On Haiku: To The Surrealists

Crossing you abyss

on this wobbly line of ink
if I slip, Im bread.

Like toast. Like dead.

I can now slip my tongue under the words to maintain my equilibrium, I can now wrap my lips around the
last straw of desire, I can now inhale the voices overheard unaware theyre voices to be preserved
whose moment is always round, whose moment is always now.

So I give you haiku:
seventeen syllable poems
to make you shudder.

I place the haiku, in the form of a cage, here upon a table. Within, the Beast with the Hundred Eyes goes
pacing up and down, goes howling, yowling up and down, hiccupping, growling, whimpering, bellowing,
mimicking, retching, belching, clucking, then tucking in his shirt, composing himself into a million faces,
all talking at once, in voices of every colour and hue, all melting together to describe one marvelous day,
when the universe is hushed and lying at ones feet like a dog. Or you can imagine a discarded shoe to
remind us what steps it took to get to where we are or where were going without knowing what lies
ahead. Not like turning a familiar corner, say 23
rd
and Broadway, or a page weve read a hundred times
and still cant resist poring over the words placed there in trust that no one, excepting us of course, whose
name appears throughout, would ever see. See, inside the cage of the haiku, the famous chemist distills
and refines a world unlike any other. I would describe each world in 17 syllables, for only 17 syllables
apply to the cage. One more or less is always a failed experiment, whose ashes are swept in one swift
motion into the Ocean of Failed Experiments.

I propose a toast to the Surrealists. Its always 17 syllables, for one more or less, etc. The purpose of the
toast is, of course, to praise the Surrealists, but, moreover, in a manner befitting, which may require
moving out of the sun into the shade, or where the grass is greener, or inserting not in an unexpected
touch of humility, befitting our station.

We dont want to appear to be superseding reputations we have been asked to aggrandize, while, at the
same time, luring, in a manner of speaking, the esteemed listeners to follow a tale of events which,
through the use of current idioms, lets call them lines overheard between the loud laughter amid a circle
of friends, like circling birds of prey, intended to cast one into a headlong spin, a disorientation which the
Surrealists will deem at once satisfying and elegant.

That the cage of the haiku is restrictive has naturally invited criticism. After all, writing should be
inseparable from personal freedom and we should always encourage free expression. So I explored the
structure of the haiku to find a way out. Thats 23-Skidoo.

The poems which link one haiku to another is not exactly like communicating across the valley of death
with 2 cans on a string; lets call them umbilical cords. Some led to structures which I revisited a few
times before I recognized them as untransfigured thoughts and abandoned them. I swept all the contents
into the Ocean of Failed Experiments.

In my dream, the five syllables of the first line are the five fingers of my left hand. The five syllables of
the third line are the five fingers of my right hand. Between my two hands I hold the seven syllables of
the second line, two eyes, two ears, my nose, my mouth, my head.

I see myself in the cage of the haiku as a ringmaster.

Line One enters the ring, surprised to see their faces painted the still image of surprise.

Line Two follows, leashed, undisciplined, full of complaints. Its too fragile, were too heavy, there isnt
enough room for us, were too important, there is no security here, we need guarantees, we need
contracts, we need to feel needed, we are not one of them, why are we being treated like strangers, why
all the restraints, what is that supposed to mean, why are you looking at your watch?

Line Three, these are the elders, they are satisfied with their position, they are resigned, they take in the
drama unfolding before them without expression, save for the odd glance of sudden desire, lets call her
Layla.

Finally, where man is not, the haiku is barren. What first appears as a cloud, a leaf, or a breeze enveloping
a leaf, can also be a gate, a window, or a path, if you like, to the anthropomorphic image which has one
extraordinary quality it tends to address silent questions with perfect answers, in time revealing the
sweet bones of poetry.





- Tom Konyves, Vancouver 2005