re:Virals 530

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 Susan Yavaniski. This week’s poem, chosen by Sean Murphy is:

   
first petrichor after learning the word petrichor
—Saumya Bansal
Cold Moon Journal, September 10, 2022

Introducing this poem, Sean writes:

This poem has stuck with me ever since I first read it both for the vividness of the moment it describes and because it’s prompted me to reflect on the ways that language has enriched and expanded my experience, from new vocabulary helping me to better understand myself and those in my community as an LGBT+ and autistic individual, to my still quite recent journey into reading and writing haiku. Much of what I love about this form is precisely this: its ability to, in only a few words, change something about how I see (or, indeed, smell) the world.

Host comment (Susan Yavaniski):

This week’s monoku is relatable, lightly humorous, and most of all thought-provoking.  Aptly opening up a philosophical can of worms, it offers an invitation to reflect upon the dialectic between lived experience and words, and by extension, the tension between haiku as the practice of opening to and attending to the nuance of life, and haiku as the discipline of using words to communicate that experience briefly and resonantly.

On the one hand, the verse celebrates language, in one reading suggesting that learning the word “petrichor” allows the narrator to experience the phenomenon itself. Linguistic research seems to verify that this happens. Sommeliers, for instance, training to parse the flavors and aromas of wine, become ever more attentive to distinctions that are lost on casual wine tasters, and the size of their olfactory bulb grows along with their vocabulary. Similarly, speakers of Russian, Greek and Turkish, who have two different words for a darker and a lighter blue, are able pick out individual shades of blue that might look identical to people whose language has just one word for the color. Having a language to describe phenomenon affects our ability to perceive phenomenon in the first place, changing and enlarging our experience.

In another reading, the monoku suggests that having learned the word petrichor, the poet is trying out the word for the first time in her verse to convey her experience of it.  In the same way that Gertrude Stein’s statement, “a rose is a rose is rose” or René Magritte’s “ceci n’est pas une pipe” (“this is not a pipe”) or Basho’s comment “language resides in untruth,” the verse prompts reflection with how words can only ever fall short of conveying experience, condensing as they do a whole flux of impressions into a simple generalization.  To what extent can the somatic and psychological nuance of an experience  ever be represented in words, particularly words so oft-repeated— like Gertrude Stein’s rose— that they’ve become mere symbol, or  more obscure words like petrichor, or virga, psithurism, ice-blink or mizzle, that replicate meme-like in the insular world of haiku and risk becoming stale.  Bansal ‘s verse touches on the issue of how we as haiku writers can use words such as these in ways that revitalize experience.

What Gertrude Stein wrote of her trio of roses could equally be applied to Bansal’s own refreshing double usage of petrichor:

“Because poets have been talking about roses for millennia – millions of poetries about roses, everybody has read them and sung them, and everybody has repeated – the word “rose” has lost its rosiness. It doesn’t say anything anymore. That’s why I had to repeat, “A rose is a rose is a rose” – so that you are awakened out of your sleep, so that you are shaken a little: “What is this woman saying? the absurdity of it! – a rose is a rose is a rose.” You may listen. Otherwise, rose – who listens? Everybody knows.’ And she said, ‘Repeating this I have brought the redness to the rose again.’”

(see footnote for references)

Anne Marie Johnson:

This poem immediately brought a smile to my face, even though I had no idea what petrichor meant. I felt the joy of learning and discovery. Of course, I immediately looked up the word—bringing new joy. Once I learned the word, I could smell my woods after rain—not petrichor but still a sensuous experience. The poem also celebrates the joy of language itself—being able to name, and through the name, share an experience. It reminded me of studying birdsong and then being in the field and being able to identify a song I had studied—an immensely satisfying and rewarding experience. But petrichor also summons the desperation of prolonged absence and the complexity of relief. This one, seemingly simple line packs quite a punch.

Radhamani Sarma:

Thanks for offering us a single line poem by Saumya Bansal, pertaining to the fragrance that emanates from the first rain on dry grass after a long spell, an earthy smell that is unique beyond words.

The writer here focusses both on their first personal experience learning the word.  The repetition of the word “petrichor” perhaps reflects the poet’s own fascination with the word itself. Perhaps the poet learned the word in rainless winter, and when spring at last comes, the smell of rain is the first impact on her, the dry grass accepting nature’s merciful showers. Now the poet experiences the real fragrance. There is no pain, no feeling of sorrow, no sense of guilt, no defeat, nor love nor failure in this one line poem; the poet is like a child who goes out unprotected into the first rain of summer, singing a song of hope and recovery. Petrichor: a new word, a novel experience. Ultimately it is the WORD that is a vast dictionary unto itself.

Jonathan Epstein:

To decipher this Rosetta Stone, we turn to the dictionary, which informs us that the word at both ends of this monoku, at first Greek to us, is after all Greek and stems from the Greek word for “rock” (petra) and “the fluid that runs in the veins of the gods” (ichor).

Even though the chemists who decided on ‘petrichor’ to describe “the smell of rain falling on dry soil” denied any mythological import to the name, “ichor” nonetheless slips in, by association, a touch of yugen to the haiku. Justifiably so, Mother Nature being the essence, the lifeblood, the source and ultimate mystery of life. Whether we call an experience of summer rain petrichor or “smell of rain on dry soil,” there is magic and wonder in this and every manifestation of nature.

Happily, the petrichor experience is not limited to the countryside. City folk can experience petrichor just as easily. The familiar smell of rain when it bounces off parched soil also manifests when it falls on rocks, asphalt, and pavement.

Learning that, I was transported back to early urban childhood, my nose inches from a warm sidewalk, breathing in the smell of raindrops bouncing off wet pavement, a wow moment this haiku has described and validated with a scientific name. While not in the saijiki, petrichor nicely fits the bill for a summer kigo.

Synchronistically, just before reading Saumya’s haiku, I had a clear sense, even through closed curtains, of a cool morning mixed with the earthy smell of rain as it fell on the warm cement of my patio and giving off its distinct, magical scent, my first petrichor [before] learning the word petrichor.

Sitarama Seshu Maringanti:

The scented freshness of the autumn breezes and the pervasive aroma from the woodlands rose heavily like a cloud of incense to the man, enchanted by its unknown flowers, luxuriant growth and verdure”, said Balzac in The Chouans. Obviously, he was referring to his experience of petrichor during his time. Those like Saumya Bansal and me, living in the tropics of Asia, know well from experience about the pleasant, earthy scent emitted by an overheated land when the first drops of rain hit it. Petrichor, as it is called, wafts across the plains and valleys to reach the olfactory senses of people waiting anxiously for the arrival of the cool monsoon rains. Bansal conveys this experience through this lovely haiku.

Dan Campbell:

Strange, isn’t it, how a word can feel like a piece of clothing—something new you’re not quite sure how to wear. You hold it up to yourself, feel its shape, try it on in your mouth. You say it once, then again, and somehow, it starts to settle into you.

Petrichor.

It’s not just a name for the scent of rain. It is the scent—the moment rain hits warm earth and rises back into the air like something remembered.

I think of a trip to Thailand. One day, it rained from morning to night. The air was full of that smell—rich, earthy, sweet. I didn’t know the word for it then. I just knew it felt ancient.

Now I know the word. Petrichor.

And with it, that memory sharpens. The rain becomes more than weather. It becomes texture. Story. Funny how language does that. You repeat a word, and it slowly begins to fit—not just in your vocabulary, but in your bones. Like it needs to be worn a few times before it truly belongs to you.

Isn’t that the real heart of learning? Not just collecting facts, but feeling the knowledge. Letting it drape over your life until the familiar changes shape. And suddenly, something as ordinary as rain becomes something sacred.

Petrichor.

Yes. Now it fits.

Sudha Devi Nayak:

The English language with the resonance and richness of vocabulary, from the epic of Beowulf, through Chaucer and Shakespeare, to present day titans of literature, has reflected the cultural shifts across the ages. Over time it has gained currency as the language of international discourse. “Churchill ” it is said “mobilised the English language and sent it into battle” and helped win the war.

Words matter—whether they are the finest ever written or even the most ignoble. Language is everything. The English language for all its nobility also has some ugly or rather unpleasant sounding words that surprisingly mean things beautiful. We have “pulchritude” meaning beauty; “crepuscular,” referring to the suffused light of the evening; “rhododendron,” an ornamental shrub of red flowers which in Greek translates as “Tree of roses”.

What I am leading up to before you question my context is that petrichor belongs in the category of words I am talking about. Petrichor is the fragrance of the earth after the first fall of the rain; the fragrance that envelops the surroundings and is cathartic to the spirit; that is the harbinger of the monsoon and the earth springing up in glorious fecundity.

The poet after learning of the word for the first time experiences the word in all its meaning and fullness. The use of the word in the first and second instances in this one-line verse strips it of its unpleasantness and leaves us with its essence of it. We can imagine the earth that bursts forth with the greenness of its leaves, the loveliness of its blooms, and the abundance of its produce in the fields—a veritable feast to the eyes and senses. Slowly we see the beauty in the ungainly word.

Urszula Marciniak—to understand the world by giving names:

Is it easier to understand the world by giving names to things and phenomena? Will it then be more beautiful? Will we experience the depths of the universe by following paths marked with names, or will we get lost in its labyrinths, navigating without names? It is certainly easier to share emotions with others by using names, in conversation or in haiku. It is interesting to compare our named experiences with unnamed ones.

There are phenomena for which any name seems too small, too narrow.

The irresistible desire for petrichor still lingers within us, whether we can give it a name or not.

Author Saumya Bansal:

I’ve always found petrichor to be a fascinating word. The earthy fragrance that follows a shower of rain, so familiar to us and something we’ve all experienced since childhood, was, for me back then, simply a pleasant scent. But in my teens, when I first learned the word petrichor, that familiar fragrance suddenly became linked to this new, intriguing, and delightful term. Since then, whenever it rains and scent rises from the earth, the word petrichor instinctively comes to mind.

This haiku captures that moment of knowing, when something long familiar finally receives a name. It feels as though the phenomenon becomes richer and more meaningful. The words arrived as a single line, and that is exactly how I wrote the haiku.

My heartfelt gratitude to Sean Murphy for choosing my haiku for this week’s commentary, and my sincere thanks to the entire re:Virals team.

Thanks to all who sent commentaries. As the contributor of the commentary reckoned best this week, Urszula Marciniak 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:

     
sailboats
or just seagulls
far away
— Mirela Brailean
  English-Speaking Union of Japan's ESUJ-H, August 2025

Footnote:

Poet Bio:

Saumya Bansal is a poet and author from Agra, India, whose love for words began in childhood. Her first collection of long-form poetry, New Dawn, was published in 2014, when she was sixteen.

In 2020, she discovered a passion for haiku, winning the Grand Prize at the 25th International Kusamakura Haiku Competition, and later received second and third prizes in 2021 and 2024.

Her work has also been recognized by the John Bird Dreaming Award for Haiku, the Basho Memorial English Haiku Contest, the Morioka International Haiku Contest, the Japan Fair Haiku Contest, the Fujisan Award, and the Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Invitational, among others.

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For more on how language and other factors influence perception see this article and links in it:
Do Americans have A Better Sense of Smell than Europeans

The quote from Gertrude Stein is from the following article:
Gertrude Stein: A rose is a rose is a rose

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

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