Haiku traditionally begins with a seasonal reference. This goes back to old Japan when haiku was part of a party game. The host often started off the game by poviding the opening stanza (called hokku), and the guests took turns adding stanzas to create a longer linked poem (known as renga). The seasonal reference in the opening line was a way of dating the poem (or at least letting people know in which season it was written). The party poets took their renga seriously, and eventually a book of rules was created, which included lists of objects (mostly plants and animals) associated with each season. The opening hokku written at parties was often more popular and better remembered than the rest of the renga, and eventually it became an independant poetry form called haiku.

My list of seasonal objects for June would have to include cottonwood seed fluffs (first one or two, then hundreds float through the air and collect like snow along roadside curbs), mock orange blossoms (the bush in the photo above started as an unidentifiable bare stick that I almost pulled out of the ground), and shedding dog hair (our dog, Dylan, sheds so much that we’d be knee-deep in dog hair if I didn’t vacuume every day).

first cottonwood fluff

drifting over my backyard

summer I was twelve

white dome of flowers

as tall as the neighbour’s house

began as a weed

white flower beacons

glow as the evening light fades

calling out with scent

fur falls to the floor

as I scratch my dog’s backside

it doesn’t matter

I wasn’t sure if I should post this one, but here’s a haiku on how I came upon the first snow drops last year:

snowdrops in the grass

if not for scooping dog poop

would have gone unseen

(I like the way life can surprise us with beauty even in the most mundane and unpleasant moments — and throw those moments into new light.)

Note: I just realized this haiku sounds very similar to the raven haiku of a few posts ago. So much for originality (I guess it’s a repeating pattern in my life: constantly being surprised by the unexpected within the ordinary and marvelling at how easy it would have been to miss). . . . Did that make any sense?

Until recently, I hadn’t written any poetry for quite awhile. Then we got this sudden cold and snow, which I am totally not used to, and almost every time I looked out the window or stepped out the door, I was struck by a haiku moment.

On one of the coldest nights, my dog went outside for a quick visit to the backyard. When I opened the door to let him back in, I stood for a moment, caught by the smell of the cold, the closeness of the sky, the breath of the house billowing out into the night…. lines of haiku began to form and reform in my mind, so that I had a hard time getting to sleep after that.

sharp scent of cold air

clouds drift out the open door

absorbed by stillness

gathering close

pale sky touches white trees

hushed in snow

And from the next day:

icicles drip

decorating eaves troughs

warmed by house breath

during the cold snap

rats take refuge in my attic

the cat’s ears twitch

Haiku is supposed to contain 17 syllables in lines of 5-7-5, but I don’t think it matters if you follow that exactly. What matters is the moment shared. Anyone else care to share a moment?

In my November 29 post, “haiku snapshot,” I included a poem about a crow:

black shape on white snow

fathomless as a deep hole

until the crow caws

In the comments, my friend Jean-Pierre, who has lived in Japan for over 15 years, translated my haiku into Japanese:

Yuki ni yurei

 Fukai ana soko nashi

 Karasu naku

When he translated it back to English again, it came out:

Ghost in the snow

Deep hole no bottom

Crow cries

creating a totally different poem. Check out Jean-Pierre’s comment for more details about the translation process.

I was hoping to post a photo that combined the two themes I have going so far (crows and snow), but the crows weren’t cooperating. Here is a haiku image instead:

black shape on white snow

fathomless as a deep hole

until the crow kaws