The Heron's Nest
where tradition and innovation meet
where tradition and innovation meet
I very much appreciate the invitation to judge this year's Peggy Willis Lyles contest. It was a delight and an honor to read about poets' moments of joy, sorrow, irony, and wonder.
Of the 1,311 poems, however, only 50.3% followed the basic conventions of modern, English-language haiku as exemplified by the sponsor of the contest, The Heron's Nest, and by the Haiku Society of America in general. Here are the misconceptions I saw, along with resources for those who would like to learn more about how to shape their notable moments into the beautiful haiku form as it is practiced in this group.
The winning haiku for this prestigious award avoided
These are some exceptional resources for further study:
For Japanese aesthetic sensibility (items 8–18, above):
For connecting with the senses (items 11–18, above):
For crafting haiku (items 1–10, above):
For online examples of outstanding modern English-language haiku:
For a Japanese-derived form of poetry that allows for more emotional expression, here is a site about tanka:
The Haiku Society of America mentorship program, which pairs people new to this style of haiku writing with seasoned haiku practitioners:
The poems earning the Peggy Willis Lyles award display not only the basic conventions of modern, English-language haiku and senryu but also the more subtle aspects of the craft, making them outstanding examples.
autumn skies
another loop released
from the kite reel
Dru Philippou
Taos, New Mexico
Here we have the simple image of someone flying a kite on a windy autumn day. However, the skill demonstrated in the haiku's construction brings us into the poem's deeper meaning. Each on its own, the words "another," "loop," and "reel" all represent the cyclical. Because of these words, the kigo, "autumn skies," is doing double duty: not only does it set the temporal scene, but it also provides the emotional tone of the poem. The speaker of this poem is perhaps aware of the passage of time or is grieving a loss and is possibly trying to ride gracefully the turbulence they're feeling.
Further, while the words conveying repetition are powerful, perhaps the most important word in the poem is "released." In autumn the trees let go of their leaves; similarly, in the later parts of our lives, we are forced to relinquish that which we've always held onto or taken for granted. If we can let go, we gain a certain freedom. Yet the ride is, without question, wild.
In To Hear the Rain, Peggy Willis Lyles asks readers to read her haiku "Slowly. Individually. More than once. Preferably aloud." Because the music of haiku was so important to her, special consideration of the sounds and rhythms was given in the selection of the winning poems of this contest.
In all three lines of this poem, we hear the "t" sounds in "autumn," "released," and "kite." There are the "k" sounds of "skies" and "kite." The vowel sounds "uh" in "autumn," "another," "from," and "the," and "ee" in "released" and "reel" are interwoven throughout. All this provides a unity to the poem and might reasonably be enough. But the close "r" and "l" sounds in the key power words "another loop," "released," and "reel" show a master poet at work, here.
downsizing
a flock of shadows flickers
across the lawn
Bob Lucky
Viana do Castelo, Portugal
The process of downsizing—reducing the number of belongings in a household, often prior to a move to a smaller living space or final residence of choice—can bring up feelings of nostalgia, doubt, and anxiety. It is hard to let go of our stuff! The setting of a lawn brings to mind yard sales: what hasn't been given to friends and family, donated, or thrown away, is for sale. The flickering shadows in this poem suggest a feeling of fear: just as the shadows of birds flying over us can startle, little bits of dark doubts move across our emotional landscape when we are deciding how to pare down in preparation for a big transition.
Operating on another level in this poem are the sounds. The repeated fl and c sounds of "flock" and "flicker," the z sounds of "downsizing," "shadows," and "flickers," and the visual rhyme of "dow" in "downsizing" and "shadows" unify the quite disparate images of the fragment and phrase. In the "oh" in "shadow" and the "aw" in "across" and "lawn," one can almost hear the words "crow" and "caw" tying sound to the image. Finally, the "wn" sounds in the first and last words have a repetitive quality reflective of the cyclical thinking we can get into when in a state of worry. This is a masterful poem, marrying image, sound, and emotion.
tumbledown graveyard
a tree wasps' nest
deep in silence
John Barlow
Ormskirk, England
This haiku opens with an old cemetery of worn, tilting, broken, and fallen headstones. The phrase part of the poem introduces the tree wasps' nest, and we learn that the season is autumn or winter: since the nest is silent, the wasps have died or gone into hibernation.
There is a lovely contrast in this poem. Wasp nests are paperlike, and during this time of year are often tearing from the wind. The hardness of the stone and the delicacy of the nest make us aware of the length of time each object lasts: one for centuries; the other, mere months.
But there is also much aesthetic harmony in this scene. Both gravestones and nest are in a state of decay, and they are similar colors. Further, there is unity of language in the crafting of this poem. It opens with two compound words—the wonderful verb and preposition combination "tumbledown" and the dual noun "graveyard"—followed in line 2 by an insect whose name consists of two parts.
The rhythm in this poem supports its meaning as well: "tumbledown graveyard" rolls off the tongue like a stone from a wall. The plural and possessive in line 2 and the multiple "s" and "t" sounds intensify the language: we can hear the echo of the nest's summer activity in this line. In line 3, the rhythm slows, and with its quiet auditory imagery, brings the poem and scene to a gentle close. Moreover, there is a subtle harmony in the repeated "ee" and "eh" sounds of "tree," "deep," "nest," and "silence." The word "rest" whispers in this poem.
the butterfly stops and starts the stalking cat
—Joseph Robello
Mill Valley, CA
I love a poem of indeterminate agency. The words "start" and "stop" can be read as intransitive verbs. As such, the poem could read as phrase and fragment: the butterfly starts and stops/the stalking cat.
The same verbs could also be read as transitive; that is, there is a direct object (the cat) present, upon which the subject (the butterfly) is acting: the butterfly starts and stops the stalking cat. In this way of reading, the butterfly is causing the cat's movement.
Is the cat acting or being acted upon? Both are true. This poem delights because the butterfly is unaware that it is tantalizing the cat: it's just doing what butterflies do. And so is the cat. This is the suchness of the relationship between these two animals. It started long ago and will continue for as long as both species exist. This is also the nature of the interdependence of all living beings: we act according to our nature, and we impact others.
The "t's" in the names of the two animals frame the "st" sounds of the three verbs, making the sounds in this haiku as playful as its meaning.
spring wind
my grandson and I change
the trajectory of a ball
Nikolay Grankin
Russia, Krasnodar
Two family members are playing on a windy spring day. Perhaps it's a game with a lightweight ball that the wind is blowing away from the players' intended direction, so the players agree to try a different angle. Or maybe there are other family members and friends playing, and the grandparent and grandson make a maneuver as players on the same team.
Metaphorically, perhaps the grandson is in trouble or at risk in some way. Bonding in play, they work together to correct course. Or from an environmental perspective, perhaps the two generations are sharing their experience with and/or plans for activism for this blue ball Earth, the condition of which they will leave behind for the grandson's great-grandchildren. The use of "trajectory," here, is significant. The poet could have used the word "direction" and eliminated a syllable in the process. But "trajectory" lengthens the distance spatially on the field, and more importantly, temporally over the span of generations. The spring wind is a kigo of energy and optimism, so its juxtaposition with the action in the phrase indicates that the change is positive.
There is a fascinating progression of consonants in this poem. The "r" and "d" sounds of "spring" and "wind" in line 1 become the "r," "d," and "j" sounds of "grandson" and "change" in line 2, which become the "r" and "j" sounds in "trajectory" in line 3, achieving the effect of a kind of braiding of the generations.
mountaintop vista
dad and I sharing
one last cookie
Susan Yavaniski
Cohoes, NY
What intrigues in this poem are the words "one last" to describe the cookie. It indicates that father and son or daughter didn't finish all the cookies they brought. Otherwise, the poet would have used "the last" cookie, which could also suggest that it was their final hike together. "One last" cookie, on the other hand, implies a decision to stop eating, rather than finishing all the cookies. Perhaps they are feeling the pressure of time; they know they should probably be heading back soon. They want just a little more: a little more sweetness, a little more time together.
The choice of using the progressive "sharing" instead of the simple present tense "share" contributes to the sense that this experience is a process and allows us to interpret the moment as occurring either in the present or as a memory. In this way, the fragment serves not only as a physical location for the action in the phrase, but also a psychological state of looking back.
The "st" sounds of "vista" and "last," along with the "n" sounds of "mountaintop," "sharing," and "one," create a balance of sounds that reflects the harmony of the relationship.
moon shell
the shape of
what's missing
Jacquie Pearce
Vancouver, BC, Canada
A moon shell is a snail shell. The poet's choice to use the word "moon," juxtaposed with a focus on emptiness, imparts a tone of loss. A snail stays in the same shell for its entire life, so the former occupant of the shell in this poem has died, rather than moved to a larger shell. Thus, this poem raises the questions What remains after loss? Are there boundaries around memory? It plays with the absence of presence—and the presence of absence.
The sounds in the poem add to the power of its meaning. The "m" and "n" sounds of the first and last words, "moon" and "missing," give a feeling in the nose and throat of crying. The "sh" sounds of key words "shell" and "shape" add to the quiet of the scene.
offering up
a piece of the dark
new moon
Lisa Anne Johnson
Ann Arbor, Michigan
This past April, haiku poet Sari Grandstaff and I took a road trip to see the total solar eclipse. We stayed in Lily Dale, NY—a town of psychic mediums. Historically, eclipses have been the source of superstitions and omens inspired by awe and fear. A town of mediums was a wonderful place to enhance that feeling of mystery. (And of course, we created a ginko for ourselves).
To "offer up" is to present something as a sacrifice or in order to please, satisfy, or impress someone. As I imagine the eclipse in this way, I can see a spiritual leader from long ago, offering prayers and gifts during this eerie, twilight-at-an-unusual-time on Earth. As I read this poem, I see the moon making its small contribution to the rest of the dark sky.
This poem ends with the satisfying n's of the first and last letters of "new moon" and the vowels of these words expressing that timeless exclamation of spooky wonder: "oo!"
Mary Stevens, 2024