My Life Rearranged

 How can we better understand what a haiku is, beyond its 17 syllables, if not through example?

I invite you to savor—perhaps with a cup of tea or coffee—a text from the volume “Survolând păpădiile” (“Flying Over the Dandelions”) by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu—an essential voice in the landscape of contemporary Romanian haiku. 

(Introduction by Ramona Bădescu)

My Life Rearranged

this beach of pebbles

after the wave

my life rearranged

— Gregory Piko (Australia)

I believe the emphasis falls on this—this beach of pebbles. The one I contemplate and evoke now. The one that reveals something unexpected and fascinating. The one I offer you too, as a reason for admiration and reflection.

Colloquial language knows how to say, elliptically and succinctly, only what needs to be said. It doesn't overload the text with details or descriptive adjectives. This is enough and, at the same time, extremely expressive—it calls you in, to see, to feel, and to understand the situation.

The text continues just as laconically and, in the end, slides—more than suggestively—away from what the wave actually does (moves the pebbles and leaves them in a new, different order) to a completely implausible effect: it (re)orders the author's life (and the reader's, if they too consent to the revelation).

Through this simple substitution—replacing the image of the constant shifting of pebbles moved by waves with that of a human life—what we see becomes a parable, and the text takes on the aesthetic value of a haiku.

The revelation, in human terms, is actually an acceptance born under the influence of an image that becomes a vision. There is no disorder—any change under the ceaseless assault of life’s waves is simply another unexpected and unparalleled order.

This wave is just the moment someone understood and made peace with their fate. The pebbles had known this all along. And had been telling it to him, again and again, in vain.

The poem tells us without insisting—it simply gives us something to think about. It draws our attention to the fact that this has already happened to someone.

(Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

The Persistence of Memory

 wave after wave –

beneath the sunlit eyelid

days of long ago

one more heave –

the wave silences its foam

in the sands

end of season –

with no witnesses wave by wave

washing the earth

poems by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

These three poems brought to mind Salvador Dalí’s famous surrealist work. What connects them is the ephemeral: memories, time passing inexorably, leaving behind only dust, and earth.

Perhaps nowhere do we become more acutely aware of the ambivalence of our being—as Pico della Mirandola declared, neither celestial nor earthly—than on a deserted beach. Beyond all trace of the carnival of vanities.

In the end, the only unseen witness that accompanies us throughout life is our conscience... The rest is just a story.

Comment by Ramona Bădescu

Seventeen Seashells

summer haiku –

gathering from the beach

seventeen seashells

  Magda Țocu

Magda Țocu’s poem came to me like a glove (in this heatwave), especially since many people wonder whether a haiku must have exactly 17 syllables. Now, I’m not sure what to say, but it seems there are indeed 17 seashells in the photo (quite by chance).

There are some well-respected authors who believe that YES, a haiku should have this exact number of syllables, and not just anyhow, but in the 5-7-5 pattern (with the middle line being the longest).

At a major international conference in Tokyo, around 1999, it was agreed that for those who can’t be so precise, a deviation of plus/minus 2 syllables is acceptable.

On the opposite end of the spectrum are those who don’t count syllables at all—because not every three-line poem with 17 syllables is a haiku, right? In the end, one way or another, you can stitch them together. But is that enough? Or is it necessary?

What is, in fact, the essence of haiku (beyond the form that suits each writer)? I’ll write more about that next time.

Until then, here’s another poem by the same author—one with a particular mystery and something... more.

sunrise offshore –

the fisherman’s thoughts

left behind on land

Comment by Ramona Bădescu

Stormy Sea

foamy sea –

the sommelier pours

only champagne

***

the storm is over –

reaching shore with a lifebuoy

the moon

***

storm offshore –

my mother-in-law lost

her pickled peppers

Poems by Cezar Florin CiobÎcă

Yesterday's rain in the pockets

 sunrise on the beach –

in the pockets of your coat

yesterday's rain

Lavana Kray

Almost always, in a good haiku, the author appeals to raw sensations that, unexpectedly, recall an event—one that is more profound and more emotional. I'm trying to approximate that.

One of the partners, now alone, goes out early to the beach in the cool air and randomly grabs the other’s leftover coat. That’s how they realize, from the sensation of dampness, that yesterday, they had walked together in the rain.

The sensation is surprising and deeply moving. Vibrant. Maybe, in that damp pocket, two hands once rested—fingers intertwined.

Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

Signs on the Sand

signs on the sand –

entrusting the wave

with the whole story

— Clara Toma, from the volume “Signs on the Sand”

A story by the sea, most likely one of love.

The wave took the whole story with it (it left no trace), but it does not disappear: it is carried on by the sea's roar.

Both people and waves are ever-changing, yet the sea remains—always there, waiting in the same place, holding a treasure of memories gathered over millennia.

Beyond the simple image of a drawing erased by a wave lies the fragility of love, but also the trust that the sea will keep the secret; each person will recognize only their own story. This is one of the sea’s eternal fascinations.

That word, “entrusting,” gives the poem weight—it suggests a vow made before a trustworthy, powerful, and mysterious witness.

(Comment by Ramona Bădescu)

Indeed, the entire charm of the text lies in the word “entrusting.”

If you stop to think about it, the author has already understood and accepted that everything that happened to her has no chance of being preserved, of lasting, of being known, recognized, or remembered. That the wave will quickly erase everything. And no one will know anything anymore. The story will merge with all the others the waves have stolen and tangled.

And so she had the courage to feel that her story, too, is woven into the all-knowing wave. That the wave has absorbed it. That it will always tell it to those ears that know how to listen with humility.

(Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

Seaside Haiku

 his voice –

trying one by one

every seashell

Poem by Claudia Ramona Codăau

Translated version by Ana Drobot