The art of haiku

My mother tells me I turn Japanese when I meet her friend in the sleepy streets of Taradale. Her friend, a diminutive, black-haired woman is a company wife, marooned in a strange company. But she is strong, and shares her love of embroidery and quilt making with my mother, language less important when the hands are busy.  I am 30 or 35, or maybe 40 years old, and yet I immediately go into role, bowing, covering my face with my hands, so unlike the Sandy that is bold and assertive. I chuckle to at myself, knowing that empathy and mirroring are part of my skill set. 

Ah, this blog is starting to take shape. Tiny Stories is for me, for you, for us. My stories, a channel for creativity, a chance to share. But also a learning place, a place to discover new things. The world is endless, the stories of others so rich and free. I have midnight musings, and Japan is on my mind ...



Mastuo Bashō  is famous, the haiku his genre of choice. I search him out, and find hundreds of haiku. A lot resonate - a few don't. I take screen shots of my favourites. The strict 5-7-5 structure is lost in translation, but I like this:

If you’re an oak

You don’t pretend

You are a flower

Radio New Zealand has a lesson on haiku, and listener's contributions come flooding in. They're funny, they’re sad, they’re clever. I play with the idea of wedding vows in haiku form, and then realise that someone else will have done it. Thank you, Google. And thank you Tracy Davidson. 

I promise to love
and will gladly honour you
but obey? no way!


Go well, stay safe
Arohanui
Sandy 



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