Haiku
of This Time, of This Place
One
of the never-ending arguments in the English-language haiku
community is whether the haiku should be a universal or
local poem. Since the haiku is being read all over the world
(one side argues), shouldnt it use only images and
language that can be understood by anyone, regardless of
their background or locale? But (retorts the other), shouldnt
our haiku draw their strength from their connection with
the environment and the sounds, smells, sights, and language
that its poets encounter every day? This debate, of course,
will never be won by one side or the other, but it affects
every writer of haiku. Whenever a poet decides to edit a
poem by replacing a specific flowers name by a more
general one, or else crosses out a familiar word to substitute
a local slang or expression, he or she is playing out this
argument again.
Usually
a poet comes down on one side or the other of the local/universal
divide, but Mike Dillon, in his debut collection, The
Road Behind, manages to write both kinds of poems. As
a long-time resident of the Puget Sound region, he is a
keen observer of those things that define the Pacific Northwest:
the relatively peaceful history between its Indian tribes
and settlers, the salmon runs that define its calendar,
the vast Pacific Ocean, its environmental debates, and the
sublime mountains and evergreen rain forests. Yet he is
also capable of writing haiku and senryu that express truths
that are not bound to any place:
cherry
blossoms:
the spawning stream
flows empty |
the
last kid picked
running his fastest
to right field |
Being
from Vancouver, I must admit to a fondness for those haiku
that express something particular to the Pacific Northwest,
if only because the recent settlement of our region means
that there are vast stretches of landscape and history that
have not yet made their way into poetry. What an accomplishment
it would be for the haiku to lead the way in the hard work
of turning these things into literature, I could not help
thinking as I read these poems, even as I realized that
the author had not committed himself to this task in any
systemic way.
The
final piece of the collection, however, does make a first
step in this direction. August, For a Little While
Longer is a medium-length haibun that weaves the authors
personal history with a trip to an Indian reserve and the
history and landscape that his journey evokes. The piece
is not wholly successful, if only because the material demands
a longer treatment, even though Dillon includes many fine
observations along the way (a hot blue noon
or skyscrapers, like figments from Dalí, float
there in the warm fabric of the air, for example).
Yet the attempt opens up exciting possibilities. I am eagerly
looking forward to the poets future work to see how
much of our time and place make its way into his writing.
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