Imagery and Haiku: Knowing Something You Already Knew
Essential to every haiku is its imagery. These poems function like photographs, brief snapshots of life delivered in 4k-clarity. So clear, in fact, that the image they invoke in our minds often brings with it other senses, as well, such as the chill we feel in autumn or the scent of flowers we catch in spring. These specific references are the poet’s way of “[grounding] the poem in a time or place” to further solidify its clear imagery (Chu 217). This photograph-like representation of nature dates back to the poet Matsuo Bashō, who used his transformed version of haiku to capture bits and pieces of his travels throughout Japan, writing them down like someone today might hang Polaroids on their wall. His work, and the haiku that have lived up to it since then, all accomplish one very important thing: they allow us to see something we are intimately familiar with for the first time. It is escapism from the mundane, through the mundane. We do not escape to fantastical worlds or far-away places—we escape to somewhere we have been a dozen times before, but with new eyes and ears and hands to experience it. Our perception shifts, and it is the poet’s job to shift it. Images we have been inundated with are made striking by the angle of the poet’s camera, the details they have captured, the lighting they have used. For a brief moment, a leaf falling from a tree is not the work of gravity, as well all know, but instead the innate poetry found in all aspects of nature.
One way of allowing us to see—really see, as the poet does—something for the first time is by connecting the (seemingly) disconnected. Poets do this by invoking contrasting types of imagery. Often in haiku, two disparate images—take, for example, natural and manmade objects, or even nature and humanity itself—will be described in such a way so that they are not seen as distinct but instead part of the same, wonderful whole. A sort of symbiotic beauty we, as the reader, may have failed to see until the poet captured it.
One example of this can be found in an untitled haiku written by Richard Wright.
In the falling snow
A laughing boy holds out his palms
Until they are white (219).
The falling snow and laughing boy invoke two very different emotions and ideas. When you think of snow, or see it falling undisturbed from the sky, you think of tranquility. Snow is peaceful, calm, and quiet. This is at odds with the boy, who feels much more chaotic and unrestrained. After all, laughing little boys are not exactly conducive to tranquility, and certainly not to quiet. Despite the disparity between these two images, the last line of the haiku manages to succinctly unify them both. As the boy is covered in snow, both are rendered white. What is whiteness, here? Innocence. Purity. Fresh snow and giddy children are both untouched by the rest of the world. They create their own image of peace. A wonderful whole, rather than a dramatic disparity.
Another, more humorous example, is brought to us by poet Kobayashi Issa.
Only one guy and
only one fly trying to
make the guest room do (221).
Again, we have two contrasting figures: the guy and the fly. Typically, most readers wouldn’t even consider the fly a “figure” or character in the first place—it would be a nuisance or an obstacle. But Kobayashi Issa (and Cid Corman, the translator) portray it and its human companion as just that—companions. They are united by this unimpressive space they share. The language used by Issa and Corman underscores this shared struggle. First, they are introduced in the exact same way, one right after the other: “only one guy” and “only one fly.” They are so alike that they even rhyme. This is not some pinnacle of human intellect, lording his mind and considerable size over a puny, buzzing insect, whose very species is often used as a derogation—they’re just a guy and a fly, both only welcome for so long in their tiny guest room. Once again, they make up a wonderful—and comical—whole.
For now, we will focus on how each of these haiku reintroduce ideas we have already met and grown accustomed to. Nature and man, serenity and agitation—there’s a fine line between them, say Wright and Issa, and they have the photographic evidence to prove it. It is thanks to the snapshot-clarity of each haiku, and the vibrant imagery within, that we can escape our old impressions and come to see beauty in the mundane.
Chu, Jean Hyung Yul. “Haiku.” An Exaltation of Forms: Contemporary Poets Celebrate the Diversity of Their Art, Edited by Anne Finch and Kathrine Varnes, U. of Michigan P, 2002, pp. 217–222.
Issa, Kobayashi. “Only One Guy And.” An Exaltation of Forms: Contemporary Poets Celebrate the Diversity of Their Art, Translated by Cid Corman, Edited by Anne Finch and Kathrine Varnes, U. of Michigan P, 2002, p. 221.
Wright, Richard. “In The Falling Snow.” An Exaltation of Forms: Contemporary Poets Celebrate the Diversity of Their Art, Edited by Anne Finch and Kathrine Varnes, U. of Michigan P, 2002, p. 229.
