It is hard to write short poetry. We tend towards over-explanation for the sake of getting our thoughts and ideas across. For some, the idea of being misunderstood is debilitating. But the practice of Haiku, and even Tanka, directly resists that, perhaps Western, need. These forms, while void of rising action and a climactic event and often without a clear narrator, still manage to impact the reader. I loved how Beichman introduced the terminology of stickiness and lightness to describe the residue a Haiku or Tanka can leave behind. Reading through some of Basho's work, those words became very useful in describing my experience. The images of the Octopus pot, the summer moon, the sea darkening, autumn deepening... all these resonated with me in a sticky way, but the shortness of them kept the experience light. It is amazing to me how effective these poems can be.
It is interesting to look at the translations of Basho's work and note what they deemed to be most important. Most of the translations stray away from the strict syllable count, choosing to prioritize the meaning, but many preserve the shape of an English Haiku. The first and third lines are shorter, while the middle line is the longest. While this could be a result of the two extra syllables in the lines of the original language, it seems that they fit into the general expectation of what a Haiku looks like. This could be a signal to the reader, who may not be as versed in the tradition of Haiku, to be aware of the work of a different form and to approach with that in mind. This could be serendipitous, but it is interesting to think about how a translator may choose to approach translating a form that relies so heavily on syllable count.
Lauren Szenderski
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