Tuesday, May 3, 2022

One year in haiku

Last year on Workers' Day weekend, our family went to the beach.  The house there lost electricity one day, so we had some memorably uncomfortable evening time without fans or light, trying to get our kids to settle and sleep.  But we eventually took a break in this struggle and went out as a family down to the beach and looked up at a beautiful night sky full of stars.  Rebekah pointed out the Milky Way galaxy to our kids.

That weekend I also had the thought that, as a personal challenge or discipline, I would try to write a haiku at the end of each day for a month.  The idea was to be more intentional in observing, more aware of senses and ordinary things, more descriptive and maybe less judgmental. I made it through the month, but Rebekah gave me a tiny blue notebook for these tiny poems, so I kept going. A year later, we were out at the same house by the beach for Workers' Day weekend (we were glad the electric stayed on this time).  I can't say I have a full 365 haiku, but maybe 2/3 of that.  What have I learned?

I've learned that the 5-7-5 syllable structure is a great starter prompt.  Sometimes I need a little structure.  I really admire Ernesto Cardenal's philosophy of simple, free verse people's poetry, so I try to keep that in mind, too.  I like the challenge of keeping it short, using everyday vocabulary, trying to isolate a single moment. 

I think it was a line in John Green's The Anthropocene Reviewed: "Pay attention to what you pay attention to."  As I sit down at the end of the day in the living room rocking chair, the things that come to mind are usually related to family and our shared experiences, unique moments of life here in Managua, or something in nature.  The exercise has pushed me to appreciate what I value but fail to notice. It is probably an exercise in gratitude, although I haven't usually thought about it in that way.  

Not all the moments that I write about are the good moments, though. Sometimes there is something that grabs my attention that is a really hard reality.  I don't know what to do with so much suffering that happens near us and all around the world.  Naming it, writing it can be one thing.

I have already shared some blog posts of these micropoems during 2021, so here is another sample from these more recent months.




Jan 1

the new year begins
with sounds of fire crackers
and car alarms, too




Jan 11

we work together
on a puzzle of the earth
there is so much blue





Jan 18

"how are you?" I ask
most days we open this way
"bien, gracias a Dios"




Jan 19

her profe tells me
"es muy inteligente"
and I'm proud of her





Feb 15

Rebekah called me
to come look at the sunset
we watched together




Feb 16

blossoming cactus
but we had no cameras
to take a picture




Feb 18

a box of crackers
and sitting outside to talk
were gifts from Jaime




Feb 28

in the park she finds
tamarindos on the ground
"for frescos," she says




Mar 4

I am awakened
a sudden rooftop rumbling
street cats fight and chase




Mar 20

little Eder walks
down the street with his new pet
a sheep named Julia





Mar 22

Lia turns twelve now
and her birthday gift's a watch
time amazes us






Mar 26

"¡Lleva escobas!"
he walks the street selling brooms
which he makes himself





Mar 28

bucket of water
balanced on her head, she walks
the dusty road home

[El Jasmín, Choluteca, Honduras]





Mar 29

one time she borrowed
from her savings group to go
to have her baby

[Los Araditos, Choluteca, Honduras]





Apr 2

preacher in the park
now reads silently, alone
we must all repent





Apr 6

In Tamarindo,
not far from the Pacific,
they served us fresh fish






Apr 12

churrasco, yucca,
cheesy rice, and the salad
this is Santa Cruz

[Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia]





Apr 14

Don Tito and I
walk along his streets of gold
which are concrete now

[Barrio Nueva Jerusalén, Santa Cruz]







Apr 21

our play casita
orange and green, up on the truck
off to baby James





Apr 23

too hot for most things
I pace, circling the house
thinking about rain




May 2

dark sand in our toes
we rinse off and say goodbye
a Pacific wave













No comments:

Post a Comment