(NB: This essay first appeared on Medium on 11/24/2019. I have decided to reprint it here as of June 3, 2024)
Dunkirk NY – First, two stories.
Story One: A Zen master and his pupil are walking through a field. The pupil points to a beautiful flower and asks the master, “Master, does the Tao live in this flower?” The master replied, “Yes, it does.” The two come upon a flowing creek, and the pupil again asks, “Master, does the Tao live in this creek?” Again the reply, “Yes, it does.” The two then come upon a pile of cow dung, and the pupil asks once more, “Master, does the Tao live in this cow dung?” At which, the master promptly shoves the student’s face into the cow dung, and says, “Smell it! It reeks of the Tao!”
Story Two: Not so much a story as this exchange from the movie Amadeus:
EMPEROR: It’s very good. Of course now and then — just now and then — it gets a touch elaborate.
MOZART: What do you mean, Sire?
EMPEROR: Well, I mean occasionally it seems to have, how shall one say?
ORSINI-ROSENBERG: Too many notes, Your Majesty?
EMPEROR: Exactly. Very well put. Too many notes.
MOZART: I don’t understand. There are just as many notes, Majesty, as are required. Neither more nor less.
EMPEROR: My dear fellow, there are in fact only so many notes the ear can hear in the course of an evening. I think I’m right in saying that, aren’t I, Court Composer?
SALIERI: Yes! yes! er, on the whole, yes, Majesty.
MOZART: But this is absurd!
EMPEROR: My dear young man, don’t take it too hard. Your work is ingenious. It’s quality work. And there are simply too many notes, that’s all. Cut a few and it will be perfect.
MOZART: Which few did you have in mind, Majesty?
EMPEROR: Well. There it is.
I am an amateur haiku writer. Since retiring I have set about the task of trying to learn to write good haiku. I have not joined any haiku groups, submitted anything for publication, or sought any outside advice. This is not because I haven’t wanted to, but because I felt I didn’t really have enough material to show anyone. After three years of writing haiku without guidance, I think I am ready to seek out some guidance.
Yet I am hesitant. Like any art form, haiku is subjective in nature; some people will like your work, others will not. But from what I have gathered in my internet research, the one form of haiku that seems to be universally frowned upon is the 5–7–5 version. I happen to like very much the 5–7–5 style of haiku. To me, it represents a very specific challenge — the mastery of a set form. While I have written haiku that do not follow this format, I’ve written several others that have. I think the 5–7–5 version is worthy of consideration, but it requires at this juncture a defense of why it’s a good choice and style for writing haiku. As much of an amateur as I am, I will attempt to provide that defense.
My professional art form is acting. For 35 years I taught acting at the college level, and I’ve pursued a professional theatre career since finishing my undergraduate training. Over the years I’ve specialized in Shakespearean acting, having worked with three professional Shakespeare companies. I have not made my living at acting (few actors do), but I have managed to obtain membership in Actors’ Equity Association, the union of professional actors, which is notoriously difficult to join. If my career as an actor has taught me anything, it is that the development of technique is as important to quality acting as is development of spontaneity. I did not always believe this (neither did Stanislavski), but years of practice and experience has taught me that, if one does not have the proper techniques and form in hand, one cannot take full advantage of the acting moment.
The 5–7–5 approach is one of form. When you write haiku in 5–7–5, you are committing to a specific form: one line of five syllables, one line of seven syllables, and a final line of five syllables. The greatest challenge is to adhere to the form while still capturing the essence of the haiku moment. All art has form; all art has technique. When you train as an artist in any art form, the ideal you are seeking is to master the form so as best to harness the artistic inspiration you may have. Shakespeare wrote in a very clear form — blank verse — and the power of his plays lies as much in his mastery of this form as it does in the quality of his characters. In fact, if you study his work closely, you realize that the quality of his characters is actually contained within the mastery of his form. With Shakespeare, the form of the text itself creates the character. What we experience when we hear Shakespeare at his best is the perfect blend of form and content, where the words you hear an actor say are a perfect blend of poetic form with human experience.
My other passion is baseball, and it provides another example. It is said that the hardest physical achievement in sports is to hit a round ball approaching you at 95+ MPH from a distance of 60′ 6″ with a round bat. To do this, the form of a hitter’s swing must be honed to such a fine degree that the hitter can react to a pitch without thinking about the form of his swing. As baseball Zen master Yogi Berra so wisely noted, “You can’t think and hit at the same time.” To be able to do this, the form must be mastered first. Without mastery of the form of your swing, there is no chance to hit the ball. One of baseball’s greatest hitters, switch-hitter Tony Gwynn, used to take 500 swings from each side of the plate every day before a game (and in the off-season). He knew the value of form to his success, and he never let up perfecting it.
The challenge of writing the 5–7–5 haiku is the challenge of adhering to a particular form without making the form obvious. This is a key concept. A good 5–7–5 haiku does not bring notice to the form itself; rather, one experiences the “haiku moment” without noticing the form. Form and moment blend as one experience, one unified moment. This is hard to achieve, and I believe it’s a challenge that is not so easily dismissed. When one sees bad acting, it’s usually the case that an actor’s form is either absent or too obvious. One should experience an actor’s performance by forgetting that the person is acting, and experience the character as living in their presence. One of my brothers, on seeing one of my performances, paid me the very highest compliment by saying afterwards, “I forgot you were my brother up there.” If one writes a quality 5–7–5 haiku, the experience should be the same: one should “forget” and not even notice that the 5–7–5 form is being employed.
In Zen thought, the yin-yang nature of the universe is central. The duality and balance of form and inspiration is what creates the whole of any art form, and haiku should be no exception. When haiku writers disregard form, they disregard one of the essences of holistic art. This is not to suggest that haiku that does not follow 5–7–5 has no form. But the form it seems to have currently is more akin to modern “free verse” poetry as exemplified in William Carlos Williams and other free verse poets.
This free verse style (i.e. no pre-set structure or form such as 5–7–5 represents) dominates the world of English haiku. English haiku, as a form of poetry, looks to find and express a moment of insight into the nature of the world through juxtaposition of words in a brief, surprising, and insightful manner. Brevity of syllables is encouraged, but there is no prescribed amount. 17 syllables is begrudgingly considered the absolute maximum.
This may be one of the reasons few modern English haiku writers embrace 5–7–5. As in most instances of evolution and change, form is usually the first thing jettisoned. Nobody writes sonnets anymore, and nobody in today’s theatre writes in blank verse. Many young Shakespearean actors are difficult to understand because, while they can grasp the raw emotions of Shakespeare’s characters, they have not mastered the style and delivery of the language. Similarly, I’ve experienced few haiku writers who write in 5–7–5. Perhaps the form itself is too challenging for today’s haiku writers.
Every Japanese art form, from origami to the various styles of martial arts, has its form, or kata. Japanese haiku kata traditionally consists of 17 on (“sounds”) in 5–7–5 phrases written in one line, containing a kireji (“cutting word”) and a kigo (seasonal word or reference). Mastery of the form has been as critical to the development of haiku as the moment it expresses. While admittedly very much imperfect, the English 5–7–5 style, with syllables substituting for on and punctuation substituting for kiregi, comes about as close as we can get to replicating the Japanese kata. Adapting an art form from one culture to another is always tricky business, and one should take some care in how it is done, but neither should one avoid trying to adapt the sense of form within the artistic expression.
I had the pleasure of watching a Kabuki actor perform in a Kabuki adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello. He played the character of Emilia, Desdemona’s lady-in-waiting. I found it both a riveting and instructive experience to watch him adapt Shakespearean English poetic form into Japanese kabuki theatre. Working with him were some of my acting students, and he “trained” them in Kabuki movement and style for the production. The students spoke English, while he spoke Japanese and performed the more elaborate styles of kabuki. One can also see interesting examples of cultural adaptation by considering Akira Kurosawa’s adaptations of King Lear into Ran and MacBeth into Throne of Blood. Conversely, his Seven Samuri was adapted by director John Sturges into the classic western The Magnificent Seven.
As imperfect as it may be, the 3-line 5–7–5 English version of haiku is as close as we may be able to come in terms of adapting into English the Japanese haiku kata. Perfecting this form can be an excellent way to re-introduce a sense of mastery of form to the writing of haiku. Doing so is a path to re-capturing the spirit of yin-yang inherent in the natural, seasonal world that haiku attempts to capture.
Lastly, the 5–7–5 form can add to the haiku something that I think is at the heart of all humanity — the power of storytelling. A quality 5–7–5 haiku can add a deeper element to the story of a haiku. Whether this is desirable or not I do not know, but I do believe that narrative can add an extra element of depth to a moment. Humans love stories, and have so since the invention of cave art. The 17 syllables of the 5–7–5 form offer the added capability to go just a little more in depth with a moment. After all, how deep — really — is a moment?
When one drinks tea, one does not drink it in a thimble. There is too little tea to really enjoy the tea’s essence and flavor. One might drink it in a shot glass, and enjoy the single swallow offered, but if you are a tea lover, perhaps that is not enough. We serve tea in a cup, so as to allow the tea to tell its full story. One sip, and another; a third; and even a fourth allows the tea to reveal all its essence to the drinker. The tea drinker comes away with more satisfaction from the tea than if they were allowed merely a thimble or a shot glass, and the tea is allowed to tell its story in more depth.
A 5–7–5 haiku, because of its “extra” syllables, can tell the story of a moment with more depth if done well. Naturally there are pitfalls to this approach, as more syllables can become merely ornamental to the moment (the use of too many articles is a particular pitfall). If handled well, however, the 5–7–5 haiku can allow us a deeper look into an experienced moment, and allow that story to develop with more depth of insight.
The two stories at the opening of this essay are instructive for us in considering the 5–7–5 haiku. In the first, we learn that the Tao is in everything, even in what we find distasteful or disgusting. In the second, we re-phrase Mozart’s question to “how many syllables are too many?” 5–7–5 haiku contains as much of the Tao as any briefer haiku. And in a truly well-written 5–7–5 haiku, which syllables would you cut out?
The poor reputation of the 5–7–5 haiku is attributable to the misinformed concept of haiku in general western culture, and too many people are first exposed to 5–7–5 haiku in its worst manifestations and clichés. I think serious haiku writers avoid the 5–7–5 format simply to avoid being associated with cliché haiku. Perhaps they are right to do so. But I believe there is much to gain in mastering the 5–7–5 technique as a form of the art. Form teaches discipline, and only when we’ve mastered the form can we stretch beyond it. Working in the 5–7–5 form teaches that discipline better than anything else by virtue of the exactness of its form, and is worthy of any haiku writer’s consideration. It is worth defending, and re-claiming within the English haiku tradition. -twl
