30 Haiku from January

I fell in love with haiku during a sophomore year poetry course in college. We had a giant anthology as our textbook, and each week we had to read through 150ish pages of poetry.

One week, I stumbled on a haiku by Richard Wright, which goes like this:

Waking from a nap
And hearing summer rain falling,—
What else has happened?

Don’t you know that feeling—that waking from sleep and feeling slightly disoriented, trying to piece together what has transpired while you were away? Just like the feeling of walking out of a movie theater after a matinee and being surprised to find it’s still daylight outside?

Before that, I always thought haiku were kind of silly—just a little game to play with syllables, a way to introduce elementary school kids to poetry and not scare them away. I knew nothing of haiku’s place in Japanese culture (still don’t, frankly), and I knew nothing about trying to take two disparate images or ideas and connecting them, nothing of symmetry and asymmetry, nothing of the references to nature and creation.

But of course, there’s always more than initially meets the eye.

I tried my hand at writing haiku a few years ago, as part of the (now mostly defunct) “31 Days” challenge. I spent that October writing daily haiku about motherhood, and by the end, I realized it was this amazing way of capturing small moments and limbering up my creative muscles.

When I learned Nicole Gulotta was hosting her #30dayhaikuproject again this January, I jumped at the chance to experiment with this form again, and to capture this highly anticipated and very strange month. And I loved every minute of it.

Lately, when I sit down to write (whether an essay, or poem, or Instagram caption, or whatever), I wonder if I’ve done enough. Have I explored enough of the rabbit trails, drawn enough connections? Have I thought enough about the audience or the angle? Have I worked through enough layers?

But with the haiku, it is so much easier to declare “enough.” The rules of the form tell you so, and the limits are a gift.

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30 Haiku from January:

1 (through the window)

Obscuring my view:
The fingerprints and smudges.
Don't wash them away.

2 (a new year)

Soul resolutions
No calendar page can hold.
Will I be transformed?

3 (bare branches)

The skeletal arms
finally naked and free!
Winter is rebirth.

4 (hopes for 2021)

The thing with feathers
refuses to clip her wings,
stubborn and anchored.

5 (winter memory)

Twelve degrees outside,
we carried her home that day,
four years ago now.

6 (hibernation)

Tucked inside a cave,
the questions stay unanswered.
Saving energy.

7 (cold air)

I’m eager to breathe
something invigorating,
felt deep in my bones.

8 (i need…)

Freedom--but for all.
Bravery--the humble kind.
Our America.

9 (a hot drink)

Always first things first:
Black coffee meets swirling cream.
A daily pleasure.

10 (by the fire)

We pull chairs up close,
recall joyful memories--
our collective warmth.

11 (contemplating…)

The to-do list grows,
the questions keeps swirling, or—
put pen to paper.

12 (my heart feels…)

Like a tidal wave,
surprising me with her force
and crashing over.

13 (winter light)

Rabbit in a hat,
that magical winter sun.
Disappearing act.

14 (on the stove)

Soon I'll serve it up,
to whines and consternation.
Will this change one day?

15 (leaving behind)

“It’s all up to me.”
”There is an explanation.”
”I am in control.”

16 (dark morning)

Resisting the dark
requires flipping the switch.
I'll squint if I must.

17 (a quiet moment)

I’m sorry, a what?
I think I remember those.
No quiet today.

18 (birds)

Moving through the world
not at all heavy footed,
I want to look up.

19 (healing)

When I resist,
I need to pay attention.
Where is it tender?

20 (rest)

Body, mind, spirit
are filled for the pouring out.
An inverse logic.

21 (seasonal shifts)

Today it seems much
easier to see the sun.
Clouds part. Hope rises.

22 (deep breath)

Like a quiet pause
Before a loud thunder clap
I didn't expect.

23 (family moment)

They rush to my side
as if I’ve been gone for days.
My Velcro babies.

24 (roots)

Propagation is
how I practice hope these days.
Find oxygen. Root.

25 (anticipating)

So far this year, I’m
keeping the calendar blank.
I’m learning presence.

26 (make you happy)

We're down on the floor
building and imagining,
almost every day.

27 (winter walk)

Hands in my pockets.
Steps crunch. Snow glitters. Breath fogs.
Air bitter and bright.

28 (full moon)

Open my eyes here,
in the dark where I'm afraid.
Show me the night's gifts.

29 (in the woods)

Once, I would have said
I hated to be outdoors.
Yet here I am now.

30 (through the window)

The world beyond is
always worth a second glance.
I recognize grace.