Growing up, I had many Eastern curiosities that I admired from afar with very little formal knowledge or experience. The gulf between being aware of something’s existence and being familiar or fully immersed in it is, in hind-sight, now apparent for both its tremendous breath and depth. One of these curiosities was the Japanese (I believe most specifically) poetic form of haiku. A syllabic structured poem in a 5 – 7 -5 syllable stanza. Typically, the subject matter would reflect some nature scene or seasonal celebration. From Middle School into College, I toyed with this medium to some very minor degree at times trying to feel connected to the Eastern Culture – as if eating Chinese take out could make me fully understand Chinese culture. One night at College, this dalliance with haiku ran head-long into a brooding student of an age and situation where he thought that romance and success in life was as far apart from his grasp as the gulf I now know exists being know about something and knowing something from experience. Sitting on a bench in the dark somewhere between Anderson and Matherly Halls, I penned the following dark corruption of haiku in my paperback Lit book:
Life is a Prison
Society the Jailer
Death the Only Key
Looking back, I am not even sure it is original. Seems like something Plath or some other well-known and majorly depressed writer would come up with. However, at the time I claimed it for my own – in my little Lit book – for no one but myself. When written, I must assume that the sentiment was the main point; however, now I’m just glad that I got the syllabic structure to fit. It was a passing sentiment to life in general – and a bigger affront to the art-form of haiku. Apologies all around……..
