After Ben’s recent foray into haiku, my eye caught a book at the library called Haiku This Other World and I plucked it off the shelf. All 817 of the book’s haiku were written by Richard Wright, the African-American novelist. Wright was born in 1908 in rural Mississippi and became famous with the publication of Native Son in 1940. He spent the last years of his short life in exile in France where he became obsessed with haiku, writing over 4000 of them in less than 2 years.
These two are typical of the melancholy throughout the book — I’m not sure if that sadness is Wright’s or just a natural product of haiku.
Steep with deep sweetness,
O You White Magnolias,
This still torpid night!
Past the window pane
A solitary snowflake
Spins furiously.
I like the ones where Wright is a presence in the work, but that may be just my aversion to the loneliness the others invoke:
I give permission
For this slow spring rain to soak
The violet beds.
Burning autumn leaves,
I yearn to make the bonfire
Bigger and bigger.
On my trouser leg
Are still a few strands of fur
From my long dead cat.
And then there are a few of relieving wry humor:
I am paying rent
For the lice in my cold room
And the moonlight too.
Two flies locked in love
Were hit by a newspaper
And died together.
But finally, my favorite. This one has a novel behind it:
Suddenly one spring
She did not skip any more,
And her eyes grew grave.
One Comment
Love the one about paying rent for lice and moonlight. I think I could write a memoir on that last one 🙂
Thanks for sharing these!
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