re:Virals 536
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 Keith. This week’s poem, chosen by Urszula Marciniak was:
Grasshoppers… I can’t run or jump anymore —Satoru Kanematsu Asahi Haikuist Network, Asahi Shimbun, October 4, 2024
Introducing this poem, Urszula writes:
In life, we encounter various limitations; we can’t, don’t want to, or don’t have the ability to do something. Some obstacles are with us from the start, others arise along the way. We can overcome certain adversities, at least to some extent. Most of them are probably not our choice. However, it’s up to us whether we look at those who do what we can’t with admiration and joy or with deep, paralyzing pain. Asking ourselves why they can and I can’t.
Host comment (Keith):
It is touching that we who follow the way of haiku love to be called ‘poets,’ and use the term ‘poem’ at every opportunity. From time to time there are evangelical efforts to get haiku into mainstream poetry and to show that it is not, as Takeo Kuwabara maintained in his well-known paper, a “second class art” (See Footnote). I think that many (but not all) literary editors of established anglophone poetry journals outside Japan would turn up their noses at this verse by Satoru. Equally, if I showed it as an example of a good haiku poem to my educated non-haikuist friends who love Wordsworth and Shakespeare, I would get pitying looks. Most often a reader has to be imbued with the spirit of haiku and to have acquired some skill in reading them, in order to appreciate a verse such as this one.
Then again, within the anglophone haiku community itself some of the pedantically-inclined might reject it for various reasons, such as that the main part of it consists of a statement, a sentence; or that the ego is foregrounded, or some other cherished convention is flouted…
I was delighted to see this verse, action-based and reflective, put forward. It has freshness (atarashimi). It is not an invention: it has authenticity, sincerity (makoto). It has meditative space (ma) for the reader: witness the varying interpretations in commentaries below. It has transience (mujō). It has presence, immediacy. It is in plain language without striving to be ‘poetic.’ It is commendably detached, despite being anchored to the first person: the author is making a plain observation, the experience being shared is fairly universal. If your joints have not yet ground down to painful and stiff osteoarthritis, just you wait. The author is not complaining, nor pulling some obvious or fashionable emotional lever. It is timeless, for any generation, not tied to a current sociopolitical theme or passing buzzword. The touch is light.
To a haikuist, the grasshopper is an autumn kigo for that is when its family of insects generally stridulates (sings) (with its knees!) for a mate. Within the canon, grasshoppers, crickets, katydids are associated with the fragility of existence in the face of impending doom. Issa’s cricket sings on a branch floating downriver, come what may; or the katydid lodged in his stove chirps, unaware that if it doesn’t get burned in the stove it will die in winter’s cold; or his grasshopper that makes its presence known having survived a flood. Or Bashō’s cricket chirping among dead fellow arthropods—a pile of shrimps in a fish market.
The verse may be read as a straightforward juxtaposition or comparison of lively but doomed grasshoppers with the now envious—and by implication regretful—reflection of the author on his own lost freedom of movement, and what inevitably follows physical decline. The ellipsis echoes the insects’ hops as well as inducing reflection. Or, noting that the first word is capitalised as “Grasshoppers…,” one can read it as the author addressing the grasshoppers in Issa-like affectionate one-ness with nature: “Once I, too, could run and jump. Jump away while you can, grasshoppers!” The second is the reading I prefer. Again a verse blending elements of haiku and senryu (as was often the case also in Issa’s work). Comments on categorisation of haiku and senryu, a question that comes up from time to time in this feature, were last appended in the comment thread following re:Virals 531.
Altogether a fine haikai verse that has been a pleasure to contemplate this fortnight past.
Robert Kingston:
For me, this wonderful poem speaks of the realisation by an older or recently deemed, less mobile person’s ability to join in with summer fun. As an older person who has recently joined a gym, it is easy to see the distance one needs to progress to match some of those younger folk.
Sathya Venkatesh:
The poem has a nostalgic tone. Grasshoppers as we all know steal the show when it comes to running or jumping high up in the air. With old age, we cannot be as flexible or agile as we were in the past. The poet probably reminisces his youthful stage when he would have been carefree and healthier. He may have been a great sprinter or athlete or just an ordinary person who had been rigorous with his exercise routine. Now with age catching up, he has to slow down and the feeling of acceptance creeps in. A beautifully crafted haiku by Satoru Kanematsu.
Sudha Devi Nayak:
This beautiful haiku with a sigh of regret tinctured with envy looks at the gambolling of the grasshopper. The poet can no longer have the spontaneity or the freespiritedness of the delightful grasshopper, its nonchalance, its cheekiness, its celebration of the fleeting moment.
Perhaps the poet who was always in the midst of”life”, in all its action and exuberance is today reduced to the wheelchair after an accident or illness. Or it could be the onset of years that robs him of the vitality of the body and mind that makes him look back on his happier years where like the grasshopper he was care free, unmindful of the future. The grasshopper is the celebration of life with its carefree spirit losing itself in the moment in the green abundance of grass and leaves. Every leap of the grasshopper is a leap of faith, trust in the universe, the process and the path. A trip in notalgia as the grasshopper concentrates in itself the poets longing for all the verve and lustre he has lost.
Radhamani Sarma:
Thanks for giving us a haiku round the sentiment and/or grouse of grasshoppers. The first person personalized touch propels the reader into the biological rhythm and restrictions that evolve round grasshoppers. An opportunity for us to consider the limitations of grasshoppers as well as our own. The author in almost a touch of philosophy, implies that not only human beings are bound by aspirations, ambitions; but even insects too. In a nutshell, irony, practical wisdom, study of biology, and philosophy are all hinted upon for our consideration.
Zilli Lee:
Like a weary warrior, the author faces the truth of reality with courage. To reconcile with the passing of time, and hence its ravaging effects, is an admission that can be made to grasshoppers without the fear of being judged, pitied, laughed at. This haiku reflects the universality of suffering of every human being.
Dan Campbell:
An Amateur Analysis of the Poem’s Author
The author is a writer shaped by movement and its gradual decline. He used to mark days by the distance traveled instead of the hours gone by. Work, travel, and play grounded him in a body that responded effortlessly. Writing emerged later, not as a goal but as a way to express what the body could no longer do.
A turning point happened quietly. There was no single incident, just a series of small no’s: knees faltering, breath shortening, balance adjusting. The author didn’t document this change directly. Instead, Satoru learned to compress his words, finding that fewer words could hold more meaning. Satoru’s poems now focus inward.
Psychologically, the author focuses on awareness rather than nostalgia. He rejects confession and chooses understatement, trusting the reader to sense what remains unspoken. Humor shines through with a hint of irony, but it never turns bitter. Silence is treated as substance, not absence.
Today, the author writes infrequently and with intention. Each piece feels like a note to himself rather than to an audience. “Grasshoppers…” serves as a quiet self-portrait, not of defeat but of a changed identity, where focus takes the place of agility and awareness becomes a new form of movement.
Joshua Gage:
This seems to be a deceptively simply haiku at the outset: the speaker observes grasshoppers, presumably hopping and flitting through the grass, and realizes they can no longer exude that sort of energy.
Readers, especially western readers, might read this as longing or wistful. The speaker seems to exude a regret, possibly a complaint, about their age and health. In comparing themselves to the grasshoppers, the speaker seems discontent, possibly even jealous of the small insects.
HOWEVER, it is possible to read this poem in an alternate mood. If “sabi” in Japanese relates to the beauty that comes with age and weathering, perhaps the speaker is simply contemplating this. They have no need to run or jump, as the grasshoppers can provide this movement and energy in the world. Rather than be the manic ball of energy that a grasshopper represents, the speaker is now calm, observant, and content.
The fact that “anymore” is a line in and of itself drives this interpretation further. Rather than read “anymore” as forlorn, what if readers approach it as contemplative? Rather than negative connotation, perhaps a wistful and meditative reading is more appropriate. The speaker is merely noting they cannot move like a grasshopper; there is no complaint, only acceptance. There is no resignation, only reflection.
The use of ellipsis, while concretely symbolic (note how, in certain fonts, the ellipsis would be more spread out, almost mimicking a jumping grasshopper), is also tonally important. The ellipsis, especially when combined with the caesura at the end of L1, slows the poem down. It begs the reader to slow, even though the first line is only one word, and to take their time.
Readers are encouraged to sip this poem gently, like hot tea, rather than gulp it down quickly, enjoying the layers of depth the simple imagery and extreme minimalism in L1 & L3 create.
David McMurray:
Kanematsu sensei seems to be paying not only his respects to nature, but also to the many years he enjoyed as a healthy younger man in Japan. This time, in a succinct 3-5-3 syllable format, he focused on the transition from summer to autumn, from prime of life to elderly years, and from activity to dormancy.
The author’s nom de plume (all his work is originally penned in ink by hand) is Satoru, and he often sketches a black ant beside his name.
Haikuists catch moments in time, and fascinatingly, when we piece together our single observations over years and generations as Satoru has done—of the later-each-year migration of monarch butterflies, the more northerly reach of mosquitoes, the more distant migrations of dragonflies—we come to realize the enormous change that climate change is causing.
It seems the more haikuists know about insects and their insect world, the better informed we will be about the changes affecting our whole world.
Richard Straw—isn’t a poem itself a song?:
Interpreting this matter-of-fact yet poignant poem depends on who the “I” might be who is making the statement of self-realization.
A child might say this out of exasperation or exhaustion after running after (and unconsciously imitating) grasshoppers in a field. The child sits down to take a breath, laugh, and say the poem in delight.
The child’s father may remorsefully mutter and repeat to himself the child’s thought after watching his child play with the bounding grasshoppers in the field. He knows that his own days of childish antics are over and that he must work like an ant (or a dog) to provide a home and food for his family.
The child’s grandfather, sitting nearby in the shade of a tree, silently agrees with his son (the child’s father) and also with his grandchild. He remembers fondly his carefree days as a child and painfully his seemingly endless years of work as a father to support his family. And he foresees the imminent winter when he, like all formerly agile grasshoppers (and ants), can no longer jump freely (or work diligently) and must rely on sustenance and support from others.
Of course, these three viewpoints are all based on Aesop’s famous moralistic fable, as retold and reinterpreted by many others over the decades since the fable’s first appearance.
The only thing missing from Satoru Kanematsu’s fine poem is the singing of the grasshoppers, which figures prominently in the original fable. But then isn’t a poem itself a song? Having the poem be the grasshoppers’ song would make for a fourth viewpoint—that of the grasshoppers themselves. As weather cools and food becomes scarce, the grasshoppers individually realize, as the reflective grandfather does, that each of them will most likely become completely still and will slowly die in the snow, ice, and slush of winter. C’est la vie!
Author Satoru Kanematsu:
(Comments sent on a postcard to David McMurray at the time of publication—thank you, David):
At 90 years of age, the legs don’t move as they used to. In addition, being hit by a car while out for a leisurely walk in the Nagoya neighborhood, a few years ago, has never really been rehabilitated. Son is also wheelchair bound, but thankfully, daughters and grandchildren are, however, very active playing rugby and catching haiku moments such as jumping locusts.
Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Richard 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:
my wife left me does this heavy rain at dusk fall where she is —Jerry Gill Frogpond XIX:1, May 1996
Footnote:
Bio:
Satoru Kanematsu is a retired high school English teacher living in Nagoya, Aichi Prefecture in Japan. He composes haiku in English and Japanese on.a daily basis, and hand writes and sketches his poetry on postcards mailed to colleagues. His work has appeared in every biweekly issue of the Asahi Haikuist at the Asahi Shimbun for 30 years. The author’s haiku including this week’s re:Virals selection can be read at the pages of the Asahi Haikuist Network . Satoru Kanematsu published Smiles and Grimaces, his first haiku collection, in 1999. In 2013 he published Haiku Diary: Hazy Moon, a collection of haiku selected for the column with comments by David McMurray, its editor. Satoru Kanematsu was assistant editor of Kō, an English haiku magazine published in Japan. He believes that haiku is a small bridge between people and between countries.
two of us
sharing plain rice porridge
a spring cold
白粥を二人で分かつ春の風邪
shirogayu o futari de wakatsu haru no kaze
(cold-the illness)
Other haiku by Satoru (whose pen name means to attain enlightenment, or sometimes ‘dawn’ depending on the kanji) may be read together with a further bio and a photo of him, here at the Akita International Haiku Network
Art…
Modern Haiku: A Second-Class Art by Kuwabara Takeo provoked much spirited debate. For example: Is Western Haiku a Second Rate Art? (Susumu Takiguchi) and Denis Garrison’s summary of the extended discussion, Debate on Is Western Haiku a Second Rate Art?.
My view at the moment: Although a few haiku can at (rare) times take a place in literary art, I see little point in expending so much (at times almost desperate) energy to present haiku in general as a literary art in the context of anglophone poetics when really, it is most usually an art of a different kind, a discipline, a practice, a way of paying attention, contemplating, meditating on and sharing a moment in our world, present or past. Trying to write haiku that are ‘poetic’ as students of poetry in English see poetry, risks changing its character into something not-haiku. It is now long ago that, trying to write a longer-form poem about a kingfisher without much success, and observing that success on the subject had eluded past poets way better than I’d ever be, I realised that the kingfisher is the poem. Go to the kingfisher. We may proselytise and spread the satisfactions of the image-based meditative ‘wonder code’ without needing to present it unconvincingly as something it usually isn’t.
I’m open to changing my mind, though. How do readers see these discussions?
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Several cracking commentaries this week. It was difficult to choose one as the winner. Welcome, Richard, and thank you for an unexpected framework in which to view this week’s verse, and with a ‘third axis’ to boot. And behold – Satoru’s signature image, we learn from David, is…an ant.
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Word of the week: acridology.
re:Virals is co-hosted by Shawn Blair, Melissa Dennison, Susan Yavaniski, and Keith Evetts (managing editor).
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