I am parking my new blog right in this spot...

This morning when I woke, I guess it was a little bit quieter, and I looked outside knowing it had snowed.

I am glad my blog is in this new place now. There really is something to be said about trusting the blog host, and I really don't think Steemit is for everybody, meaning most of their money still deceptively goes to a few individuals. With branchable I know exactly what kind of people run the blog, since my brother is one of them. And since he fixed a bug in my computer that was making me not write as much poetry last month, I am eternally grateful.

Start a Poem

Knowing it could just as soon be a war or a fire as a peace or just a place to inspire.

Finish it, too soon, abrupt snow flakes splashing as rain on a glad windshield.

I recently reread a children's book about Basho and another also about Issa. So I got something rad from each book that is informing my haiku writing. According to the Issa book, Cool Melons Turn to Frogs!, Issa wrote his emotions into his haikus. This might surprise you but I usually put more empathy tied to natural things than outright personal emotion into my haiku writing, which is kind of what Grass Sandals the Basho book portrayed.

Day ahead, mud stained snow.

Long path lit up, as under

quilt. Secretly reading.

-MERH

So when I write a haiku, I often just talk about how I think the world around seems to feel, where Issa might say how he actually felt inserted into natural things.

This Issa reminds me of the slow process. And I surely have felt a snail's pace...

O snail
Climb Mount Fuji,
But slowly, slowly!

(Katatsumuri sorosoro nobore Fuji no yama 蝸牛そろそろ登れ富士の山)

One of Basho's poems seems quoted more than any other, and yet...

古池や蛙飛びこむ水の音 furu ike ya / kawazu tobikomu / mizu no oto an ancient pond / a frog jumps in / the splash of water [1686]

From what I gathered on Basho, I felt more similar in writing styles, as I said, but it is worth mentioning that my haiku are in a collection of about 400 at most. (Mostly unpublished and NOT ready.)

Basho and Issa each wrote 1,000 haikus in their life.

I rarely write more than one haiku a day, though once I wrote 30 in a long intensive spell with memories of a natural place fresh.
Basho once wrote 100 haikus in one sitting, so I have a ways to come.

Here are 17 syllables I once pulled together on the subject of a haiku: Haiku is a person. I am writing an essay about her/him/it.

I used to think American haiku was just an attempt at writing short poetry modeled after an untranslatable form of Japanese poetry. I remember going around Berea College, when I was getting my undergraduate English degree there, and I would think things like, must write haiku, but also that that was just some obligatory random Westernized attempt. Haiku was an obligatory attempt at the impossible. Yet I was so drawn to it. I deeply believed it was a lost cause though, and that there was no real reason to celebrate haiku.

I am but cleaning maid. But this moment eyes the oak leaf hypnotist.

All through my time at Berea College, I walked around staring at the beautiful chestnut tree and the amazing ginkgo both of which nourish the contemplative practice of students and professors and other squirrels. I’d say, this is stupid, but I am going to write a haiku about these beautiful things. The beauty was real. I believed in the beauty. I’m talking career beauty appreciation, like a real artist which I might have done if I realized my talent. Do I hear my words?

Back in college I knew publishing was something I could do if I tried enough. I never said publishing took being good, and I didn’t really believe that either. Humility though, can be a little bit like too many apologies, and though you might feel humbled, maybe you just need to thank. So this essay is meant to be a gratitude essay, meant to get real with the haiku, to thank it for being alive and real and vibrant and a song that I want to sing, a party, a celebration I want to go to. And boy does it take talent for a girl to believe in herself, for a person to embrace poetry, for an egg to decide to hatch.

In college I wrote 5, 7, 5 in my syllable count. I would mark the digits of my fingers as I thought syllables. Just a tap on the table where I did not focus on the study of Christianity, just a tap to indicate a syllable, and most of the time it was ignored as one of my eccentricities.

Publication can be a sign that a person really is invested in their work, and it can be a result of writing good stuff. I like to look in the publications where I have poems now and I order the poets based on how short they have written their poems, and often I come in first place.

I believe Haiku. I have learned from the poem itself, of its worth. I am not saying that I believe in it. I would be a nut to even consider not believing in haiku. When you write a form, The form becomes a friend. Haiku becomes a proper noun. It responds to you. You don’t have to do 5,7,5. You can do short long short. You can learn Japanese. You could travel a long road north with only Haiku to keep you company. You can learn Chinese. You can translate Basho, Issa, and others.

The paradox is good. The humility is good. It is just a poem, the most simple, tiny trivial, skilled, transforming, uplifting, violent, good, expressive, of things. Like one of those chestnuts, a seed forward. A seed forward.

I believe Haiku. Professor arrange chestnuts phallic. Squirrels too.

Lately in spurts I might write up to 30 haiku in a sitting. Writing Haiku is an exercise like swimming laps. Though it might not be called a motor skill entirely, it takes a training that builds with focus. Observing the world is a big part of it. I know some early poets who think they are collecting words for poems only some of their lives. Like they can turn it off. I know the whole life collects poems. So I can sit here and write about my college memories, see? Some of those Haikus have not made it out yet. It is important they get born; they can handle life.

The photo’s mother, chubby woman, snaps ginkgo. Golden day falling.