re:Virals 541
“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 contemporary haiku and senryu written in English. In the host chair today is Keith. This week’s poem, chosen by Ashoka Weerakkody was:
Show me the sutra In which the Buddha praises The colors of beer. —Barry Foy, Haikuniverse, November 18, 2025
Introducing this poem, Ashoka writes:
The reason I choose this senryu is perhaps vague in my mind too, except that it made me feel a bit of uncertainty whether the poet knew the answer beforehand and was quizzing the reader for some sort of second opinion on this possibly unanswerable query!
Buddha is considered the all-knowing Enlightened One who has supposedly given discourses on all worldly things and celestial matter as well. The sutras, or threads, contain countless preachings on these topics and some such threads are quite commonly chanted and discussed among devotees and followers while some, or the majority of them, are only known to limited numbers of scholarly ones and among sectors of reverend Monks who studiously delve deeper into the treasures of Ola leaf writings that remain unpublished by present means.
This makes it quite fair and reasonable for a poet of Zen derived haiku to think on these lines and ask the above question without being jovial or humorous since haiku written in some fora are, it’s a known secret I guess, more prone to generate such lighter sentiments than a more serious discussion on the Buddha and the wisdom that makes the enlightened being in him real and universal.
I trust the commentaries would open up that path to see some light at the end of the tunnel, even if the poem presented here is, in my belief, written in lighter vein, since “colors of beer” is definitely out of contention where Buddha’s preachings are concerned. But the anti-climax generated here, though rather ‘daring’ makes the poem notable and hence a choice for discussion.
Host comment (Keith):
Well now, there are impeccable masterly precedents for haiku and senryu to be:
written as a run-on sentence
without a clear cut separating two or more parts
didactic or rhetorical
without a contrasting juxtaposition
without a clear and present sensory image
written as a generalisation
But it is rare that a verse, moreover written in 5-7-5 with the first-line capitalisation characteristic of classical poetry in English, exhibits almost all of the above. Haikuniverse’s rear is defended by the rubric of “a daily haiku or micro-poem,” and indeed several well-known journals pre-empt criticism from pundits and pedagogues by explicitly acknowledging short haiku-like poems along with more traditional haiku and senryu. I am glad they do.
The case for the defence is that within the open rhetorical statement in these three lines, which resembles a koan (or a capping phrase to one), there are in fact subtle juxtapositions, there is an invitation to readers to reflect, and ample space for them to meditate and draw insight. Indeed, members of the re:Virals team have spotted that the prominent first letters of each line spell “SIT.” And with a little zazen the verse does conceal insights to be divined, this last being a vital essence of the genre that alas is frequently missing in many orthodox, standard, anglophone haiku and senryu. Further, it smacks tastefully of rebellion, brings a haikai smile, and may be welcome relief from the prevailing melancholy as well as from virtuous nods to cherry blossoms, butterflies, snow and letting-go.
The Buddha’s proscription of alcohol is well known, and caused difficulty to Buddhist reprobates like Issa, and Ryokan, and Santoka, and many another who enjoyed their sake. To a detached and good-humoured observer the story has some salient and salutary personal aspects. The Dharmagupta Vinaya tells that after the promising monk Svāgata, who had not yet reached enlightenment, became drunk and incapable, unable to listen to the Buddha’s edifying instruction, and moreover disrespectfully exposing his feet to (and in some versions, kicking) the Buddha, the Buddha prohibited beers and spirits among his monks. These beverages open the way to heedlessness, indulgence and undesirable behaviours. While some sutras (like the Sigālovāda Sutta) mention six specific faults in consequence, the Vinaya Pitaka or “Basket of Discipline” for monks lists ten, following the Svāgata affair.
However, the verse under consideration focuses not on the alcoholic content of beer, but its colours. Here we have a subtle separation and juxtaposition of elements. Beer is not all bad. The Buddha may not have addressed the colours of beer specifically, but he was sensible of the colours of nourishments, and indeed refers positively to the rich colours of ghee, among other dairy products, comparing its clarity and golden aspect to an enlightened mind. He also praised the divine nectar that awaits those achieving nirvana, served in cups of gold or crystal.
It is therefore quite conceivable that a glass of non-alcoholic ale would be approved by the Buddha on second thoughts, its colours glowing just as warm in barlight as in my photograph above. As a verse leached of anglophone haiku orthodoxy might be equally pleasing to savour. Indeed, it challenges that orthodoxy in some ways whilst projecting other orthodoxies. It rolls off the tongue nicely. It is in the spirit of haikai… It is also in the spirit of the Dao and of Buddhism, not the only roots but perhaps the taproot of haiku.
Urszula Marciniak:
Do we have a right to ordinary, everyday pleasures?
Is it appropriate to admit to less noble desires?
Can we sometimes cloud our minds with alcohol?
Will we then be less human?
A handful of such questions over a mug of unearthly color already justifies us to some extent. Until we taste the drink, this pleasure is almost spiritual. The fact that reflection precedes mindless drinking proves that we are rational beings. In a good mood, we drink more mugs, which may raise doubts in someone observing us as to whether this is actually the case.
The golden mean, golden as beer, will certainly come in handy.
Biswajit Mishra:
There is a spiritual saying (I can’t recall where exactly I have read it) that advises one to live in this world but not be of this world. This poem hits exactly on that point for me. The Buddha, which literally means in Sanskrit, the intelligent one or the enlightened one, may refer to the popular Buddha whose teachings focus on ending unhappiness (dukkha) or a conceptual Buddha, the learned one. We are born into this world, which many traditions view as an illusion, and illusion could, metaphorically and poetically, be represented in colors as human nature is represented: anger in red, envy in green, etc. In this poem, a few things seem to be being messaged: one, where is the aphorism that talks about a very common thing like beer and nuances associated with it, and two, where is the enlightened one, anyone has found, to be talking about common things in contemporary life. Although it talks about an alcoholic drink, I don’t believe that is critical here in the poem. Maybe the poet has used a seemingly crass subject to drive home what he wants to say. The third line in the poems comes as a shock but makes one go back to read the whole poem again and be jarred into reality.
Despite being strongly didactic with a combative tone and lacking the softness of a poem, especially one where the Buddha, the epitome of compassion and peace, is mentioned, the poem brings out an embedded sense of detachment in living an ordinary life and thus highlighting one of the sutras of the Buddha. I would consider this a very beautiful and enigmatic senryu.
Morgan Ophir:
This haiku balances very, very delicately on technique. One could easily read this as a run on sentence but the contrast between the phrase at L1/L2 and the L3 “The colors of beer” is enough to create the juxtaposition necessary for a fragment and this balance is central to understanding the haiku.
One can imagine this as part of a conversation, even a rebuke between two friends. One is drinking a beer and admiring the colors in the liquid itself and the other rebukes their friend for their action. How can we find the spiritual in this most ordinary of actions, in fact, a proscribed action if one adheres to the tenets of Buddhism? Show me where in the canon of Buddhist teachings, name the sutra, where the Buddha praises “the colors of beer”?
And yes the Buddha does not directly praise the colors of beer in the sutras. (If only he did 😊) However, the Buddha does say that Buddha nature is in everything. That everything arises from Buddha nature. That ordinary life and spiritual life are one. That one’s Buddha nature can be found anywhere at any time because it is not other than this “now”. As the great Sufi master Rumi said “What is the secret? “God is One. “The sunlight splits when entering the windows of the house. This multiplicity exists in the cluster of grapes”. Forget your judgement is the friend’s response. The colors of beer are also the divine. “Show me the sutra in which the Buddha praises the colors of beer. Show me the sutra where the Buddha does not”.
To return to the masterful technique of this haiku. For a haiku, we need a clear division between phrase and fragment. The dualistic view of spiritual life argues for the same clear division: the ordinary and the spiritual are different. There is a clear division and to not have that clear division is an error. Drinking beer is an error. To not have a clear phrase and a clear fragment in a haiku, to have a run on sentence, is also an error.
Yet here, within what appears to be a run-on sentence, we find both phrase and fragment. The phrase and fragment are intertwined. To find the fragment, one must separate it from the phrase and yet it is joined to the phrase as if they were part of a sentence. Just so, there is no clear division between the spiritual and the ordinary. They are intertwined. Thus the very structure of this haiku points to the essence of the haiku. The argument of non-dualism. All is one. Everything is Buddha nature. What appears to be a run on sentence, (an error) is an ordinary moment of life, (our haiku), within which we find a phrase and a fragment, the ordinary and the spiritual, intertwined. Inseperable. The praise of the Buddha for the colors of beer.
Shannon Blood:
This poem holds space for so many stories. I imagine the long gaze of the poet looking for the sacred in the depths of a beer stein. The bartender has long since closed shop and begun mopping floors, but our poet remains. Snatches of poetry scribbled on napkins litter the table, some smoothed flat, others starting the slow unfurl from a tight-fisted grasp.
I also imagine a more prosaic scene with a copywriter, stymied by the day’s assignment to sell beer based on what the eyes see. An untouched mug of coffee sits nearby and the author stares at two screens: one empty with a blinking cursor; the other has multiple tabs open, each with a different beer color chart. On the wall, a clock is frozen in time by dead batteries.
Setting aside the fanciful, the reader might ask where is the sacred to be found? In the commons? In the daily need to make water safe to drink? As a potable source of nutrition for laborers? Beer was manna for those toiling to raise the Pyramids. Evidence has been found over time and across civilizations for the development of beer and other fermentables. Is this then a tongue-in-cheek plea for a way to capture the individual sacredness of each culture and people?
In today’s divided world, might we find our common thread of belonging to each other despite our visible differences in a sacred text praising beer?
Sudha Devi Nayak:
The Buddha in the haiku is perhaps the Laughing Buddha, a 10th century Chan monk renowned for his joy, generosity and the large bag of treasures he carried, symbolising happiness, plenitude and contentment. He wandered the countryside with his cloth sack providing for the poor and the children, and is considered the earthly manifestation of the Maitreya Bodhisattva. Contrary to popular belief he is different from the Siddharth Gautama, the historic Buddha and founder of Buddhism.
In a world full of transience where happiness is mere shadow play the laughing Buddha asks us to enjoy life while it lasts in all its largesse. In the midst of tragedy, loss, regret and longing for things that were and no more, he comes as an ever cheerful spirit bidding us carry on with happy humour, sharing joys and possessions however meagre with all those around us. He represents the ideal, content and compassionate human bringing good luck, prosperity and joy to those who keep or carry his image.
In fact Buddha Beer is a lager known for its distinctive green bottle shaped like a laughing Buddha. Brewed in China with malt, rice, hops and water it has a clean, crisp and refreshing taste. The laughing Buddha, a bit of a hedonist at heart, expansive after a bottle of beer, would be counting and revelling in the spectrum of its colours. The sutra—a rule or aphorism in Sanskrit— would be compassion, contentment and a kindly acceptance of human foibles.
Radhamani Sarma:
This week’s haiku by Barry Foy takes readers straight into a first person appeal to look deep into the Buddhist teachings or sutras. The deep chasm or misrepresentation between actual verdicts of religion and rigmarole, consciousness and cult, takes a long route with the passage of time. Undoubtedly this haiku affirms satire/subtle irony in spiritual sayings of the Buddha which we ignore or misread in the contemporary scenario.
In a way the author challenges man’s violations of Buddhist principles, from the time of the Buddha’s existence, with his inculcation of ideals; to modern days – two contrasting metaphors. Strictly speaking the Buddhist philosophy of renunciation, sacrifice and praiseworthy conduct as codified in the teachings of Buddhism need an emphasis; this also includes avoiding alcohol and beer and intoxication, liquors, for this is against the laws of ways of living.
Perhaps an ardent follower of Buddhism might express a minimal deviation in the modern times that beers and liquor can be harmless. What is there in a name? Similarly, addicts or those who are enamored of the color of the beer apart from its taste and flavor, while still preaching Buddhist principles, do not understand what they are doing is against law of consciousness and Buddhism.
The haiku can be divided into three equal parts, Buddhism and a close knowledge of sutras; the second line which asks does the Buddha praise the color of beer; and finally the author’s application of satire to those that drink beer in abnegation of the rules.
Is the beer color so fascinating, the taste so tempting,
a medley of desire and allure? More than the alcohol, the tempting color of beer is the victim’s choice. One can see the irony in the tone of writer, beer, color and irresistible temptation—a twist in the Buddhist’s teaching, that is modernity.
Orense Nicod:
Host comment: below are the barebones conclusions of a fascinating essay contributed by Orense. It is too lengthy for inclusion in an already long post, and extrapolates from the week’s poem to address many things from cuts to kigo. This outstanding essay is, exceptionally, given in full in a supplementary post, re:Virals 541-1. I commend it for reading.
“If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him” is one of the most famous Zen kōans. The phrase, attributed to Linji Yixuan, is not advocating literal violence but instructing students to let go of attachments to conceptual authority, externalized enlightenment, and fixed ideas. Barry Foy’s fascinating haiku offered for commentary this week does exactly that. The poem challenges the “rules” of a slant within English-language haiku (ELH) practice. This haiku demonstrates how prescriptive approaches misunderstand haiku’s nature, mistaking rules for insight and form for guarantee. I find humour in the fact they are often Zen-inflected in their language while being un-Zen in their method. Foy’s poem does not argue against rules; it demonstrates the futility of treating them as absolute, showing that haiku’s meaning emerges not from compliance or correctness but from the reader’s willingness to dwell within uncertainty, incompletion, and the limits of language itself.
Any commentary on this poem is deeply ironic, and this irony is unavoidable. Zen’s insight is that teachings are provisional, and if teachings are provisional, commentary is too. The moment one takes the poem seriously, one is already inside the irony. If I said, “There’s nothing to say about this poem,” I would be stating something false. Yet there is no commentary position outside the poem’s logic. That is the trap, and that is the insight.
The poem asks for a sutra for the colours of beer. This commentary pursues a theory for futility. Both are knowingly impossible. Both are pursued anyway. Both matter locally and fail universally.
But futility is not the opposite of meaning; it is the condition under which meaning appears. Zen would not object, because Zen does not forbid explanation. It forbids mistaking explanation for arrival.
Kill the Buddha and continue on the road.
Dan Campbell—wisdom without ceremony, with a smile:
I’ve long suspected that we take spirituality far more seriously than it asks to be taken. This mischievous poem makes the same point. What feels quietly subversive here isn’t the mention of beer, but the poem’s resistance to the idea that wisdom must always sound serious. The speaker’s playful challenge doesn’t ridicule spirituality so much as loosen its collar.
We tend to assume that seriousness is the price of admission to truth, and that humor somehow cheapens whatever it touches. The Buddha here functions less as a figure of doctrine than as a symbol of disciplined detachment, and when that symbol is set beside beer—with all its sociability, messiness, and sensory appeal—the poem hints that our reverence may have stiffened into something more like habit than insight.
What matters is that the poem doesn’t imagine the Buddha drinking beer, but admiring its colors. That difference is doing a lot of work. The humor isn’t really about indulgence; it’s about attention. Color means stopping, looking, and noticing what’s right in front of you. Read this way, the poem quietly nudges beer out of the category of excess and into something closer to mindfulness, treating an ordinary pleasure as worthy of contemplation.
The poem’s rebellion isn’t aimed at religion itself but at a kind of moral seriousness that leaves little room for joy, curiosity, or play. By wrapping its challenge in humor, the poem sidesteps preaching and invites reflection by way of delight. We laugh first, and only afterward begin to wonder why.
In the end, the poem offers a gently subversive suggestion: that laughter isn’t a distraction from enlightenment but one way of approaching it. Humor loosens our grip on the categories we cling to—sacred and profane, spiritual and worldly—and makes room for connections we might otherwise overlook. In praising the colors of beer, the poem ends up praising something else as well: the idea that wisdom, much like laughter, often arrives indirectly, without ceremony, and with a smile.
Author Barry Foy:
Thanks to Ashoka Weerakkoddy for the attention.
I’ll start by cautioning anyone seeking profundity in this little poem to abandon that quest ASAP! I can’t quite remember its genesis, so while it’s true that I never tire of noting and comparing the colors of beer, exactly how the Buddha managed to infiltrate these lines is a mystery. I guess it was just one of those little gifts that our creative imagination offers us on a good day. Whether intentional or not, the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane is at the heart of the poem, and I get a little thrill out of that.
The syllable count is the classic 5-7-5, and that merits an observation or two. Seen from a certain esoteric angle, the multitude of fine poems issuing from the ELHHM (English-Language Haiku Hive Mind—I coined that one myself!) collectively represent an ongoing process of testing and tempering, as poets wander away from the stock Japanese 5-7-5 in search of structures that have similar expressive properties but are better suited to the English language. And there’s no question this is producing much beautiful, elegant work. That said, I seem to be a holdout: I feel a certain affection for the 5-7-5 scheme and its inelastic constraints; I like the challenges it presents. As a regular composer of song lyrics, I’m accustomed to facing unforgiving demands when it comes to rhythm and rhyme, and I enjoy trying to outwit them. I get a similar sense of accomplishment from a successful round of 5-7-5ing.
Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Dan has chosen next week’s poem, which you’ll find below. We invite you to write a commentary to it. It may be short, or of moderate length, 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: please keep your commentaries civilly-drafted. Check out the THF Code of Conduct first. Partisan rants either way will not be accepted; nor vituperation or defamation.
TWIN CITIES NO(T)ICE —Petra Schmidt, dadakuku, February 2026
Footnote:
Barry Foy is the Minnesota-based author of Field Guide to the Irish Music Session and The Devil’s Food Dictionary: A Pioneering Culinary Reference Work Consisting Entirely of Lies. His “Rabbit Story” appears in Paul Auster’s anthology I Thought My Father Was God (and Mr. Auster read it on NPR), and “Pioneering the ‘Spread on Toast’ Concept” is included in Primal Picnics: Writers Invent Creation Myths for Their Favorite Foods. Foy’s prose and poetry have appeared in various periodicals and on radio.
He was recently the subject of a pretty lengthy interview for a podcast related to Irish traditional music. Episode 12 on the podcast page of sessionetiquette.com.
——
The ascetic life is not for me, and I suspect not for Barry Foy either. Fancy never experiencing the manifold joys of beer, wines, and spirits in moderation. It is not necessary, nor desirable, to get drunk. Pity the poor hermit in his solitude, fasting, and self-denial, dying without ever having tasted chocolate…
Particularly in view of the poet Barry’s own comment, Dan’s astute and concise commentary wins the day. But there were many good and thought-provoking commentaries again this week. And an exceptional longer essay by Orense, given separate space. re:Virals still has surprises for me in my fourth year curating it.
It has long amazed and amused me that this genre of tiny poems occasions such a vast amount of comment, analysis, and discussion!
The Scholars
Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love’s despair
To flatter beauty’s ignorant ear.
All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?
—W. B. Yeats
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