How To Haiku

It's Poetry Friday!

So, I have a confession.... Before this semester, I did not know how to write a haiku. Apparently, this is something that a lot of people learn in Middle School,  but I was probably too busy reading Tolkien to be interested in picking it up. 

So when my poetry teacher told us a few weeks ago to write a haiku, I decided I had better do some research. Here are my findings, nicely compiled into a handy-dandy "How To Haiku" guide for beginners. All poems are my own.

1. Firstly, the basic format. A haiku has three lines, the first and last of which contain five syllables, and the middle of which contains seven. For example:

Drums

Summertime surf boom: (5)

The old earth's mournful rhythm, (7)

Beaten by the sea. (5)

If you are in doubt about how many syllables a word has, then you can look it up in a dictionary to find out. Remember, word choice is very important, because you are allowed so few words... Make them count!

2. Secondly, the subject. In class, we worked on "Classic Haikus", which deal with nature. More specifically, they deal with a particular season. For example:

Spring Drive

Intoxicated:

The flower breath as I pass,

Spring's unique perfume. 

The classic form can feel somewhat constricting, but it is a great way to stretch your ability to create within a framework. It is really surprising what depth you can get out of a three line poem.

3. Thirdly, here are some tips and tricks. My teacher told us that titles are one of the best ways to "cheat" and add in a few extra words (think of the poem "In a Station of the Metro" which has a title half as long as the poem!). Also, avoid using too many adjectives. Some adjectives are good, but like salt, should be used sparingly. Instead, use strong verbs and nouns for a poem that packs a more powerful punch. 

Some people overlook haikus because of their size, but they can be really powerful poems. My teacher likened them to Zen gardens: using a few small things to suggest a larger theme. Haikus can really stretch your ability to use exactly the right word to convey meaning, which will help any other poem or prose piece that you may write. 

I enjoyed haikuing, and I hope you will too. Comment below if you have any questions, or haikus to share! 

A little poetry for the weekend...

Hello! So today is Friday, and amongst other things,  I feel like sharing a little poetry. Can we make "Poetry Friday" a thing? I should probably think of a better name first...

In my poetry writing workshop this semester we are currently working on a poem that we have written about a piece of art that inspires us. Interestingly enough, my poetry teacher calls poetry and painting "sister arts," because of their use of concert images to portray abstract ideas. 

The poem below was inspired by a painting called "Lovers in a Wood", by Grimshaw. My ever-hepful suitemate told me about Grimshaw, and I find his work very imaginatively inspirational. 

"Secret Fire"

A crystal moon refracts

in droplets that coat the path,

and barren winter trees

with harsh white fire from the moon.

The moonbeams escape

through winter boughs and shine 

upon the rime-encrusted surface 

of a sluggish creek.

Great drifts of sodden leaves 

lie windblown against

the black tree boles, moldering 

in the chill dew of the night.

Hidden in the trees a cottage, 

revealed only by a wisp of smoke 

that issues from a dying fire

and twists around the somber trees.

Far from this warmth

two figures stand so close 

the moon unites them

in a single shadow.

The cottage chimney smokes.

They hold a fiercer fire

between strong arms:

undying warmth on this frosty night. 

Edisto Sunset

Edisto

This semester I am taking a Creative Nonfiction class with the most difficult Creative Writing teacher here at Anderson University. What I thought was going to be a class full of terror and crushed dreams has become my favorite class this semester. Our teacher, though challenging, has helped me to see the world through brand new eyes. She has shown all of us that we have a story to tell, and she has helped us learn how to tell it. Below is one of the first pieces I wrote. It is still pretty rough, but I like it because it describes a place I love dearly.

1/29/2014

Hold Tight

​All it takes is an aroma: coffee, sunscreen or a salty breeze. As soon as I smell it, I am back to that place where I long to be. People call it Edisto beach, but to me, it is the rustle of wind in the palmetto fronds as they scrape dryly against each other. To me, it is the slap, slap of the small waves against the crushed shells that make up the sand. To me, it is piping of little birds from where they hide amongst the swaying sea oats. To me, it is home.

​I smell that coffee and I feel myself in the yellow bed of the old, white beach house, my father waking me at 5am to go see the sunrise at the easternmost part of the island. He holds in his hand a mug of what he calls “coffee-milk”: more milk than coffee, so that my mom will allow us to have it. My sleepy brothers and I drag blankets to the car and watch the palmetto trees speed by as my father drives through the silent island to the beach, where we set up rickety chairs and sit, expectant, as the sun rises. The sand is soft beneath my bare feet, and cold, still untouched by the new sun’s rays. The dawn comes at last, just as we were about to fall asleep again, and rewards us for our wait by a glorious array of new sunshine.  ​

Later, we return to the house for a breakfast of hash and grits, and maybe some shrimp if the boys caught any the day before. As soon as the food is gone, we slap sunscreen hastily on our young, pale bodies and head down the sandy path that slopes to the pounding sea. As we run, the sand underfoot changes from powder-soft to hard, wet, and closely packed. Here and there are little holes where sand crabs lurk, always eluding our clumsy childish fingers. Mounds of sand in the sea oats show where a mother Loggerhead turtle has laid her nest. There are little orange flags surrounding the nest where the kindly turtle-watchers placed flags of warning: warning children like us that we must not bother the baby turtles. We don’t dream of disturbing the nest, the turtles belong here as much as we do; they love this beach as well. Gulls hover above us as we play, floating on gyres of air, hoping for a crumb; we throw sand instead, and they fly away, disappointed.

​The sea sparkles in the sun, even though it is a brownish-green color, and not the blue that we see in the advertisements for Florida beaches. Edisto beach is near the river and muddy, but it is our beach. A cry goes up from one of my blonde brothers: a porpoise pod has been sighted. We rush to the water and the creatures dip up and down, first in the sea, then in the sunshine, oblivious of the delight their arrival has occasioned. The porpoises leave, and soon the sun departs as well. As a last farewell, she paints the sky with a riot of flaming color, stronger than the colors she showed us during the dawn. We feel her dying heat on our backs as we troop up the sandy path to the weather-beaten gray boards of the porch and inside, where the carpet is rough beneath our feet, sand ingrained forever in its fibers. Later, clean, but somehow still sandy, we take turns on our grandfather’s scout binoculars and watch gulls swoop down on a shrimp-boat far out on the twilight water. We go to bed soon after the sun, snuggling down into sheets that smell like the rest of the house: sunscreen, sand and salt. My room is dark, but a little red light blinks on the smoke alarm attached to the paneled ceiling. I watch its eternal blink and eventually close my eyes, the sound of the distant surf still pounding in my ears.