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Featured Writer: Alexis Rotella

First-person reflections on the art of writing haibun

First off, haibun are hard to write and let no one tell you otherwise. It has taken me years to feel halfway confident about my ability to put together a haibun that is worthy of publication. Some years ago when I first became aware of the form, I was blown away by my fellow poets’ haiku prose. The best way to learn is to read the work of others who are well regarded and to take the comments of editors to heart. I am grateful for the feedback received from poets who took the trouble to offer suggestions. I hope some of the tips I offer here will help you.

Focus on the present tense.

Nothing slows down a story more than writing about it in the past tense. When we compose in the now, our prose comes alive. Remember, active voice is strong; passive voice, limp. When comedians tell a joke, they typically use the present tense. What’s more attention grabbing—“three guys walk into a bar” or “one day three guys walked into a bar”?

Remove unnecessary lines or paragraphs.

When I edit my haibun, I often cut the first line or paragraph entirely. I then look for superfluous sentences or phrases that add nothing of substance to the story. In my latest haibun book, Scratches on the Moon, many of the stories take place in the dreamtime. Yet I omitted the word dream in the final prose although it kept showing up in draft after draft until the very end. Like emptying a room of nonessentials, editing is like discarding worn sneakers and outgrown toys than have been lying around. When the clutter is gone, there’s more oxygen, more space to move around in. Likewise, a well-written haibun is concise and a pleasure to read.

Beware of adjectives and adverbs.

While adjectives and details can add interest, use them sparingly–like salt. On the other hand, vague prose won’t be remembered. Look for balance. You’ve got to tell enough but not too much. Keeping words that don’t add punch diminishes the overall impact.  Letting go of our precious words can be difficult. Probably the biggest turn-off is adverb overload. You already know how verboten they are in haiku!

That is a four-letter word.

Pay attention to the “that” word. It creeps in like fog. It’s over-used. Fillers are best avoided when we write haiku. And they ought to be avoided when we write prose. Just when you think you’ve found them all, oops, there’s another. Be on guard of “that.”

Verb qualifiers—another pitfall.

Tightening prose also includes watching out for verb qualifiers like “kind of,” “in order to,” or “I began to.” Here’s an example: I began to feel scared. If I’m scared, I’m scared. Just say “I’m scared.” Better yet: Show, don’t tell. Give examples of what it’s like to feel scared. Are you trembling? Are you unable to articulate words?

Watch out for “there is” and “there are.” Instead of “there are thousands of people at the beach,” you might say, “thousands of people are on the beach” or “the beach is packed.” Do we even need to say people? Don’t be afraid of rewriting draft after draft.

Interspersing haiku or senryu.

Haibun is an art that takes patience. The seasoned reader knows when a haiku is slapped at the end of a haibun, almost as an afterthought,  especially if the poem was previously published. There has to be a subtle connection between prose and the haiku or senryu. If I write a story about a bank robber, I don’t think I’d cap it with an allusion to Bonnie and Clyde. That would be too obvious. The Japanese are masters at subtlety. We Westerners have to work hard at developing it.

If a haibun is lengthy, e.g., three or more paragraphs, a haiku capped at the end may not be strong enough to carry the text on its back. The piece may feel top heavy.  Try to sit with it for a while and let the work evolve. The “right” haiku or senryu often appears when we’re focusing on other things, like brushing our teeth or walking the dog.

Positioning the haiku.

Pay attention to where the haiku would best fit in and consider if a monoku (one-liner) might work better than a three-liner.  A senryu or haiku between paragraphs gives haibun structure as well as breathing room. Not all poems need to be three lines, but they do need to feel like they belong where they’re placed—sometimes a haiku works well as a surprise introduction, like a pot of pansies delivered to the front door.

Naming the haibun.

Coming up with a title that doesn’t give away the story is harder than it seems. Sometimes I labor for weeks over a title. Sooner or later it comes, sometimes at twilight or while I’m driving to the store. Learning to be patient with the process is key. Haibun is not just a poem, it’s a puzzle. And again, it’s all about subtlety.

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The following haibun is from Alexis Rotella’s book Scratches on the Moon (Jade Mountain Press, 2019), which won a Touchstone Distinguished Book Award from The Haiku Foundation.

Two Women in One

Every Saturday the old woman pushes her baby buggy into town where she stops at Buben’s Market for cold cuts as well as the regular State Store visit for a gallon of Manischewitz. The smell of old wine and Polish curse words hover under her breath. She’s not fond of young boys even though the outside of the well in her front yard is embedded with cat’s eye marbles.

A neighbor says her name is Ada. With the gnarled crab apple trees around her house, she makes delicious jams. She can tell fortunes and on nights when the fog shrouds the world in white, she plays Sleepers Awake on her organ.

                                                                a beef heart
                                                                bleeds onto
                                                                yesterday's news

Alexis writes: “The story is of an old woman who lived down the road from our house. Children are great observers of old people, especially the eccentric ones. While my brother and his cronies poked fun at the only side of her they could see, a neighbor who lived nearby used to tell me about the organ playing at night, especially when foggy. The moral to the story (if there is one): a human being is made up of multiple layers. And like peeling an onion, they can make us cry.”