2014 Henderson Haiku Contest
Haiku Society of America
First published in Frogpond 37:3, Autumn 2014, pages 138 to 144.
Judged by Tanya McDonald and Michael Dylan Welch

Emily Dickinson once wrote that “The soul should always stand ajar, ready to
welcome the ecstatic experience.” The poems we’ve selected from 739 entries for
the Haiku Society of America’s 2014 Henderson Haiku Contest all speak to some
degree of ecstatic experience found in life’s everyday mysteries. These
experiences have reached their authors—and us in turn as readers—because each
poet stood ajar, their doors open to what life had to tell them. We hope you
enjoy the ecstasies in these winning haiku.
—Michael and Tanya
First Place ($150)
county fair
second place ribbon
in an empty stall
Joe
McKeon
Strongsville, Ohio
This haiku not only captures a moment, but piques the
reader’s curiosity with unanswered questions. What happened to the occupant of
the stall after the judging was finished? Was it taken home? Auctioned off?
What kind of animal was it? Why was the ribbon left behind? How did its owner
feel with the second place designation? Proud? Disappointed? There is a whole
story in this poem, and it draws the reader in like good stories do. “County
fair” serves as a summer kigo, and with those two words, one can imagine the
scent of the barn, the sounds of the other animals, perhaps the crunch of hay
underfoot and the taste of dust. It’s a poem to linger in and let the
imagination roam.
—Tanya
I’m sure there’s much amusement to be found in a second-place ribbon winning
first place in this contest, but beyond that, the poem offers deeper
resonances. I find myself immediately engaged by the question of why the stall
is empty, and where the owner and animal are now. Was the second-place ribbon
forgotten because the winner was too busy tending to the animal after the fair?
Or was it forgotten because the animal’s owner was disappointed at not winning
first place? We can also wonder what sort of animal it was—a horse or rabbit or
chicken? County fairs are rich sources for haiku inspiration, and a distinctly
American seasonal subject. This poem demonstrates that even second place can
win first place after all.
—Michael
Second Place ($100)
junk car
the hum of bees
beneath the hood
John
Stevenson
Nassau, New York
To everything there is a season. This old car has found new life as a home to
bees. The hum of the motor is now replaced by the hum of bees. The rust of the
car makes me think of autumn for this poem, but I also think of the heat of
summer when the bees would be thriving the most. Wouldn’t it be interesting to
know what had happened to every car you ever owned? And wouldn’t it be a
pleasure to discover if one had found new life as a home for bees? A finely
crafted poem that says just enough and not too much.
—Michael
This car isn’t likely to rumble down the highway again,
isn’t likely to fulfill its purpose of transporting someone from one place to
another. It has become stationary, a home for bees, and they bring a new life
to it, buzzing where an engine once revved. It’s not being recycled, as would
happen if it were turned into scrap metal, but reused by the bees, and it’s
this reappropriation by nature of something man-made that hints at our
complicated place in the universe.
—Tanya
Third Place ($50)
the Christmas
after we told them
artificial tree
Joe
McKeon
Strongsville, Ohio
The mystery of this haiku is what grabbed my attention. It
does not state what was told, nor to whom. It could be the truth about Santa
Claus, or it could be something else. Whatever was revealed, the artificial
tree suggests that there is no longer a need for pretense. Perhaps the news was
not taken well, and Christmas no longer merits a real tree. It’s a poem that
keeps me wondering, both wanting to know the rest of the story, and leaving me
content to come to my own conclusions.
—Tanya
The mystery of this poem is the uncertainty of what was told to whom. That
Santa wasn’t real? That mom and dad were getting a divorce? The possibilities
are endless and far-ranging, and thus we may easily dwell in this poem to find
possible answers. The Christmas season, for those who celebrate it, is rife
with complex emotions, both happy and sad. This haiku bristles with tinges of
sadness, and hints at the growth of children who have learned something new
about life. In this way, like practically all haiku, this is a poem about
change.
—Michael
Honorable Mentions
(in no particular order)
a bit of rust
on the Chevy’s fender
harvest moon
Terri
L. French
Huntsville, Alabama
a lightning strike gives up a flower
Rob
Dingman
Herkimer, New York
forest clearing
a scapula
left for the moon
Scott
Mason
Chappaqua, New York
that time of year
moonlight fills
his empty chair
Phyllis
Lee
Sebring, Ohio
birding . . .
the unfamiliar path
home
Julie
Warther
Dover, Ohio
winter solstice
the tilt
of her hospital bed
Carolyn
Hall
San Francisco, California
first morning
firecracker papers
wander the streets
Joseph
Robello
Novato, California
I recently came across a quotation from Albert Einstein that struck me as
applying to haiku. He said that “The most beautiful thing we can experience is
the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the
emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in
awe, is as good as dead—his eyes are closed.” The honorable mentions we’ve
selected offer a cornucopia of experience, and the emotion that goes with each
experience—each poem from a poet whose eyes are open in wonder and awe. That’s
what haiku is all about. The mysteries of life don’t have to be opaque, but if
something is just beyond our understanding, it can engage our curiosity. In
these haiku, we may wonder when an animal died, leaving its bones to the
moonlight, or ponder what had caused the departure of a beloved family member
or friend who leaves behind an empty chair. We may find amusement in our
passion for activities such as birding that take us so far from our regular
paths that we have to find a new way home. We may wonder, too, at the winter
solstice, when the earth is tilted away from the sun, why a hospital
bed—perhaps empty after death or recovery—is also at such a tilt. What do these
images and experiences mean? We are engaged in this mystery, and celebrate the
wonder of life through haiku poems that catch and release this mystery. We may
find resolution in accepting the unfolding of time revealed in the growth of
rust on a car’s fender when the harvest moon has rolled around again, or in the
delight of seeing a flower—freshly and surprisingly—at the moment of a
lightning strike. Or we may find ourselves feeling like those firecracker
papers that blow in the streets on that first morning of the new year, spent
but celebratory, anticipating what is to come in the year ahead. Thank you to
each of these poets for taking a moment to pause and to wonder, and to notice
the mysteries of life.
—Michael
Of the first honorable mention, one can picture the
rust-colored moon, hanging in the autumn sky. It also suggests that if the
Chevy is acquiring rust, it may be facing the autumn of its life. The second
haiku is intriguing for the way the flower is revealed. The lightning doesn’t
just brighten the flower enough for it to be seen, it “gives up” what it is
illuminating. Another way of reading it could be that the lightning strike
itself sets something on fire, and that sudden flame looks like a flower. The third
haiku seems straight-forward enough on the surface—a bone left in the
moonlight—but the poet has noticed that it’s a particular kind of bone, a
scapula, laid bare by time and teeth until it matches the moon for paleness. The
fourth poem suggests a sadness or melancholy. The time of year is not stated,
so we are left to guess if it’s the same time of year when the chair’s former
occupant departed, or simply the time of year when the moon shines at an angle
that will illuminate the chair. Whatever the case, the emotion is beautifully
depicted, giving us time to reflect upon the absences in our own lives, and
what fills the places they have left. The fifth poem is more personal to me. As
a birder, I’ve experienced the way one gets wrapped up in looking for birds. A
little bird disappears into the forest, and you follow by sight or by sound,
keen to discover what it is. By the time you turn back, you might be a little
misplaced. The thrill of birding, of discovery, is juxtaposed with the
different route one must take back to familiar territory. But much like an
unfamiliar bird, the unfamiliar path can be a delight unto itself, and this
haiku leaves room for both interpretations. There’s a sense of transition in the
sixth haiku. In the Northern Hemisphere, the winter solstice marks the shortest
day and the longest night, as well as the end of autumn and the onset of
winter. But after this, the hours of daylight begin to increase, even as
temperatures often get colder. The angle of the hospital bed suggests this
transition period, too. Is the bed occupied, or empty? Is it the start of a
recovery, or the end of an illness, or somewhere in the middle? The spareness
of the language invites us in, lets us make our own judgments about the
situation, and this haiku is stronger for it. And in the seventh haiku, I
appreciate that the poem does not focus on the fireworks exploding the night
before, but rather on the quiet aftermath the following morning. Chances are,
most revelers are still asleep, leaving the leftovers of their celebrations to
“wander the streets” as they might well have wandered them the night before.
Congratulations to each poet whose poem we’ve selected here.
—Tanya
Tanya McDonald
has been actively writing haiku since 2007. She served as the regional coordinator
for the Washington State Region of the HSA for three years, and has been
published in various haiku journals. She also coedited the Haiku Northwest 25th
anniversary anthology, No Longer
Strangers. In September 2014, she was one of four featured readers at the
25th annual Two Autumns haiku reading in San Francisco. Currently, she is
revising her young adult novel and working on the sequel.
Michael Dylan Welch is founder of
National Haiku Writing Month, and cofounder of the
American Haiku Archives and the Haiku North America conference. He has also
been an HSA officer for many years, and founded the Tanka Society of America in
2000, serving as its president for five years. His poems, essays, and reviews
have appeared in hundreds of journals and anthologies, and he has won first
prize in the Henderson, Brady, Drevniok, and Tokutomi contests, among others.
His personal website is Graceguts.
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