What is
haibun?
Japanese
literature began with the tanka poem
form in the 8th century, the first novels (by Sei Shonagon and
Murasaki Shikibu) in the 10-11th centuries, and the verse form renga in the 11th century,
from which hokku and haiku later emerged. Haibun evolved from haiku.
The
best known example of the form is Matsuo Basho’s Oku no Hosomichi – Narrow Road to the Interior – a poetic record of
a journey made in 1689. His friend and fellow poet Sora accompanied him on part
of his journey, and they composed together in the manner of renga – linked
verse – with Basho’s narrative. Many other Japanese writers have used the form
since then, but its popularity in the West dates from the late 20th
and early 21st century, when European and American writers
discovered it for themselves.
So
what exactly is it? The magazine Haibun
Today has on its website a collection of diverse and often contradictory
definitions. Basho simply says it is haikai
no bunsho – writing in the style of haiku. Shiki’s followers equate it with
shaseibun – sketching in words. Most
commentators agree on two things: they should contain prose written in the
spirit of haiku; and they should contain, often as a conclusion, a haiku. The
haiku should parallel but not epitomise the prose. ‘The prose becomes the
narrative of an epiphany, while the haiku is the epiphany itself.’ (Bruce Ross:
Narratives of the Heart, World Haiku
Review, vol 1, 2002)
Most
haibun contain one haiku, some more, fewer none. The prose section is often,
but not always, the record of a journey, real or allegorical. That has led some
to characterise the haibun as a waybook, and that is the reason for the book’s
title. The risk is that a haibun collection becomes a series of travel notes, which
I have tried hard to avoid: this is poetry.
You
may think that, given the flexibility of the form, that anything goes. Far from
it. As with any other poetic form, there are techniques – things which work and
things which do not. There are skills to learn, and styles to develop. There
are fashions too, especially in Western haibun. There’s a recent tendency in
some quarters to drastically shorten the prose sections, but I can see no
logical reason for this, and it loses a lot of the poetry. The length of a
haibun should depend solely on the needs of the narrative.
Some
of these haibun relate to wanderings in other countries, but I’ve also included
poems written at home in Scotland, together with poems reflecting my scientific
background.
In
this collection some haibun contain tanka and other short verse forms rather
than haiku, but by and large the structure of prose plus one or more haiku has
been adhered to, as has the 5-7-5 haiku structure. Some haiku are non-seasonal;
some are closer to senryu, and many
do not have the kireji – the cutting
word. But there is precedent; Basho himself sometimes experimented in these
ways. ‘In the spirit of haiku’ usually means present tense, direct speech, and
first person narrative. I have mostly followed this, but occasionally I’ve used
past tense. Sometimes I’ve used second person, making them conversations with
my wife Jane, my companion along many of these ways. I think the form is robust
enough to accommodate such diversions.
The
collection has been cast in four parts, but the boundaries between them are
flexible. The first poem is a non-linear reflection on places I’ve been, things
I’ve seen or thought about, and forms an introduction to the first section. The
second section features Scotland, wilderness (including mountains), and some
travels; the third adds more travels plus some science-influenced poems; the
fourth contains the most personal poems.
Colin
Will
Hawthornden
Castle and Dunbar
November
2013 – February 2014
