Dr Brijesh Raj
Haibun Speak
An interview with haibun masters Paresh Tiwari and Raamesh Gowri Raghavan
Q1 – What is your definition, if I may start with a cliché, of a haibun? What boxes would an effective haibun tick for you?
Raamesh: To me a haibun is still something that came from Basho’s journal. A short self-reflective narrative, preceded or followed by a haiku. I am open to experimentation as long as it retains the semantic integrity of the form; haibun, like other haikai, is about semantics first and form later. The narrative can be descriptive prose or even verse, perhaps even abstract, but there has to be some self-reflection about it. Who you are and who you were and who you could be, the formative influences in life, and suchlike? The haiku may be replaced with a senryu or even a tanka or kyoka (I am not really sure tanka-prose is a genre by itself; it works the same as haibun), as long as it does follow the link-and-shift principle.
Call me a curmudgeon, but if you suggest that a short story or joke or somnolent prose with a ku attached is haibun, I will blanch. If it has self-reference, but not self-reflection, I will blanch. And if the ku neither shifts nor links from the prose, I will blanch.
Paresh: Haibun at the fundamental level might be seen as blocks of prose interspersed with haiku. And that’s how simple it could be. Only it isn’t. Questions abound—what kind of prose, when and how, and what should the haiku do for that prose? A good haibun is the act of juggling prose and poetry. It plays with a delicate balance where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Or at least it should be. The prose embraces the spirit of haikai even in its most avant-garde, experimental form. The haiku, when used right, links, shifts and leaps beyond the scope of the prose to enrich the reading experience.
This interplay of prose and poetry is what pulls me closer to haibun as a form. If the prose is a meandering path, the haiku are birdcalls. They guide the traveller to reach out for the unexplored. When the prose becomes a room, haiku allows us a window to the scenes unfolding in the street below without ever leaving that room.
Q2 – Would you walk our readers through the process you follow whilst constructing a haibun? Prose…ku…title? Any particular order that you follow? How would you go about arriving at an effective title? Is there an ideal length for a haibun? How long do you let it incubate before setting it free?
Raamesh: It is usually the order of difficulty, so the ku comes first. A haibun begins when a haiku or senryu I have written talks to me and says, “Perhaps I should become a haibun, because there is a story that links to me.” At other times there is a story that wants to tell itself, of a love lost or a pet’s quirk or a memory that takes up my senses. In that case the prose must then go in search of a haiku or senryu that fits (I still don’t have the courage to write a ku-less haibun). “Fits” not just in content, but also in terms of mood or tenor. They need to fit in the way a roof fits a house. The title usually brings up the rear.
How long should the haibun be? It could be as long as Basho’s Narrow Road to the Deep North, or as short as a paragraph with one or two ku. The latter is usual in ELH [English-language haibun] and appreciated by most journals for “publishability.” I’ve cheated by combining several units of prose interlaced with ku. Some people blanch at having both a tanka and a haiku in the same haibun—I don’t. I’ve tried “micro-haibun,” but I no longer have truck with it. It seems to end before it begins (I already did say you can call me a curmudgeon).
As for the title, I follow something I learned from the late Angelee Deodhar. Consider the title not as a piece of packaging, but as the third organ of the haibun. Which means it must link to the next thing (prose or ku), and shift away.
Setting it free? I have no rules. I suppose they know when they are ready. Some fly off while their feathers are still wet. And some, like the 17-year cicadas, bide their time (although I have not written haibun for that long).
Paresh: My haibun often germinate within me for days. I walk, bathe, eat, sleep, and wake up with memories and ideas. They keep simmering within me till their voice, colour, taste, and smell becomes mine. I don’t usually put pen to paper until the words are almost ready to spill themselves out. I am not really at liberty to choose how a haibun comes to me. It may begin with the haiku (or tanka or senryu) or with a single line of prose. As for the title, it usually presents itself once the haibun nears completion. However, I must warn against using the first title that comes to mind upon reading a haibun—it often is a missed opportunity. A good title links and shifts with the prose or the haiku, adding another layer of meaning or emotion to the work.
Paul Valery had famously said, A poem is never finished, only abandoned. All my haibun have been abandoned with the belief that they were, at that moment, ready to meet the world on their own terms. Were they really? I can never say with certainty. Sometimes, when I revisit an old haibun, I find things that I would no longer do the same way, but that is more an indication of how I have changed as a person and poet.
Q3 – Could you shed some light on the haikai vs. Zen vs. mainstream poetry sensibilities reflected in modern haibun? What are your thoughts on these?
Paresh: When I came to haibun, I was unsullied by any other form of poetry. I started with haiku, and when I had written a few hundred of those (most of them rubbish), I began writing my first tentative line of prose that would eventually become a haibun. This naiveté, this inexperience with poetry in general, made embracing the haikai spirit easy, almost empirical.
Haibun of late, however, has been embraced by poets and writers with diverse writing experiences and skillsets. They bring with them bone-deep sensibilities that make it nigh impossible to intuitively grasp the lightness of touch that haikai demands and deserves. This is not to say that their works aren’t effective, beautiful and/ or steeped in literary merit. Au contraire, it enriches haibun in ways the haikai community couldn’t have imagined without this external influence. Whether these influences are Zen, mainstream, or whether they follow some other school of thought, it hardly matters.
Any form of writing—haibun included—is a living, breathing, constantly evolving entity. It has to be, to survive the vagaries of time. I had once called haibun “a delicate form of poetry,” and I see myself stand corrected every day. Haibun is a robust, malleable form whose adaptability we have only just begun exploring.
Raamesh: I have no clue about Zen, and whether any of my haibun are anything Zen. As for the other two, I guess haikai has a self-reflective yet subtle sensibility, perhaps a little sadness. It is not for the faint-of-heart. Mainstream poetry in its current definition is in the hands of protestors and intersectionalists and other words I am now too old to understand. I write free verse, but can I be called mainstream? What I do know is that this distinction isn’t real, but red lines have now been drawn.
Q4 – The haijin’s poetic background is bound to impact his/her style. The tenor of the ensuing piece might be narrative, cathartic, or simply creative. How do you resonate with these? How important is it to break out of these boxes? Or is it best to stay within traditional tramlines?
Paresh: I am not a big fan of patterns, formulas, and boxes. But to break them, one must know what they are. And thus, the journey from the self to the universe is essential for every haijin, every poet, every writer, every artist, every human. It usually starts with self-reflection, with memory, with the lived and experienced, even if it feels or sounds clichéd. But that’s just the beginning. If you continue writing the same thing repeatedly, you may get very good at expressing it, but you are not growing as a poet. Experimentation with language, themes and imagery are essential and inescapable—we owe it to the form we practice. We owe it to ourselves. I must, however, add that the worth of the written word is and will always remain resonance. If, as a reader, I can’t identify or resonate with a piece, no amount of experimentation would ever work for me.
Raamesh: I don’t even know where to start answering this question. I will therefore leave it to literature professors to take my work to pieces and answer questions on tenor and catharsis and resonance, provided, of course, that I make it to literature syllabi. I am not saying this because of laziness, but simply because I am of the school that believes that the work just writes itself, and that my nervous system is just the means to convey it to a screen.
Boxes—you define your boxes for yourself. To me as long as the haikai-ness is retained it is a haibun. I feel micro-haibun doesn’t get there; but these are subjective opinions. What is certainly not happening is what you defined as “traditional tramlines.” Just as tramlines were pulled out of cities as they outgrew them, you can’t have anything so sacred that novelty and romance die in the process. Yet, you do need to make sure that one does not go off the road altogether, to extend your metaphor.
Q5 – Do you find the lines blurring between “traditional” haibun and prose poetry? What are your thoughts on hybrid forms? Where does one draw the line? How much of an overlap is kosher and how much is too much?
Paresh: You are asking me about the intersection of two of the most porous forms of poetry. Of course, the lines are blurred, but not Delhi-smog-blur. I believe most haibun under the gaze of a modern editor can pass muster as prose poems. The opposite, though, is often not the case. And it isn’t because of the haiku or the lack thereof. The answer once again lies with that elusive haikai sensibility we spoke about. A haibun, even one without haiku, no matter the chosen theme, or language or expression, needs to embrace this sensibility to be accepted as a haibun.
Raamesh: Perhaps I should take objection to the word “kosher.” Nothing should be kosher in literature else we will write nothing. People draw thick red lines and poetry editors love tossing haikai submissions into the bonfire of our vanities. But why? Why should a haibun have to have a prose unit as opposed to one made of free verse or even rhyme? Why should it be a haiku instead of a limerick or a ghazal even (I once wrote a haibun interlaced with the rubais of a ghazal).
That doesn’t mean I am a laissez-faire haijin. The haibun, or whatever mutant thereof, still needs to have some integrity to it, in the sense that its units should link and shift. There should be a thought central to it, not words randomly kidnapped from a dictionary.
Q6 – What is the essence of gendai haibun? Could you share some pointers on what constitutes a good one?
Paresh: The Japanese term “gendai” quite simply means “modern.” Perhaps in the context of haikai writing, it alludes to something experimental—in theme, language, syntax, or even in some instances form.
Mellisa Allen writes, “Haiku, in its several hundred years of existence, has undergone many changes in style and approach and has never been as limited in subject matter and structure as many Westerners seem to believe. A lot of what we now think of as proper haiku (the nature observation, the Zen moment of enlightenment) was a late-nineteenth-century development and, ironically, owed a lot to the realism of Western poetry, which was just beginning to be known in Japan at the time.”
The question that arises is what exactly is experimental for a poetry form over half a millennium old.
clean kills: in a night war a canyon a crab – Hirahata Seito
This haiku was written during World War II. Gendai as a movement can trace its roots back to this war, when writing about nature hardly held any meaning for the poets and the readers. These voices were persecuted because apparently, writing haiku without kigo meant anti-tradition, anti-Imperial order and high treason.
Some of the best, most profoundly impactful works in art and literature have been created either in times of strife or about those times. A true work of art is never too removed from society. In either the macro or the micro, it comments upon the socio-political structure of the society. It must, for what is the relevance of art if not that. If we apply this very flexible and broad meaning of gendai to haibun, I think we would intuitively grasp what a good gendai haibun might be.
Raamesh: Let me answer this—I have never written one.
Q7 – Reading is such an integral part of any young haijin’s growth. With a substantial body of work easily available online how do you retain your individuality and protect yourself from being overly influenced?
Paresh: The very fact that such a substantial body of work is accessible—either online or in books that are available at the click of a button, makes it almost impossible to be overly influenced by a single voice. Unless, of course, one is actively attempting to plagiarize. Don’t read something and sit down to write a piece as stunning as it. Absorb it, find out why it works, what it does to you as a reader, how the words tug at your heart. If an unusual pairing of images has caught your eye, study it, but do not attempt to reproduce the effect.
“Nothing new is ever created, nothing is ever destroyed, but everything is transformed”. Let what you read, see, and experience get transmogrified within you. And then there’s that secret ingredient that only you have—the self. You cannot not have a part of you in each work you create. Once you add a dash of that, anything that you write will be uniquely yours.
Raamesh: I read myself the raksha kavach mantra. But honestly, I don’t think I need the protection. If you don’t read, you are going to be like a prisoner in solitary confinement in a windowless cell – bleached of all color and with your mind turned to soup. If you cannot be influenced by what you read, if you don’t let the good haijin influence you with their use of language and their experiences, if you don’t let the young haijin influence you with their perspectives and adaptation of the English language, why read at all? If you don’t read other haijin, and especially haijin far from your own culture and leanings, what you write will be gibberish and soulless. Reading lets you measure yourself, pace yourself and create your niche. So rather counterintuitive to your question, one must read if one’s work has to have some individuality.
Your individuality also comes from your lived experiences, both current and from memory. I perfectly loathe those based on imagined experiences and social commentary. I say that there are other forms of literature for those things (curmudgeon, see?). As for my individual style, sometimes I fear it is so distinct that an anonymous work can be traced to me in minutes. So, I actually like experimenting a bit. Walking away from each previous work, just a little. Link, but shift.
Q8 – Does the haibun form present you with any limitations?
Paresh: Countless. But that is the fun part of embracing a form. All my works start as haibun; sometimes mid-way they change shape and become free verse, prose poems and even short stories.
Raamesh: No.
Q9 – Would you like to speak about your writing style? How it has evolved over the years? How you retained the freshness in your writing? Perhaps even reinvented yourself?
Paresh: My work a decade ago was simpler, perhaps had an element of ‘karumi’ but also fewer possibilities for the reader to enter the work. I have since embraced magical realism, surrealism and the absurd. Elements that seem counter-intuitive as far as haibun is concerned, and yet it has afforded me the freedom to write about difficult topics and memories that I am still not ready to face head-on.
Raamesh: There are two ways to answer this. I can do my homework and get back to you in some days, for I will have to review everything I ever wrote, good, bad or mostly ugly. The other way is perhaps to reiterate the truism that a person’s writing style is bound to evolve. I was in my twenties when I started writing—more extroverted, more preachy perhaps, more oriented to grand themes that would change the world, and very keen to be witty with words. As I enter my forties, I guess I have become more introverted and self-reflective, and come to revere that in other haibun. Less cleverness and more heart in it, certainly. As for freshness and reinvention, let me (hope to) leave it to literature professors.
Q10 – The rate at which it is evolving globally, especially amongst English language haijin, what do you think future haibun could potentially look like?
Raamesh: This question is a bit ‘quantum’ – any prediction I make might potentially disrupt whatever evolution is happening. All I can say with certainty is that the form is not going to evolve because established poets are going to experiment with their expression (they probably won’t). It will evolve because younger voices are going to come with new perspectives. They have new ways of looking at prose and ku and title and link and shift and karumi and wabi-sabi and everything else. They will shake the status quo. And to predict which direction they will take us in, will be a fool’s errand. Therefore, I think we should simply sit back and watch.
Paresh: Honestly, I have no idea. But I sure as hell am intrigued.
Q11 – Could you share your favorite haibun with us? And why you find them effective or even inspiring.
Raamesh: My favorite is “The Rajkumari” by Kala Ramesh (published with the author’s permission). It isn’t necessarily the best in the world in terms of language or imagery, or other sleight of literary hand. It is well-constructed, simple, self-reflective, short and relatable. It goes back to the past and knowing the author’s present, establishes that resonance between the two. It has the gentle sorrow (saudade, perhaps) of missed opportunities. In other words, it is the haibun I wished I had written.
The Rajkumari
During our summer vacation, for forty-five straight days we jumped around, playing a different game each morning, afternoon and evening. Aeroplane hopscotch was a favorite. Long skirts held high to avoid erasing the chalk lines, we leaped with our legs spread wide to straddle the lines.
One afternoon, a soothsayer walked into our compound leading a young bull loaded with old clothes that people had given him. From the small drum-like instrument fitted into his palm came a constant sound: gudu gudu gudu. In Tamizh we called these people gudu gudu paandi.
He told my mother he was an expert fortune-teller, and we all showed him our palms. Being the youngest, I went last. I don’t remember what he told my sisters, but I will never forget how he studied my palm and proclaimed, “You’ll live like a princess.” Only five-and-a-half, I spent the rest of my holidays dreaming that I was a Rajkumari (crown princess).
soap bubbles … when all the world was young(from A Hundred Gourds 3:3, June 2014)
Paresh: Peter Butler’s, Instructing Mona Lisa has been a personal favorite for the longest time. In some ways, this haibun inspired me to explore the absurd and the surreal in haibun. This haibun is ekphrasis done right, done inventively. And that last line of prose—no matter how many times I visit this work—it never fails to stun me.
Instructing Mona Lisa
Relax, Lisa. Not quite facing me, more a half-glance. Nails clean? Then hands on lap, right over left. As to expression, no laughing please without your teeth. Lips together.
Now imagine yourself in a post-coital situation—not with me, of course, nor necessarily your husband.
That is perfect, Lisa. Hold it if you can, several hundred years.
gallery attendant checking the time to his next break(from A Piece of Shrapnel by Peter Butler. Spalding, Lincolnshire, UK: Hub Editions, 2012. Paperback, 38 pp. ISBN 978-1-930746-96-7)
This interview is printed with permission from CafeHaiku and with the consent of Dr. Brijesh Raj, Parish Tiwari and Raamesh Gowri Raghavan. It originally appeared in three parts: the first published Dec. 18, 2021; the second, Jan. 1, 2022; and the last, May 1, 2022.
About the Author & Interviewees
An editor for the online e-zine Cafe Haiku, Dr Brijesh Raj has been writing haikai forms for over ten years. His work has featured in online haikai journals, e zines and anthologies. He is a practising companion animal veterinarian and teaches Tai Chi with his wife, Kashmira Raj.
Paresh Tiwari‘s haiku have been short-listed for the Touchstone Award and a Skylark’s Nest award for tanka, among other honors. His haibun “Beyond” won second place in the Wordweavers 2014 Flash Fiction contest. His blog page is https://pareshtiwari.co.in/ His publications include Now a Poem; Now a Forest; The Shape of a Poem; Red River Book of Haibun; Raindrops Chasing Raindrops; and An Inch of Sky.
Raamesh Gowri Raghavan moonlights as an award-winning copywriter by day, daylights as an award-wanting poet by night, and sandwiches archaeology, running a literary club, running a literary journal, the occasional trek, some peer counseling for suicide prevention, and learning languages in between. He writes: “I think I am funny, but friends vehemently disagree.”
Editor’s Notes:
Various people, poets, and philosophies were cited in the interview, which readers may wish to pursue in greater depth.
If you would like to see an example of Basho’s writing, visit one part of Basho’s Journey to the Far North, “Hiraizumi“, the 23rd section or chapter.
A commentary on “Hiraizumi” by Ray Rasmussen can be found in the December 2011 issue of A Hundred Gourds.
See the full text of all parts of Basho’s Oku no Hosomichi (Journey to the Far North) on the Terebess Asia Online website.
The “Bureau of Public Secrets” blog posted nine translations of the introduction to Matsuo Basho’s Oku no Hosomichi (Journey to the Far north). If you’ve not read Basho’s haibun, doing so will help you get a feel for what the Japanese poets of his era and afterwards called haibun, and the style of writing that served as a model for English-language haibun. In addition, by looking over these different translations, you’ll learn that what you read as the poet’s haibun is actually a marriage between the original Japanese and a translator’s poetic vision and writing skills. In a similar vein, translations of the haiku can be quite different, particularly when early translators used the now mostly abandoned 5-7-5 syllable structure which results in a much longer poem written in English syllables as opposed to Japanese sound units. For examples of this visit the Bureau of Public Secrets’ commentary and examples of Basho’s famous “Old Pond – Frog” haiku.
Information about Gendai Haiku can be found on Melissa Allen’s blog Red Dragonfly.
Information on Zen and haiku/haibun can be found on past cho editor Ken Jones’ zen blog.
Examples of the three writers’ haibun can be found here:
Dr Brijesh Raj: Last Nights
Paresh Tiwari: Journeys
Raamesh Gowri Raghavan: Generation Gap