Some time ago, I wrote a post titled “The narrow road of healing” which referenced the seventeenth century writer Matsuo Basho (1644-94) and his book of poems written on pilgrimage. The collection of poems included one that is considered ‘the most famous’ haiku ever written – “The Old Pond”:
An old pond;
A frog leaps in β
The sound of water.
In Diana and Richard St Ruthβs βSimple Guide to Zen Buddhismβ (1998), they acknowledge that the poem seems βrather mundane and boringβ at first glance (page 61). But they also note that the PURPOSE of a haiku is to βstill the senses, not excite themβ. Which is potentially ironic, given that the frogβs leap, in a sense, is the opposite of stillness. But that too is potentially part of this haikuβs worth. A good haiku, the book says, βwill be unintentionally profoundβ.
A successful haiku will have each line become a source of contemplation; each word will carry weight. Moreover, it doesnβt aim to be abstract; it is what it is; a simple experience of a particular moment in time, experienced through reading in another particular moment in time.
I donβt know enough about haiku to judge the merits of a famous personβs famous poem, but I do know that it quickly creates a serene image before my mind’s eye.
But the more times I read it, the more varied the thought-spectrum of ideas in my head becomes. At the simple end of the spectrum are memories of frogs I have seen, so small but so sprightly, and the easily imagined ripple-rings that would follow the plip-plop of frog-fall. At the more complex end of the spectrum are the reflected echoes of fairytale frogs who retrieve golden balls from wells to gift ungrateful princesses, and kisses that turn flabby frogs into perfect princes… not to mention all those pollywog pages of endless life cycles in endless science lessons.
A small amount of research (here) reveals that the traveling poet’s old pond was potentially filled to overflowing with ancient meaning: “In Japan, the frog, (kaeru), is symbolic of fertility and good fortune, and as the word in Japanese means ‘to return’, frogs can be linked with things/or people returning to their place of origin […] so are carried by travelers to make sure they return safely from their journeys.”
Now the old pond receives the frog home in a way that Basho the pilgrim might imagine himself returning to his old home… and I can now visualize an extra image; those ripple-rings bouncing off the edge of the pond and returning back to the middle…
When I went in search of ‘what is a haiku?’ things got a little muddy.
According to the Encyclopedia Britanica (why so many ads Britanica?!?), I discovered: “A haiku is a traditional form of Japanese poetry that consists of three lines with a specific syllable structure: five syllables in the first line, seven in the second line, and five in the third line. This poetic form often captures a moment in nature or an emotion, emphasizing simplicity and depth.”
The ‘most famous’ haiku ever doesn’t conform to those syllable counts – presumably because it is the translated version (in English rather than its original Japanese). Although… when I went looking to try to figure it out, other places translate the poem differently so that it DOES comply:
An old silent pond,
A frog jumps into the pond…
Splash! Silence again.
I think I like the previous one with its 3/4/5 syllable pattern better… it feels lighter and less strained… although I do like the second version’s “silence again” which provides another moment of return and a nice circle moment in my mind’s ear following the imagined water ripples in my mind’s eye.
[As a potentially irrelevant aside, (which I think I’ve mentioned somewhere before) when I was trying to help my two young daughters understand syllables, I called them βsilly-bullsβ and used to put my hands to my head to make horns, and stamp my foot onto the ground like a manic-cow to emphasize each syllable: βcrazyβ becomes βcrayβ (stampβnβheadshake) βzeeβ (snortβnβstampβnβrush-at-them!)]
Now that I had silly-bulls and frogs in my mind, I was curious to have a go at writing poetry myself (digital fridge magnets are my only other effort (here)) β my mantra of the moment is βparticipateβ β no more sitting on the sideline β whatβs the worst that can happenβ¦? Even if it’s complete and utter failure, at least I can say I tried!
Hereβs the first haiku I wrote (using the 3/4/5 pattern) – it took me two minutes to create (which I suspect is a form of poetic sacrilege!):
My eye hurts;
Now, always, for-
Ever the pain stains.
Again, I donβt know the rules of engagement β I split a word to make the syllables match Master Bashoβsβ¦ but I donβt knowβ¦ is that even allowed? Regardless, when I go back and read each line as if it were a poem on its own (similar to the poem “lighght“), I quite like how “Now, always, for-” is incomplete but our mind fills in the blank regardless; just as any future is unknowable but we still presume to guess where it’s going.
Hereβs another one that I spent a whole three minutes on (sorry not sorry). I tried to be more contemplative and focused on being one with nature (which in this moment includes gale-force winds buffeting against my windows and making me nervous for the flapping sheet-metal on the owner-builderβs garage next door (which he constructed by watching YouTube videos (true!))):
Wind wails long,
Low, slow and sad:
The sound of weeping.
Before anyone judges me too harshly, remember I wasnβt a blogger until I started blogging, so I suppose it will take a lot more poem-practice before I can pretend to be a poet!
The point is this β writing poetry; slowing down, counting syllables, thinking about your surroundings, looking, listening, feeling forms, playing with words, rolling them around in your mouth or mindβs eye β it is all a form of mindfulness.
Iβm a big believer that any form of creativity that allows you to βstop timeβ for a moment is… quite frankly… very powerful.
Itβs a practical way of distracting yourself from your chronic painβ¦ unless youβre writing about itβ¦ but even then, youβre reforming it into something new, something creative rather than pure negativity.
To me, writing a poem (no matter how badly) is also a form of therapy – a moment to look inside and distill big emotions into a few small (but loaded) word chains.
Here’s cheers to all of you who are experimenting with art therapy and mindfulness as a means of moving your life ever-closer to contentment – I’m so in your corner cheering you on (even if the weeping wind is drowning out my pom-pom-woo-hoos or Basho’s silent sound of water is distracting you!)
Feel free to go to the comments and drop a link to your own poetry-posts on your blog or make your response to this post a haiku written especially for today!
Take care taking care, haiku-ingly, Linda x
The Mindful Migraine 
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