about all the wonders of life that adults take for granted and, sadly, stop perceiving.

SV. Can you recall your fist haiku poem?

DL. Yes, in my twenties, inspired by Basho, I kept a little art pad that I filled with haiga. Every day, I'd write a haiku and scribble a drawing to go with it. I remember one:

Mississippi River
old as time
fast, real

SV. When did you write it and under whose influence?

DL. This was the early 1980s. As I mentioned, Basho inspired me the most, at first.

SV. Your name is more often associated with Kobayashi Issa and your translation work on his haiku poems than with your own haiku poetry. You are known to have devoted so much of your time, energy and love on creating your Issa's website, writing books (Issa: Cup-of-Tea Poems, Selected Haiku of Kobayashi Issa, Pure Land Haiku: The Art of Priest Issa, Haiku Guy) and a number of essays on Issa. How did it come to be? (It may appear that you feel attached to him despite Kuro's poetic advice to Buck-Teeth... remember?) And then: Why have you chosen Issa among, say, the four pillars constituting the Old Japanese haiku world?

DL. I decided to learn Japanese with the express intention of translating haiku. At first, I couldn't decide which poet to focus on. So, I went through the 4 volumes of R. H. Blyth's Haiku, copying down poems that I admired. I copied them so that the poems were on one side of the page; the poets' names on the other. Then, when I was finished, I folded all of the pages so that I could see only the haiku, not the poets' names. I went through them and circled my top ten favorite haiku: the ones that spoke to my heart and mind most vividly. When I unfolded the pages, I was surprised to see that nine of the circled poems were written by Issa. So, I plunged into the work of reading and translating Issa, not knowing at the time that he wrote over 20,000 haiku. Still, I don't regret my choice. I love Issa's boldness as a poet and, as I mentioned earlier, his humanity. He wasn't afraid to make poetry out of good and bad moments of his personal life; his life and poetry were, in fact, one thing. In this way, haiku became a way of Buddhist liberation for him: a way of being in the world, of accepting its gifts in a spirit of profound gratitude and spiritual resignation. This is why he called himself, “Priest Issa of Haiku Temple.” He has much to teach us, and every day that I translate him, I learn more.

SV. One may say that you express the greatest admiration for Issa's poetry and his personality. This may lead one to believe that you somehow disregard other old Japanese haiku masters, namely so widely beloved Basho, as well as Buson, Shiki and others.

DL. I admire all of these, as you call them, “pillars” of haiku, but my work with Issa isn't done. With approximately 7,500 haiku translated for the website so far, I'm a only little over one third finished with Issa. Luckily, the more I translate, the more I learn—often from my mistakes, which are kindly corrected by my Japanese advisors, especially Shinji Ogawa. This means I can read and translate much faster now than in the early years. I recognize many kanji that once I had to painstakingly look up, and, thanks to Shinji, I have a better grasp of Issa's colloquial expressions. I haven't made a commitment to translate all of his haiku: just to keep doing it until it's no longer fun and interesting for me. So far, I've not reached that point. I give Issa credit for this.

SV. You are known to have written (up to now) the three unique novels on haiku, perhaps the only ones of this kind in the world. One of them (Haiku Guy) deals again (mostly but not primarily) with Issa and with the way of haiku and the writing of it. I believe that it has won a great admiration of haiku circles (as it has mine), especially because it deals with haiku issues in an indirect and, so to say, “happy -go-lucky ” way, yet making one learn a lot about haiku, not to speak about Issa and other, almost equally important, characters of the novel. The other two are: Laughing Buddha and Haiku Wars. Would you tell us something about this haiku novelist-side of your personality? What made you write these novels and what response of the general and, especially haiku, public have they got?

DL. I began writing Haiku Guy with the idea that it would serve as a “How to Write Haiku” book disguised as a novel. I was surprised by how the characters and the story took on their own momentum. At several points, I tell the reader that I feel as if an invisible Buddha is guiding my pen; this is not an exaggeration. The story seemed to tell itself. This doesn't mean that I didn't edit. I let my pen flow for over 500 pages of manuscript, then proceeded to cut, cut, cut; using only around 125 pages in the final copy. Laughing Buddha tells a different story, but continues with many of the same characters in new situations. I see the “haiku novel” as an offshoot of haibun (mixed haiku with prose): haibun that uses elements of contemporary fiction. So, as a “haiku novelist,” I think of myself as a poet in the tradition of Basho and Issa, situating my poetry in the context of prose in the hope that the prose will deepen the resonance of the poetry, and vice versa. As for Haiku Wars, I self-published an edition of 100 copies during my Hurricane Katrina exile. These have been sold, so now I'm looking for a “real” publisher. Haiku novels are fun. Everyone should write one! As for the response from the public, I've heard nice comments from haiku poets but, as of now, haiku novels have not found a mainstream audience.

SV. I've heard that you consider yourself a Zen Buddhist. Is it true and, if yes, how does it come to be and – why?

DL. Actually, I don't consider myself a Zen Buddhist. I'm not sure who told you that, but maybe they know something I don't know. I admire the playful side of Zen: the questioning of assumptions, the challenging of reality concepts. This is what I love about Lao-tzu, who influenced Zen. I don't subscribe to a particular Buddhist “way,” though I'm drawn to the Pure Land Buddhism of Shinran; this was Issa's sect and remains the largest Buddhist sect in Japan today. Shinran (who also has found his way into my haiku novels) insists that we can't earn enlightenment by avoiding sins and doing good works. The only answer is to trust in the “Other Power” of Amida Buddha: to bow one's head, to accept the good and the bad. Issa writes:

in summer cool
ambling down my road
to hell

He doesn't worry about the future; he appreciates the cool air here and now, recognizing himself as sinful, in other words, as a human being. I don't name the Other Power “Amida” or “Jesus” or any name from a religious tradition, but I believe in IT. In fact, I hope you don't laugh, but I believe more in IT than I believe in the reality of my own life, which, frankly, often seems, to me, like a dream that someone else is having.

SV. How do you relate your Zen-Buddhist character to the busy life you presumably lead in New Orleans and particularly at Xavier University?

DL. If I can plunge myself into the chaos of classes, meetings, deadlines, and endless reading and preparation with a spirit of mindfulness—paying attention to the here and now, pulling out my hip-pocket pad to scribble a haiku, now and then—this may not be, officially, “Zen,” but it's how I strive to live.

SV. How hard is it to translate haiku? Is it easier to write them?

DL. Understanding what the poet is saying is the hardest part. Once I grasp this, I write the translation just as I would write my own haiku: I let the words flow. It's harder and easier to write my own haiku. Harder, because I don't have Issa's script; I need to stop, look, listen and come up with my own insight. Easier, because I don't need to consult five dictionaries before the fun part of letting words flow onto the page.

SV. What we all have are classical examples in translation. It's a pity that most of us do not know Japanese so we must depend on those who have translated poems of great haiku masters. What do you think about this shortcoming? There are still debates about the meaning of some poems written by Basho and other masters. How can we ever be sure what those ancient poets had on their mind?

DL. In my literature classes, I often discuss this problem with my students. Can we ever be sure about the meaning of anything that's written? And where do we find that meaning: in the intention of the writer, in the reception of the reader, or in the work itself? I think that every haiku poet has had the experience of writing a poem that resonates with more meaning than he or she was thinking about when writing it. Sometimes, a friend points out the “deep symbolism” about which the poet had no inkling. Did the poet “intend” to put the symbolism in the poem subconsciously, or is it possible that human language itself, with all its textured layers of signification and surprise, does half the work of poetry? Though I'm interested in what Basho and the other masters might have intended, I realize that this is a guessing game. The real importance is what the reader “gets.” For example, did only one frog jump into Basho's old pond, or was it a group (plop! plop! plop!) as Susumu Takiguchi imagines it? The word kawazu can be singular or plural, so Basho leaves the solution to the reader's imagination. The same question occurs about the crow on the famous withered branch: one crow or several? Linguistically, there is no definitive answer, but I believe that this is a good thing. It reminds us that the reader is a “co-author” of every haiku. The haiku isn't complete until a reader interacts with it, and imagines.

SV. What is your opinion about the world haiku movement? Why is haiku so widely written all over the world, more than any other poetry genre?

DL. I don't know if haiku is written more than any other poetry genre, but I suppose the answer depends on how one defines genre. Is love poetry a genre? If so, I'm pretty sure there are more love poems (including lyrics of love songs) written in the world every day than haiku. But, I may be wrong. Like love poetry, haiku fills a niche in the human spirit; it answers a basic need. Love poetry is about finding a connection to another human being. Haiku is about finding a connection to the universe.

SV. How do you view the haiku world? Has it been developing or stagnating in comparison to its Japanese roots? Do you believe haiku is written more successfully today than hundreds of years ago? What do you generally think about old Japanese haiku masters? Are they overpraised? What do you think about contemporary haiku poets in general and what names can you select as specially successful haiku poets?

DL. The haiku world, as I see it, is in a phase of exciting development. I won't say that it's being written more successfully now, but it certainly has evolved just as human life and human societies have evolved. The Japanese masters are all deserving of our study, but they should be praised only as long as their haiku continue to speak directly to the heart. Unfortunately, there are some haiku of Basho and the others that require too many cultural footnotes for readers to “get” them. So, after reading a page of explanation, we might understand the haiku as a cultural artifact, but is it, really, a haiku for us? I don't think so. This is one reason why Issa has become more popular than Basho in our time. Many more of Issa's poems still speak to us, directly, without need for footnotes or explanations. This directness of communication, it seems to me, is essential to the haiku experience. As for contemporary poets, I hold them to the same standard. Many of their haiku move me just as much as the best verses of Japanese tradition. My favorite poets writing in English today are Fay Aoyagi of San Francisco and Petar Tchouhov of Sofia, Bulgaria. Look at their work, and you'll see why. They take chances with great success.

SV. We come across a whole debate about what is and what is not haiku. There are many definitions of it and still pretty much disagreement regarding the haiku form, its content and poetic devices that may or may not be employed leading to a vast variety of the way of the writing of haiku and poets' expressions. Especially in America there were a lot of discussions and efforts to make a definition of haiku for the West so that even a  committee was established by the HSA to come with a final definition. Haiku - can it be defined? If yes, what would be your own definition?

DL. I don't think that any art form can be “finally” defined. Every time a poet writes a haiku, a provisional definition is offered. The genre grows in this way. Provisionally, then, my definition this morning is: A one-breath poem that discovers connection.

SV. What do you think about the modernization of haiku (key words, straying from its original form and essence...)?

DL. I love the modernization. However, I also love traditional haiku with season words. We must remember that, even Japanese poets, even the “pillars” of haiku, pushed the genre forward. Issa did things Basho never would do. Shiki went way past Buson's conception. This doesn't mean there's no limit to what one can write and call a haiku. It all depends on the relationship of poet, poem, reader, and the unfolding tradition. Calling a verse a “haiku” doesn't make it so. Readers, informed by tradition, have the final say.

SV. Although haiku poetry is the most widespread of all poetic forms written in the world today, its market is (even after a few centuries) still limited and narrow. The word of professional critics is rarely heard. It might be the case anywhere in the world... How can you account for that? Can anything change the state of haiku?

DL. Haiku today reminds me of the pastoral literature of the Renaissance in Europe. Based on classical examples (just as haiku grew from the old Japanese masters), these stories of shepherds in the fields weren't considered “serious” literature. And yet, by setting the action and dialogue outside of city and court, pastoral poets gained a unique vantage point for critiquing the corruption of culture's center. Haiku, similarly, lures us away from centers of culture and power. Many dismiss it as merely “Nature poetry”; to them, it doesn't seem as important as, for example, a novel about a war or political scandal. Like the pastoral poets, haiku poets gladly step away from popular topics and modes of writing. Of necessity, they are counter-cultural, because they are not concerned, as artists, with the mainstream of what modern, capitalist culture cares about: money, status, and success, where “success” is defined by how high one can climb an economic ladder that, at its bottom, pushes more human beings into the mud of poverty and desperation. We should be proud that haiku isn't “popular,” because this means that, as a genre, it stands outside of mainstream culture, like those imaginary shepherds on their grassy hills, saying something that can't be said by anyone else in any other way: about reconnection to Nature and to each other, about healing the alienation that popular culture indoctrinates.

* * *

David G Lanoue is a translator of Japanese haiku, a teacher of English and world literature, a writer of "haiku novels."

He earned his B.A. in English at Creighton University in his native village of Omaha, Nebraska (1976), then went on to complete the M.A. & Ph.D. in that same subject at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln (1977, 1981). Since 1981, he's been teaching English at Xavier University of Louisiana in New Orleans, where he holds the rank of professor.

In 1982 he discovered haiku. He studied Japanese and visited Japan in 1987 and 1988, working on a book of translations of the poet Issa, which appeared in 1991: Issa: Cup-of-Tea Poems (Asian Humanities Press). He returned to Japan in 2001 and 2003.

Over the years, he has published haiku and haiku criticism in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Bottle Rockets, Ginyu (Tokyo), Jointure (Paris), Poesia (Milan), Literaturen Vestnik (Sofia, Bulgaria) ... and other places.

In addition to writing his "haiku novels"— Haiku Guy (2000), Laughing Buddha (2004), and Haiku Wars (2006)— he edited The Haiku Society of America's Members' Anthology 2003 and completed a critical book, Pure Land Haiku: The Art of Priest Issa, a project he worked on for over 15 years, finally published in 2004. He is an active member of the Haiku Society of America, a former director of the World Haiku Association, and, with Johnette Downing, a co-founder of the New Orleans Haiku Society.

In August 2005 he evacuated New Orleans for Hurricane Katrina. The server at his university was shut down, along with his Kobayashi Issa website. So that Issa could remain available to the English-speaking world, in November he uploaded the entire archive to this website. Throughout their exile, members of the New Orleans Haiku Society kept in touch via the internet, sharing poems—many of which appear in their book, Katrina-ku: Storm Poems (2006), all proceeds of sales going to benefit the arts in the "new" New Orleans.

Bibliography

Issa: Cup-of-Tea Poems; Selected Haiku of Kobayashi Issa. Asian Humanities Press, 1991.

Haiku Guy. Red Moon Press, 2000.

Laughing Buddha. Red Moon Press, 2004.

Pure Land Haiku: The Art of Priest Issa. Buddhist Books International, 2004.

Essays, haiku, and translations have appeared in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Bottle Rockets, Jointure (Paris), Poesia (Milan), Literaturen Vestnik (Sofia), and Ginyu (Tokyo).

 

 

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