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David Cobb

PROCESS AND PRODUCT : PROSPECTS FOR EUROPEAN HAIKU

Opening address to the First European Haiku Congress, Bad Nauheim, Germany, 13th May 2005


This may be a rather significant occasion in European literary history, when for the first time so many Europeans who have distinguished themselves in haiku have come together under one roof. Optimism, enthusiasm and congratulation may be what the occasion calls for most of all, and only a fool would want to spoil the party. It might be a good idea, therefore, if I stuck to bland, polite remarks, to platitudes, and gave the impression that haiku is accomplishing its artistic mission perfectly in this best of all possible worlds. But I am somewhat of a fool, and I hope you will forgive me if I say a few things that might seem controversial, even perhaps a little uncomfortable to listen to, so that from the very start we may be stirred into thinking about some serious issues, and not just swim around complacently in a pool of self-appreciation.
But I certainly won't expect you to agree with everything I say.

I shall begin rather long ago, with the Book of Genesis, where we can read

'God saw the Tower of Babel that men had built, and said, let us confound their language, that they may not understand each other's speech; and he scattered them abroad from hence upon the face of all the Earth.'

The human race has got the better of God to a certain extent. We do understand each other's speech some of the time, but never completely, and in the search for peace and humanity we still welcome any new way that might help us to understand each other better.

For example, we sometimes hear it proposed that haiku is a universal language of shared feelings, shared emotions and to a lesser extent also shared images, which makes it capable of reversing the Doom of Babel. And in this way it is said haiku will play a therapeutic role, enabling the human race to develop a wholesome philosophy, featuring the quest for harmony, awe of nature, and a modest view of humanity's significance in the great scheme of things. At least, haiku will strengthen our awareness of our environment and our powers of observation and sensation.

But some may object that the idea of haiku as therapy is an abuse of art and a distortion of poetry's role. Doesn't it beg questions that have bothered European poets for centuries? Namely, does poetry have a purpose, can it be put into service without losing its integrity? Or shouldn't poetry be inconsequential and simply deliver delightful words, deepen our experiences, and render our memories more memorable? And what business have poets fantasising about harmony when, in the world we actually know, it's disharmony that makes all the headlines? If haiku poets ignore the uglier and more painful aspects of real life, won't their poems be irrelevant?

Please don't be misled by this nervous and slightly negative questioning. I'm not casting doubt on haiku's ability to develop common ground between poetically-minded people across languages and cultures, I'd just like us to be sober about what we can really achieve. Through haiku we may not be able to reach the hearts of more than one in a hundred people, which is the most that the Japanese have achieved, but it's still a contribution worth making. Others will make their contributions to global understanding in other ways - through music, through art, through drama, through dance, through politics, through aid and trade, and so on. Modesty is supposed to be an attribute of haiku, so let's stay modest - even in our grand designs!

I'm going to talk about the modest contributions haiku is capable of making under two headings: process and product. I'm sorry if those terms might seem more appropriate to baked beans than to haiku, but I can't think of better single words to distinguish between the finished article on the one hand, and on the other all the social interaction that may accompany the making of haiku (that includes 'haiku as a way of life', which is often talked about.) To an extent process and product are inseparable, of course. For some of us the process is all that matters, it is enough; we might even think of the process as the product. Someone might spend much time enjoying the processes of making haiku, and be uplifted spiritually by doing so, and yet in the end never have even one really memorable haiku to show for their efforts. Who would wish to deny that this was worthwhile? I wouldn't. At the same time, I shall go on later to question whether we are getting the balance between process and product right.

I'll begin, though, with an evaluation of the product as it is now, referring to a study done by the Welsh haiku poet, Ken Jones.¹ It seems necessary to point out that Jones has strong Buddhist convictions, because they might be seen to intrude slightly when he evaluates the haiku published at present in British and American haiku magazines, and comes to the conclusion that they fall into four main categories. The first of these categories consists of (I quote):

"Existentially liberative haiku ... which give off a strong but open metaphoric resonance, offering some spark of revelation or keenly felt insight."

'Existentially liberative' is an awkward phrase, probably depending on a good understanding of Wittgenstein and Sartres which I confess I don't have. My own simpler (or more simplistic) description would be a haiku that in a moment gives us some new insight into what our existence on this Earth signifies; a moment when we might find ourselves gasping, 'This is Life.' It is also likely to be a haiku that, as Bashō puts it, 'accepts all things as they are.'

Jones finds this haiku by Buson to be 'existentially liberative':

this is all there is
the path dies out
at the parsley bed

das ist alles was ist
der Pfad bricht ab
am Petersilienbeet

In the second category are haiku consisting of simple imagery. These are haiku that depict things as they are, but don't penetrate beyond the surface phenomena to some deeper reality. They are the type of realistic haiku at which Masaoka Shiki, in the late nineteenth century, recommended the haiku novice to aim.
The weakest haiku of this kind are barely distinguishable from nature notes. For example, here is a quote from a book written for birdwatchers:

Clear nights in October are ideal for migration and the high calls of redwing can be heard from the darkness overhead.

You can easily make a sort of haiku out of that:

October night -
out of the clear sky
redwing cries

Maybe the economical use of words and the directness make this a little more evocative and memorable, but essentially it is still a nature note, and hardly poetry.

A stronger poem could be achieved if we could juxtapose another image - ideally, one that somehow had some correspondence to the flight of birds, and at the same time hinted at some kind of emotion a human might feel on a night like this. I'll now add to this developing poem some bedroom curtains, flimsy defences between the commotion in the natural world outside, and the excitement of the person lying awake in bed:

curtains flapping -
cries from the darkness
of migrating birds

That, I think, is closer to an existentially liberative haiku. Between them, the birds and the curtains have recreated some of the thrill and terror all living creatures share in being alive and journeying through life.

Jones's third category consists of 'clever', contrived haiku, in which the metaphor is closed, and all that remains for the reader is to laugh, or admire the wit and ingenuity. It seems fairest to criticise one of my own haiku for this kind of weakness:

mid-life crisis
purchasing Valentines
three at a time

And in the fourth category Jones puts heavily symbolic haiku, which again are haiku of closure. An example is this one, again of mine, where a grapefruit is an obvious symbol of a relationship that has turned sour:


breakfast in silence
both halves of the grapefruit
unsweetened

Perhaps Jones is a little harsh when he disparages haiku that only make us laugh. He is correct in labelling them 'haiku of closure', that is, not open-ended, but laughter is not one of the Seven Deadly Sins. We all have need of it and sharing in it brings us closer. But anyway, Jones's main finding is not really affected.

This finding is, that the second category, that of 'simple imagery', is the kind of haiku that dominates English-language haiku magazines, and rarest are the haiku he prizes above all the rest, the 'existentially liberative' kind. I venture to think that what Jones concludes about English language haiku is probably equally true for haiku written in all the languages represented here today.

This has serious implications if we wish haiku to be regarded as literature. The arbiters of what is literature will not be ourselves, but non-haiku poets and the 'literary establishment' in general. These aren't people who are entirely ignorant of haiku, but many of them have looked at our works so far and, on the whole, not been very impressed. They don't rate simple imagery, or objective description, or one-line wit, or trite symbolism, as things of much interest in poetry.

I think we should seriously ask ourselves whether we are guilty of publishing too many of those haiku that are merely symbolic, merely imagistic, merely clever, and above all, I would add, being too much bound by the principle of 'sketching', or shasei, which was advocated by Matsuoka Shiki, and then confirmed by his disciple, Takahama Kyoshi. By the way, it still seems to be news to many haiku enthusiasts that Shiki saw 'sketching' (that is, objective description) as no more than the first of several stages of development a haiku poet should aim at. I will dare to suggest that editors of haiku magazines are sometimes too tolerant of writers who reach a sort of minimum publishable standard and then sit complacently in the shallows like little frogs with no urge to jump into the big pool.and see what they can do in deeper water.

A few years ago the editor of Blithe Spirit, at that time Caroline Gourlay, invited some non-haiku poets to present their views of haiku. One of these was Carol Rumens. Here are some of the problems she thinks non-haiku poets have with haiku:


- they don't know how to read them
- they prefer them in sequences, especially if they seem to build up into a narrative
- they get no sense of an individual ego present in the haiku
- our manner and focus are too idyllic and middle-class
- our haiku are too often limited to description
- our haiku aren't playful enough; they're all climax and no foreplay
- there's too little variety in the rhythms
- our choice of words is too refined
- we don't work hard enough at naturalising haiku so that it fits into our own native poetic culture. ²

Those are the well-meaning criticisms of a well-known poet and literary critic who wants haiku to find its niche in the poetry world at large, and if we have any interest in our product finding greater acceptance by non-haiku poets, we would do well to reflect on what she says.

I shall turn my focus now onto process.

Over a period of fifteen years I have belonged to several haiku societies, and have attended a number of haiku conferences and festivals, at home in Britain and abroad, and they have all had one thing in common: they have all been unusually welcoming and friendly. It's as if we belong to a Union of Like Minds. People who join haiku groups as beginners are given a warm welcome and every kind of encouragement, and if they so wish may reasonably expect to see one or two of their own haiku in print within a few months of starting to write them. This can give the impression that it's rather easy to reach the standard for publishable haiku. We don't have the kind of structure that is common in Japan , where a group is led by a recognised 'master', and the membership is graded into a lower rank of apprentices and a higher rank of qualified journeymen. I'm not suggesting we should follow the Japanese example; I doubt very much we'd ever tolerate a system like that, because it doesn't coincide with our current notions of democracy; and there are very few, if any, haiku writers in the West who would like to put themselves forward as 'masters'. But it does mean there are different dynamics in our groups and those in Japan . In a Japanese group one strives for the approval of the 'master', which means trying to advance towards his (or her) vision of excellence. In our groups, one strives for the approval of one's peers, and this may easily degenerate into being about as good at writing haiku as the average member, and so one becomes content just to replicate accepted models. The wish to stay with the majority has a levelling effect, and the chosen models tend to be the imagistic, symbolic and descriptive kinds which are relatively easy to observe and facile to make.

Actually, the system followed in Japan usually has two very contrasting features. On the one hand, the process has popular or democratic features; on the other hand, it is strongly authoritarian. Typically, the members compose a few haiku more or less to order, either on a topic set by the master as 'homework' (maybe a 'season word' of the moment), or by joining together in a ginko, a communal walk in which the members hunt down haiku as they stroll. The haiku that have been composed in either of these rather deliberate, almost laboratory-like ways, are then pooled anonymously at a kukai meeting and subjected there, on the one hand, to the popular vote, and on the other, to the adjudication of the 'master'. This can be educational. Nevertheless, the output is characterised by mannered sameness and by repetition, because the majority of masters seem in practice to be rather conservative. And of course, being human, they are liable to like best the haiku that have a flattering resemblance to their own.

Something like ginko and kukai are practised in our workshops and contests in the West and it is not always the most inspired and inspirational haiku that attract most attention. The reason for this is, I think, because our processes are just too hasty. I'm aware of the arguments in favour of spontaneity, though they derive from philosophy, not poetics. I rather think, myself, spontaneity is allowing process to take the edge off product. During the ginko, or in a workshop situation, we produce poems pretty much 'off the cuff', allowing no time for experiences to be digested, and for the best formulations of words to emerge. Later, sitting in judgement in the kukai, we make snap decisions about the best of the numerous haiku that pass briefly beneath our noses. The quality of a haiku of the 'existentially liberative kind', or an innovative haiku, may be overlooked, because these haiku take time to sink in and be appreciated. The kind of haiku that gets immediate approval is one that offers a new take on something familiar, haiku about curious happenings that seem more coincidences than co-occurrences, and especially humorous haiku that elicit an immediate laugh or smile, or maybe an ah! or a tear.

However, the 'seashell game' which Martin Lucas has promoted might give us some encouragement that we are getting better at discriminating. I hope we may find an opportunity during the weekend to hear from him about that. Another initiative worth mentioning is Haiku-heute, organised by Volker Friebel on the internet. This is a trawl through all the haiku published in a given year in German, carried out by quite a large invited jury. The aim is to republish a set number of haiku that are popular with the jurors and get the highest votes overall. These two processes are probably the nearest we have come so far towards developing a mechanism that promotes excellence.

The renku is something else we have taken over from Japan . It is attractive, because it is a process of collaborative composition, offering something virtually unknown in Western literary life. In Britain it has begun to be a contact point between haiku poets and non-haiku poets, so that in the immediate future it might be through linked haiku that haiku will gain a firmer foothold in the national tradition.

Renku has of course a very respectable pedigree. A renku session is a pleasant pastime to take part in. But how often does it result in anything resembling a unified poem of consistent quality, in other words, a literary product? Almost never, in my experience, or only, like the proverbial parson's egg, 'in parts'. Indeed, Shiki would have none of it, and would have liked to banish renku from the literary scene altogether. The rewards of renku are in the process; the product has dubious integrity and only very rarely any enduring literary worth.

Still, I shouldn't make assumptions that we all have highfalutin literary ambitions, or that we all share grand designs for the improvement of society, or the way we involve ourselves with nature. It will be enough if we enjoy haiku for what they are; if we can share our personal enjoyment with the community we shall add some value to life, and we shall gain friends. But I hope nevertheless I have made a case, whilst continuing to cultivate our processes, for giving far more consideration to ways of improving the quality of our products.

I will mention the example of Bashō here. You might call him 'the gregarious hermit'. He didn't only tour the country seeking out things that would inspire his poetry, and spending many a convivial afternoon and evening composing renku with poets who wanted him to be their tutor, but there were also occasions when he 'shut his gate' and would have nothing to do with anyone for months on end, while he worked out how to elevate the purpose of haiku, or evolve a more perfect style.

Those of us who have been invited to Bad Nauheim are a select and privileged few and as such perhaps we have a greater responsibility than most to 'shut our gates' from time to time. We have made some sort of mark in the haiku world, at home and abroad, and this world will forgive and still love us if now and again we take a short 'retreat'.

What's involved in 'shutting the gate'? It will mean something different for each of us, for I see it as an absolute priority to establish haiku in our own native country and in our mother tongue. Even if this means, for the time being, neglecting the international dimension of haiku. I do realise, of course, how frustrating it must be if one's mother tongue is not widely understood, and I do understand the appeal of being able to share one's poems with a much wider audience through translations into English or some other widely-understood tongue. And I can imagine you thinking, Oh yes, it's all very well for you, a native speaker of English, to lecture us on this subject, when you have such easy access to a world-wide readership! But if the mission of haiku is to disseminate a certain poetic outlook, it will not be achieved by trying to reverse the Doom of Babel, but by making haiku equally powerful - and that, surely, must mean distinctive - in every language and in every culture. Each land and each language will need to adapt and acclimatise haiku to its own conditions.





References:

¹Ken Jones: On Finding the Heart of Haiku, Blithe Spirit, Vol 15 No 1, March 2005
²Carol Rumens: Kettle Talk, Blithe Spirit, Vol 8 No 3, September 1998