At seventeen syllables, haiku is the shortest poem in world literature. It is now also the most popular form of poetry in the world, written in nearly every language. And yet, as haiku has spread internationally, one of the most important aspects of the tradition has largely been lost—the community of poets.
In Europe and the United States, haiku is often regarded as the domain of literary elites, but this is not the case in Japan, where haiku is deeply rooted in communal activity. Millions of amateur Japanese poets belong to haiku groups (clubs, really), which are sponsored by different “schools” of haiku, each with its own magazine. Most daily and weekly newspapers carry a haiku column featuring poems submitted by their subscribers, sometimes on the front page.
To help bring back this social dimension, we are inviting our readers to participate in the monthly Tricycle Haiku Challenge. Each month, moderator Clark Strand will select three poems to be published online, one of which will appear with a brief commentary. Each quarter, one of these poems also will appear in the print magazine alongside an extended commentary. In this way, we can begin to follow the seasons together—spring, summer, fall, and winter—and share the joy of haiku together as a community.
Requirements:
Anyone can submit haiku to the monthly challenge using the form below. To be considered for publication, your haiku must:
- Be written in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables:
Getting the syllables of a haiku to sit naturally inside of its seventeen-syllable form is the primary challenge. Each haiku is a word problem in search of a satisfying seventeen-syllable solution. - Contain the “season word” assigned for that month:
A haiku isn’t only a word problem. To the seventeen syllables the poet must add a turn of thought that results in more than seventeen syllables of meaning—along with a word that refers to one of the four seasons. How the poet uses “season words” like autumn sun or dew will typically determine the effectiveness of the poem.
Part of the reason haiku appeals to so many people is that its rules are simple and easy to follow, yet it can take a lifetime to master them. Ten million people currently write haiku in Japanese. There is no reason why millions can’t write haiku in English, too, provided they agree on the basics. The turn of thought you add to that simple formula of 5-7-5 syllables with a season word is entirely up to you.
Submissions close on the last day of the month at 11:59 pm ET, and the results will be posted the week after. Monthly submissions are anonymized and the winning poems are selected in a blind process.
To learn more about the history and principles of haiku, check out Clark Strand’s online course with Tricycle, “Learn to Write Haiku: Mastering the Ancient Art of Serious Play.”
Plus, join Clark Strand from July 10–12, 2026 for a two-day retreat at Garrison Institute to practice using haiku to unite with the natural world. Read more details and register here.
This Month’s Season Word:
Submit as many haiku as you please using the submission form below. Just be sure to include this month’s season word.
Spring season word: “Strawberry”
smaller and sweeter
this is what a life should be
the wild strawberry
Submit as many haiku as you please on the season word “strawberry.” Your poems must be written in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, respectively, and should focus on a single moment of time happening now.
Be straightforward in your description and try to limit your subject matter. Haiku are nearly always better when they don’t have too many ideas or images. So make your focus the season word* and try to stay close to that.
*REMEMBER: To qualify for the challenge, your haiku must be written in 5-7-5 syllables and include the word “strawberry.”
Haiku Tip: Grasp with the Belly, Not the Head!
A Zen parable tells the story of a man being pursued by two tigers. One tiger chases him over the edge of a precipice, where he hangs precariously by a vine. The other waits below. As the man dangles from the cliff, two mice—one white, one black—begin to gnaw at the vine. With seconds of life remaining, he notices a strawberry hanging at eye level. He reaches out with his free hand and plucks it, popping it into his mouth. “How sweet!” he cries.
The story is allegorical. The two tigers are birth and death; the vine is life (literally, a “lifeline”); and the mice are day and night, signifying the inexorable advance of time. The plot of the story unfolds over a matter of minutes, but it signifies the passage of an entire life. So the moral might be summed up as: “Be mindful of each moment, because your days will soon be over.”
Like many traditional stories, this one conceals a kernel of earth wisdom that is lost on modern readers. I’ve heard it from the lips of dozens of Buddhist teachers over the years, none of whom seemed to know there was an ecological meaning to the tale.
The tigers, the mice, the vine—these details are there to attract the theologically or philosophically inclined, but they are not what the tale is about. A Talmud scholar once told me, “If you want to know the point of a story, look at where it ends.” Had I asked him about this story, he’d have told me that it must be about the strawberry, not about the man.
The strawberry doesn’t worry about birth or death because it is ONE with birth and death. The man belongs to the same planetary ecology as the berry, but they might as well be living in separate universes. There is nowhere for the strawberry to come or go from—no separate world to arrive FROM at birth or to depart INTO a death. The berry belongs to this world in a way that the man cannot fathom, and the reason is simple: he experiences the world as belonging to him, rather than he to it.
In Buddhist circles, the story is nearly always read as a lesson on impermanence. But that is the shallowest reading. In the last moments of the man’s life, the berry hangs at eye level as if it were the point of everything. And, in fact, it IS the point. The strawberry is a kind of sacrament. A blessing he can receive only by eating it. A truth he can understand with the belly, but not with the head.
This is the real plant medicine. Not the kind that picks you up and spins you around, setting you down with a new perspective on life. The berry doesn’t work that way. It has no psychoactive properties. It can’t be bothered to correct your misunderstandings or open the doors of perception. It doesn’t change your mind. It doesn’t even “matter” in the usual sense of the word. It isn’t big. Doesn’t occupy a particularly significant niche in the greater scheme of things. It says simply, “Everything that eats is also eaten. This is the truth of all life.”
A word about strawberries: In the northeastern United States, strawberries are harvested from June to mid-July. In warmer climates their growing season may extend throughout the summer into early fall. Wild varieties appear a little earlier, producing berries that are smaller and generally sweeter than their store-bought cousins.
Season word editor Becka Chester writes: “The strawberry is a perennial member of the rose family of plants and is native to the Americas. Encyclopedia Britannia states, ‘the strawberry fruit is not a berry or a single fruit but is instead a greatly enlarged stem end that contains many partially embedded true fruits (achenes), popularly called seeds.’ The strawberries’ small, white flowers have often been associated with purity and innocence. Shaped like a heart, they have been linked to Venus and are associated with romantic love.”
Strawberries were introduced to Japan during the 19th century, at which time haiku poets began using them as a summer season word. The modern poet Suzuki Masajo (1906-2003) pioneered haiku about love—a theme previously reserved for the 31-syllable tanka. Here is one of her most famous poems, written when she was 63, followed by her comment on it.
still longing for love
I pop a ripe strawberry
right into my mouth
“A red round strawberry reminds me of my first love. After such a long time, it might sound strange to think about first love, but sometimes I have this mischievous temptation to fall into a new love.”
April’s Winning Poem:
Spring season word: “Spring Snow”
a little dollop
of shaving cream on his chin
dad shovels spring snow
— Susan Polizzotto
You can find the honorable mentions, additional commentary, and April’s haiku tips here.
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