First published in Modern Haiku 49:2, Summer 2018, pages 6–10. Commentary originally written in April
of 2018.
The inspiration for the 2018 Robert Spiess Memorial Haiku Awards is a call for
simplicity. “A haiku lets things become what they are,” Spiess told us, and
participants were asked to submit poems with this observation in mind. Not to
be forgotten is a second part of this equation, that the reader does well to be sensitive to things as they are, catching
the value of haiku that celebrate unadorned suchness. In this sense, a good
haiku asks readers to be, as Henry James advised in The Art of Fiction, “one of those on whom nothing is lost.” Out of
many poems that came close to being selected (among 407 submissions in total), I
hope the poems I’ve chosen reveal this delight and respect for simplicity and
suchness—perhaps similar to the Japanese notion of karumi, or lightness, yet with reverberations. It might be possible
for readers to overlook some of these poems, but I hope a close and empathetic
reading will bring them richly to life, with any “lightness” stirring with fertile
undercurrents deep below.
Michael Dylan Welch, Judge
First Place — Tia Haynes, Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio
after packing
our quiet
embrace
This is surely not packing for a trip—the occasion is more momentous than that.
I picture a husband and wife packing up their home for a major move, perhaps
downsizing or because of a foreclosure, or perhaps packing up the belongings of
someone who has died. The second line tells us that the people have become
quiet, after a time of busy and concerted work. They grow quiet, grow aware of
that quietness, and then realize the emotional depths of the moment they are
sharing, the big change ahead as a chapter in their lives comes to an end. This
quiet then becomes a quiet embrace, where words do not need to be spoken to
convey the importance of the experience and what it means. This embrace looks back
in time as well as ahead, centered on a still core. The poem withholds the
reasons for the packing, thus enabling readers to complete the poem with their
own interpretations—a “moving day” indeed.
Second Place — Chris Bays, Beavercreek, Ohio
flapping police tape . . .
snow fills
a kiddie pool
A domestic scene dominates this haiku, but with increased drama. The police
tape hints at some crime or accident, with a wind heightening the mystery where
the police have marked off a scene for investigation. Readers are engaged to
imagine whatever cause they wish for the investigation, but that is not really
the poem’s focus. Rather, through the image of the kiddie pool, the poem offers
an empathy for the home’s current or former occupants, particularly children
and their parents. A wading pool, too, is usually associated with summer, yet
now it is winter, as snow fills the empty pool, suggesting that a great deal of
time has passed—for reasons relating to the crime, or even contributing to its
cause. Spirited images engross us, and we may wonder not just what happened so
far, but what will happen next.
Third Place — John Hawk, Hilliard, Ohio
old sandbox
the weeds
all grown up
A sense of nostalgia tints this poem. It is not just about weeds that have
grown to hide the neglected sandbox, but about children who once enjoyed
playing there. They too have grown up. They have moved away, leaving the
sandbox unused but with vivid memories or implications for whoever sees it now.
Is the sandbox now being viewed by aging empty-nest parents, or perhaps by
people who have bought a house after its inhabitants have moved away? We can
dwell in both possibilities, and also think about our own sandboxes that we
have left behind with our childhood days. Through the double meaning of the
last line, the poem brings us into a resonant awareness of the bittersweet. Any
bitterness from the passing of time, the nostalgia of the poem, is tempered by
the sweetness of the wordplay and by happy memories. Time marches on, yet a
good haiku remains timeless.
First Honorable Mention — Angela Terry, Lake
Forest Park, Washington
night train . . .
the false positive
that wasn’t
The scene readers may picture is that of someone taking a train home after a
visit to a doctor—perhaps a prolonged visit because now it is nighttime. The
person in the poem has just heard the bad news, surely a medical test that at
first seemed negative but is now positive in indicating a significant diagnosis
or illness. Night is descending, both literally and figuratively, and the poet
seems to be utterly alone. As with many effective haiku, we wonder what had
happened, and what will happen in the future.
Second Honorable Mention — Robert Witmer, Tokyo,
Japan
Bamiyan
the rock face
before the mountain was
born
This poem demonstrates the value of place names (utamakura, in Japanese) in haiku, and how just the name of a
particular place has rich overtones—a characteristic that can be true of
locations around the world, not just in Japan. The reference to Bamiyan recalls
the 2001 destruction, by Taliban forces, of the two Buddhas of Bamiyan, each
more than a hundred feet tall, carved out of rock more than 1,500 years ago in
an Afghanistan cliffside. This poem takes us back even further, imagining (and
valuing) the cliff face before the statues were carved. The poem raises the
question of which was the real desecration, and also brings to mind the Zen
Buddhist koan, “what was your face before you were born?”
Third Honorable Mention — Michele
Root-Bernstein, East Lansing, Michigan
deep snow
the whole day inside
myself
Winter seems to make us turn inwards. We not only stay in our homes more often
when it is cold out, but we become increasingly introspective during winter
months. And here it is not just snowing, but a time of deep snow. No wonder we
stay inside, and no wonder we stay inside ourselves. And yet this is not a
negative poem, not a downer. Introspection has its rewards, and winter has its
renewals.
Fourth Honorable Mention — Peter Barnes, San
Diego, California
garden project—
a little paint on
the ladybug
We feel a little joy, I hope, in spotting the paint on a ladybug, not just for
noticing the ladybug, but also the paint on it. Then we might feel some concern
for how this paint will affect the poor ladybug. At the very least, the ladybug
is a symbol for good fortune, and we cannot help but feel that good fortune is
coming to us if we are painting in the garden, but surely also planting seeds
in hopes for an abundant season ahead.
Fifth Honorable Mention — Debbie Strange, Winnipeg,
Manitoba
longer days
I knight my sister
with an icicle
A sense of delight pervades this haiku. The days are growing longer, but the
ice hasn’t melted yet. Here two children are playing outside, and one of them
“knights” the other, using an icicle like a sword to invest a “knighthood” upon
the other. Just as the “longer days” tell us that spring is coming, so too does
this poem’s playful and imaginative zeal. This poem, as with all good haiku,
lets things become what they are, and as readers we join the celebration.