re:Virals 543

“More difficult than making your own verses interesting is understanding those of others…” ―Shinkei (1406 –1475). Citing this, Onitsura (1661 – 1738) wrote: “…this should be a way in which a person is completely given over to training.”

Welcome to re:Virals, The Haiku Foundation’s weekly commentary feature on some of your favorites among the best contemporary haiku and senryu written in English. In the host chair today is Shawn Blair. This week’s poem, chosen by Orense Nicod was:

   
kuma in a coma in a cave
—Roberta Beach Jacobson (Indianola, Iowa)
ASAHI HAIKUIST NETWORK
January 30, 2026

Introducing this poem, Orense writes:

I chose this poem for its playfulness. It is Dr. Seuss–level delight to read aloud. Yet beyond its humour, it struck me with its depth of mood. The alliteration, assonance, and repetitions create a dense cluster of echoes, as if we have stumbled upon the bear, disturbed a stone, and hear it resounding throughout the cave, chamber after chamber.

There is a sense of yūgen in the simplicity of this sonic image. Without stating the season directly, it captures the depths of winter. There is something unfathomable about winter’s rest, something ambivalent in its stillness—at once protective and barren in its isolation.

I find myself experiencing winter here not as landscape but as a descent inward, as a state of being, all in seven words.

Host comment (Shawn):

Children make sounds for the pleasure of making sounds. They mimic sounds that capture their interest or create sounds never heard before. And they do this without a mature conceptual framework in place that would validate and make sense of their actions. This lack of conceptuality may seem like a form of ignorance, but as the Mock Turtle in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland says, “no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.”

“Don’t you mean ‘purpose’?” said Alice.

“I mean what I say,” the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone.

Kuma in a coma in a cave feels like a caw from a treetop or a howl in the night—a spontaneous and naturally expressive utterance. For now, I don’t know what kuma refers to. There is something in a coma in a cave (whether the nouns are understood literally or not), like the smallest of the dolls in a Russian nesting doll. Perhaps that smallest of dolls also opens.

“The most important thing is to leave a gap.”

This advice from Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron isn’t about how to write haiku, but it could be. The kire in haiku is an overt gap that at least in theory interrupts the otherwise seamless conceptual mind and leaves the reader to rest in that space, however briefly. The gap can be nearly imperceptible or it can seem like a deep gorge. Japanese haiku often make use of kireji, where the gap is embodied in a word. There are no conventional English-language equivalents to kireji, but words do occasionally function in the same way. To begin a phrase with a word that one can assume most readers won’t know is to begin with both a challenge and a vast openness, a charged gap between the reader’s past and future. Some readers will avoid the discomfort by immediately asking Google what the word means, while others will simply move on to the next bit of entertainment on offer in the journal. There is nothing wrong with either action and there may be no wrong way to react. But it is worth remembering that there can be something untamed and profoundly powerful at the heart of haiku.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

The haiku in question had foxed me. Cryptic and elliptical, it led me to further brain-racking and research. The single line is alliterative, homophonic and deeply metaphoric.

Though in Japanese a kuma is said to mean a bear, symbolic of strength and courage, it could as well be a reference to a human or other creature abandoned in a cave in a comatose condition and allowed to perish. We are not aware of what sin it is guilty of and why it is destined to be alone in a cave.

It reminded me of the Greek philosopher Plato’s allegory of the cave from the “Republic” which describes lifelong prisoners chained in a dark underground cave so they cannot move. With a fire burning behind them they watch the play of shadows on a wall, mistaking them for reality when in fact that was all they were permitted to see. A prisoner who manages to free himself walks into the world outside and realises that his previous life was an illusion—not an accurate representation of reality, but distorted and blurred—and embarks on a journey from ignorance to philosophical knowledge.

The cave is a symbol of the physical world where people rely on superficial senses, accepting whatever is seen without question. The shadows on the wall are false representations of reality and the prisoner breaks free from conventional unexamined thinking. The process of learning is disorienting and painful but necessary if he wants to free himself from the shackles of ignorance. The enlightened prisoner goes back to free his fellow prisoners but they refuse, preferring to wallow in the comfort of their ignorance.

Kuma here may also be a symbol of ignorance, sloth and inaction—man’s limited perception of things, in a world where it is easier to go with the flow rather than question the existing order. Enlightenment comes from philosophical reasoning, intellectual pursuit, empathy, and the cultivation of conscience in a largely soulless world.

Radhamani Sarma:

Roberta Beach Jacobson’s humor is inspiring. A deviation from Mathew Arnold’s “high seriousness” in literature, her deliberate choice of words and alliterative technique is the crux of this short monoku. I’m reminded of the adage “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”.

A joyful pun and play and pleasure in the repetition of words—the humor is worth recording. In Japanese, kuma means bear. Instead of enjoying free play and mirth, the bear is in an unconscious state, in a cave, totally isolated from the throngs of humanity. Literature and folklore contribute their own connotations in the interpretations of this one-line haiku. In Japanese culture the bear represents power, courage, resilience, and protection. In the verse, kuma is in an utterly unconscious state in a cave; again, HUMOUR is the essence running throughout.

In the Japanese series One Piece by Eiichiro Oda, a buccaneer named Kuma leads a life full of struggle and escape. His appearance itself is a mixture of fantasy and fiction, elements far beyond human credibility. It is a make-believe world we read about in the description. Though his name evokes the strength of a bear, here it is just the opposite, and Kuma is stripped of his energy, now in an utterly unconscious state: the same kind of contrast on display in this verse—the humorous alliteration is the sustaining force. The strong contrasts of Kuma/kuma in all aspects—appearance, style, behavior and mystery of death in the Japanese series and the one presented by Roberta Beach Jacobson—is worth noting. ‘What is there in a name?’ So much is encompassed in a name.

Urszula Marciniak:

How much rest and isolation do we need to rediscover ourselves and our spirituality? Perhaps an afternoon nap after work will suffice? Perhaps a few minutes of prayer? Perhaps a walk in a secluded spot? Or perhaps we must withdraw almost completely to emerge transformed? Will we find ourselves alone, or will someone be willing or compelled to help us? Everything will likely fall into place if we don’t fight what’s happening to us. If we believe with confidence in change.

Sean Murphy:

This poem was a challenge to understand, entirely because of that first word. As best I can tell, kuma means bear in Japanese, and knowing that, this haiku is straightforward enough: it is an unadorned description of a hibernating bear, made playful by the use of cross-language wordplay. It reads like the title of a children’s book, the kind that, in the absence of children, you might still feel compelled to pick up and read out loud to no one, because out loud is the only proper way to read it. However, I didn’t know what kuma meant when I first read the haiku, but it wasn’t meaningless to me, either. I recognized it as the name of a fictional character, and as I searched for the actual meaning of the word, I couldn’t help but relate the haiku to that character, and was surprised to find a strong resonance between the two. Those musings were ultimately more interesting to me than a “correct” reading, so I’ve decided to share them here.

Bartholomew Kuma is a character in the manga/anime series One Piece by Eiichiro Oda. Kuma is a cyborg, a living weapon who gave up his free will in exchange for a cure for his terminally ill daughter. This loss of self is initially framed as death, but later, when his daughter is in danger, he, without any command or program, rushes across oceans and mountains to protect her. What had been thought to be death was merely hibernation; like a person in a coma, the hope of his return endures as long as he breathes. In the anime, this act is preceded by a montage of his life as he runs through a dark, empty space, until he arrives at the light where his daughter is waiting.

Earlier, I described how the haiku’s wordplay gives it a playful energy, but it’s not lost on me that the words being played with have, individually, less than positive connotations. I think that’s why it resonates with the character Kuma. The juxtaposition of dark, frightening imagery with a good-natured, cheerful tone reflects the darkness of Kuma’s world and history and persona, and the joy and hope and love that he’s fostered in spite of it. A major theme of One Piece, one embodied by Kuma, is the power and resilience of love, that our bonds of care and fellowship persist no matter how much the world tries to beat them out of us, and that those bonds empower us to endure the worst the world can do. I see that theme, a bit, in this poem, which takes scary words and makes a charming little ditty out of them, as if to assure a frightened child that they will get through this illness, this separation, this hard winter; that what appears to be death is actually just sleep, and will end with the coming of spring.

Yuuki Hara:

There is an initial, almost deceptive playfulness to the poem. The sonic threading of kuma, coma, cave produces a cadence that feels nearly like a nursery rhyme. Yet the very ease of that music is what makes the imagery so unsettling; it lulls us rhythmically into the very stasis the poem exposes.

The scene is skeletal: a bear, in a coma, inside a cave. A cave may suggest shelter, but it also seals off light. A coma is not restorative hibernation; it is suspended agency. The bear—an animal associated with instinctive strength and survival—is rendered present yet inert. Power exists, but it does not move.

Before placing this image on a political stage, the poem demands existential scrutiny. The cave inevitably recalls Plato: the human tendency to mistake shadows for reality. Yet the poem refuses the comfort of externalization. The bear is not simply “the public,” nor “the state,” nor “the other.” The most demanding reading recognizes that the bear may be all of us—citizens, intellectuals, activists, observers. It may be me.

The danger lies in believing we are already awake. The moment we assume we stand outside the cave, thinking ceases. Awakening is not permanent; it is fragile. One cave can easily be replaced by another—perhaps more sophisticated, perhaps more comfortable. In an age saturated with information, paralysis does not always arise from ignorance. It can emerge from overload, fragmentation, or subtle enclosures of perception.

From this perspective, the poem suggests something larger: not merely individual sleep, but a kind of human hibernation. Not winter in the natural sense, but a cultural winter—an extended suspension of moral and civic movement. The body of society remains alive, yet action is deferred. Consciousness flickers, yet transformation stalls.

This opens a broader question: can haiku sustain political gravity?

I believe it can. There is no immutable law confining haiku to frogs, flowers, or pastoral quietude. Tradition in haiku is architectural rather than doctrinal; it survives because it adapts. Culture is never static—it is continuously rewritten and layered. Political engagement does not erase tradition; it tests and revitalizes it. A form that has endured for centuries does so by absorbing new realities, not retreating from them.

Seen alongside more outwardly confrontational works such as NO(T)ICE, this poem occupies the opposite pole. Where a protest poem shouts into the street, kuma in a coma in a cave whispers in a closed room. Where one demands attention through rupture, the other stages stillness. Yet its quiet may be more destabilizing. If protest is the alarm, this poem is the diagnosis.

Its refusal to name an enemy is not evasive; it is ethical. By withholding accusation, it creates space for self-implication. If the coma is collective, then it necessarily includes my own blind spots. If the cave is informational, it includes my chosen sources. If there is a winter, I must ask whether I, too, am conserving energy instead of moving.

The poem does not accuse.
It does not instruct.
It does not shout.

It waits.

And in that waiting, it confronts us with the most difficult question: not who is asleep — but whether we are.

Yibo Xu—the reader’s own awareness:

Reading this poem, I am reminded of Masaoka Shiki’s insistence on shasei—the discipline of observing the world as it is and recording it without unnecessary ornament. Kuma in a coma in a cave offers no explanation, no overt emotion. It simply presents a scene. And yet, that restraint is precisely what allows meaning to emerge.

Shiki argued that poetry should begin with faithful observation, not with ideas imposed from above. Here, the image feels almost clinical: a bear, a cave, a state between life and death. The repetition of sound creates a quiet rhythm, but the poem resists metaphor at first glance. Like a shasei sketch, it asks the reader to stay with the image rather than rush to interpret it.

What interests me most is the sense of suspended time. The bear is not acting; it is enduring. In that stillness, the poem opens space for the reader’s own awareness—of winter, of vulnerability, of the thin line between rest and disappearance. This, I think, is very much in the spirit of Shiki’s realism: not emotional poverty, but emotional honesty born from seeing clearly.

Author Roberta Beach Jacobson:

This monoku was written on the run, and was submitted immediately without any tweaking. Usually I go out of my way to avoid alliteration in my Japanese short forms, but this monoku was an exception.

The first word (kuma), I realize, might cause some confusion! It’s Japanese. Clue: The prompt from Prof. David McMurray, aka the Asahi Haikuist, was ‘winter sleep.’

I’m looking forward to the discussion about my poem. Go at it!

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Yibo Xu’s was chosen as best this week, but unfortunately the email notifying him of this, and asking for his choice of a poem, is as yet without reply as this post is scheduled. So I have chosen next week’s poem, which you’ll find below. We invite you to write a commentary to it. It may be short, to a maximum of 500 words (succinctness will be valued); academic, your personal response, spontaneous, or idiosyncratic.  As long as it focuses on the verse presented, and with respect for the poet, all genuine reader reaction, criticism, and pertinent discussion is of value.   Out-takes are kept in the THF Archives.  Best of all, the chosen commentary’s author gets to pick the next poem.

Anyone can participate. Simply use the re:Virals commentary form below to enter your commentary on the new week’s poem (“Your text”) by the following Tuesday midnight, Eastern US Time Zone, and then press Submit to send your entry. The Submit button will not be available until Name, Email, and Place of Residence fields are filled in. We look forward to seeing your commentary and finding out about your favourite poems.

Poem for commentary:

     
speechless this evening I'm a lamp
—Ella Aboutboul
  Modern Haiku, Volume 57.1, Winter-Spring 2026

Footnote:

Roberta Beach Jacobson is an American author/poet/editor/fleakeeper who is drawn to the magic of words ― flash fiction, poetry, song lyrics, puzzles, and stand-up comedy. She was founder and editor of Cold Moon Journal, is founder and edits smols poetry journal and is the fleakeeper at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry. Her latest book is Demitasse Fiction: One-Minute Reads for Busy People. Roberta lives in Indianola, Iowa with her husband and three cats.

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Yibo Xu, if you wish you may still reply to my email (check your spam folder!) with a haikai verse of your choice, and we will consider it for future discussion here at re:Virals.

re:Virals is co-hosted by Shawn Blair, Melissa Dennison, Susan Yavaniski, and Keith Evetts (managing editor).

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