Sometimes I feel a little bad for haiku. The form can be a beautiful, precise and juicy way of writing of poetry, and it often gets reduced to an entry-level, cheap-and-cheerful, low-effort form. True haiku are works art and yet there are a lot of artless haiku out there as well. There is also the issue of western appropriation of an eastern form without proper attention paid to its richness.
Using the haiku form forces the poet to concentrate: on syllables, on words, on images, on multiple meanings. Haiku are acts of conservation and innuendo. Of course, most poems should do all of the above, but I think because of haiku’s extreme brevity, it is a distillation of these qualities, rather more like liquor than wine.
I like writing haiku because of the limitations and stretches that the endeavour requires. There is a satisfaction of finding just the right way and the right number of beats to reach towards what one means. There’s a joy in sketching a microcosm in the margins of my notebook, in drumming my fingers to count syllables.
So, enjoy some Advent haiku. I make no promises as to their art-(less/ful)-ness.
Do you want to eat
yet another mince pie? NOPE,
I said, you hear me?
a loud snore: it approaches,
the end of the year.
Whisper like a blizzard blows.
Transport me elsewhere.
berated at full volume.
It’s Christmas, haters.
Christmas be for you this year?
You’ve downs and ups, right?