Early in the pandemic, before a vaccine had been developed, when it seemed as though death stalked the streets, many of us poets wondered how to write at such a time. Whole cities had gone silent, absent of the normal traffic rushing from place to place. Work, shopping, worship, social life, dining out, going to movies — all suspended. We dared not go out exept to walk, masked, keeping carefully apart.
I wondered how I would ever write again. My poems exploring nature, memories, and reflections used to spring into words easily, but now my mind did not flow. Words would not emerge from behind a mask that made it hard to even breathe. And the fear we felt was the opposite of inspiration. For me, anyway.
Then a poet friend wrote to me with a bright idea. What if we wrote short poems, in the form of Japanese Haiku, about this extraordinary time? Haiku poems in a pandemic! Briefly captured images embodying the feelings that were so confusing and unutterable.
It could be an anthology, my friend said. A book to bring enchantment and solace to us while separated and wondering how the world would start again. The idea shimmered in my heart. As a child, I’d be captured by classical Japanese haiku, the poems and books of Basho, Issa, and others.
We put our heads together via email and eleven poets each wrote a selection of six. The anthology project ultimately did not go forward, but I still have my haiku. At a time when I found utterance difficult, they remind me of that out-of-time spring and summer of 2020, its unearthly silence and profound isolation, as a virus reshaped our world. Here are my haiku for the anthology.
Six Haiku in the Time of Pandemic
Self-isolating
like Issa in the mountains.
Spring rain burst, fresh dawn.
b
Spring closet cleaning.
My clothes have no place to go,
just around the block
k
Smiles at the bus bench.
Each day’s a summer party,
my dog making friends
f
Homeless neighbors nod
ask what kind and what’s her name.
We’re one in loving dogs.
g
Rare June thunderstorm
pounds the sky announcing dawn,
flashing divine fire.
h
Through the leaves, light casts
dancing circles on the sidewalk.
At my feet, Sun’s self-portrait.
p
