Mr Salinger and the Haiku

Over at Stuff Mark Wrote, Mark Allen (no relation, in fact not really his surname) has posted several poems including a few haikus. I don't know if anyone has noticed it, but haikus seem to be spreading through the blogosphere like a contagious disease. Fortunately, I seem to have been inoculated against this particular infection for I find nothing attractive or special about this particular poetic form.

Maybe in Japanese the haiku is a wondrous thing but I wouldn't know since I have only about three words of the language (all culled from that Richard Chamberlain TV series, Shogun). It appears to me that, in English, the haiku is not poetry at all but merely a statement of the obvious pretending to be deep and significant.

Being quite willing to be wrong by virtue of my entrapment in the western way of thinking, I never comment on haikus in blogs but I do read them occasionally, perhaps in the hope of receiving unexpected enlightenment as to their worth. And it was in reading one of Mark's haikus that I was reminded of Mr Salinger.

Jerome David Salinger, usually referred to as J.D., is the one I mean. He happens to be my favorite writer of the 20th Century, even though I don't consider him to be quite the best. His output was meager but everything he wrote is a jewel, a sparkling gem of clarity and flow. Like all other Salinger fans, I lament the fact that he opted to become a recluse in some remote corner of New Hampshire and to stop releasing his writings to the world.

The connection with haikus comes from Mr Salinger's story, Seymour - An Introduction, a piece of writing so short that it had to be partnered with another, Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters, to constitute a (still slim) book. Like all his books apart from Catcher in the Rye and a collection of short stories, Seymour is concerned with a member of the Glass family and is narrated by Buddy Glass. Buddy speaks of his elder brother, Seymour, almost with awe and makes particular reference to his production of haikus.

I read Seymour for the first time in the mid-sixties. It was also the first time I heard of the haiku. There being no examples given in the book, I assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that it was a form of Japanese poetry. At Mr Salinger's suggestion, I also imbued it with virtues of depth and meaning beyond my humble mind to comprehend and, having done so, proceeded to enjoy the rest of the story.

The years have passed and I have read and learned much of Eastern things, including the haiku. I have looked at Hinduism, Taoism and all the various schools of Buddhism, including Zen. I have heard the oft-repeated admonishment that these things are too deep for a western mind to understand, that we have to approach them with humility and accept that much will escape us. And, having thought and pondered and considered for many a year, I have to admit that my response can be summed up with one word: baloney.

There is nothing in this world thought by a human that cannot be understood by another human, no matter how much they may be separated by time, distance and culture. With a reasonable amount of study, anything can become clear to anyone. And so it is with Eastern things; Eastern thinking is just as logical as Western thought if examined to any depth. This mystical awe that the westerner is supposed to bring to any study of the Orient is an addition inserted into our attitudes by those westerners who have revolted against their own culture and wish to be seen as superior because they understand the East. Once again, I can only say baloney.

There is nothing obscure, mystical or superior in the development of Eastern thought. There are logical steps in the growth of Theravada and Mahayana Buddhism from Hinduism and from there to Tibetan Buddhism and Zen. If we were not so cowed by the suggestion that Eastern thought is "beyond us", we would see that it is a structure of thought no more valid or invalid than our own philosophies.

And so it is with the haiku. This verse form developed by the Japanese with their love of the miniature and of tight construction is not some magical formula for reaching deeper into the truth of life than any western verse form. Japanese exponents of the art have made some pretty statements with it and they are even prettier before translation into English, I'm sure. But they have nothing to say that cannot be said in any of our western forms of poetry too.

So let us be clear about this haiku; let us strip away the myth and see it for what it is: a highly-regimented and constrictive verse form that is extremely difficult to master. It is not some easy way for us to jot down stray thoughts in a certain number of syllables, just as western poetry is not either.

Anyone can write bad poetry; in fact, most of us do in our late teenage years. To write good poetry, however, is the most difficult thing a writer can choose to do. In any generation the number of great poets can be counted on the fingers of one hand. If you decide to "be a poet", be assured that, whatever form you choose to work in, you are opting for the most difficult task ever invented by mankind. The chances of your success are almost infinitesimal and, even if you slave away long and hard enough to write some good poems, the rewards are so paltry that they will not even pay for your daily crust.

I have no objection if people are happy to write their poetry without thought of ever being a poet; I've written some pretty awful stuff myself. But, please, let's get over this thing with thinking that haikus are a quick route to greatness and that real poetry can be produced in five minutes.

Please be assured that I am not directing this tirade against anyone in particular; it is a general rant, just an opinion. If it makes you feel insecure, then I apologize but would suggest that your security should be in your work, not my opinion. Dismiss me, that's my advice.