Ecclesiastes
Overcast morning,
The sound of two crows cawing
In the windless warmth
Dew upon the Douglas Fir
Seen through the venetian blinds
After a moment
He returns to his laptop
To check his email
***
Rolling out of a driveway,
The neighbor’s new S.U.V.
Bright in the moonlight
Of the waxing gibbous moon
Keeping track of time
Her mother-in-law’s birthday
Coincides with golden leaves
***
At the gift shop
Rows and rows of greeting cards
For all occasions
Reading Ecclesiastes
The minister takes comfort
Even though the snow
Lies in drifts upon the ground
And the sky is gray
***
Unexpectedly the mist
Rises in the warm March air
Around the plum tree
A few petals have fallen
From a few branches
Two friends have to acknowledge
That they are now far apart
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Learning to Link
Learning to Link
As readers of this blog already know, I look at renga as a craft, like pottery. To practice pottery one has to learn various skills; throwing and shaping clay, glazes, carving, firing, etc. To practice renga one has to learn various skills; linking, shifting, lineation, topic placement, etc. One of the basic skills for a renga poet is linking and it is that particular skill, or technique, that is the focus here.
Renga poets are called upon to add a verse to the one they have received. In addition, if the verse they are adding is in a particular placement in the renga, renga poets will have to add a verse that also embraces the topic of that placement. The topics include: the moon, love, blossoming trees, and the seasons of fall, winter, spring, and summer.
This is not a method that is taught in standard books on poetic technique. So I would like to suggest here a way of learning how to link.
Take a three-line verse such as the following:
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind.
It is important that the selected verse not be an example of a topical verse. That is to say, the three-line verse should not itself be a moon, love, blossoming tree, or seasonal verse.
Now, take this three-line verse and add two-line verses to it such that it transforms the whole into one of the topics that will be needed when writing an actual renga. I will illustrate by example:
1. Fall Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
As brown and gold leaves scatter
Among the boulders and grass
The links indicates the Fall season; “brown leaves” = fall. The two verses together form a coherent image of Fall.
2. Winter Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
Snow falling from the branches
In the mid-afternoon light
The link indicates the Winter season; “snow” = winter. The two verses together form a coherent image of Winter.
3. Spring Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
White plum blossoms are scattered
Among the boulders and grass
The link indicates the Spring season; “plum blossoms” = spring. The two verses together form a coherent image of Spring. Notice how closely this verse resembles the verse in the Fall Link. Basically the only change is from “brown and gold leaves” to “white plum blossoms” but that is enough to change the whole seasonal reference and feeling of the image.
This link also functions as a “blossoming tree” link. That is usually the case; blossoming trees such as plum, cherry, apple, etc., bloom in the Spring. There are some blossoming trees, such as magnolia and some hawthorns, which can bloom also in the summer. A few types might bloom into the fall and one can experiment with these kinds of references.
A Spring Link that does not contain the blossoming tree might look something like this:
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
The last few fragments of ice
Disappear along the shore
The phrase “last fragments of ice” indicates an early Spring timing, and therefore this would be a Spring verse, transforming the two verses into a coherent image of Spring.
4. Summer Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
The shore has doubled its size
Under the months-long heat wave
The link indicates the Summer season; “heat wave” = summer. The two verses together form a coherent image of Summer.
5. Moon Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
The full moon briefly hidden
By a swiftly drifting cloud
The link adds the moon to the overall image, making the two verses a coherent lunar image. A suggestion here is to experiment with different lunar phases, including the new moon (or the absence of a moon) and see how it shapes your link.
6. Love Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
Their third date, a picnic lunch;
She has high expectations
In renga, and Japanese poetry in general, the love verse refers to one of three aspects of love. The first meeting and the thrill that entails. The sense that the thrill is receding. And, finally, parting. This is a broader, more encompassing, vision of love than we normally associate with the word. This is helpful to poets because it opens up a lot of possibilities for the “love verse” that might not have been considered.
7. Blossoming Tree Verse
See “3” above, the “Spring Verse”.
8. Non-topical Link
Just to round things out, add a link that is free of any specific topic, usually called a “miscellaneous verse”.
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
At the edge of the forest
A hungry fox is watching
This link is not specifically seasonal, nor does it refer to any of the required topics in a renga.
So that is the basic procedure in learning how to link. Take a three-line verse, and then link to that verse in such a way as to transform the verse into one of the topics that are necessary for any renga. In this way the aspiring renga poet will be ready if, when their turn comes in a collaborative renga, for linking in keeping with the renga form. If the renga poet needs to add a specific topic, practice in doing so will prove useful in that situation. If the renga poet needs to add a non-specific link, or a link that is not one of the required topics, the poet will have had practice doing that as well. And if the renga poet is writing a solo renga, all of this practice will help smooth the entire process of composing a renga.
Where does one get the initial image to link to? I would suggest two sources. First, an image from the middle of a published renga. In other words, borrow someone else’s renga link. Don’t use the opening verse of a renga; that’s the hokku and it is a strongly seasonal verse. Rather, choose a verse from the middle of the renga that by itself does not inherently possess a topical indication so that you can practice linking to all the required topics.
The second source I would suggest is from modern haiku collections. In particular, non-seasonal modern haiku. And if I were to pick a single volume to reference I would recommend Richard Wright’s “Haiku: This Other World”. My reason for recommending Wright is that his haiku are idiomatic (meaning they are in natural English, they are not translated), the images are compelling and modern, and therefore easy to understand, and finally, Wright’s haiku are metrically traditional; most of them are in 5-7-5 syllables. This sets up for the poet what I call the “renga pulse”. Don’t worry too much in this exercise about maintaining lineation. On the other hand, it is good to start with a strong sense of the traditional syllabic structure and if you can manage to follow the initial verse with a 7-7 syllable response, that is all to the good.
Most of Wright’s haiku have a strong seasonal reference, as is traditional for haiku. But there are also many that are non-seasonal and they will serve well for this exercise. Here are a few examples:
The ocean’s soft sound
Lifts the toll of a far bell
To the half-seen stars (321)
My shadow was sad
When I took it from the sand
Of the gleaming beach (530)
When the train had stopped,
A coffin was unloaded
Amid steam and smoke (181)
Naked to the sky,
A village without a name
In the setting sun (73)
Of course, if you wish, you can come up with your own verse to practice linking. But I think it’s good to get a feel for responding to someone else.
One comment I’d like to make, when you are engaged in this exercise, don’t be concerned about being original. Don’t strive to be brilliant or unusual. It’s even OK to use a cliché. The purpose of the exercise is to gain facility at linking. More broadly, in an actual renga it is not necessary that every link be striking. In fact, it is considered normal for many verses in a renga to be ‘background’ verses, meaning verses that do not stand out. I think of background verses as ‘good enough verses’. In a 12-verse renga, such as a Shisan or Junicho, maybe one or two verses will be really striking. In a 36-verse renga, a Kasen, maybe three or four verses will really stand out.
If you think of a renga as a journey, this makes sense. When we take a walk, or canoe down a river, not every appearance on such a journey calls to us or draws our attention. In such a journey there will be a few singular moments and that is enough to make the journey worthwhile. Similarly, the background verses serve to help highlight the striking verses.
Internalizing this attitude is important for the renga poet because, I have found, it makes writing a renga much more pleasurable. If the renga poet feels that every link needs to be striking and significant, this can lead to a kind of tension which turns the writing of renga into a chore. If, on the other hand, one accepts that a verse is ‘good enough’, one can then move on and continue with the renga journey.
Above all, have fun with these linking exercises.
As readers of this blog already know, I look at renga as a craft, like pottery. To practice pottery one has to learn various skills; throwing and shaping clay, glazes, carving, firing, etc. To practice renga one has to learn various skills; linking, shifting, lineation, topic placement, etc. One of the basic skills for a renga poet is linking and it is that particular skill, or technique, that is the focus here.
Renga poets are called upon to add a verse to the one they have received. In addition, if the verse they are adding is in a particular placement in the renga, renga poets will have to add a verse that also embraces the topic of that placement. The topics include: the moon, love, blossoming trees, and the seasons of fall, winter, spring, and summer.
This is not a method that is taught in standard books on poetic technique. So I would like to suggest here a way of learning how to link.
Take a three-line verse such as the following:
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind.
It is important that the selected verse not be an example of a topical verse. That is to say, the three-line verse should not itself be a moon, love, blossoming tree, or seasonal verse.
Now, take this three-line verse and add two-line verses to it such that it transforms the whole into one of the topics that will be needed when writing an actual renga. I will illustrate by example:
1. Fall Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
As brown and gold leaves scatter
Among the boulders and grass
The links indicates the Fall season; “brown leaves” = fall. The two verses together form a coherent image of Fall.
2. Winter Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
Snow falling from the branches
In the mid-afternoon light
The link indicates the Winter season; “snow” = winter. The two verses together form a coherent image of Winter.
3. Spring Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
White plum blossoms are scattered
Among the boulders and grass
The link indicates the Spring season; “plum blossoms” = spring. The two verses together form a coherent image of Spring. Notice how closely this verse resembles the verse in the Fall Link. Basically the only change is from “brown and gold leaves” to “white plum blossoms” but that is enough to change the whole seasonal reference and feeling of the image.
This link also functions as a “blossoming tree” link. That is usually the case; blossoming trees such as plum, cherry, apple, etc., bloom in the Spring. There are some blossoming trees, such as magnolia and some hawthorns, which can bloom also in the summer. A few types might bloom into the fall and one can experiment with these kinds of references.
A Spring Link that does not contain the blossoming tree might look something like this:
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
The last few fragments of ice
Disappear along the shore
The phrase “last fragments of ice” indicates an early Spring timing, and therefore this would be a Spring verse, transforming the two verses into a coherent image of Spring.
4. Summer Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
The shore has doubled its size
Under the months-long heat wave
The link indicates the Summer season; “heat wave” = summer. The two verses together form a coherent image of Summer.
5. Moon Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
The full moon briefly hidden
By a swiftly drifting cloud
The link adds the moon to the overall image, making the two verses a coherent lunar image. A suggestion here is to experiment with different lunar phases, including the new moon (or the absence of a moon) and see how it shapes your link.
6. Love Link
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
Their third date, a picnic lunch;
She has high expectations
In renga, and Japanese poetry in general, the love verse refers to one of three aspects of love. The first meeting and the thrill that entails. The sense that the thrill is receding. And, finally, parting. This is a broader, more encompassing, vision of love than we normally associate with the word. This is helpful to poets because it opens up a lot of possibilities for the “love verse” that might not have been considered.
7. Blossoming Tree Verse
See “3” above, the “Spring Verse”.
8. Non-topical Link
Just to round things out, add a link that is free of any specific topic, usually called a “miscellaneous verse”.
Trees beside the pond –
Moving across the surface,
The sound of the wind
At the edge of the forest
A hungry fox is watching
This link is not specifically seasonal, nor does it refer to any of the required topics in a renga.
So that is the basic procedure in learning how to link. Take a three-line verse, and then link to that verse in such a way as to transform the verse into one of the topics that are necessary for any renga. In this way the aspiring renga poet will be ready if, when their turn comes in a collaborative renga, for linking in keeping with the renga form. If the renga poet needs to add a specific topic, practice in doing so will prove useful in that situation. If the renga poet needs to add a non-specific link, or a link that is not one of the required topics, the poet will have had practice doing that as well. And if the renga poet is writing a solo renga, all of this practice will help smooth the entire process of composing a renga.
Where does one get the initial image to link to? I would suggest two sources. First, an image from the middle of a published renga. In other words, borrow someone else’s renga link. Don’t use the opening verse of a renga; that’s the hokku and it is a strongly seasonal verse. Rather, choose a verse from the middle of the renga that by itself does not inherently possess a topical indication so that you can practice linking to all the required topics.
The second source I would suggest is from modern haiku collections. In particular, non-seasonal modern haiku. And if I were to pick a single volume to reference I would recommend Richard Wright’s “Haiku: This Other World”. My reason for recommending Wright is that his haiku are idiomatic (meaning they are in natural English, they are not translated), the images are compelling and modern, and therefore easy to understand, and finally, Wright’s haiku are metrically traditional; most of them are in 5-7-5 syllables. This sets up for the poet what I call the “renga pulse”. Don’t worry too much in this exercise about maintaining lineation. On the other hand, it is good to start with a strong sense of the traditional syllabic structure and if you can manage to follow the initial verse with a 7-7 syllable response, that is all to the good.
Most of Wright’s haiku have a strong seasonal reference, as is traditional for haiku. But there are also many that are non-seasonal and they will serve well for this exercise. Here are a few examples:
The ocean’s soft sound
Lifts the toll of a far bell
To the half-seen stars (321)
My shadow was sad
When I took it from the sand
Of the gleaming beach (530)
When the train had stopped,
A coffin was unloaded
Amid steam and smoke (181)
Naked to the sky,
A village without a name
In the setting sun (73)
Of course, if you wish, you can come up with your own verse to practice linking. But I think it’s good to get a feel for responding to someone else.
One comment I’d like to make, when you are engaged in this exercise, don’t be concerned about being original. Don’t strive to be brilliant or unusual. It’s even OK to use a cliché. The purpose of the exercise is to gain facility at linking. More broadly, in an actual renga it is not necessary that every link be striking. In fact, it is considered normal for many verses in a renga to be ‘background’ verses, meaning verses that do not stand out. I think of background verses as ‘good enough verses’. In a 12-verse renga, such as a Shisan or Junicho, maybe one or two verses will be really striking. In a 36-verse renga, a Kasen, maybe three or four verses will really stand out.
If you think of a renga as a journey, this makes sense. When we take a walk, or canoe down a river, not every appearance on such a journey calls to us or draws our attention. In such a journey there will be a few singular moments and that is enough to make the journey worthwhile. Similarly, the background verses serve to help highlight the striking verses.
Internalizing this attitude is important for the renga poet because, I have found, it makes writing a renga much more pleasurable. If the renga poet feels that every link needs to be striking and significant, this can lead to a kind of tension which turns the writing of renga into a chore. If, on the other hand, one accepts that a verse is ‘good enough’, one can then move on and continue with the renga journey.
Above all, have fun with these linking exercises.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Bridge: A Solo Junicho
Bridge
Golden poplar leaves
Bright in the light of sunrise
In my neighbor's yard
New statues of ducks and quail
Clustered around the front door
Snails are hiding
Underneath the wooden steps
It is damp and dark
"Let's talk about this some more,
Bring it out in the open."
Slipping on the ice
The small car comes to a stop
Next to a parked truck
"I can't rely on you,"
She returns the ring he gave her
The office lobby
Sun pouring in the windows
And afternoon heat
Next to the espresso stand
Six or seven apple trees
A few petals fall
On the coats of passersby
They don't seem to mind
The full moon between some clouds
Traversing the Aries sky
His recurring dream,
One that he looks forward to,
In the land of calm
An angel and a goddess
On a bridge across a stream
Golden poplar leaves
Bright in the light of sunrise
In my neighbor's yard
New statues of ducks and quail
Clustered around the front door
Snails are hiding
Underneath the wooden steps
It is damp and dark
"Let's talk about this some more,
Bring it out in the open."
Slipping on the ice
The small car comes to a stop
Next to a parked truck
"I can't rely on you,"
She returns the ring he gave her
The office lobby
Sun pouring in the windows
And afternoon heat
Next to the espresso stand
Six or seven apple trees
A few petals fall
On the coats of passersby
They don't seem to mind
The full moon between some clouds
Traversing the Aries sky
His recurring dream,
One that he looks forward to,
In the land of calm
An angel and a goddess
On a bridge across a stream
Friday, October 24, 2008
Maples: A Tan Renga
A Dialogue with Haiku Master Buson:
The twilight mountain,
The redness of the maples
Slowly fades to dark (Buson)
As devas start gathering
By the side of the river (RJ)
The twilight mountain,
The redness of the maples
Slowly fades to dark (Buson)
As devas start gathering
By the side of the river (RJ)
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Form and Meaning
Form and Meaning
A teacup has a particular form which is intimately related to its function. Loosely speaking, a teacup has a shape that can hold liquid and is small enough to hold easily in one hand. We recognize a teacup because of its form and the meaning of teacup, which is its function, is that form.
Some musical forms also display this kind of intimate relationship between meaning and form. This is particularly true of dance music. A dance form like a waltz has a particular form because its meaning is to act as a basis for a certain kind of dance. Thus meaning and form mutually interpenetrate.
The meaning of poetic forms, like sonnet, villanelle, tanka, etc. are not as easy to spot. This is because the function of poetic forms is not immediately clear in the way that the function of a teacup is clear, or the function of a dance form in music is clear. If I consider what the meaning of the form of a teacup is, I can easily access that meaning; the relationship between meaning and form is apparent. If I consider what the meaning of the form of sonnet is, I find that a more difficult question to answer.
But I think it is a question that is worth pursuing. Larry Gross wrote in the 1995 Tanka Splendor, “A form evolves and persists over time because it does certain things exceedingly well.” The Japanese Tanka has a written history of over 1300 years and its form has remained constant during those centuries. The sonnet has a history of about 800 years and its form has retained a sense of constancy during those centuries. Both of these forms do something “exceedingly well” which is why people are attracted to them, continue to mold their poetry to them.
But what is it that a persistent poetic form does? How can we access the meaning of the form in the way that we access the meaning of more concrete and functional forms, like a teacup? One approach is to start with the length of the form. Contrast, for example, the length of the sonnet with the length of the tanka. The sonnet is 14 lines with an overall syllable count of 140 syllables. The Tanka is five lines with an overall syllable count of 31 syllables. As many commentators have observed, the sonnet is the length of a typical English paragraph. It is well suited to presenting an argument; not argument in the sense of a logical argument, rather argument in the sense of presenting a view. An opening statement can be followed by examples, or metaphors illustrating that statement. There is time and space enough in a sonnet to make a fairly complete presentation of an idea.
In contrast, the tanka, simply by being short, lacks the time and space to present an argument. In such a short form it is difficult to go through all the steps of presenting a view, backing it up with examples or metaphors, and then coming to a conclusion. What a short form like the tanka is good at is the presentation of an image, or images and allowing that presentation to resonate in the reader. Many commentators on tanka have referred to this as a kind of “space”, or “dreaming room” that surround a tanka. Tanka does this superbly and one reason it is so attractive is that the form itself leads in the direction of a presentational approach, rather than an argument/view approach.
So part of the meaning of a poetic form lies in the overall length of the form. It is helpful in exploring meaning and form in poetry to start with two forms that are sharply distinct; like sonnet and tanka. From there one can move to an investigation of forms that share more characteristics.
The other day I was having a conversation with a poet friend when I brought up the cinquain. He had not heard of it, so I explained that it was created by Adelaide Crapsey and it has the syllabic structure of five lines with a syllable count as follows: 2-4-6-8-2; for a total of twenty-two syllables. My friend, Karl, pondered this for a moment and said, “That has a very different feel than the tanka.” “How so?” I asked. Karl said that the closing line of two syllables seemed to be strongly “cadential”, like the last chord in a piece of music. The cinquain at first opens up, then comes to a strong close with the last two syllable line. In contrast, the tanka has a feeling of opening at the end, more like a river entering the ocean, with the closing two lines of 7-7.
I found Karl’s comments helpful and I think these kinds of intuitions can help us understand the connection between meaning and form in poetry. Discussions of meaning and form in poetry will, I think, always be somewhat tentative. Unlike the clear connection between the form of a teacup and its meaning, the connection between the form of a poem and its meaning is more subtle. But it is still there and investigations into the relationship can prove fruitful.
Returning to the discussion of the short forms, such as the tanka and the cinquain, I would add into this mix some of the traditional Chinese forms. For example, there is a Chinese form that consists of four lines, seven characters per line, for a total of 28 syllables/characters. (For a collection written in this style see “Poems of the Masters”, translated by Red Pine, pages 181 through 367.) The syllable count falls between the cinquain, at 22 syllables, and the tanka, at 31 syllables. One difference is the number of lines, four lines for the Chinese form, five lines for the cinquain and tanka. But for me the most significant difference is that the Chinese form has a regular line length, while the cinquain and tanka change line length through the poem.
The regular line length in the Chinese form (and all Chinese forms I am familiar with have regular line length) gives Chinese poetry a sense of balance and elegance. The tanka, in contrast, flows, seems to move forward, it seems to be in motion. The Chinese form feels more like a picture to me. This difference is subtle, yet at the level of feeling, at the level of pulse, there is a definite difference.
What I am suggesting here is that a particular form in poetry has meaning that transcends any particular poem in that form. I am suggesting that the form of the sonnet is a kind of meaning, and that the form of the tanka is kind of meaning, independent of the content of a particular sonnet or tanka.
What has happened in modern approaches to poetic form is that form and meaning have been separated. This is particularly true when we consider Japanese forms in the English language. The form of Japanese poetry has, to various degrees, been abandoned. It is my contention that when the form of a type of poetry is abandoned, the meaning of that form is also abandoned. That is to say, when the form of haiku is abandoned, the haiku itself has been abandoned; when the form of a tanka has been abandoned, tanka itself has been abandoned, etc.
This would not be a difficult point to understand with pottery. For example, if someone offered you a flat tile and told you it was a teacup, you might laugh, but because the form lacked the meaning of teacup, such an assertion would not be taken seriously. Even if the tile was beautiful, it’s still not a teacup. In poetry, however, because the connection between form and meaning is more tenuous, more difficult to access, such a separation can be attempted without such an attempt being immediately dismissed.
What I am suggesting is that the forms of haiku, tanka, and renga (the three forms English speakers have taken an interest in) are meaningful as forms in themselves, as syllabic structures, that those forms have meaning in the same way that the form of a teacup has meaning. This contrasts with the primary societies devoted to these forms which seem to encourage an approach to these forms which abandons the syllabic bases of these forms, deferring to free verse norms. It is my suggestion that, to a significant extent, the transmission of these forms to the English-speaking world is the transmission of the syllabic forms because the meaning of those types of poetry is the form that they embody.
It is interesting for me to observe that most poets have an intuitive understanding of this connection. Outside of the official societies devoted to these forms, almost all poets write haiku or tanka in a way that affirms the traditional syllabic form. A good example is “The Calligraphy of Clouds” by Yeshaya Rotbard, published in 2007. The haiku and tanka included in this volume, excellently crafted, are syllabically rooted in the traditional form from which they derive. From the haiku of Richard Wright to such modern collections, there is a large body of English language poetry, rooted in Japanese poetic forms, that consistently finds the traditional syllabic contours meaningful and definitive.
I’d like to conclude with another observation Larry Gross made in the 1995 Tanka Splendor: “While the tanka seems to thrive on innovative content, it is less clear whether drastic alterations of form are equally welcome.. . . [T]he genre has remained remarkably consistent in form and technique through the centuries. When we treat it as any other 5-line verse, . . . we may be blurring an important distinction.”
A teacup has a particular form which is intimately related to its function. Loosely speaking, a teacup has a shape that can hold liquid and is small enough to hold easily in one hand. We recognize a teacup because of its form and the meaning of teacup, which is its function, is that form.
Some musical forms also display this kind of intimate relationship between meaning and form. This is particularly true of dance music. A dance form like a waltz has a particular form because its meaning is to act as a basis for a certain kind of dance. Thus meaning and form mutually interpenetrate.
The meaning of poetic forms, like sonnet, villanelle, tanka, etc. are not as easy to spot. This is because the function of poetic forms is not immediately clear in the way that the function of a teacup is clear, or the function of a dance form in music is clear. If I consider what the meaning of the form of a teacup is, I can easily access that meaning; the relationship between meaning and form is apparent. If I consider what the meaning of the form of sonnet is, I find that a more difficult question to answer.
But I think it is a question that is worth pursuing. Larry Gross wrote in the 1995 Tanka Splendor, “A form evolves and persists over time because it does certain things exceedingly well.” The Japanese Tanka has a written history of over 1300 years and its form has remained constant during those centuries. The sonnet has a history of about 800 years and its form has retained a sense of constancy during those centuries. Both of these forms do something “exceedingly well” which is why people are attracted to them, continue to mold their poetry to them.
But what is it that a persistent poetic form does? How can we access the meaning of the form in the way that we access the meaning of more concrete and functional forms, like a teacup? One approach is to start with the length of the form. Contrast, for example, the length of the sonnet with the length of the tanka. The sonnet is 14 lines with an overall syllable count of 140 syllables. The Tanka is five lines with an overall syllable count of 31 syllables. As many commentators have observed, the sonnet is the length of a typical English paragraph. It is well suited to presenting an argument; not argument in the sense of a logical argument, rather argument in the sense of presenting a view. An opening statement can be followed by examples, or metaphors illustrating that statement. There is time and space enough in a sonnet to make a fairly complete presentation of an idea.
In contrast, the tanka, simply by being short, lacks the time and space to present an argument. In such a short form it is difficult to go through all the steps of presenting a view, backing it up with examples or metaphors, and then coming to a conclusion. What a short form like the tanka is good at is the presentation of an image, or images and allowing that presentation to resonate in the reader. Many commentators on tanka have referred to this as a kind of “space”, or “dreaming room” that surround a tanka. Tanka does this superbly and one reason it is so attractive is that the form itself leads in the direction of a presentational approach, rather than an argument/view approach.
So part of the meaning of a poetic form lies in the overall length of the form. It is helpful in exploring meaning and form in poetry to start with two forms that are sharply distinct; like sonnet and tanka. From there one can move to an investigation of forms that share more characteristics.
The other day I was having a conversation with a poet friend when I brought up the cinquain. He had not heard of it, so I explained that it was created by Adelaide Crapsey and it has the syllabic structure of five lines with a syllable count as follows: 2-4-6-8-2; for a total of twenty-two syllables. My friend, Karl, pondered this for a moment and said, “That has a very different feel than the tanka.” “How so?” I asked. Karl said that the closing line of two syllables seemed to be strongly “cadential”, like the last chord in a piece of music. The cinquain at first opens up, then comes to a strong close with the last two syllable line. In contrast, the tanka has a feeling of opening at the end, more like a river entering the ocean, with the closing two lines of 7-7.
I found Karl’s comments helpful and I think these kinds of intuitions can help us understand the connection between meaning and form in poetry. Discussions of meaning and form in poetry will, I think, always be somewhat tentative. Unlike the clear connection between the form of a teacup and its meaning, the connection between the form of a poem and its meaning is more subtle. But it is still there and investigations into the relationship can prove fruitful.
Returning to the discussion of the short forms, such as the tanka and the cinquain, I would add into this mix some of the traditional Chinese forms. For example, there is a Chinese form that consists of four lines, seven characters per line, for a total of 28 syllables/characters. (For a collection written in this style see “Poems of the Masters”, translated by Red Pine, pages 181 through 367.) The syllable count falls between the cinquain, at 22 syllables, and the tanka, at 31 syllables. One difference is the number of lines, four lines for the Chinese form, five lines for the cinquain and tanka. But for me the most significant difference is that the Chinese form has a regular line length, while the cinquain and tanka change line length through the poem.
The regular line length in the Chinese form (and all Chinese forms I am familiar with have regular line length) gives Chinese poetry a sense of balance and elegance. The tanka, in contrast, flows, seems to move forward, it seems to be in motion. The Chinese form feels more like a picture to me. This difference is subtle, yet at the level of feeling, at the level of pulse, there is a definite difference.
What I am suggesting here is that a particular form in poetry has meaning that transcends any particular poem in that form. I am suggesting that the form of the sonnet is a kind of meaning, and that the form of the tanka is kind of meaning, independent of the content of a particular sonnet or tanka.
What has happened in modern approaches to poetic form is that form and meaning have been separated. This is particularly true when we consider Japanese forms in the English language. The form of Japanese poetry has, to various degrees, been abandoned. It is my contention that when the form of a type of poetry is abandoned, the meaning of that form is also abandoned. That is to say, when the form of haiku is abandoned, the haiku itself has been abandoned; when the form of a tanka has been abandoned, tanka itself has been abandoned, etc.
This would not be a difficult point to understand with pottery. For example, if someone offered you a flat tile and told you it was a teacup, you might laugh, but because the form lacked the meaning of teacup, such an assertion would not be taken seriously. Even if the tile was beautiful, it’s still not a teacup. In poetry, however, because the connection between form and meaning is more tenuous, more difficult to access, such a separation can be attempted without such an attempt being immediately dismissed.
What I am suggesting is that the forms of haiku, tanka, and renga (the three forms English speakers have taken an interest in) are meaningful as forms in themselves, as syllabic structures, that those forms have meaning in the same way that the form of a teacup has meaning. This contrasts with the primary societies devoted to these forms which seem to encourage an approach to these forms which abandons the syllabic bases of these forms, deferring to free verse norms. It is my suggestion that, to a significant extent, the transmission of these forms to the English-speaking world is the transmission of the syllabic forms because the meaning of those types of poetry is the form that they embody.
It is interesting for me to observe that most poets have an intuitive understanding of this connection. Outside of the official societies devoted to these forms, almost all poets write haiku or tanka in a way that affirms the traditional syllabic form. A good example is “The Calligraphy of Clouds” by Yeshaya Rotbard, published in 2007. The haiku and tanka included in this volume, excellently crafted, are syllabically rooted in the traditional form from which they derive. From the haiku of Richard Wright to such modern collections, there is a large body of English language poetry, rooted in Japanese poetic forms, that consistently finds the traditional syllabic contours meaningful and definitive.
I’d like to conclude with another observation Larry Gross made in the 1995 Tanka Splendor: “While the tanka seems to thrive on innovative content, it is less clear whether drastic alterations of form are equally welcome.. . . [T]he genre has remained remarkably consistent in form and technique through the centuries. When we treat it as any other 5-line verse, . . . we may be blurring an important distinction.”
Monday, October 20, 2008
Time and Season -- Part 4
Time and Season – Part 4
Freeing the Moon from Fall
“The autumn moon is incomparably beautiful. Any man who supposes the moon is always the same, regardless of the season, and is therefore unable to detect the difference in autumn, must be exceedingly insensitive.”
“Essays in Idleness” by Kenko
Translated by Donald Keene
Number 212
In traditional renga the moon is understood to be a season word indicating autumn, or fall. That it to say, if there is a verse in a renga in which the moon appears then it is a Fall Verse, unless the poet specifically indicates otherwise. For example, if the moon is seen through bare branches, or over snow drifts, then it is a winter moon. But if the moon is seen on the horizon, with no other image indicating a season, then the verse will be considered a Fall Verse. One way of looking at this is that the moon’s default category is the Fall Season.
This association is very strong for Japanese culture and is deeply rooted in their poetic culture. It goes back to such ancient collections of poetry as the Kokinshu, and may have even earlier roots. To get a sense of how intimately this connection is felt, consider that for those living in the U.S. the game bird, turkey, automatically assumes Fall seasonal associations due to that particular food item being embedded in myths about the founding of the nation among the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. It would be difficult for an American to not associate turkey with Fall. If someone in the U.S. wanted to write about eating turkey, but not in the Fall season, the writer would have to specifically mention that the meal was served at some other time. Just as in a traditional renga if one writes a moon verse, but wants a non-Fall moon, the poet has to specifically inform the reader that some other season than Fall is being referred to.
However, outside of the U.S. there is no such intimate, or deep, connection between serving turkey for a meal and a particular season. Just as there is no particular seasonal association for a meal centered on chicken or rice in the U.S., so there is no particular seasonal association for turkey outside of the U.S.
I would suggest that the same applies to the moon outside of Japan. As renga moves into the world at large these kinds of associations that are culturally specific need to be reconsidered. Are they efficacious? Do they still have a meaningful function?
When Time and Season are separated into distinct topics one of the consequences is a reconsideration of the Moon Verse and its meaning in a renga. Moon words are, from the perspective of Time and Season as separate topics, time words. The cycle of the moon is a way of keeping track of time. Just as “morning”, “evening”, “Monday”, etc., are time words based on the solar cycle, words such as “full moon”, “new moon”, “gibbous moon”, or “blue moon”, “Aries moon”, etc., are time words that specify a particular time as measured by the lunar cycle. And just as words designating solar time are not inherently seasonal, so also words designating the lunar cycle are not inherently affixed to a particular season. A term like “full moon” can be at any season.
There is a gain to separating the lunar cycle and its terms from a specific seasonal referent. That gain is that when this is done the moon verse can function as a pivot between two seasonal verses. Let me give an example:
Brown leaves and cool air
Switching to the thicker socks
Blankets on the bed
The almost full moon is seen
Crossing the garden of stars
Beside the Hawthorn
Whose first blossoms have opened
Near the empty house
The first verse is a Fall Verse: brown leaves = Fall. The third verse is a Spring Verse: first blossoms = Spring. The second verse is a moon verse and acts as a pivot, which can link equally well to the two seasonal verses. Here is what I mean:
Brown leaves and cool air
Switching to the thicker socks
Blankets on the bed
The almost full moon is seen
Crossing the garden of stars
Verses 1 and 2 make a complete image.
The almost full moon is seen
Crossing the garden of stars
Beside the Hawthorn
Whose first blossoms have opened
Near the empty house
Verses 2 and 3 also make a complete image.
The shift between Verse 1 and Verse 3 is a shift of season; from Fall to Spring. Verse 2 allows for that shift to take place. But this is only true if one frees the moon from the traditional Fall association. If the traditional association is maintained, then one has a series of seasonal verses as follows: Fall, Fall, Spring. The pivot function of the second verse is now lost.
Just as a verse specifying solar time, such as “sunrise” can function as a pivot between two seasonal verses, because “sunrise” does not inherently specify a season, so also a verse specifying lunar time, such as “the almost full moon” can function as a pivot in the same way. Both lunar and solar time verses can facilitate the shift; and not only a seasonal shift, but other types of shift as well.
I realize that dropping the traditional association with the Fall season for lunar verses represents a break with tradition. I wouldn’t put forth the idea unless I thought there was something to be gained by doing so. I believe that the ability for a lunar verse to function as a pivot opens up the lunar verse to possibilities that have not been previously considered and explored within the context of renga. Furthermore, I believe that by dropping this traditional association, renga will become more accessible to the world at large, which does not, by a large, share in this kind of association. For these reasons, I offer this suggestion. I recognize that thoughtful people may disagree with this suggestion and I have no quarrel with those who want to continue with the traditional pattern of associating the moon with Fall. I only offer the possibility here of a different approach to the moon verse and its meaning.
“The moon that appears close to dawn after we have long waited for it moves us more profoundly than the full moon shining cloudless over a thousand leaves. And how incomparably lovely is the moon, almost greenish in its light, when seen through the tops of the cedars deep in the mountains, or when it hides for a moment behind clustering clouds during a sudden shower! The sparkle on hickory or white-oak leaves seemingly wet with moonlight strikes one to the heart.”
“Essays in Idleness”, Number 137
“Looking at the moon is always diverting, no matter what the circumstances.”
Essays in Idleness, Number 21
Freeing the Moon from Fall
“The autumn moon is incomparably beautiful. Any man who supposes the moon is always the same, regardless of the season, and is therefore unable to detect the difference in autumn, must be exceedingly insensitive.”
“Essays in Idleness” by Kenko
Translated by Donald Keene
Number 212
In traditional renga the moon is understood to be a season word indicating autumn, or fall. That it to say, if there is a verse in a renga in which the moon appears then it is a Fall Verse, unless the poet specifically indicates otherwise. For example, if the moon is seen through bare branches, or over snow drifts, then it is a winter moon. But if the moon is seen on the horizon, with no other image indicating a season, then the verse will be considered a Fall Verse. One way of looking at this is that the moon’s default category is the Fall Season.
This association is very strong for Japanese culture and is deeply rooted in their poetic culture. It goes back to such ancient collections of poetry as the Kokinshu, and may have even earlier roots. To get a sense of how intimately this connection is felt, consider that for those living in the U.S. the game bird, turkey, automatically assumes Fall seasonal associations due to that particular food item being embedded in myths about the founding of the nation among the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. It would be difficult for an American to not associate turkey with Fall. If someone in the U.S. wanted to write about eating turkey, but not in the Fall season, the writer would have to specifically mention that the meal was served at some other time. Just as in a traditional renga if one writes a moon verse, but wants a non-Fall moon, the poet has to specifically inform the reader that some other season than Fall is being referred to.
However, outside of the U.S. there is no such intimate, or deep, connection between serving turkey for a meal and a particular season. Just as there is no particular seasonal association for a meal centered on chicken or rice in the U.S., so there is no particular seasonal association for turkey outside of the U.S.
I would suggest that the same applies to the moon outside of Japan. As renga moves into the world at large these kinds of associations that are culturally specific need to be reconsidered. Are they efficacious? Do they still have a meaningful function?
When Time and Season are separated into distinct topics one of the consequences is a reconsideration of the Moon Verse and its meaning in a renga. Moon words are, from the perspective of Time and Season as separate topics, time words. The cycle of the moon is a way of keeping track of time. Just as “morning”, “evening”, “Monday”, etc., are time words based on the solar cycle, words such as “full moon”, “new moon”, “gibbous moon”, or “blue moon”, “Aries moon”, etc., are time words that specify a particular time as measured by the lunar cycle. And just as words designating solar time are not inherently seasonal, so also words designating the lunar cycle are not inherently affixed to a particular season. A term like “full moon” can be at any season.
There is a gain to separating the lunar cycle and its terms from a specific seasonal referent. That gain is that when this is done the moon verse can function as a pivot between two seasonal verses. Let me give an example:
Brown leaves and cool air
Switching to the thicker socks
Blankets on the bed
The almost full moon is seen
Crossing the garden of stars
Beside the Hawthorn
Whose first blossoms have opened
Near the empty house
The first verse is a Fall Verse: brown leaves = Fall. The third verse is a Spring Verse: first blossoms = Spring. The second verse is a moon verse and acts as a pivot, which can link equally well to the two seasonal verses. Here is what I mean:
Brown leaves and cool air
Switching to the thicker socks
Blankets on the bed
The almost full moon is seen
Crossing the garden of stars
Verses 1 and 2 make a complete image.
The almost full moon is seen
Crossing the garden of stars
Beside the Hawthorn
Whose first blossoms have opened
Near the empty house
Verses 2 and 3 also make a complete image.
The shift between Verse 1 and Verse 3 is a shift of season; from Fall to Spring. Verse 2 allows for that shift to take place. But this is only true if one frees the moon from the traditional Fall association. If the traditional association is maintained, then one has a series of seasonal verses as follows: Fall, Fall, Spring. The pivot function of the second verse is now lost.
Just as a verse specifying solar time, such as “sunrise” can function as a pivot between two seasonal verses, because “sunrise” does not inherently specify a season, so also a verse specifying lunar time, such as “the almost full moon” can function as a pivot in the same way. Both lunar and solar time verses can facilitate the shift; and not only a seasonal shift, but other types of shift as well.
I realize that dropping the traditional association with the Fall season for lunar verses represents a break with tradition. I wouldn’t put forth the idea unless I thought there was something to be gained by doing so. I believe that the ability for a lunar verse to function as a pivot opens up the lunar verse to possibilities that have not been previously considered and explored within the context of renga. Furthermore, I believe that by dropping this traditional association, renga will become more accessible to the world at large, which does not, by a large, share in this kind of association. For these reasons, I offer this suggestion. I recognize that thoughtful people may disagree with this suggestion and I have no quarrel with those who want to continue with the traditional pattern of associating the moon with Fall. I only offer the possibility here of a different approach to the moon verse and its meaning.
“The moon that appears close to dawn after we have long waited for it moves us more profoundly than the full moon shining cloudless over a thousand leaves. And how incomparably lovely is the moon, almost greenish in its light, when seen through the tops of the cedars deep in the mountains, or when it hides for a moment behind clustering clouds during a sudden shower! The sparkle on hickory or white-oak leaves seemingly wet with moonlight strikes one to the heart.”
“Essays in Idleness”, Number 137
“Looking at the moon is always diverting, no matter what the circumstances.”
Essays in Idleness, Number 21
Ballad: A Solo Shisan
Dawn appears slowly
Breaking through the morning clouds
Rays of golden light
A few brown leaves remaining
On the branches of the oaks
Cars are briefly parked
In the strip-mall parking lot
With three stores for rent
***
Two teenagers in first love
Walking slowly home from school
A blast of cold wind
Someone closes a window
Some dogs are barking
The full moon high in the sky
A helicopter hovers
***
“What is that about?”
She glances out the window
And asks her husband
Neighbors peer over the fence
At the blooming cherry tree
Impermanent things,
Like mountains and galaxies
Speaking to our heart
***
From years ago a ballad
Sung today for her children
In the noontime heat
Under the shade of a tree
At the edge of town
He takes a well-deserved nap
The first one in a long time
Breaking through the morning clouds
Rays of golden light
A few brown leaves remaining
On the branches of the oaks
Cars are briefly parked
In the strip-mall parking lot
With three stores for rent
***
Two teenagers in first love
Walking slowly home from school
A blast of cold wind
Someone closes a window
Some dogs are barking
The full moon high in the sky
A helicopter hovers
***
“What is that about?”
She glances out the window
And asks her husband
Neighbors peer over the fence
At the blooming cherry tree
Impermanent things,
Like mountains and galaxies
Speaking to our heart
***
From years ago a ballad
Sung today for her children
In the noontime heat
Under the shade of a tree
At the edge of town
He takes a well-deserved nap
The first one in a long time
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