A while ago, I began writing a daily haiku as a form of meditative practice.  Then, as often happens when we say we’re ready and open to something new, all sorts of doors began to open for me in connection to this art form.  I began to see how much I didn’t know about it and how much I wanted to explore and further develop my practice of it.

Most everyone has heard of these little poems that can be spoken in a breath.  Many of us have even written one or two in school using the traditional Japanese model.  That is: three lines with 5, 7, and 5 syllables per line. We learned that they are usually nature themed and often contain a season or nature word or phrase, though we may not have learned that this is known as a kigo.  

   What I came to realize only recently, is that American haiku don’t stick to the 5, 7, 5 format. They are usually three lines long, and are made up of approximately 17 syllables (sounds),but they are freer in style.  I must admit that finding out that American haiku purposely depart from the syllable count surprised this former English teacher of a certain age.  And to that I say, open me up and teach me more!

In April, I heard about a workshop with teacher and poet, Mimi White, on the haibun, a form related to haiku.  On a lark, I went.  (I am a strong believer in the benefits of traveling by lark!)  I was totally enchanted by Mimi’s teaching style and by this art form. Mimi explained and demonstrated that a haibun is a combination of short narrative prose paragraphs (poetic in nature) and haiku. They are used to recount travels or journeys, every day experiences, or special moments in life.  Mimi’s book, listed below, is about the time leading up to her father’s death and is hauntingly beautiful.  She invited us, near the end of the workshop, to write one or our own. In a very short time and with very few words, I explored my experience of the particularly long and deep winter that had just passed.  It felt comfortable to me.  Thus, I wrote my first haibun:

Spring is finally calling me back outside. Too long I’ve sat. Too long I’ve settled. Too long I’ve lingered on the too soft sofa looking out into the too white world. Waiting. Wanting. Willing the whiteness to take its leave!

toward the chuckling brook
I’m walking on tree shadows
mingling with the melt

Serendipitously, while at the workshop, I was invited by a friend to accompany her and Mimi to a day retreat at Rolling Ridge in North Andover, MA, called, “The Art of Awareness:  Haiku Now.”  I signed on.  Another lark ride.  (Did you know that a group of larks lifting off together in song is “an exaltation of larks?”  I just love that.)

Haiku offer far more than their brevity might suggest. They embody the essence of simplicity.  They capture a moment in concrete detail. They speak to us on many levels.  They keep us grounded in the present moment.  They get us to pause and observe.

As Jeanne F. Martin, the day’s workshop leader, says, “The best way to write a haiku is to remember what we were taught as children:  Stop. Look. Listen.” Writing one is truly an exercise in presence and awareness.  According to Martin, the great Japanese Haiku master, Basho, said, “In haiku there is nothing between you and the present moment.” He also said,  “You learn about the pine from the pine.”

As part of our group experience, Martin set out sprigs of herbs and other aromatic items and invited us to write.  For me, this became:

a childhood romp
running my fingertips
through thyme

After lunch, we were sent outside to observe, be in nature, and meet the present moment.  We were asked “to learn from the pines,” so to speak.   We were also asked to bring something back with us when done.   At the entrance of one of the two labyrinths there, I stood in the wind, experiencing my surroundings.  Out of this came the following haiku:

a sudden gust
a leaf aloft
a feather at my feet

I brought back the little feather and laid it on the cloth-covered table which had become a sort of altar with the other gatherings of the other poets.

I was reminded that day, that haiku rarely include metaphor or personification.  They are of the immediacy of the moment.  They need few, if any, adjectives or adverbs.  There is often a surprise or, in Jeanne Martin’s words, “a pop,” in the third line.  And that, in the words of Margaret McGee in A Sacred Art, “A haiku expresses the heart of a moment in three lines.”

Since these workshops, I’ve deepened my study of haiku by reading, writing, and immersing myself in “haiku mind.” As described by Patricia Donegan, “It is this way of being in the world with awakened open-hearted awareness — of being mindful of the ordinary moments of our lives — that I’ve come to call “haiku mind.” As I explore, I’m reminded again and again to pay attention and to pause and experience the sacred in the everyday, … the commonplace, … the smallest detail. I’m inspired, then, to write about it.  —  Every day, just three short lines that can be spoken in a breath.

Come and explore this with me, won’t you.  Write a haiku, write a haibun, read some of both.  And next, I’ll tell you about haiga!

* I have since joined the Haiku Society of America and look forward to receiving their journal, Frogpond.

Books on my table for further exploration:

Haiku Mind  —  108 Poems to Cultivate Awareness & Open Your Heart  
  ~ Patricia Donegan

The Haiku Handbook   How to Write, Teach, and Appreciate Haiku  
 ~ William Higginson and Penny Harter

Memory Won’t Save Me    a haibun
~Mimi White

In honor of National Poetry Month, I share with you this poem inspired by the winter we’ve just had and the spring that’s taking her time.  (It’s also inspired by a prompt given by my mentor, Kimberly Cloutier-Green, poet extraordinaire, to our poetry circle.)

No Longer This and Not Yet That
~ Mary Lou Hamilton Bagley

What season this? Not Winter, yet not Spring.
An icy bite and sudden snowflakes form
and dance around, obscuring stark, bare things,
then light upon the crocus’ pointed corm

as sunlight breaks from just behind a cloud,
showering us with brightness but no heat,
and makes us gasp with wonderment out loud
and lift our arms and stamp our booted feet

that we can stand here, thus, immersed in both —
in weak but blooming sunshine and in snow —
while still a dream, the greening and the growth,
and still an echo, temps of well below.

The wheel seems stalled.  The Equinox has come,
with equal parts of darkness and of light,
turning now more toward the sun, not from,
as days grow ever longer than the nights;

and yet, deep winter lingers in the air.
Still full of what’s been lost, it clings to me.
The ground, once clothed in white, is mostly bare
while dirty mounds hide what is yet to be.

My yard is littered — branches, twigs and sticks.
Dry crackling leaves from maples, oaks and beech
skitter across the landscape, chase, and mix,
and, dervish-like, in whirling eddies reach

up toward the sky in search of deeper blues
beyond the belly-heavy clouds of white and gray,
to where the birds can see with unobstructed view
that Spring is truly on its warming way.

This in-between time speaks to me of pause,
reminds me of the not ‘twixt in and out,
the gap that lies between effect and cause,
what space between each breath is all about.

Played out each day at twilight and at dawn —
that almost light between the night and day,
that violet hour when birds sing evensong —
that spaciousness that lives, and then gives way,

is showing me that I need never fear
when asked to simply be and hold to trust.
If all I’ve been and known should disappear,
I’m not to grasp at shadows, cling to dust.

The natural world reflects my inner state;
yet I, alone, resist what’s underway.
The suffering that I’m feeling, I create:
beg Spring to come; bid Winter not to stay.

Okay, now it’s your turn.  Please accept this as an invitation to write a poem (any style or length) of your own.  Haiku is always fun.  It’s made up of three lines, with a 5, 7, and 5 syllable count, and is usually nature-themed.

When you’re done, go out and read it out loud to your backyard, a favorite tree, the birds, your plants, your animal companions, or to yourself.

Celebrate National Poetry Month with one of your own, won’t you?

Easter morning and it feels like Spring is actually here in Maine. Time to begin shaking out the contracted, drawn-in energy that has kept us warm through the long white winter. Time to move and stretch and bend and loosen. Time to freshen our approach to the mornings of our days.

How do you begin your day?  Do you have a routine that sets the tone for the day before you step into it?  Being the creative soul that you are, perhaps it might be beneficial to create one or to revisit and refresh the one you already have?

Just for fun, here’s a little ditty that demonstrates how simple it can be:

Morning Ritual

I awaken, but don’t rise.
I lie breathing with closed eyes.
Breathing in, I take in peace.
Breathing out, all cares release.

Simply breathing, in and out.
Breathing simply, out and in.
Simply breathing, in and out.
Breathing simply once again.

Stretch my body, still in bed.
Clear the cobwebs from my head.
My intention for this day:
to be present, come what may.

I place my feet upon the floor, but
don’t go rushing out the door.
I pause a moment in the NOW.
Hands to heart, I humbly bow.

In the kitchen, I’m alone.
Time to set a peaceful tone.
At the table, set my place,
light a candle, welcome Grace.

Thankful for this morning tea.
Thankful for this time for me.
Thankful for this sacred space
amid my often hectic pace.

I take my pen and start to write.
No time to think, or get it “right.”
No time to ask what it’s about.
Just let it flow. Just get it out.

… My morning pages now are done,
not meant to share with anyone.
My hand’s now loose, my mind’s now clear.
I’m now present, fully here.

No matter what may come my way
as now I step into my day,
I know I’m centered in my heart
because I gave my day this start …

Breathing in, I rest awhile …
Breathing out, I simply smile …

Okay, so this won’t win any poetry prizes, but it’s light and airy and has the sing-songey rhythm I was looking for. It’s in keeping with my uplifted state on this Spring morning.  It’s just what I needed to make my point. And so, I’m happy with it.

Uplifted and enlivened, that’s how I intend to step into each day.  As a writer and creative, I intend to make choices that best support my wish to engage fully, richly, and deeply with this incredible life I’ve been given — one glorious day at a time.

So, how do you begin your day?  Is your morning routine supportive of the creative life you wish for yourself?  Care to share a brief description of your morning ritual? …