ayakashi
Earlier this morning I was thinking about the problem with writing a haiku. The easy part is figuring out the form (three lines; the first and third line have five beats and the middle has seven beats to it). What I find difficult is the idea of having to have a twist to the poem, something that illustrates the interconnectedness of ourselves and our natural world but with a surprise, something new (which, now I come to think about it, is the challenge of all poetry).
All of this started as I worked on a poem about an ayakashi; a Japanese word for a ghost appearing at sea during a shipwreck. My first draft of a haiku looked like this:
even the soft crabs
avoid the dead girl's bright eyes
in the snarled rigging
Then I thought about it and wondered if I placed the "surprise" (such as it is) too much in the middle of the poem, so I decided to re-write it. I am not sure if there is a huge amount of difference in the two, but I find it an interesting question regardless; this sentimentality I have over the dead.
even the soft crabs
in the snarled rigging avoid
the dead girl's bright eyes
It is curious we live in an era where sentimentality in art is frowned upon as being trite or unnecessary. For my part it is sentiment that connects me to this terrible and beautiful world. Why, then, do so many people act like they are disconnected? I tend to end up worrying about the dead more than I probably should. Especially when it comes to folklore about the ghosts of children. After all, that inability to feel connected to the rest of the world creates a sense of alienation while we are alive; who knows what it would do to a person who, once dead, is expected to be a literal part of this cosmos? Why are we caught up doing the same thing over and over? Is it simply a lack of imagination or something deeper? Will sentiment, in the end, be our saving grace? It is not the sort of question I expect answered; still, all those poor lost children does bothers me.
The waves at dawn have secrets to tell you
and all the pickle-black weeds washed ashore
worry about you. The sea groans, you knew
that. I can hear it too. I am so sure
it will be there – all the pain the waves tell,
the hurt the beach has – but still, you ignore
that. On the other side where the wave fell
and drew back – in that narrow space before
it falls back – that's me; because I can't leave.
I can't wander or sleep or say goodbye.
I am stuck there with all the roar and hiss
of waves. Blurred. Lost. Because I can't conceive
any other world than this. Because I
cannot conceive another world than this.