Since writing this one a few years ago, I wrote the following essay about writing it, and several people I've bounced the essay off of liked it a lot. I ran across it the other day and thought some here might enjoy it ....
BTW, in my remaining six months here in the US, I may be cranking out, or at least helping some young guys to crank out, a small second photographic book about Dan Robinson and his trees: it's one he and I talked about many times in the past, where he discusses some of his 400-2100 year old collected trees, pointing out the factors and travails that made them into the fascinatingly gnarly specimens they are, and then shows how he brings that same sort of aesthetic to some much younger trees. We'll see if it come to fruition ....
Anyway, here's the essay on the process that resulted in the above collection of seventeen sentences.
Enjoy.
Evolution of a Haiku
Talking with an old friend the other day, the process of writing came up. A talented and accomplished visual artist, she remarked that she had no similar talent when expressing herself through writing, although she thought that I did.
Writing well requires certain abilities, many of which I know her to possess already in her visual art: basic organizational skills, an empathic anticipation of her audience, and a relentless, ruthlessly honest attitude towards revision. But I told her that perhaps she missed one essential element that good writers know well, either instinctively or through training - an ear for the
music inherent in the written word, the musical
sound of poetry that can enliven even non-poetry by adding pleasure and evocative emphasis.
She was surprised by the idea, but also delighted, encouraged by my suggestion to go back and listen to the music of the words in the poetry that she likes - especially by reading the poetry aloud - and then to do the same with all her writing.
I told her I have written poetry myself over the years, and my love of music seemed to make the connection obvious. I told her of a haiku I’d worked on for the past two years:
Old room, growing bare.
Small Buddha. Just one Sutra.
Scent of burning leaves.
This is the haiku today. It is close to where I want it - perhaps as close as it ever will be, but also, perhaps, merely some slight change away from an even better rendition. Seeing how this haiku had slowly evolved, I thought, might give my friend some insight into the writing process in general, and the role of the music involved.
The inspiration for this haiku occurred suddenly one day while cleaning out my meditation room - and not just my practice paraphernalia, but especially my collection of Buddhist books cluttering a bookcase against one wall. I planned to give most of the books away to others who might find them more useful than I did currently. Some of the books had never been of much help to me, while others, initially helpful, were no longer necessary: like the Buddhist metaphor of the boat left on the far shore after crossing a river, I had now realized the teachings in those books, and could simply leave them behind. With this haiku, born in that moment, I hoped to express this metaphor.
But why a haiku? I had had some exposure to Japanese culture and Zen practice, but my path was primarily that of Tibetan Buddhism, where complex rituals, elaborate visualizations and lengthy texts are the norm. In addition, of all the poetry I’ve written, there were very few haiku. And yet, in the moment of the poem’s inspiration, I instinctively realized that only the haiku, as a form of poetry, could capture and express my inspiration.
The basic form of haiku imposes strict constraints on the poet, constraints that paradoxically enhance its beauty and power: only three lines, the first and third with five syllables, the middle one with seven. That’s it. That’s all. Seventeen syllables to capture the essence of a moment that, in turn, captures the essence of a world, a life, a truth.
The essence that I hoped to capture with this haiku was the trajectory of my Buddhist practice through the years. Ultimately, the entire sweep of Buddhism rests on just a few key ideas, which then expand out into infinite layers of detailed study and complex practice. Clearing out the books of the past quarter century mirrored the path of my maturing practice, focusing these expanded layers back down again into the simple richness of the few key teachings and practices.
I cleared my desk that day and quickly wrote a first attempt at this haiku, and then perhaps a dozen more variations. With each attempt, while writing or reviewing, I spoke the lines, internally or out loud, listening for the music, checking not only whether it was pleasing, but whether it evoked and supported the ideas and the emotional coloring of the images presented.
Those initial attempts fell far short, but I sensed that the haiku was feasible, and had merit. I put it in a drawer, where it remained a quiet presence in the back of my mind, and in fits and spurts over the coming months I would bring it out to work on again with fresh ears.
Numerous variations came and went, and gradually the second line took its final form.
Small Buddha. Just one Sutra.
Buddha and Sutra. Not only were these two subjects ideal in their central and connected meanings, but the connection is reinforced by their similar sounds -
Buddha and
Sutra. In addition, the generous seven syllable allowance of this line enabled a quick resolution of the musical demands - the soft, slow staccato of the two phrases both unites and separates them, creating definition within the spaciousness of the room. My ear liked the effect.
The third line soon followed:
Scent of burning leaves.
Haiku, although defined by the rules of their structure, also employ some common conventions. One convention is an indirect seasonal reference, a simple, subtle device that evokes a context for the poem, a context both symbolic and real. Here, the season is autumn.
Autumn is the actual season of my life - the old room, growing bare. Although it recalls Buddha’s teachings on impermanence, and the sufferings of birth, aging, sickness and death, the aging of autumn can also be richly, poignantly bittersweet - a time to simplify, to reflect, to meditate, to write haiku.
Where I grew up, the ritual burning of fall leaves filled the neighborhood each year with a marvelous smell. Recently I smelled my neighbors burning leaves here - delightful! I used it in the haiku, suggesting that the room and practices are more natural and subtle now - no need for exotic incense when a partially open window provides smells from nature and the life lived right here, right now.
The use of the word
scent instead of
smell,
odor or
fragrance, is another illustration of the poetic blend of sound and meaning. Of course, the latter words imply much different sorts of experiences than
scent, which suggests a subtle perfume or incense, something pleasant and evocative. But poetically, the crisp, clear, dry, slightly sharp or acrid sound -
scent - also emphasizes the similar stimulating olfactory qualities, a sound like a gentle, mind-focusing wake-up call compared to the slow, prolonged, soft, hungover mushiness of the other three word choices. Say the line out loud several times with each of those four words, and you will get the sense of it. And the idea of a gentle wake-up call also fits nicely with the sense we get in the autumn of our lives: winter’s coming!
Old room, growing bare.
The poem started here, with the first line, and it ended here - the most difficult line, and the last to be finished. It is, and was, the most important line, the poetic hill I chose to die on. Get this opening wrong, and the reader yawns and moves on. My struggle to get it right is a good illustration of the process involved.
I wanted to create a sense of the poem’s meaning right off, it’s main theme. The opening phrase -
Old room - was to do several things. First, it grabs the attention a little bit because we don’t usually think of a room itself as new or old. The house may be new or old, and a room may be re-done or added on, but I don’t think the words “new” or “old” would be used by many people even in such a situation.
Second, the only sense in which, perhaps, a room might be considered old is the very sense in which this one is old - it has been used for its purpose for a very long time. An artist, for instance, might move from “my old studio” to “my new studio” out over the garage when an aging mother-in-law comes to live with them. It is in that sense that the room in my poem is old - it has been my meditation room for a long time - old in the sense of an old friend who may not necessarily be an old person.
Third, this being my first serious attempt at a haiku,
Old room may be my unconscious attempt to pay homage to and invoke the blessings of the truly great haiku poets who went before me: I recalled, only later, Basho, whose most famous haiku is known by its opening phrase,
Old pond.
Fourth, the sound of these two one-syllable words are inherently slow and long, restful, especially
room, sounding almost like a sacred chant if stretched out a bit. To enrich the potential of this word, and give added depth and clarity to the entire sentence, I chose to create a brief, silent, contemplative space before the next word by inserting a comma there, a comma that is not grammatically necessary, but without which something of the music and emphasis is lost.
Focus on the first line, reading it aloud several times. Listen first to the changes in the sound and meaning when there is no punctuation mid-sentence, creating a straightforward four word sentence:
Old room growing bare.
Now listen, reading it aloud again, with a period there, creating a longer pause that gives the impression of two separate, perhaps unconnected, phrases:
Old room. Growing bare.
With the comma, however, hear how the rhythm separates the phrases, yet suggests a rich connection, with layers of meaning only hinted at in the sound:
Old room, growing bare.
Listen how the comma creates a subtle shift in the final sound of the first phrase -
oom - prolonging it as it fades into the pause, with the pitch and the volume falling off gently. It mimics the word
hmmm - either quizzical in its inflection, or as if revealing a sudden recognition, a mind pausing, caught slightly off guard as it looks anew at the familiar old room, noting for the first time perhaps something quite unexpected: it is growing bare. Ideal.
So, I had five syllables to start: after the comma I was down to three. This is where the main battle took place over the last two years - three syllables! But three syllables to say
what, exactly?
I hoped to convey several things with this meager allowance, important things, central to the poem’s purpose. First, a sense of the progression of time, as it related to the process that took place in the room. Second, a sense that this process, and its progression, was still ongoing at the time of the writing.
Third, although it is not yet clear what this process is, I wanted the first line to suggest that it involved the cleaning out of something, and to suggest this with a hint that foreshadows the later connection to Buddhism. What I’m referring to here is the Buddhist idea of Emptiness, an elusive, infinitely deep truth about the very nature of reality, the central truth that forms the very core of Buddhist philosophy. Training one’s mind to fully realize this truth, for the benefit of oneself and others, is the Buddhist path, the practice ongoing in the old room.
I often thought I would simply use the word
empty to make this connection obvious, but it was never quite right. First,
Growing empty might have worked, but it has four syllables.
Grown empty doesn’t quite convey the ongoing nature of the process.
Grows empty fits, but it’s not quite right either: it sounds a bit awkward to my ear, and it also leaves a vague impression that the room itself is the agent of change, not a mere reflection of the process. I also found that the direct foreshadowing of Emptiness when using the word
empty was a little too obvious, and philosophically inaccurate.
The word
bare came to mind repeatedly, and I instinctively liked it better. It seemed more honest and accurate, and more subtle in its connotations. Also,
Growing bare just sounds better, more visceral and immediate, striking the mind’s view of the room with more forceful visual and tactile impact.
To give a sense of the many first-line contenders that came and went over the months, I’ve listed just a few of the good, the bad and the ugly below:
Old room - almost bare.
Old room - nearly bare.
Old room grown empty.
Old room grows empty.
The old room - bare now.
The old room grows bare.
Old room, ‘bout empty.
Old room grows bare now.
Old room, grown bare now.
It grows bare, this room.
Old room, not much left.
Old room, now grown bare.
Some of these came close, but, for me, the sound and meaning combined most effectively in the one I chose:
Old room, growing bare.
Small Buddha. Just one Sutra.
Scent of burning leaves.
Sounds good.
