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.”
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: “Spring Snow”
even a sunbeam
is enough to topple it
wobbly spring snow
Submit as many haiku as you please on the season word “spring snow.” 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 words “spring snow.”
Haiku Tip: Explore the World of a Season Word!
The temperatures wobble as winter gives way to spring, resulting in snowfalls that melt quickly—often in a single day. This period of seasonal overlap is sometimes called “false spring” because it tricks us into believing that winter is really over.
A waka by the 11th century poet Izumi Shikibu captures the spirit of this liminal “microseason” that can last anywhere from a week to a single day:
I broke off a branch
supposing that the plum tree
had come to flower,
but it was only spring snow
masquerading as blossoms.
Because it melts quickly, spring snow has come to symbolize fleeting beauty and is sometimes associated with tragedy—especially in matters of the heart. That was why Yukio Mishima (1925-1970) chose the season word yuki no haru (“spring snow”) as the title for the opening book in his Sea of Fertility Tetralogy. The novel chronicles the relationship between the teenage lovers Kiyoaki and Satako, a doomed affair that leaves one of them dead and the other so traumatized that she withdraws from the world to become a Buddhist nun.
As a meteorological phenomenon, spring snow is extremely varied. Depending on the temperature and the amount of moisture in the air, it can be heavier to lift with a shovel than the “dry” snow of January or February. Or it can feel light to the point of weightlessness, especially when it falls quickly, barely dusting the ground.
A haiku by Takahama Kyoshi (1874-1959) captures the delicate beauty of spring snow:
a little spring snow
balanced atop the ladle
floating in water
“A floating ladle is light to begin with,” wrote the Japanese literary critic Ooka Makoto. “The soft spring snow piled on top of it is lighter still. What the poem points us to is all of spring itself.”
The ladle in question is made of bamboo, consisting of a small cup attached to a long thin handle. It is atop this handle that the spring snow is balanced—as if resting on a branch.
Kyoshi was a master of the modern technique called the sketch from nature, but even his most objectively-rendered, “image only” poems have further layers of meaning. In the snow balanced atop a ladle, we can feel all the nuance and complexity of his Buddhist worldview.
As the day grows warm, the snow will lose its footing and slip into the water . . . becoming water. Which is natural, of course—although in that moment its beauty vanishes, as if it were never there. Not coincidentally, The Sea of Fertility ends on a similar note.
In the final scene of The Decay of the Angel, Kiyoaki’s friend Honda (now an infirm 82-year-old old man) travels to the monastery where Satako serves as abbess. When Honda tells her that he has followed Kiyoaki’s soul through successive incarnations, Satako tells him that all things are fleeting and empty of self-nature . . . including Kiyoaki.
And so, the tetralogy ends just where it began—with the acknowledgement that beauty and sadness are two aspects of a single phenomenon. A little like spring snow. Sometimes heavy, sometimes light, it melts into water all the same.
Mishima died at 45 by ritual suicide, just a few hours after writing the last scene of the book. Kyoshi lived to age 85. Which accounts for two different views on emptiness and the meaning of spring snow.
February’s Winning Poem:
Winter season word: “Winter Star”
in Appalachia
or in the Hokkaido sky
the same winter star
— Gregory Tullock
You can find the honorable mentions, additional commentary, and February’s haiku tips here.
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