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: 

1. 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. 
2. 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: “Butterfly”

yellow butterfly
so what if it glides over
the edge of a cliff

I was standing at the edge of a hundred-foot cliff when a swallowtail danced over my shoulder. But it was in no danger. The butterfly seemed not to notice the cliff was there.

Submit as many haiku as you wish that include the season word “butterfly.” 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 “butterfly.”

Haiku Tip: Master the Art of Profound Play!

The HAI in haiku means “light” or “playful,” while KU is the word for “verse.” So HAIKU means “playful verse.” After reading a few examples, the average person grasps this intuitively—hence the widespread belief that a haiku is a kind of poetic joke, a playful bit of wordplay that impresses us briefly but doesn’t leave a lasting impression upon the mind.

With a little practice, most of us can manage this level of play. It isn’t that hard to be clever in 17 syllables. But that is only the first level of the art. There is more to writing haiku.

The best haiku reach a level of “profound play,” meaning that they say something significant while appearing to say almost nothing. This is the sweet spot of haiku. It’s not so much a joke as a “cheat”—a little bit of word magic in 17 syllables that shouldn’t be possible…but is.

It’s like when a magician performs a convincing illusion. Our first response is pure wonder: “That’s impossible!” A moment later, we want to see the trick again. In the same way, when a haiku works, the reader finishes it and immediately begins to ponder “how it was done.”

The best haiku feel effortless, as if they had slipped right out in conversation and inadvertently hit the mark. They rarely show any trace of conscious deliberation. This is an illusion of course…like the magician’s trick that “looks easy” even though it is nothing of the sort.

That being said, once we have fully imprinted the 5-7-5 syllable form upon our minds, haiku sometimes do come out perfect right on the spot. The trick, always, is to make them look that way, even if we have worked on them for hours or days or weeks.

A note on butterflies: In Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac, William J. Higginson writes: “What we call a ‘butterfly’ is only the final stage in the life cycle of an individual organism of the order Lepidoptera, which includes both butterflies and moths. But it is the most visible and aesthetically pleasing stage. Generally, butterflies fly by day and moths by night.” Although many species of butterfly appear in summer—and some in autumn or even winter—the word “butterfly” used alone in a haiku always refers to spring. Among countless butterfly haiku written over the centuries, the most famous is by Arakida Moritake (1473-1549):

A fallen blossom
returned to the branch? But no…
it’s a butterfly!

The poem offers readers a temporary moment of visual confusion that resolves itself in wonder.

February’s Winning Poem: 

Winter season word: “Turnip”

all but forgotten
a turnip in the cupboard
starts over again

—Marcia Burton

You can find the honorable mentions, additional commentary, and February’s haiku tips here. 

Previous Winners

♦

Submission Form