Embedded Files
The Epistemology of the Moment:
The following essay was sent to me by Elliott Simons in early June 2026. It was “written” by Gemini AI, apparently in less than fifteen minutes, in response to the following question from Elliott: “What does Michael Dylan Welch say about knowability in haiku.” I wrote my previously unpublished numbered annotations as footnotes in late June 2026 (and they’re longer than the essay itself, so strap in). My point here is to reveal weaknesses of artificial intelligence and to discourage any unfiltered reliance on AI regarding even the simplest of subjects, but especially artistic ones. Even the excess number of subheadings is a weakness of AI, but the problems here are more serious than that. The issue is not a matter of “AI will get better.” Even if it becomes the best possible, the content it produces still requires some degree of review and authentication (and other problems remain beyond that, such as ethical concerns). When we receive an academic article or a poem, what should come with it is a strong measure of authority and accountability, neither of which are possible with AI. What’s more, readers no longer have the trusting satisfaction of knowing that a human wrote what they’re reading. Creative and academic writing presumes that we are seeing the heart and mind of an actual person, with that person’s vulnerability and accountability for everything they say (and it would be an unconscionable shame to erode this presumption). Humanity is particularly vital in creative work, because an unwritten pact between reader and writer, especially with poetry and fiction, is that the writing will share the genuine authenticity of a living (or once living) writer, which is impossible with AI. I may not care about these matters if I want instructions on how to replace a spark plug on a ’67 Camaro, but I do care if I want to enjoy the description of a lightning flash over a snowy mountain as a revelation of personal experience, or to be reminded how poetry can be vital to a well-lived life. There’s a human reason why we seek and need the news that only poetry can provide. Does AI have a growing place in modern life? Of course, but I continue to be skeptical regarding AI’s reliability, its lack of accountability, and the overall ethics of AI. What are your thoughts? See also “A Late-Night Misadventure with AI Haiku” and “Another Late-Night Misadventure with AI Haiku.”
by Gemini AI [2]
The landscape of English-language haiku has undergone a profound transformation over the last century, moving away from a preoccupation with external syllabic counts toward a rigorous exploration of the phenomenology of perception[3]. At the center[4] of this movement stands Michael Dylan Welch, a critic and poet whose theoretical contributions have redefined the genre’s objectives[5]. Welch posits that the fundamental power of haiku resides in its “knowability”[6]—a quality achieved through objective imagery, the rejection of omniscient viewpoints, and the cultivation of a shared reality between poet and reader[7]. For Welch[8], a haiku is not merely a short poem; it is a “moment of keen perception” distilled into a form that is “seeable and experienceable,” ensuring that the reader can participate in the original “aha” moment of the poet.
The Bedrock of Objectivity: The Camera Principle [9]
The primary mechanism by which Welch enforces knowability is through the “camera principle.”[10] This principle serves as a diagnostic tool for poets to determine whether their imagery is grounded in reality or lost in the “dark unknown” of subjective interpretation. Welch argues that a successful haiku[11] provides a picture composed of elements that are “recordable by a camera”. This insistence on recordability is designed to strip away the poet’s ego and intellectual analysis, forcing the poem to focus on the “isness” or “suchness” of the world.
In Welch’s framework, objectivity is not an end in itself but a prerequisite[12] for the poem’s “wordlessness”—a state where the language becomes transparent, allowing the experience to shine through without the interference of rhetorical devices[13]. When a poet uses words like “beautiful” or “mysterious,” they are “telling” the reader how to feel rather than “showing” the stimuli that caused the feeling. This “telling” creates an “unknowable” gap between the poet’s internal state and the reader’s perception[14]. By contrast, an objective image—like “glossy pebbles smooth to the thumb”—presents a knowable fact that the reader can inhabit.[15]
The Ethics of Perception: Rejecting the Omniscient Viewpoint
A critical extension of the camera principle is Welch’s rejection of the “omniscient viewpoint.”[16] In haiku, any attempt to describe the internal thoughts or feelings of another being—particularly animals—is viewed as a failure of knowability. Welch illustrates this through the example of a wolf and a fawn. If a poet writes that a “wolf sees its next meal,” they are projecting an “unknowable” feeling or point of view onto the animal. While it is plausible that the wolf is hungry, the poet cannot “know” this objectively.
Welch suggests that to maintain the integrity of the haiku, the poet must describe only what is “objectively knowable” through direct perception[17]. Instead of stating the wolf’s hunger, the poet should describe the “wolf’s mouth dripping with saliva”. This shift ensures that the poem remains a “poem of direct perception” rather than an analytical statement[18]. The removal of omniscience forces the reader to encounter the wolf as an “other,” preserving its mystery while presenting its physical reality with “bloody clarity”[19].
This commitment to the first-person perspective[23] prevents the poet from retreating into “private symbols” or “cryptic” associations that would alienate the reader. By sticking to the “knowable,” the poet fulfills their “burden” of crafting an image that generates a “reliably universal response”[24].
The Reader’s Covenant: The One-Half Circle and Universal Response [25]
The concept of knowability in Welch’s work is fundamentally[26] tied to the communicative function of haiku. He frequently cites the metaphor of haiku as “one-half of a circle”[27]. In this construction, the poet provides the first half of the experience through a crafted, objective image. The reader, through their own “apperception and response,” completes the circle. This relationship is only possible if the image provided by the poet is “knowable” to the reader’s own experience[28].
Suggestion and the Objective Correlative
The “aha” moment—the central epiphany of haiku—is achieved[29] through “implication and suggestion”. Welch notes that haiku are “open-ended poems” that do not explain or tell the reader what to think. This “openness” relies on the reader having a “common, universal response” to the object portrayed. If the poet’s imagery is too specific to a private history or too abstract for common understanding, the “circle” cannot be closed.[30]
Welch parallels this technique with T. S. Eliot’s “objective correlative,” which he defines[31]as finding a “set of objects, a situation, a chain of events” that act as the formula for a specific emotion[32]. In haiku, the “knowable” image is the correlative[33]. By describing a “meteor shower . . . / a gentle wave / wets our sandals,” the poet doesn’t need to describe the feelings of surprise or cosmic wonder. The physical sensation of the tide—a knowable, sensory event—automatically triggers the desired response in the reader.[34]
Shared Reality and Common Wisdom
Haiku, according to Welch, is the “poetry of the collective unconscious but also the collective conscious”[35]. It celebrates a “mindfulness” and an “isness” shared among all human beings. This “common wisdom” is rooted in “experiential intelligence,” where the knowledge of the world is gained through the senses rather than through the intellect[36].
Welch warns against the use of “specialist knowledge” or “long, conceptual, Latinate words” that might distance the reader from the “now-moment”[37]. He supports Jack Kerouac’s assertion that haiku should be “as simple as porridge” to ensure it remains accessible and knowable to the widest possible audience[38]. This simplicity is not a lack of depth; rather, it is a “transcendent rightness” that aligns the individual moment with the “entire universe”.
Structural Implementing of Knowability: The Haiku Checklist
To guide poets toward a more “knowable” and effective style, Welch developed a “Haiku Checklist” comprising ten diagnostic questions[39]. These questions serve as an epistemological filter[40], helping the poet to strip away the “superficialities” of form and focus on the “essence of the moment”.
Analysis of the Diagnostic Questions
The checklist emphasizes the transition from “internal comparison” to “external perception”. By asking whether a poem uses the “present tense” and whether it is based on “personal experience,” the checklist ensures that the haiku remains anchored in a “knowable” reality.[41]
Temporal Immediacy: The use of the present tense is vital for making the haiku feel as though it is “happening right now”. A poem in the past tense becomes a “narrative” or a “recollection,” which adds a layer of intellectual distancing that can obscure the raw, knowable moment.[42]
Sensory Grounding: The checklist asks if the poet has described what they “experience through your five senses”. This reinforces the idea that haiku is a “poetry of direct perception,”[43] avoiding abstractions that the reader cannot “know” through their own physical being.[44]
The Seasonal Anchor: The “kigo” or season word is identified as a primary target. Kigo provides a “knowable” cultural and natural context, anchoring the poem in a shared temporal reality[45]. A reference to “snow” or “tulips” tells the reader “when” the poem is happening, allowing them to enter the experience with the correct “background” knowledge.
Structural Leap: The “kire” or cutting word creates a “two-part structure”. Welch likens this to a “spark plug,”[46] where the gap between two “knowable” images creates a “spark of energy” or a moment of realization.
Welch suggests that these “rules” should eventually be internalized so that the poet no longer has to think about them, effectively “forgetting the rules” once they have become part of the poet’s intuitive “haiku habit”[48].
Philosophical Precedents: Zen, Heraclitus, and Shasei
The importance of knowability in Welch’s poetics is deeply indebted to Japanese aesthetic traditions and Western philosophical concepts of time and existence. He connects the “haiku moment” to the Zen insight that the “eternal present alone is real”.[49]
Shasei and the “Sketch” from Life
Welch frequently discusses “shasei,” a term popularized by Masaoka Shiki meaning “sketching from life”. Shasei is the ultimate practice of knowability[50]; it requires the poet to observe the world with such “bloody clarity”[51] that the resulting poem is a direct reflection of the physical world. This technique emphasizes “objective sensory imagery” over intellectual interpretation.
In the shasei tradition, the poet does not seek to “create” a poem but to “record” a perception[52]. This “recording”[53] must be of something “experienceable”—not necessarily something actually seen, but something that “could” be seen and authenticated by another observer. This distinction is crucial: a haiku about a “hundred frogs” is effective because the specific number is “not needed—or knowable,” but the “experience” of a multitude of frogs is a knowable sensory reality.[54]
Heraclitus and the Flow of Time
Welch draws a surprising but effective parallel between haiku and the Greek philosopher Heraclitus. The famous saying, “You can’t step in the same river twice,” resonates with the haiku poet’s focus on the “fleetingness” of the moment. Haiku dwells in the “world of dew,” where each moment is unique, ephemeral, and of absolute value.
This philosophical grounding reinforces the “knowability” of the present. By focusing on the “here and now,” haiku avoids the “regret or worry” of the past and future, centering the human spirit in “calm, benevolence, and serenity”. This is what Welch calls “therapeutic presence” or “joyful presence”[55]—the apprehension of the “rich experience available in each moment”.
The Boundaries of Knowledge: Haiku vs. Senryu
One of the most nuanced aspects of Welch’s theory is how he uses knowability to distinguish haiku from its generic cousin, senryu. While the two forms often overlap in structure, their epistemological foundations are distinct.
The Knowable Human Condition in Senryu
Haiku is “nature-centered,”[56] emphasizing Taoist and Buddhist values where humans are present only within the context of a “greater nature”. Senryu, conversely, focuses on “human nature” and the “intellectual” reactions to social life. Welch notes that “subjective or ‘unknowable’ feelings” and the “omniscient viewpoint” are sometimes acceptable in senryu because its purpose is often “satirical or humorous”[57].
In senryu, the poet might take a “third-person viewpoint” to comment on the foibles of others, a move that would “invariably fail” in haiku. Haiku requires a “deeply felt direct experience” that is only possible when the poet remains within the realm of the “knowable” senses. Senryu allows for “intellectual judgment,” whereas haiku must remain “wordless” and “ego-less”[58].
Singularity vs. Abstraction
Knowability also dictates the “scale” of the haiku image[59]. Welch argues that a haiku should focus on the “singular”—a “fawn” rather than “forests”. A forest is a “concept” that exceeds the limit of what one observer can “know” in a single moment.[60] By “sharpening the image,” the poet makes the observation more “clear and effective”. This preference for the singular over the plural is a hallmark of Welch’s drive toward an “objectively knowable” poetry.[61]
Case Study: The Haiku Sensibilities of E.E. Cummings
Welch’s analysis of E. E. Cummings provides a significant example of how “knowability” and “objectivity” can be identified in Western literature that was not intentionally written as haiku. He identifies several “haiku sensibilities” in Cummings’ work that align perfectly with his own theoretical requirements.[62]
Nonintellectual Imagism and the Child’s Viewpoint
The most significant sensibility Welch identifies in Cummings is “nonintellectual imagism and objectivism”. Cummings often[63] captures the “essence of a moment” using “common language” and “direct perception,” much like a haiku poet. Welch also points to Cummings’ use of the “child’s viewpoint” and “childlike wonder” as a means of achieving a “pre-intellectual” knowability.[64]
A child does not analyze or judge; they simply “perceive.” This mode of “direct perception” is what Welch advocates for in all haiku[65]. By presenting “things” rather than “ideas about things,” Cummings creates a poetry that allows the reader to experience a “heightened subjective awareness” through purely “objective” means[66].
Implication and the Completion of Meaning
Welch also analyzes Cummings’ “typographic works” as a form of “implication”. By breaking words and using unusual line arrangements, Cummings forces the reader to “assemble the pieces” of the poem. This process mimics the “haiku moment” of realization, where the reader must “figure out the meaning on their own”. This active participation is the “one-half circle” in action, proving that the principle of “knowability through suggestion”[67] is a universal poetic tool.
The Challenge of Form: The “Urban Myth” of 5-7-5
One of the greatest barriers to knowability in English-language haiku, according to Welch, is the rigid adherence to the 5-7-5 syllable count[68]. He argues that this requirement pushes “too much focus on form, to the detriment of content”.
Onji vs. Syllables [69]
Welch clarifies that the 17 “sound-symbols” (on) of Japanese haiku do not translate to 17 English syllables. English syllables vary significantly in length, and a 17-syllable English poem is almost always “too long” for the “one-breath” form of the original Japanese. This “padding” of the poem with extra words to reach a syllable count results in a “dribble of prose” rather than a sharp, knowable image[70].
The “mature” haiku poet learns that “content is vastly more important than form”. By focusing on the “essence of the moment” rather than the number of syllables, the poet can achieve the “transparency” of language that allows the image to be “seen and experienceable”.
The Discipline of Internal Comparison
Welch posits that the “real discipline” of haiku does not come from counting syllables but from mastering the “two-part juxtapositional structure” and the “seasonal reference”[71]. These techniques require a much deeper “study and discipline” than simple arithmetic. The goal is to “reinvent each poem’s own organic form” to best serve the “knowable” moment being recorded[72].
The Implications of Knowability for Contemporary Practice
The insistence on knowability has profound implications for how haiku are read, written, and taught[73]. It shifts the focus from the poet as an “author” to the poet as a “witness,” and from the poem as an “expression” to the poem as a “shared experience”.
The Haiku McMoment and the Pursuit of Depth [74]
Welch warns against the “haiku McMoment”—a poem that is “too quick” or “too shallow” in its perception. While haiku should be simple, they must also contain “reverberation” and “depth” (yugen). This depth is achieved not through intellectual complexity but through the “keenness” of the perception. A successful haiku “makes you realize something that you always knew but might have forgotten,” taking the reader “back to yourself”.
This “return to self” is only possible if the poem is grounded in a “knowable” reality[75]. If the image is “too cryptic and ambiguous,” it remains a “private diary” entry. Knowability is the bridge that allows the “small ceremony” of the haiku to transcend the individual and become a “universal response”[76].
The Future of the “Wordless” Poem
Welch’s vision for haiku is one where the “habit of knowledge” becomes a “spiritual freedom”. By focusing on the “divine beyond the human,” haiku offers a way of “living the life that you are living” in the present[77]. This practice of “mindfulness” is more than a literary technique; it is a “way of poetry” and a “spiritual way” that reflects age-old values in a modern context.
The “knowability” of haiku ensures that it remains a “living” art form[78]. By adhering to the principles of objectivity, the singular image, and the reader’s role as a collaborator, Welch provides a roadmap for the “mastery of haiku”[79]. In his view, the best haiku are those that “let the image be itself,” trusting the reader to “react to it however we will”[80].
Conclusion: The Ethics of an Objective Poetics [81]
Michael Dylan Welch’s emphasis on knowability in haiku represents a radical commitment to the external world[82]. By prioritizing the “isness” of the image over the “aboutness” of the poet’s intellect, he creates a space where human and nature can meet without the distortion of ego. The “camera principle,” the “one-half circle,” and the rejection of “omniscient” interpretation are all tools designed to protect the integrity of the “now-moment”[83].
In an era of increasing abstraction and subjective isolation[84], Welch’s poetics offer a path back to a “shared reality”. The “knowable” haiku is a “common wisdom,” a “simple porridge” that sustains the spirit by connecting us to the “adequacy and completeness of our experience of the physical world”[85]. For the professional haiku poet[86], the pursuit of knowability is not a restriction but a liberation—a way to “imply life’s daily epiphanies” with a clarity that transcends the page and inhabits the soul.
[1] The epistemology of the moment? AI seems to be trying too hard. And shucks, I didn’t know the concept of “knowability” was any kind of “doctrine.” This title’s pseudo-academic posing smacks of dogma, and “doctrine” isn’t a term I’ve ever used with haiku—and not at all how I would approach the subject. For me, when writing or assessing haiku poetry, it’s simply worthwhile to consider whether the images or ideas presented are objectively knowable, and whose point of view the poem requires if they’re not knowable by the poet or the reader from a first-person perspective. I would not disallow a variety of perspectives in haiku, but I certainly think it’s a matter worth thinking about to avoid ineffective projection and a lack of believability.
[2] This “essay” was prepared, apparently in under fifteen minutes, by Gemini AI. It would be interesting to compare these results with those from other AI engines if asked the same question.
[3] What is “the phenomenology of perception”? That’s not hard to understand, but for me this phrase is an AI “tell”—something AI would write when trying to sound authoritative and highfalutin rather than what a human researcher would write about me, since it’s not terminology I use. More importantly, is this sentence an accurate assessment of the heart of any “profound” transformations in English-language haiku? Is a “rigorous exploration of the phenomenology of perception” (and not counting syllables or something else) really the center of haiku’s “transformation”?
[4] I appreciate the plauding, but I’m one of many contributors, not the center of this. Here’s another sign of AI, overstating matters.
[5] Again, an overstatement. Have I really redefined haiku’s objectives? I’ve made my contribution, but no.
[6] Thus far this essay is AI puffery. But here’s a statement that I disagree with outright. I do not at all believe that the “fundamental power” of haiku lies in knowability. Instead, I believe in the power of chiefly objective sensory imagery and the feelings they can summon. Whether those images and feelings are “knowable” is just a means of assessing them, and not the only means, let alone any kind of “fundamental” power.
[7] I would agree that chiefly objective imagery contributes to the success of haiku, meaning that exceptions occur. Nor would I completely “reject” omniscient viewpoints—there may be occasions where it could be effective. Though I would hasten to add Jerry Ball’s thought on “tricks” in haiku, which is that they may possibly be effective, but “not often.” I do agree that a shared reality between the poet and reader is worth respecting and cultivating, although that shouldn’t preclude some more experimental haiku that entertain the unreal. For example, scifai-ku can do this effectively, employing a willing suspension of disbelief in presenting an imagined world—or, as Marianne Moore put it, having “imaginary gardens with real toads in them.”
[8] These, of course, are not just my ideas.
[9] Again, AI extremism. Is objectivity the “bedrock” of haiku? It’s key, but one of many matters to consider.
[10] The so-called “Camera Principle” is not a term I’ve ever used, although I have drawn parallels between haiku and photography. Nor would I consider this a “primary” mechanism for haiku, nor would I ever “enforce” such a thing. I would agree that this is a diagnostic tool that is useful to maintain among one’s habits of scrutiny.
[11] This is not the only way a haiku can be successful. Nor do I insist on this always, as the next sentence proposes.
[12] A possible approach, not an immovable “prerequisite.”
[13] Good writing is a kind of manipulation, so I have no problem with rhetorical devices. What I do tend to resist, in the words of Louise Glück, is words that impose feeling or idea rather than summon them. This relates to the writing dictum to “show, don’t tell.” But this isn’t really a dictum. The higher calling here (in poetry and fiction) is to know when to show and when to tell. This discernment also applies to haiku. These choices beg for balance.
[14] I disagree here. “Telling” isn’t necessarily what creates unknowability. If I say a sunset is “beautiful,” I’m telling you what I think, and I do know what I think. If I say a horse thinks a sunset is beautiful, I’m projecting a human assessment onto a creature that may not even have awareness of the sunset, let alone any cognitive method to decide whether it’s “beautiful” or not. More importantly, even if a horse is aware and could make such a decision, there’s no way I or another objective observer could “know” what a horse is thinking or feeling. It’s a projection, and that’s the problem. Meanwhile, there’s a Zen story where Chuang Tzu says that darting fish are enjoying themselves. Hui Tzu counters by asking, “How do you know what gives pleasure to fish?” Chuang Tzu replies by saying, “How do you know I do not know what gives pleasure to fish?” This is an argument that could be applied to an omniscient point of view in haiku, seemingly getting around the criticism of projection. Perhaps that is so, but the question I would ask is whether the reader believes Chuang Tzu would know, or if the haiku poet would truly know if a sunset is beautiful. This consideration shifts responsibility to the reader. A good haiku typically creates authenticity (regardless of whether something actually happened or not), if the reader believes it.
[15] I particularly appreciate the word “inhabit” here. That’s the point of many of the best haiku, inviting readers to inhabit the poem, and thus to complete it with their own feelings or thoughts. By the way, “pebbles smooth to the thumb” is lovely, but no example of mine.
[16] Again, I don’t entirely reject the omniscient viewpoint, as there may be edge cases where it’s effective. Just not often—perhaps even almost never. Nor would I consider this a “critical extension” of the “camera principle.” You will note that I’m repeating myself here, because this AI essay repeats itself. There’s more repetition coming, but I’ll try not to beat each dead horse, or claim that it admires any sunset.
[17] Again, AI is being extremist in saying “only” here. It’s useful to think about objective knowability in haiku, but what you do with it depends on the poem. And of course, even the notion of “objectivity” is up for discussion. There’s a line between objectivity and subjectivity somewhere, but the larger matter is to know when touches of subjectivity can be perfectly effective in haiku. It happens, although I would say that elements of subjectivity usually work best when the rest of the poem is sufficiently grounded in objective sensory imagery.
[18] Again, if the analysis in imposing feeling or idea, rather than summoning it, the poem is less effective in engaging the reader. If poets inject their own analysis onto something (even by saying that they think a sunset is beautiful), they are doing the reader’s work for them, which disengages the reader. By withholding such analysis or judgment, the poet empowers readers to have their own feelings. That, to me, is why we share haiku, to impart and perhaps validate our common experiences and feelings.
[19] The phrase “bloody clarity” appears only once on my website (and nowhere in my writings). AI has misstepped here, quoting James W. Hackett in a 1986 interview by John Budan in the journal I used to edit, Woodnotes, which happens to be on Graceguts. This is an example of how AI is difficult to trust for certain tasks, or at least needs to be triple-checked.
[20] This table offers fascinating dichotomies that may provide an alternative entry into my thoughts on knowability. However, I would hasten to state that the two items in the “Subjective/Unknowable” heading are not the same thing, nor would I always avoid such approaches. It depends upon the poem, even if such usage might be uncommon.
[21] Being aware of your internal states can be very important in haiku. But I would tend to point to the cause, not the result. In other words, you might say “divorce pending” as a context for a haiku. The reader can then infer that the person is stressed or consumed by all of its attendant tasks (or perhaps eagerly anticipating its releases). This is quite different from saying it’s a “stressful morning.” Well, why? That’s telling rather than showing. I would posit that saying “divorce pending” or providing any other context is just that—a context. That differs from telling. It’s a given in the poem, a place to start from that doesn’t go too far by telling the reader what to feel or how the poet is analyzing that experience. I don’t think that’s too subtle a distinction, and it is an important one.
[22] Again, I wouldn’t necessarily avoid these choices. Just be aware of them, to think about them with enough depth to decide if they’re truly necessary or effective. Usually, a judgment will be the most routinely problematic, but an adjective or abstraction might be perfectly fine.
[23] Years ago, in my haiku workshops, I used to say to avoid subjectivity entirely. I haven’t felt that way for decades. I do privilege objectivity over subjectivity, to be sure, but in my workshops I now say to control objectivity and subjectivity. In other words, take responsibility for how you choose your images or words. So, one doesn’t have to be doggedly “committed” to the first-person perspective. Just be aware of which perspective or point of view your poem employs, and think about whether it’s the best choice.
[24] Not sure that I’d insist that this is the poet’s “burden.” And what is a “reliably universal” response? In my essay on “The Haiku Sensibilities of E. E. Cummings,” I do say “It is thus the haiku poet’s burden to choose and craft his or her image to generate that reliably universal response.” However, I published that essay in 1994, and I don’t think I’d say the same thing today. It’s more of an opportunity than a burden, and perhaps a “reliably universal response” risks predictability. I do think it’s good for haiku poets, at some point, to consider whether their poem moves sufficiently from private meaning towards public clarity—that’s always something to think about. If a poem’s meaning is too private for a particular audience, then the poem isn’t likely to be effective.
[25] The word “covenant” is AI’s wording. Sure, haiku poets want readers to engage but getting them to engage is partly the writer’s job. Of course, it takes practice to be a good reader of haiku, to cultivate sensitivities for what to look for, but this doesn’t have to be a covenant (another AI extremity).
[26] Again, another AI extremism.
[27] The phrase “one-half of a circle” is not my terminology. I suppose it’s fine to say that the reader does complete the circle, but no, I don’t use this term at all, let alone “frequently.” So, it’s not me employing the “metaphor” of haiku being like half of a circle. As an aside, let me offer some words about the “metaphor of haiku,” since some people think of entire haiku as being metaphor. I don’t promote haiku that way. This doesn’t mean to avoid metaphor in haiku. The metaphor of haiku is, presumably, the idea that the two parts of haiku are metaphors for each other. This is partially true, perhaps, through the concept of “internal comparison,” where one thing might be compared with another, or find resonances. One could interpret certain juxtapositions as having a metaphorical relationship, but I would quickly say that trying too hard to achieve that in a haiku, or to aim for it, is too much. The Japanese have a term for this, fusoku-furi (不即不離), which basically amounts to saying that you don’t want the connection between the poem’s two parts to be too obvious or too opaque. The art of juxtaposition is finding the just-rightness between too close (too obvious) and too far (too obscure). There may be times for opacity in haiku, but too often it can simply alienate.
[28] Again, “only possible” is an AI extremism. As for whether the image has to always be knowable to the reader’s own experience, where does that leave empathy? I believe haiku is a poetry of empathy (among other things). Through empathy we might be able to relate to or understand experiences that we ourselves haven’t “known” directly. That’s not what I mean by knowability. We may never have gone skydiving, for example, but through empathy we could still appreciate someone else’s haiku about this activity. What would be “unknowable” is to say what a horse is thinking while it is going skydiving.
[29] I would temper “is achieved” with “is often achieved.” AI is overreaching again.
[30] This seems like a helpful summation here.
[31] I’m not sure that it’s me defining the objective correlative this way. Eliot has done a good job of defining this himself.
[32] Of course, there isn’t just one “formula” for a particular emotion.
[33] The image is correlative to what? AI’s “thinking” isn’t complete here. At any rate, my take on Eliot is that objects can correlate to emotions. If we trust the image, we can trust that they will produce cohabitant emotions. An example I’ve used is “electric chair.” We have a built-in emotional reaction to such a phrase that differs greatly from, say, “highchair.”
[34] I’m grateful for this observation. I’m not sure the response is always “automatic,” since not all readers are trained in how to engage with haiku, but I’ll at least hope that the response I “desire” is at least common.
[35] Look at this—AI has quoted me correctly here. This isn’t the only thing haiku can be of course, but I am drawn to the ideas of both unconscious and conscious awareness in our collective societies. The point here is that the conscious is as important as the unconscious, perhaps even more so for haiku poets, who routinely employ the conscious to reach the unconscious (or subconscious). As Oscar Wilde said, “The great mystery of the world is not what is invisible, but what is visible.”
[36] I would hasten to add that there’s value is knowing the world through the intellect too. Haiku tends to favour the five senses, but there can be a place for the intellect in haiku too, when handled carefully. Of course, this begs the question, what are examples of the “intellect” in haiku, and what are their pros and cons? If they dwell too much in abstraction or subjectivity, they risk problems.
[37] Sure, I agree, but this seems to veer away from the subject of knowability. I suppose conceptual Latinate words might be more abstract, but that does not mean they’re not knowable. Everyone can “know” intellectual ideas or abstractions. This isn’t what I mean by unknowability.
[38] Joyce said that “Dublin is everywhere,” by which he meant that one doesn’t need to pander to the “widest possible audience.” In fact, to do so might drain the life out of the poem. A Dublin market stall is appealing because it’s not New York or Kuala Lumpur. You want to balance self-involved obscurity with accessibility, to be sure, but seeking after the “universal” is the wrong idea. If you aim for that, you might well fail. If you trust the images from your own experience (within possible limits), you’ll inject colour and distinctiveness into your haiku, and because haiku is a poetry of empathy, we can be there in that Dublin market stall. Trust the local.
[39] The purpose of this checklist is to support effectiveness in haiku, not necessarily knowability. Not every nail needs to be hit with the knowability hammer.
[40] Gee, an “epistemological filter”? No, they’re just tips to write what I hope will be better haiku.
[41] AI has lost its thread here, wandering away from knowability. Whether a poem is in present tense or not most likely will have nothing to do with knowability in haiku, not the knowability I mean. I agree that what happened in the past and what will happen in the future may not be knowable, but the knowability I’m talking about relates to a kind of false projection, imposing your conclusions on something rather than trusting an image, or in relying on a point of view that you cannot have—and that your readers cannot have. And as I’ve written in my “Haiku as History” essay, all haiku are written about the past (unless you’re imagining the future). No haiku can ever be written in the moment, only from it, even if immediately after the experience. This is why haiku is a poetry of history. We use present tense to make each haiku seem as if they are happening now, which is a way to make them more immediate and accessible. To not use present tense, however, even if rare, is not the unknowability I mean. In any event, this section’s analysis of the “diagnostic questions” in my Haiku Checklist is largely irrelevant to knowability.
[42] I agree that past tense adds distance from the moment, but again, an “unknowable” moment may have nothing to do with tense. If anything, we cannot know the future, but I would propose that any poem that is clearly about the future would bring with it an understanding that it’s speculation—thus knowingly “unknowable.” The reader is in on this game.
[43] Yes, many haiku thrive on direct perception, but there’s also a place for empathy and imagination. I have no problem with imagined haiku, so long as readers believe the poem. A good haiku creates authenticity.
[44] AI is confused as to what I mean by knowability. Knowing something through your five senses is great (although we also “know” things in other ways). Rather, the question of knowability is meant mostly to focus on point of view. It’s not the five senses I’m focusing on here, but whose five senses (or emotions) the poem presents.
[45] Yes, seasonal references can be common and knowable experiences, but this has nothing to do with the knowability for which I’m trying to promote consideration.
[46] I borrow this idea from elsewhere. I believe the metaphor originated in Donald Keene’s book, Japanese Literature: An Introduction for Western Readers, published by Grove in 1955. He said, in speaking of cutting words and a two-part juxtapositional structure, that “there should be the two electric poles between which the spark will leap for the haiku to be effective, otherwise it is no more than a brief statement.”
[47] This feels like a useful table but its “Functions in Knowability” are superficial, and aside from the knowability I intend.
[48] Again, we’re no longer talking about knowability here. This is an example of how AI can go off the rails, even if it’s subtle, not correctly representing the source material (in this case, mine). The information may be interesting and useful, but it is not directly germane to the topic. Meanwhile, AI does like to over-quote, doesn’t it? And you can quote me on that.
[49] Again, AI is overreaching. I don’t preach haiku as a Zen art, for one thing, nor is it my “insight” that only the eternal present moment is real. This feels like a false or superficial representation of my thoughts on these so-called philosophical precedents.
[50] Once again, this isn’t the knowability I mean, nor would I ever claim shasei to be “ultimate” for anything. Another AI extremism.
[51] What, this again?
[52] This was part of Shiki’s teaching, not mine, though I have talked about shasei.
[53] I balk a bit at the notion of haiku being merely a “recording” of experience. It’s so much more than that, or should be. If a haiku is just a report, then I think it fails as a haiku. Haiku start with images, but they don’t end there, even when still just in the author’s hands (as distinct from the reader’s engagement to finish the poem). In photography, a “record shot” can be a disparagement for a bland photo that merely records something without artistry (even journalistic shots have their artistry). A “record shot” in haiku would be similarly superficial. Such poems might be steppingstones to better haiku, mind you, so they’re not completely without value (which is also true of “record shots” in photography), but it’s worthwhile to understand the difference. AI has not detected this distinction and keeps talking in the following sections about a superficial kind of knowability that isn’t what I’m trying to emphasize. Nor do I promote haiku as emphasizing Taoist or Buddhist values, regardless of how much they might share such affinities.
[54] Once again, this is a kind of knowability, but not the knowability I’m trying to emphasize.
[55] It’s easy to see in my essays where these thoughts came from, but they’re off the topic.
[56] This is not my teaching. I see haiku as emphasizing seasonal reference (among other possibilities). Such a target frequently embraces nature, but nature is not the target.
[57] Again, off base. The subjective is not equivalent to the unknowable, for starters. While senryu may have more wiggle room than haiku, such as more readily allowing different tenses or even an omniscient viewpoint, these are still choices that conscientious writers should do their best to control.
[58] AI is somewhat unhelpful here, because it doesn’t make clear what it means for haiku to be “wordless.” I also disagree and don’t think haiku should be “egoless” either. There are nuances to this topic, and this AI reportage is too superficial to parse them sufficiently. In any case, I wouldn’t say that haiku “must remain” anything.
[59] Well, no. You want to manage scale in haiku to make them accessible, but this is not the knowability of point of view, once again.
[60] AI is really misguided here. If anything, it should have said “a fawn rather than fawns” in talking about the singular rather than the plural. Nor do I think a haiku should always focus on the singular—it depends on the poem. I would also favour “forest” over “forests,” actually, because you can experience only one forest at a time (otherwise, you’re referring to the concept of many forests). So no, a “forest” doesn’t at all exceed what one observer can know; instead, the plural of “forests” would do that. AI has this backwards.
[61] Rolling my eyes again. You want to control when to use plural and singular of course, but the singular isn’t always the best. While the singular (as opposed to the conceptual) is more “knowable” in one sense, that is again beside the point of point of view.
[62] I chafe against the idea that these are “my” theoretical requirements, let alone being “requirements.”
[63] I would say sometimes, not often. In fact, most of the time, except for specific poems, he’s more concerned with feelings over ideas, but the feelings don’t necessarily come from direct perception.
[64] Again, sigh, not the knowability I mean.
[65] Whoa, slow down. All haiku? Again, the images of direct perception are one place where haiku can start, not where they necessarily finish. Meanwhile, Cummings presents ideas about things with great frequency.
[66] This feels like it’s taken out of context. At the most, I was talking about a few specific poems by Cummings, not all of his poetry. Syllable counting (or not) has nothing to do with any kind of knowability.
[67] Will have to beat this drum again—this is not the knowability I mean.
[68] Hell no. I never say this.
[69] I used the term “onji” in my 1994 essay about E. E. Cummings, but the term is obsolete and incorrect. I have not used it in decades, except when explaining that the term is obsolete, as I’m doing here.
[70] AI is trying too hard here.
[71] These are just two of many strategies that provide a greater discipline than the triviality of counting syllables—and if one is aiming at 5-7-5, one’s aiming at the wrong target for haiku in English.
[72] The use of organic form has nothing to do with knowability. Nor does organic form serve the notion of knowability better than using a syllabic form or some other alternative. And again, with haiku, you don’t just want to “record” an experience. Reportage isn’t enough.
[73] Again, AI overstatement. There may be implications, but they’re not necessarily profound. Moreover, witnessing is just where haiku start. It’s what poets do with their witnessing that brings poetry to the haiku. In fact, I have no problem with haiku that (carefully/subconsciously) celebrate their creators as authors rather than mere reporters or witnesses. The best haiku will say what only that poet can say. This requires “expression” that moves beyond the reportage of what one witnesses.
[74] Again, all of this is off the subject of knowability. I can’t let this go unremarked.
[75] Why is a “return to self” even necessary? Not necessarily so.
[76] Again, overreaching. Knowability isn’t such a bridge. Rather than transcending the individual, a good haiku should see the individual. That’s the better path to any kind of response, universal or otherwise. Dublin is everywhere.
[77] This sentence demonstrates how AI cherry-picks phrases (or in certain other cases in this essay, makes them up). The net result is superficial and uninformed, or at least underinformed. It would be a problem if readers took everything in this essay as reliable (in contrast, I hope readers will take my commentary as reliable, at least for the initial reason that a living human is writing them). Bits and pieces of this Gemini AI production may well be entirely reliable, but the real insidiousness of AI “essays” such as this is that misinformation and distortions of nuance can be too easily accepted as reliable.
[78] No, it doesn’t.
[79] Oh, dear. No, I don’t. More AI extremism.
[80] Well, we will react to haiku however we will, but the best haiku seeks to prevent misreadings, and thus give focus for readers to react at least within some degree of intentional boundaries. Yes, trust the image. But it’s how images are presented and juxtaposed that can make all the difference.
[81] I don’t recall saying anything about the ethics of knowability. AI is clutching at straws again.
[82] More AI extremizing. Radical? Really?
[83] “Protecting” the integrity of the now-moment is not my goal. Sorry, AI. Sorry AI.
[84] What does AI mean by “subjective isolation”?
[85] For the last time, this is not what I mean by knowability.
[86] Wait, what? How many “professional” poets are making a living from haiku in English? As long as AI keeps producing “essays” like this one, real haiku poets are not in danger. However, less-informed readers will too easily not understand the problems in this essay. In this way, AI is too easily insidious.
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