Clarified Meanings (VII)

Haiku originates from the three-line stanza called hokku, the opening stanza of a linked poem. Endowing it with a kireji — in fact, with a juxtaposition — turns it into an independent poem and can at the same time enrich its content. The joining of the two parts is both a challenge and a suggestion. Initially, this involved a simple interruption of the text, which may be felt as a silence in which the two parts are examined carefully and perhaps emotionally. They are contemplated. Reflecting upon them, more inventive authors dared increasingly often to write two different parts, to allow the autonomy of the parts to unfold. And the blatant discontinuity of the text. There is no question of some text having been cut; from the very beginning, it is conceived as a juxtaposition of two independent divisions — distinct, different, separate to the point of divergence. It is out of the question for there to be any continuity of the text, whether in formulation or in meaning. Thus, the distinctive structure of haiku is functionally confirmed. The discontinuity of the text is deliberate and constitutive. In this way, juxtaposition demonstrates not only its formal presence in the poem, but also the effects that have become an essential requirement in writing it. Corneliu Traian Atanasiu

BOOK REVIEW BY ANA DROBOT - Corneliu Traian Atanasiu – Through the Broken Shingle, Hay from the Big Dipper (How to Read and Write Haiku)

 

Corneliu Traian Atanasiu – PRIN ȘINDRILA SPARTĂ FÎN DIN CARUL MARE (CUM SĂ CITIM ȘI SĂ SCRIEM HAIKU). Editura PIM, Iași, 2026, 184 p.

 

Corneliu Traian Atanasiu – Through the Broken Shingle, Hay from the Big Dipper (How to Read and Write Haiku). PIM Publishing House, Iași, 2026, 184 pp.

 

An account of a haiku community, why Bashō’s haiku is not an exemplary haiku—and, above all, why his style is not the only way to write authentic haiku—why imitating Bashō does not produce genuine haiku, what the features and functioning of the haiku poem are that we must take into account in order to write authentic haiku, and why, in fact, we are familiar with and find accessible the style of the haiku poem through analogies with well-known texts from Western literature—these are some of the issues and questions discussed in this volume.

“Savoring the moment on a symbolic porch” is the subtitle that opens the volume and immediately introduces its subject through the reader’s first contact, as part of the general public, with the haiku poem. The chosen poem is the following: “grass up to the threshold – / the last pillars of the porch / supporting the sky,” written by Cecilia Bîrcă. The explanations that follow prepare the beginner reader to understand the haiku poem, as follows: “Nothing in the poem above is pompously rhetorical or sweetly lyrical. The style of the text is sober and ascetic. [...] It is not the author who insists on stirring any emotion in us or urging us toward anything in particular. The image before us conveys everything without pathos and without any tremor. It merely gives us pause for thought” (p. 6).

The volume then presents its purpose and the context in which it was written. The book Through the Broken Shingle, Hay from the Big Dipper (How to Read and Write Haiku) contains the 20-year experience of Master Corneliu Traian Atanasiu within the Romanian Kukai group, where, through monthly and weekly contests, poems were commented on, the mechanisms by which haiku works were identified, the structure of this poetic form was understood, and a Romanian haiku practice took shape, moving beyond the idea that the only way to write good haiku is to imitate the Japanese. However, the competition format remains based on the traditional Japanese model, in which apprentices write poems, submit them anonymously for voting, and then the authors are revealed and the poems discussed. The author himself describes the aim of the volume as follows: “This final volume makes use of previously collected material, which it organizes more systematically. It does not abandon the essayistic, ironic style, which is more appealing to the general public. But it makes abundant use of poems to illustrate in practice what would otherwise be a dull and dry theorization” (p. 9).

The next subsection, “This Remains a Confession Between Us,” conveys a warning about how to begin writing haiku—namely, by reading many good poems and, above all, “at least a few under the guidance of someone knowledgeable” (p. 10). Master Atanasiu’s book shows, from the author’s own experience, the reactions of beginners when reading good haiku and also provides responses to these reactions, offering explanations intended to shift the uninformed reader’s perspective on what poetry—and especially the haiku poem—has meant to them until recently.

The author of the volume refers to the haiku poem not as “short poetry,” but as “laconic poetry” (p. 12). This designation is meant as a warning: haiku is not easy to write without understanding its mechanism, without knowing how to truly read it. An analogy is made with the story of the emperor’s clothes, referring to the “nudity of the text” (p. 13) in haiku, which is a poem lacking the usual figures of speech found in Western lyrical poetry.

Indeed, the second haiku presented in the volume gradually introduces the reader to various ways of understanding the haiku poem and to its defining traits, which catch the beginner’s attention: “cast-iron cauldron – / moonlight jumps / into the polenta” (Costin Iliescu) (p. 10). The reader may react by wondering where the figures of speech are, where the poetry is. Hence the “nudity” of the text, explained a few pages later.

Haiku represents a challenge through the way it leads the reader onto a “false trail”: “The false trail is a strategically placed syntactic construction, used ironically in the text with the intention of diverting the reader from the true, deeper meaning of the text” (p. 14).

First, the haiku poem must flow naturally, as if it were recording a fact in a straightforward, objective, and observational manner, as in the following example: “reading at dawn – / from the book with my palm / I gather pollen” (Șerban Codrin) (p. 14). Then the meaning of the poem is intertwined with an allusive one. From a simple described action—the gathering of pollen with the hand from the pages of a book—upon rereading, the poem slips, through suggestive words, toward other meanings: “Reading at dawn is now understood as reading in the dawn of life, a formative stage, and the pollen becomes a kind of acquisition of spiritual values, the grains that will fertilize and enrich one’s life” (p. 15).

It should be noted that a haiku poem does not mean merely creating images or relying on beautiful imagery: “The haiku text does not aim to evoke an image for its own sake, for its beauty, to be admired. Rather, it is interested in bearing witness, through a subtle arrangement, to a certain visual truth” (p. 27).

A deeper understanding of a haiku poem is described as follows: “There are not two separate texts. There is only one, predominantly rhetorical text, into which accidents and deviations also slip. Once noticed, they take over initiative and control. They make one think. They suggest. And silently, they add an allusive, subtextual fabric to the text. Allusive reading is a leisurely one, an adventure for the reader who ventures into a treasure land with only a barely sketched map” (p. 16).

Master Atanasiu’s style of explaining the understanding of the haiku poem is one that engages the reader, much like a literary text. His comments are far from lacking expressiveness, and thus they entice the beginner reader to explore this special type of poetry, haiku. We are not dealing merely with explanations; it feels more like listening to an experienced storyteller with literary talent, speaking to us about the charm of the haiku poem. This connects to the motto at the beginning of the book, referring to the style of literary criticism as defined by Nicolae Manolescu: “To succeed in this, criticism must not be dull, boring, or off-putting. The critic is an altruistic reader, who reads for the pleasure of others, not just for their own pleasure. Among the many roles we can imagine for literary criticism, the most important remains that of awakening the reader within us. Călinescu liked a verse by a German Romantic poet referring to the poet: if you strike the magic word, the world begins to sing. If you strike the magic word, literature begins to sing. And the reader begins to hear its song” (p. 5).

The subtitles are themselves enticing, defining the reading of the haiku poem in a particularly attractive way, such as, for example: Accepting Nudity or Changing the Track. The author knows how a beginner discovers the haiku poem and therefore guides them patiently and expressively, opening up new perspectives on this poem, which thus becomes complex rather than a simple short poem about nature—as it might initially and superficially appear, if one were not guided through the way this poetic form actually works. We thus see that a simple definition such as the 5-7-5 syllable pattern, three lines, and a nature-based subject tells us nothing about the haiku poem. It is not enough to look at nature in order to write haiku.

The shock of the absence of figures of speech is, it seems, a carefully calculated one: “The nudity of the text is linked to intentions that the author has deliberately embedded in the formulations used. The reasons are multiple. One is precisely this element of surprise, even if initially it is a negative one. Another is that, constructed in this way, the text mutes emotion, which the reader will only discover when they search for and find the subtext, the implicit meaning of the poem. But the most important of the author’s intentions is to challenge the reader” (p. 17).

Indeed, the haiku poem requires an active reader, one who collaborates with the author and is able to discover its various layers. Master Atanasiu distinguishes between rhetorical and anti-rhetorical style: “Rhetorical style (as a style of literary formulation) is one that the reader is accustomed to. It is one that subordinates and guides them authoritatively. And in this comfortable way, it provides the security and ease of effortless understanding. Rhetorical formulations keep the reader in an environment where they feel at home. The anti-rhetorical or allusive style unsettles them, although for the haiku author it is merely an invitation to cooperate. An ironic call, indeed, to detect and uncover the layer of suggestion and indirect hints hidden beneath the appearance of nudity” (p. 17).

Regarding the idea of textual provocation, Master Atanasiu links the emergence of the haiku poem in Western literature to a spirit of experimentalism that, at a certain point, permeates the artistic world: “The evolution of art has moments when not only old frameworks, but also content, ideas, and emotions no longer fully satisfy the public. At such times, authors appear who revolutionize outdated codes and propose new ones. I believe the emergence of haiku in Western literature was such a moment” (p. 19). For this reason, the audience was and remains open to a new poetic experience.

Ultimately, the haiku poem represents one facet of poetry. The poetic experience cannot be fully defined according to a fixed template. Otherwise, it would no longer be called art. Creativity would no longer exist. Poetry has been and continues to be multiple in form—not only in the case of haiku. Western poetry has also known, and continues to know, experimental forms in which language is colloquial and stripped of the usual figures of speech that create lyricism.

The author of the volume presents various mistaken perceptions held by writers who claim to write haiku, including the idea that writing like Bashō means writing authentic haiku poems. The problem lies in a style that is neither fragmentary, nor laconic, nor allusive, but instead reduced to a “compliant exposition” (p. 20). Atanasiu emphasizes that “Shiki revolutionized the hokku poem, endowing it with a kireji and renaming it haiku” (p. 20). Thus, Bashō did not write haiku, but hokku, despite being called the father of the haiku poem. Returning to Bashō would therefore mean returning to an outdated way of writing.

Among the techniques described by Atanasiu as personal and original is also the discussion of procedures that have already become classical and are well known to experienced haiku readers and writers: juxtaposition. Atanasiu notes that in hokku there is no juxtaposition, which means that it does not have the two-part structure of the haiku poem. Thus, “With the patenting of a new three-line format, haiku has two parts, and it is up to the author’s discretion to take advantage of this opportunity to abandon, as much as possible, the discursive style and to rely on the allusive one, which will enrich the content of the text. It will make it more comprehensive, more complex, more dynamic and more tense” (p. 21).

For Master Atanasiu, laconism represents “the compensation of brevity” (p. 22). Moreover, a laconic poem does not simply mean a short poem in terms of length: “Laconism is not [...] a quantitative adjustment of the text according to the 5-7-5 syllable canon, but a qualitative operation of renouncing certain literary communicative conventions that are excessively present in Western poetry” (p. 23). The laconic style, though apparently brief, also involves attention to what can be inferred, implied, and imagined further. It refers to what the haiku text suggests. Laconism “requires the use of less discursive language in favor of the allusive one. One must also read the silences, those found between the lines, as well as the tacit meanings of the subtext. Metaphorically speaking, it is a technique of eloquent omission that speaks while increasing meaning by economizing words” (p. 23). Thus, “The elements presented in the text cannot be shown in detail; they are only roughly sketched, barely outlined, merely suggested” (p. 26).

Atanasiu emphasizes that if the haiku poem is short and lacks the usual figures of speech found in Western poetry, “This does not mean that it will settle for a poor, meager, and humble content” (p. 25). On the contrary. It is precisely through its brevity, its reduction to essentials, and what it does not state directly that the poem gains depth. Thus, the haiku poem “will take advantage of the depth of elliptical expression and enjoy the effects obtained: ambiguity and indeterminacy. The haiku style does not arise in an empty space. The laconism it adopts has always been cultivated by spoken language and by the human inclination toward wit. The only obstacle is that modern people neglect or undervalue it, considering it unceremonious, inelegant, careless, or underdeveloped” (p. 25).

We can, to some extent, draw parallels with the textual minimalism of Hemingway, for whom every word was carefully chosen, with nothing unnecessary included. All excess words were deliberately removed by Hemingway. Apparently simple, his text carried a stronger semantic load. In this way, the technique of the haiku poem becomes more familiar. It all began from a necessity, namely Hemingway’s profession as a journalist, where there was a word limit and therefore words had to be chosen with great care. Of course, Hemingway’s texts were much longer than a haiku poem and belonged to prose. However, readers, once they become familiar with the haiku poem through reading Master Atanasiu’s book, may realize that certain aspects of haiku style are not entirely foreign to them and may thus reflect further along the path opened by this volume.

Atanasiu borrows the idea of the sketch in understanding the haiku poem from a Japanese author: “Masaoka Shiki, the one who ‘patented’ haiku, recommended it as a sketch of life (shasei). That is, a text that briefly evokes things or events that are nevertheless full of life, concrete, tangible, and not abstract thoughts. Because it was written with ink, they had to have the appearance and expressiveness of elegant brushstrokes applied to rice paper” (p. 27).

The parallels between the haiku style and that of well-known texts in Western literature, which the reader of Atanasiu’s volume may have already considered, are confirmed by the master himself. He gives the example of Daniel Defoe’s style, the author of the famous novel Robinson Crusoe, relying on Vera Călin’s analyses in the book The Eloquent Omission: “What can be noticed from the outset, and what ensures the broad accessibility of Defoe’s novel, is the disregard for ‘beautiful writing,’ the rejection of the rhetoric of ornamental redundancy that had become dominant in literature. The simple style of presenting facts, the focus on concrete, precise detail, on small everyday occurrences, on rendering the most tangible qualities of objects—even if it may seem to more demanding readers a kind of subliterature—is appreciated perhaps precisely for its charming artistic innocence. This is also due to the fact that the author is a storyteller, but not one who subjugates the reader by guiding them along the sequence of events; rather, he presents the facts indifferently, imperturbably, avoiding emotional or moral commentary, leaving interpretation to suggestion and implication” (p. 28–29).

The similarity with the haiku style is also linked to “the motivation for such an austere and arid style” (p. 29) in Defoe’s case. Thus, “Referring to Defoe, Vera Călin tells us that he ‘considers facts to be endowed with a persuasive force that dispenses with the transfigurative power of style. In its nakedness, Defoe’s writing allows us to feel the irresistible pressure of facts; it compels us to submit to their intrinsic message, which the novelist, in his own understanding a mere intermediary, wishes to transmit unaltered’” (p. 29).

We cannot help but think of the style of indirect communication specific to Japanese culture and society and, more broadly, to the Asian world. In the communicative practices of Asian societies, many words and details are left unsaid, suggested through body language, facial expressions, tone of voice, hesitations, and moments of silence. We thus observe how the haiku poem offers both familiar and unfamiliar elements in its communicative style, as well as both universal and culturally specific features.

The subtitles that attract our attention also help us fix our understanding of the haiku poem. We easily retain the features of haiku thanks to titles such as: Short and Comprehensive (p. 36) – concision –, The Realm of “As If” (p. 41) – the allusive style –, The Ironic Mood (p. 47), The Allusive Fabric (p. 55), Camouflage (p. 56) – the presence of the two layers of the poem –, The Magic of Juxtaposition (p. 75) – juxtaposition –, Difference and Correspondence (p. 77) – possible features of juxtaposition –, By the Way! (p. 80) – the allusive style –, The Eloquent Omission (p. 104) – based on Vera Călin’s observations on a new style in Western literature, related to “the evolution of a part of Western literature, especially prose and drama, toward a style she calls elliptical” (p. 104).

Atanasiu includes at the end a glossary of terms related to haiku: A Few Words from the Glossary of Those Laboring in the Field of Haiku (p. 135). The author justifies the presence of this glossary as follows: “Some are words that simply name what is already known about haiku, perhaps slightly more critically adjusted. However, most are terms that I have proposed and used in analyses without having encountered them beforehand. They seemed necessary to me for a vision more in tune with the poems written by Romanian authors today” (p. 135).

The volume concludes with Haiku Poems Included in the Volume (p. 171), where the poems used by Atanasiu to illustrate his guidance for beginners and his theories can be read one after another.

The book proposes a dialogue with a master who guides beginners with great patience and talent, but above all with great understanding, in comprehending and then writing the haiku poem. We are warned from the very beginning that we need someone experienced to accompany us in understanding this poetic form. As we progress through the volume, we realize that, in fact, the solution is offered within the very pages of this book.

Through the language of a charming storyteller, the volume helps us go through an authentic experience of a disciple guided by their master. We also get the impression that we are, in fact, reading a story, the author succeeding in creating and maintaining suspense regarding the explanations of how to understand certain haiku poems, for example, about which he promises we will learn more later.

At the same time, this volume represents a complex study of the contemporary haiku poem within the Romanian authors’ community Romanian Haiku. The study outlines the specific features of the haiku poem developed in this community, a haiku based on tension and an allusive subtext, a poem described by Atanasiu as having “zvâc” (snap/energy), a well-known expression within the community he guides. Atanasiu starts from existing critical literature on the haiku poem, develops his own theories and concepts based on his observations from working with authors in his community, as well as on theories such as Vera Călin’s idea of “eloquent omission.” The study is easy to read due to its friendly storytelling style, using simple language, but at times also colorful, colloquial, and occasionally with dialectal tones. It is also a study on the reception of the haiku poem by the general public, by beginners. It is also a popularization book on the haiku poem, aiming to make haiku accessible to anyone outside the Romanian Kukai haiku community.

After reading Corneliu Traian Atanasiu’s volume, readers—initially untrained, now trained—look again at the cover, the title, and the haiku on the back cover, and see everything with different eyes, from another perspective. From now on, the reader no longer needs to read the explanations also present on the back cover, selected from the book. They already know the lesson. They already see the poem “broken shingle – / grandfather unloads hay / from the Big Dipper” (Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu) (p. 68) through its two layers: the literal one, of a grandfather unloading hay from a cart (in Romanian, the Big Dipper is called the Big Cart), but also the allusive one: “the grandfather is somewhere above. [...] The grandfather is [...], since he is no longer among us, a mythical being with his residence in the Big Dipper. From there, he diligently unloads the hay of starlight through the gap in the shingle roof” (p. 68).

At first glance, the cover delights with its starry sky, which occupies more space than the hills sketched in darkness, as well as with the haiku that seems taken from a fantastic world, having no apparent connection to reality. The reader might think of an optical illusion, depending on the angle from which the scene is viewed. It could be an example of a gaze that completely sets aside what we know about how the world works, as in Zen Buddhist meditations. Yet deeper meanings also exist here. The principle of omission is present, as we are reminded on the back cover, and it is precisely what makes possible the interpretation related to a fantastic world: “The omission of specifying the real context (the hayloft) and its replacement through a synecdoche and the hole in the roof facilitate a contextual drift toward a fairytale setting. Everything slips into a state of drift and changes appearance. What was earthly acquires celestial radiance. A ruin becomes a place fit to host a fairy-tale scene” (p. 68).

Thus, the haiku poem can in fact be poetry in the true sense, by creating the possibility for the fantastic to enter reality. The poem on the back cover, also alluded to by the title of the volume, represents a clear way of captivating the reader, drawing them in, intriguing them, and provoking them to enter the world of haiku, discovering its various facets. It is one of those poems that immediately attract through the spectacular nature of their images and that remain in the memory of still-untrained readers. It remains, however, to be seen how such a poem can be written so as to be considered haiku. It only appears easy on the surface; in reality, it requires a solid understanding of the poem’s mechanism and its subtleties.

Sunrise

sunrise –

the sea wave pushes the moon 

toward the shore

(Ion Cuzuioc)

The moon, reflected in the water, seems to go to sleep with the wave, toward the shore. A good sign for the sun, which can now take its place in the sky. The theme of reflection and the use of false causality give this poem its charm: water cannot push the moon, but the reflection can create that illusion…

(comment by Ramona Bădescu)

Three Poems by Bashō

I’ll begin by noting a few things about three poems by Bashō:

on a withered branch / a crow has come to rest – / autumn dusk

with each breeze / the butterfly changes its place / on the willow

first snowflakes – / the leaves of yellow daffodils / bend downward

(my translations from Romanian into English - Ana Drobot)

Three translations into Romanian. I don’t know who translated them, and I suspect they were rendered via an intermediary language. As they stand, compared to more ambitious translations, they are actually quite decent. They sound good. Whoever translated them took care to speak in a flowing and poetic language. And to quote Bashō himself, the text flows like a thread of water over a bed of sand.

Aside from this lyrical intimacy, to me they don’t seem to bear the mark of poetry—at least not even an exotic kind. They are sensitive and austere notations of a moment in nature, captured with objectivity. The reader is confronted directly with the scene, placed within the atmosphere suggested by what’s said.

This careful presentation, in a single developed sentence, shows no intention of using a terse, fragmentary language. The text makes no allusions and reveals nothing hidden. The images are sufficient.

Reading such poems, it’s natural to believe that you too could write haiku. Easily. Because it resembles poetry you’ve already read in Romanian. Perhaps just a bit more austere.

It’s clear that the haiku has gained immensely through the kireji, and that Bashō never actually wrote haiku—he wrote hokku, three uninterrupted lines. Taking at face value the idea that one must imitate Bashō is a complete misunderstanding, and it’s good to be aware of that.

(Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

Typhoon at Sea

typhoon at sea –

Paganini practicing

the Caprices

(Marcela Ignatescu)

This kind of composition highlights the kireji, and the juxtaposition, to the fullest. The elements placed side by side are completely different. Yet, between them, a connection is born that overcomes the distance. They resemble each other in an utterly subtle way.

(comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

Abandoned Lighthouse

abandoned lighthouse –

here and there poppies

lighting up the shore

Cecilia Birca

This haiku poem was meant as an offering to the waves of the passage of time that make lighthouses collapse and put on the fires of poppies.

It suggests that it is summer and we are on a seashore — but far away from the bustle of the holiday season.

We find ourselves on the shore of life, where a true universal law is present: the conservation of energy, yet the continuous transformation of its forms.

The light of the lighthouse has been transfigured — into the fire of the poppies.

(Comment by Cecilia Birca)

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

The Wall

In order for it not to be just a bland poem depicting an atmosphere, a haiku should contain at least a hint — however vague — of the human presence. That way, it can aim toward transfiguration, allegory, or a parable.

maple leaf

not finishing its flight –

the whiteness of a Wall

(Eduard Țară)

Here, the human element doesn’t continue the reverie prompted by the autumn flight of the leaf. On the contrary, it bluntly blocks it — without any comment. Flat, expressionless.

The impression is that of a prison wall that forbids any emotional color. It immediately shuts it down. Locking it away.

What is the text about? Its speech isn’t univocal. A leaf and a wall are evoked. But the wording is allusive. It doesn't declaim rhetorically and it allows — in fact, it invites — the reader to explore other meanings. The leaf’s act and the statement about it become metaphorical. The flight is actually a lyrical gliding toward death. The wall points more to the whiteness, to the refusal of participation, to the incapacity to share any emotion. The two juxtaposed images express a relationship of opposition, of contrast.

Of course, if one were to stretch things, the whiteness of the wall could be seen as an invitation to carve into it the story of the leaf. But that would be bordering on nonsense.

It’s never a bad thing to return and feel just how true the collateral meanings of words can be.

At first, I thought of a prison, but now I feel that the implied Romanian interjection “zdup” (slang for jail) as a slam-down also halts any lyrical impulse of the leaf. It smashes the spell and the charm.

(Comment by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu)

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)