re:Virals 538
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 Melissa. This week’s poem, chosen by Orense Nicod was:
whale songs . . . when did we stop talking — Bud Cole, Frogpond 34.2, 2011 (Museum of Haiku Literature Award)
Introducing this poem, Orense Nicod writes:
I chose this haiku because it dialogues with last week’s poem by Jerry Gill and it is another compelling example of how the absence of a question mark can be meaningful in haiku. The phrase’s lack of a question mark mirrors its message of broken human communication, which contrasts with L1’s spaced ellipsis echoing the expansiveness of whale songs travelling great distances and permeating the oceans; visually the ellipsis may also be read as mimicking bubbles, reinforcing the underwater setting. The juxtaposition of these elements creates a tension between natural continuity and human estrangement. The poem measures silence in its unnaturalness: human speech, which should flow and connect, is interrupted and isolated, standing in contrast to the natural power and profusion of the whale songs. I also chose this haiku because it remains open to multiple readings, including the possibility of an interrupted dialogue between humanity and the natural world.
Host comment (Melissa):
My initial thoughts when reading this verse by Bud Cole is as Orense suggested: that it is about the relationship between ourselves and nature. Perhaps this is because over the Christmas holidays I have been reading a book by Gunnar Gunnarsson called ‘Advent‘ that features 3 characters: Benedikt, his dog Leo and wether Eitill (a ram). This book describes them as companions. Theirs is a mutual relationship where they all know one another’s strengths and rely upon one another and became familiar with one another “inside and outside, with the in-depth familiarity that is perhaps only obtainable between completely unrelated species of animals, such that no shadow of one’s own self, one’s own blood, own wishes or desires confuses or obscures things”. Moreover Benedikt wishes for no better companions. Their relationship is described as being sacred. These words struck a chord with me, and I think are relevant to this haiku, as our relationship with the natural world is often one where we are not talking, and certainly not listening. It is one that instead of being one of respect has been and still is contested and conflicted, where other beings are described in terms of resources to be used and exploited. Take the Right Whale as an example, which derived its name from being the ‘right’ whale to hunt and kill, as they did not shy away from whaling ships and would conveniently float when killed. The Right Whale was hunted almost to extinction for their oil that was used in lamps, and baleen that went into women’s corsets.
As a species we tend to be slow to learn, and slower to take action. It took a long time for a moratorium on commercial whaling to come into effect, which it did in 1986, due to long term pressure and campaigning by groups including Greenpeace who launched their famous ‘Save the Whale’ campaign in 1975, using inflatable boats to place themselves between the harpoons and the whales. That took guts!
Thus I would question whether we have ever really been in tune or attuned to the natural world. Rather than seeing other creatures as comparable to ourselves, we like to imagine ourselves as separate and distinct. And in our increasingly artificial and technological lives it is easier than ever to be divorced from this and not to hear the beauty of a whale’s song. Perhaps it is time that we changed this narrative.
The whale is a winter kigo. Perhaps whale songs could also be considered as a kigo. This might not be immediately obvious, but as Herb asks in his commentary, might there be a season for whale song? Being curious, I dived in and found that yes, there is indeed a season for this, as it tends to peak in the winter months before the mating season. Does this add another layer to this haiku? Perhaps feelings of loneliness and isolation? What do you think?
Bud’s haiku can be interpreted in several ways. This makes it a good haiku in my eyes, as there is room for the reader to create their own meanings. As Richard and Herb suggest there are different scenarios that this poem conjures in our mind’s eye as we encounter the words on the page. And what does the poet mean by his second and third line? Who has stopped talking? Could this be connected to a human relationship that has broken down as Sudha’s comments indicate? What are the implications of this broken relationship? Finally, for me, it is not only talking that matters, but listening to and understanding what the other is trying to say. That is where connection lies.
Richard Straw:
This self-reflective poem can be as open-ended in terms of interpretation (and scenarios) as the big blue sea. The vastness of deep waters and the hauntingly beautiful music made by the world’s largest creatures serve as the setting of the poem. Juxtaposed against this depth and beauty are two subjects, at least one of whom acts by not acting—by remaining silent. Interpreting this poem’s action (or non-action) depends on the scenario within which its interior monologue question is asked. Here are three possible scenarios.
Someone standing alone is listening to whale songs on headphones at a large aquarium and remembers a friend, a sibling, someone from the past, a voice nearly forgotten. “We used to have wonderful conversations together, aimless talks, ranging over a multitude of subjects, just like these whales must be having. When did we stop talking? Maybe it’s time to get back in touch.”
A couple is standing beside each other at the same aquarium exhibit. They also have headphones on and are listening to the recorded whale songs. One wonders what the songs mean and how the whales can have so much to say to each other. The other thinks, “When did we stop talking with each other like these whales seem to be doing?”
Another visitor stands for a long time listening to the whale songs and studying the exhibit’s encyclopedic display of information about the history and behaviour of whales and their mistreatment by humans over the centuries. In their songs, the whales seem to be sending a message to any human who is willing to listen, “When did we stop talking or trying to talk with you?”
A good haiku like this one invites readers to put a story behind the words, to fill in its blanks, to complete the narrative arc. The beauty of such poems is that each reader can view them from an individual perspective.
Peter Jackson:
This haiku simply pivots ‘whale songs’ with ‘when did we stop talking’.
Set against an environmental backdrop, on one level this is ancient and modern – vast, oceanic, primeval vs modern, textural, technological. On another, primitive vs. complex, still another many to many vs. one to one. The cut continually contrasts our communication failure across boundaries whether vast and immense or on a personal level, one to one.
In the end with the word ‘stop’ I feel hope, because ‘stop’ links with start and the last line emphasises this with ‘talking’, out on its own.
Sudha Devi Nayak:
Whale songs are communication between whales in the vast ocean for navigation, establishing territory, and social bonding. In these two lines the poet wonders when and where all communication stopped, how did the connection snap so suddenly without so much as a word? The haiku presupposes a strong relationship perhaps even with romantic leanings that are left in tatters. There is bewilderment, perplexity, hurt and regret at the stalemate in relations. It could have been a trifling incident, or he may not even know what triggered the rupture.
The sanctity of the spoken word ever since the first human voiced an unintelligible, incoherent sound has been considered the bedrock of human relationships between friends, family, and lovers. Unless one articulates one’s feelings we are staring at blank spaces in our lives. We think in words, we speak in words, we love and resent in words. Words are for reassurance and acknowledgement and just for being.
George Eliot in her epic novel Middlemarch sums it all up for us: “I like not only to be loved but also to be told I am loved. The realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave. This is the world of light and speech.”
Radhamani Sarma:
A very thought provoking haiku concentrating on the powers of whale songs. Speech and Sight are two prime gifts of GOD without which survival would become an impediment. Men, birds and have their own ways of communication. Beginning in the direct first person conversational tone, “whale songs…../when did we stop/talking/…implying more room for talk throughout.
The analysis of this haiku requires a deeper insight into whale songs… Just as gurgling water has its own sound and rhythm, whales in the oceanic deep dive and sing – a special melody. Recent research of ocean animals, enables new findings in underwater sounds and songs of whales. In a 8 syllable structure Bud’s haiku suggests a vast oceanic activity, where whales dive, sing and produce sounds or non stop talking. Their songs
understood as their talk, their own questioning. Whale songs, their formation of sounds and dark melodies are another miracle.
Herb Tate:
If there’s a season for whale songs I don’t know it – and the only times I might have listened to whale song are on meditation tapes, in the nursery to try and get the baby to sleep, and on T.V. documentaries. It’s that latter that interest me in relation to this poem and the juxtaposition I find between the two people sat on the sofa who have let communication between them die away, and whales who bellow into the ocean over vast distances but with (presumably) an eternal sense that they are not alone. It leaves us with a simple haiku that brings enormity to the realisation of the haiku moment. The structure of the haiku seems to do a neat job too: with only a single word on the third line it feels like it comes to rather an abrupt halt – much like the talking. I guess the openness of the haiku is nice, in that I feel fairly free to supply my own moment in order to make sense of it and gain something from it – but I wouldn’t want them all to be like this.
Sean Murphy—listening to the whales:
One quality of haiku that I’ve really come to appreciate is the ability to leave compelling ambiguity. Take the word “we” in this haiku. Does it refer to a specific you and I, two people who were once close, but have gradually grown apart? Or is it a more general “we”, a society that has slid into anti-social alienation? Is the former a symptom of the latter? If we take it as the former, is the question even being asked sincerely, or is it a mere pleasantry, perhaps even a somewhat barbed one, obliquely alluding to some history that neither party wishes to directly address?
And then there’s the first line. It sets a certain tone; whale song, to a human ear, is often mournful, especially when heard at a distance, and its ability to travel great distances gives it a poetic connotation of longing. Removed from our impressions, though, whale song is some of the most complex vocal communication in the animal kingdom aside from human language. Do we therefore interpret the juxtaposition here as a contrast between the vibrancy of the whales’ communication against the loneliness of the poet? Or do we imagine that the whales, too, are lonely? Hunting and environmental damage have caused major declines in many whale species’ populations, and songs that at one time would have brought many whales together may now go unheard. In this way, the imagery of whale song, sparser and rarer than it once was, echoes the longing for a time before we — whoever “we” are — stopped talking.
(P.S. Upon doing some Wikipedia research, I’m happy to report that the population of humpback whales — the species most known for its song — has been steadily recovering for a while thanks to environmentalist efforts, and was taken off the endangered species list in 2008. Other whale species remain endangered, but the news is better than I expected it to be!)
Thanks to all who sent commentaries. Sean Murphy’s was adjudged the 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’ve chosen the next poem, which you’ll find below, from a standby list. 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:
still attached to the old days a watch on a chain —Ernest Wit World Haiku Review Spring 2025
Footnote:
It seems that Bud Cole is deceased, so there aren’t any author’s comments this week. See these links:
Bud’s obituary
Bud Cole—poet at allpoetry
The book I mentioned in my commentary:
Gunnar Gunnarsson, Advent: translated by Philip Roughton (2025), Penguin Vintage Classics.
Sean Murphy, if you’re reading this please check your spam folder! Though it’s well past the deadline, by all means email us a verse meeting the criteria, together with a brief introduction to it, which can be added to the standby list against these contingencies.
re:Virals is co-hosted by Shawn Blair, Melissa Dennison, Susan Yavaniski, and Keith Evetts (managing editor).
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