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

Naming Directly

 Regarding the presentation of the emotion‑object in haiku—that is, the crow, the nightingales, the song, and the dragonfly mentioned above—I find it especially significant that the naming of such objects is always direct. Haiku avoids metaphor, simile, or personification. In the most successful haiku, nothing is likened to anything else. As Bashō said: “Learn about the pine from the pine; learn about the bamboo from the bamboo.” Learn what a pine is, not what it resembles—this seems to have been Bashō’s intention. I feel that this avoidance of metaphor or comparison stems from the poet’s need to convey directly and concretely the vision—and only the vision—that he experienced. 

(Keneth Yasuda - The Japanese Haiku)

To name directly—that is, not through a figure of speech. Simply evoke things, don’t distort them by turning them into literature. Rely on the unaltered impact of their presence.

However, it’s important to note that the word avoids is used, not eliminates. That nuance is a welcome one. It’s not a prohibition.

The emotion-object must not lose its objective impact. Any intervention upon it weakens and diminishes it.

This also means that the author isn’t necessarily aiming to convey, with sincerity, what they usually think they felt—their subjective, momentary impression. The vision must carry objectivity.

Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

Incompleteness

 I've said it before and I enjoy repeating it. I take pleasure in haiku written by authors in the Romanian language. And in what they’ve managed to achieve. From time to time, I discover something new. Something that deserves to be highlighted, to guide others in writing better and becoming aware of what they are doing.

I’ve used the word above in connection with allusiveness and fragmentation. As is natural for the haiku form, the text tends to use strings of words that don’t aspire to the length of full sentences. No one forbids sentences, of course, but authors naturally gravitate toward shorter phrases.

It’s normal for these fragments to have a kind of vibrational sense of incompleteness, to suggest continuations. To seem—or actually be—the result of omissions or compressions. Also, since haiku adopts a colloquial style, the compressed fragment can imply a certain hastiness in speech or a dramatization of the situation.

When a fragment is the shorter part of a text, its incompleteness can become much more striking. I’ve chosen three poems by Șerban Codrin in which the meaning of the phrases clearly depends on what follows. As they are, they merely tease us. The second part, just as concise, tells us what it's all about:

no matter how humble – / only when gathering potatoes / do we fall to our knees

no matter how poor – / here and there eaves / full of nests

together with the poor woodworm – / from the same wooden spoon / we eat greedily

These texts illustrate how, by initially evoking an incomplete circumstance, the reader is placed on alert. Incompleteness keeps you on the edge of your seat.

Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

Thalatta

 a cry in the wasteland - 

spilled as if from a seashell

the sound of the sea

Thalatta was what inspired me. The fact that the sea and the Greeks’ cry are historically recorded—real, objective. But just as important is that, mirroring the event mentioned by historians, there is also a certain intimate occurrence, like in the well-known haiku the avalanche and the first kiss.

All I did was choose three reference points, but Blaga’s poem can inspire you too—you’ll find plenty of material in it.

Good luck.

(Poem and comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

It also matters whether you're ready to use the right words.

 without illusions –

fom among the cherries I choose

the bitter ones

(Șerban Codrin)

storm warning –

bitter almonds on

the wedding cake

(Lavinia Georgescu Scripcaru)

I notice a certain immaturity in the way some people approach the exceptionally valuable tools that language offers freely to anyone. Bitter cherries and bitter almonds are two phrases that allude to the same idea.

A certain spiritual maturation protects you from the inherent disappointments of fanciful illusions. Life experience endures everything and reinterprets it. The taste of life, as you go through more, becomes richer and more refined. One begins to feel that cuteness and sweetness are beggarly, impoverished illusions.

without illusions –

fom among the cherries I choose

the bitter ones

(Șerban Codrin)

To truly value the fruits of life, you need a more awakened and seasoned consciousness, one that senses that the gifts are ambiguous and paradoxical — both sweet and bitter. Complex and infinitely nuanced. And to choose them while rejecting those that are merely easy, idle bargains.

Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

The Art of the Visionary Skid

The hybrid style of a haiku text, although it employs discursive language, tempers it to serve the needs of the poem. Thus, without aiming to eliminate sentences altogether, it favors the use of fragments—shorter phrases that are syntactically well-formed. Through omission, suppression, and ellipsis, it succeeds in targeting things it does not explicitly name. This results in an economical adjustment of the text, making it richer, denser, and more charged.

A Statement Report

The final appearance of such a text resembles that of a statement report. Its terseness manages to overlay an ironic hush upon the formulation of the text. Usually, words that refer to the author, to the human being, to emotions and feelings, to abstractions and concepts, to spirits and ghosts, as well as archaisms, neologisms, and regionalisms are eliminated. Everything that hinders a smooth, uninterrupted reading is removed.

Reading such a text initially involves filling in these omissions and completing the real referent being targeted. Undoubtedly, the author’s purging is accompanied by clues that help the reader enjoy both the author’s skill and the potential of the language available to him.

A discursive-format text says something explicitly. It asserts or claims, indicates or specifies, declares or displays, presents, recounts, narrates. With slight differences among the modes of speech listed, all suggest an overt firmness in communication, in emission and reception. The rhetorical structure of the text—its syntactic formatting—is what specializes it for this. But it also limits it. Words are trapped in a syntactic corset that restricts their freedom and their virtual play.

reading at dawn – 

from the book my palm

gathers pollen

(Șerban Codrin)

The discursive performance of this text lies in its way of observing and recording what happens as objectively as possible. What is seen and what the character does. Without any subjective, emotional, or ornamental addition. Dry, barren. Like a police officer rigorously recording an event according to procedural standards.

It therefore seems natural for a reader unfamiliar with haiku irony to take the discursive style seriously. And the flawless, clear, to-the-point, fluid text with normal word order and correct grammar might lead them to believe that this is the (somewhat withered) charm of the poem. When, in fact, the author has cleverly staged a trick.

The Role of This Trick

Its purpose is to increase the tension of the text. To create, ironically, a false trail. And, of course, to hide or make more difficult access to the gateway that leads toward the poem’s suggestive weave.

The Allusive Weaving

The haiku’s hybrid text means that it is, as the marketing phrase goes, “two-in-one.” That it is both discursive and allusive, simultaneously. The discursive text, being more assertive, quantitatively dominates the allusive one. Or, put differently, it conceals it. One might say it is harder to spot—being more reserved, perhaps shyer. It usually acts only as a gateway to the allusive weave. The same poem cited earlier serves as a perfect illustration of how the allusive layer appears, behaves, and is read.

Usually, the evoked scene, no matter how bland, captures the reader’s attention. It hypnotizes and captivates them. It leads them to settle simplistically for what they see or feel. It fixes them on an image. The gateway into the realm of allusive language is too cleverly hidden. And, in a way, this is natural, because we are not dealing with a trivial game, but with a concealment.

It’s about reading differently the words I gather pollen. The pollen may be brushed off the page or collected for a purpose that the reader must imagine. These two words are a trigger for this silent reading. They spark a search and a transformation of meaning. They help us reevaluate the words in the discursive text. Dawn reading allusively skids toward the dawn of life, of youth. The book also skids toward the formative, beneficial effects of reading on a young person’s personality. The treasured pollen becomes a kind of gold—vital fertility.

We are already dealing with a true allusive weave—invisible and silent. Nonexistent in the text, yet spreading through the poem’s subtext. Some of the words in the discursive layer have slipped toward other meanings, and the entire poem has undergone an allegorical transfiguration, toward another symbolic achievement.

A haiku is valid, rich, and complex only if it grants access to a vision. Confirmation, however, comes only if the reader also knows, cultivates, and practices the art of the visionary skid.

Corneliu Traian Atanasiu – Un cerc de linguri (A circle of spoons), comentarii la poeme haiku de Șerban Codrin Denk (comments for haiku poems by Serban Codrin Denk), page 21

Rearranged Life

 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'm contemplating and evoking now. The one revealing something unexpected and fascinating. The one I’m offering you, too, as a source of admiration and reflection.

Colloquial language knows how to say, elliptically and succinctly, only what needs to be said. It doesn’t burden the text with details or descriptive adjectives. This is enough, and at the same time, deeply expressive — it draws you in, invites you to see, to feel, and to understand the moment.

The text continues just as laconically and, in the end, slips — more than suggestively — from what the wave actually does (shuffles the pebbles and leaves them in a new, different arrangement) to a completely improbable effect: it (re)orders the poet’s life (and the reader’s, if they’re open to the same revelation). Through this simple substitution — the image of constantly shifting stones moved by the waves for the image of human life — what we witness becomes a parable, and the text takes on the aesthetic value of a haiku.

The revelation, in human terms, is actually an acceptance under the sway of an image that becomes a vision. There is no disorder — every change under the constant assault of life’s waves is simply a new, unexpected, and unmatched order. This wave is just the moment when someone understood and made peace with fate. The pebbles had known this all along. They had always been telling him so — but in vain.

The poem tells us this without insistence. It simply gives us something to ponder. It gently draws our attention to the fact that this has already happened — to someone.

*

The allegory is clear: we speak of pebbles, and they quietly speak to us — about ourselves.

(Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

The Avenged Desolation - comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

The poem below is one of Bashō’s most well-known.The author’s notation is sober and austere. Objective. There’s no lyrical tremor added to the text. Still, two parts of the poem vaguely take shape.

The second part, however, seems merely a dating of the event mentioned. Or perhaps the first part is just a fact set within the broader, more expansive atmosphere of an autumn dusk.

The dusk doesn’t appear out of nowhere—it is simply a complement, a completion of the event. Or the act of the crow is an expressive illustration of the autumn dusk.

on a dry branch

a crow has settled from its flight

autumn dusk

In the poem that follows, the author, Șerban Codrin, is from the outset more daring. Desolation is evoked through the lens of autumn. At first glance, the two elements of the scene seem entirely different—the season and an abandoned musical instrument. Yet their juxtaposition, precisely through its silence, suggests continuity, an escalation of desolation to the point of explosion. The damaged guitar can no longer even whimper. A wood fiber snaps—perhaps in solidarity with the unbearable situation. Perhaps as compensation for human helplessness, it is the wood itself—a symbol of inertia and passivity—that reacts.

autumn desolation –

inside the guitar one more fiber

snaps

The break in the text is clearly a provocation. An opportunity to ease a back-and-forth between the two parts. To call upon their suggestive powers and visionary slippage. It is no longer merely an image—from the beginning, it is only a pretext for a kind of story. The whole poem is pierced by a tremor of rebellion beyond human power. Nature takes its revenge.

Waves of Haiku - Summer 2025

 Choose your favorite from the sea themed poems by three Romanian haiku masters:

1.

flying seagull –

suddenly the coolness

of a fan

Șerban Codrin

2.

wind all day long –

a heap of thoughts

out of place

Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

3.

the old fisherman

pulling a line from the moon –

the sky unraveling

Eduard Țară

The Flavour of the Breeze

 the flavor of the breeze –

stealthily the wave steals

sand from under my soles

In the subtext, the mycelial filaments add meaning.

Savoring the breeze, the character is unaware of the trick the wave is playing on him.

Emotion threatens his stability from head to toe.

(Haiku poem and comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)