April 3, 2026

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO JAPANESE POETRY


From Comfort & Despair, poetry of Gary Simoni

INTRODUCTION

R.D. Laing wrote The Politics of Experience in 1967. In that work, the Scottish psychiatrist turned psychiatry on its ear when he penned his harsh and hyperbolic condemnation of the human race: "We are all murderers and prostitutes - no matter to what culture, society, class, nation one belongs, no matter how normal, moral, or mature, one takes oneself to be."


While not the first to make such a point—Dostoevsky, Nietzsche, Sartre, Freud, and others had embellished the theme each as they saw fit—-Laing became the standard bearer for this notion within the psychiatric community. To remain sane under the weight of modern civilization was by his definition insanity. Bach was out; it was all just rock and roll.


History, it seems, supports such a dire conclusion. Even when read, history provides no panacea for the repetition of murder and mayhem. People are bought and sold. Citizens become so much collateral damage. A truism to wrap around this dim sentiment, be it true or tripe, is that you cannot control other people; you can only control yourself. And controlling one’s self, minding one’s own business, is a complicated, multifarious enterprise at best; a practice that should keep a person fully occupied and, with enough judicious application, that might even provide some relief from the worst of society’s ills. It is the anarchist’s anthem: if everyone behaved ethically and morally, there would be no need to legislate ethics and morality. This then becomes a good way to beat Laing’s rap. We are all murderers and prostitures; but we need not meekly acquiesce.


The world of arts and letters is replete with attempts to mollify or develop this conceit of Laing’s. Classicism, beyond the strict aesthetic definition of craftsmanship and control, might well serve as a means to contain human foibles, a means of containing rowdy randomness with precise form (a bucket, says Hulme, not a well). It is replete with rules and requisites, seeking order within harmony. Romanticism, on the other hand, is prone to flights of fancy, to chaos. Classicism is about restraint; romanticism is about freedom. Rarely is one sufficient. The two conjoined, blended like a good sauce, seem to suggest the path to be taken.


SKELETONS


Japanese poetry consists of many distinct forms and variations of these forms. They are all exceptionally prescriptive. Of these, haiku, a relatively newcomer, might be the most well known type. Many of the forms are over a thousand years old. The poetic explorations that trundle along in the pages of this book (Comfort & Despair) addressing themes that Laing might well recognize use three of these ancient Japanese poetic forms—chōka, tanka, and shichigon-zekku—as classic skeletons on which to hang some romantic modern flesh. The Japanese used these forms to write epics of war, erotic odes to love, and paeans to nature. The chaos of their life and times was contained in these relatively short clips in an attempt to understand the chaos.They were good enough for a few obvious truths then; and will serve equally well today.



(Two conventions that I prefer when dealing with Japanese and Chinese terms is to italicize the initial appearance of the term, and subsequently remove the italics. The second is to accept the lack of plurals in both Japanese and Chinese, and use the appropriate English form given the context.)


Waka

和歌, Japanese poem


During the Heian Period of Japanese history (784 - 1185), poets began to write idiomatic poetry in Japanese rather than classic Chinese. Initially, Japanese wrote exclusively in Chinese. Gradually, they developed their own distinctive syllabaries. The subject matter of the Heian verse was somewhat prescribed, but broad enough to introduce many new concepts to the old classic list.


In its largest sense, waka is the umbrella term that covers the entirety of Japanese poetry. More specifically, waka is the term used for those poetic forms that predate the emergence of renga or linked verse and its products, primarily sedōka and tanka. For example, the earliest classical compilation of Japanese poetry, the Man’yōshū (‘Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves.’ ca. 760), is a collection of waka. Originally labeled Yamato uta, waka began to appear in the early 7th and 8th centuries to differentiate native poetry written in nascent Japanese from kanshi, poems written in classical Chinese.



Chōka

長歌, long poem


Chōka are, arguably, the oldest form of Japanese poetry. Most historians studying ancient poetic forms date the chōka as far back as the 1st century. The word itself—長歌 in Japanese— means long (長, なが, naga) poem (歌, うた, uta); although uta also carries the meaning of ‘song’ and thus marries the recitation of poetry with chanting or singing. A contrasting form is the tanka (短歌) which translates literally to short poem or song.


The long poems were considered by most who evaluated the forms to be the most intricate and variable. They consisted of a series of katuata (片歌, half-poem; a traditional 3-line Japanese poem coupled with a 5-7-5 or 5-7-7 onji (syllable structure) which were combined to give a 5-7-5-7-7 or 5-7-7-5-7 structure. The number of lines of these poems varied, but often stretched to dozens of lines, sometimes exceeding 100 lines. Chōka can be of any length, but the most common structure is a series of three or four couplets, with each pair of lines forming a complete thought.


In addition to the alternating syllable pattern, chōka incorporated wordplay, alliteration, and other poetic devices to enhance their beauty and meaning. The form’s simplicity and flexibility allowed for creative expression while adhering to a structured framework.


The ability to write as many lines as needed within this form, made chōka ideal for the early epics from the 1st to the 13th century. Storytelling per se was rare in the Japanese language during the Waka period. Most often the Japanese poet would write epics in classical Chinese. Still, the occasional poet with a story to tell would tackle the chōka, the earliest of which can be traced back to the 1st century. It describes a battle and is 149 lines long. This lengthy verse was probably sung with the words intoned in a high pitch.



Tanka

短歌, short poem


The tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line either vertically or horizontally. A derivation of waka, these short songs are better known in English by their five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form. In the late Heian, tanka quickly became the preferred verse form not only in the Japanese Imperial Court, where nobles competed in tanka contests, but for women and men engaged in affairs both licit and otherwise. The tanka provided a brief yet prescribed form with a relatively free choice of subject matter so that it made for ideal ‘notes’ that could be dashed off and exchanged after a nightly tryst.


There is a superficial resemblance between the tanka and the sonnet, a longer poem that is written in fourteen lines. A theme is expressed over the first nine or ten couplets, then there comes a ‘turn’ of thought and the poem is resolved. Many sonnets take love and emotions as their subject as did the tanka. And the tanka also used a turn, known as a pivotal image, that marked the transition from a descriptive phrase of some image to some form of personal response to that image. This turn comes within the third line of the upper poem (kami-no-ku), with the resolution then in the lower poem (shimo-no-ku).


The brevity of the poem and the turn from the upper to the lower lines, which often signals a shift or expansion of subject matter, is one of the reasons the tanka has been compared to the sonnet. There are a range of words, or engo (verbal associations), that traditionally associate or bridge the sections. Like the sonnet, the tanka is also conducive to sequences, such as the hyakushuta, which consists of one hundred tankas.


The kami-no-ku (upper three lines) of the tanka became over time the haiku. The transition passed through the renga (also known as haikai no renga, or, commonly, as simply haikai) which was a collaborative poem with the first poet writing the initial three lines and a second poet writing the following couplet, then the first (or a third) adding a second three line poem that complimented or embellished the notions of the couplet. It was the first three lines (technically, just the first 17 onji, now known as haku—sound syllable) that were first labeled hokka; and it was not until the late 19th century that a writer named Masaoka Shiki renamed such poems ‘haiku.’


Many of the great tanka poets were women, among them Lady Akazone Emon, Yosano Akiko, and Lady Murasaki Shikibu, who wrote The Tale of Genji, a lengthy Japanese prose text that includes over four hundred tanka. Many excellent anthologies of Japanese poetry, most of which feature lengthy selections of tanka, also are available. Kenneth Rexroth is considered the preeminent translator of Japanese verse, and his One Hundred Poems from the Japanese is rightly considered a classic. 



Shichigon-zekku

七言絶句


Shichigon-zekku are classical four-line poems consisting of seven kanji characters per line, commonly used in Japanese shigin (chanted poetry). They follow a strict structure of introduction, development, turn, and conclusion, typically depicting nature, emotion, or historical scenes with as much elegance as the poet can manage. 


This Japanese verse form, often used by Buddhist monks, owes a certain debt to the classic Chinese qiyan jueju (七言絕句,) a form that represents ‘modern style’ poetry from the Tang Dynasty (618–907), and one that emphasized strict tonal patterns, rhyme, and concise imagery. The jueju's key characteristics are its four lines (a quatrain) with seven logograms per line with a rhyme scheme that found lines one, two, and four rhyming or, often just lines two and four. The tonality of the poem involves the emotional timbre of one’s voice  as well as its pitch, volume, and pace—all the elements that communicate intent beyond words.


Only a slight difference in emphasis exists between the Japanese form and the Chinese. The Japanese poem was often chanted or sung and so were more concerned with rhyme and meter. Chinese poets used  the form specifically to set a certain mood, so word choice and allusion became their critical elements. By the Song Dynasty (960 - 1279), it had become commonplace for poets to join three jueje together thematically and link them with pivot phrases. As seen in the work of Zen master Ikkyu Sōjun (1394 - 1481), the three quatrain verse had become, by the 15th century, a fixed commodity for the Japanese as well. The ‘pivots’ implied that they would turn one’s thought around and break the customary pattern of thinking, a key tenet, of course, of Zen Buddhism.



Climbing Stork Tower

登鸛雀樓 


by Wang Zhihuan (688-742)


Wang Zhihuan was a Chinese poet during the Tang Dynasty. He is best known for his jueju “Climbing Stork Tower.” Only six of his poems survive, all of which have become classic.


The sun sets over mountains,

 the Yellow River flows to sea.

To see 1000 li?
Climb the tower higher.


白日依山盡 (Bái rì yī shān jìn)

黃河入海流 (Huáng hé rù hǎi liú)

欲窮千里目 (Yù qióng qiān lǐ mù)

更上一層樓 (Gèng shàng yī céng lóu) 


March 20, 2026

POEMS


KALEIDOSCOPE
A waka (
和歌) for Vivi



Winds of fall plucking

sere leaves from elms, thinning needles

from fir and cedar.

Her shade stares out, rain falling,

the chipped cup her hands entwine.


Rain and sleet pestering

the snow laden pines, hemlocks

drooped, puddles rimed.

Windows fogged with mist and time,

She kneels to kindle wood to flame.


Spring winds, ferns just green,

scudding clouds sprouting onions,

the flower’s laughter.

A ripple of river song,

perched content on warm flat stone.


Warm pillow of wind,

trickle of turbid water,

the egret’s short leg.

Boughs above her, swaddled in

bird song and murmuration.



NOTES:
和 wa: is a character for Yamato, the oldest name for Japan; its meaning, literally, is 'Great Harmony.'
歌 uta: means both 'song' and 'poem.'
和歌 waka: the meaning of the combined characters, then, is: classic Japanese poem.

Waka (and later tanka) were formed with 31 onji, which are Japanese phonetic syllables (wa, ka, u, ta, for example). In English, 31 syllables are used , and they are then arranged in five lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables.

March 6, 2026

STORY: The Poignant Geometry Of Rectangles

Three concrete steps of indeterminate age, rusted and russet stained at the base of each baluster, led to a narrow stoop and a weathered six panel door, green faded into greyness, soiled, splotched, and chipped and splintered, whose knob rattled in the hand and turned this way and that without catching the latch until a push and twist just so opened to the lobby of a disreputable hotel.
   Once just a hallway, now fitted with a counter tight against the left hand wall. A dimpled window opened to reveal what was likely an office of sorts, though only card board boxes heaped haphazardly could be seen, that and a card table with an old black bakelite phone squatting on it like some ancient toad.
   A man stood behind the counter. A short man, rotund. His bulging eyes filled his face. Exophthalmos, he said, spittle running from the corner of his thin lipped mouth. Graves’ disease, my autoimmune system is on the blink.
   I had not asked. He had taken my money for two nights, handed me a pen, and began his tale of woe. My train, if the schedule was right, would leave the day after tomorrow; and I could leave this place. What money remained would keep me fed. I had no interest in his immune system.
   “Key?” I asked.
   He wrinkled his nose, swallowed what remained of his dissertation. A quick rummage below the countertop produced a key. He pointed to the stairway. “At the back,” he said.
   The narrow stairwell and well worn, rounded treads led me upstairs. Thirteen steps each with its own creak and groan, none now square on its riser. I had only a small knapsack which contained a wool blanket from La Paz, three pocketbook copies of books by Jorge Luis Borges, and a leather folder with passport, tickets, toothbrush, and what remained of my money.
The stairs opened onto a long dim hallway, two lightbulbs without shades, linoleum floor covering and five doors on either side. Mine was at the back on the right. Through the window at the end of the hall, begrimed and appearing to be painted shut, came the skeletal outline of the fire escape; and beyond was the blackened brick of an old building that once housed an assayist and a mortician, with rooms above for those in need.
   My door opened with the pressure of the key inserted into the lock. Faced with the straitened miasma the room presented, I nearly fled. Even the fire escape, dilapidated though it no doubt was, seemed preferable. A toilet and sink occupied a small room on the left. Beyond, no more than four strides, sat a single bed with its soiled bilious green coverlet with the lump of a pillow, a card table and chair, a lamp with a torn shade and a patch on the floor of the hallway’s linoleum. The room was without a window. A fixture of twisted rusted wrought iron hung from the ceiling with its naked single bulb, a pull chain hanging from its socket.
   I would not be sleeping beneath the sheets tonight. No matter. There would be a roof over my head and a semblance of security.
   I would spend the daylight hours elsewhere. Pulling the door closed, I turned the key in the lock, and left. Popeye was not at his post.
   The heat outside had not abated. Down the steps, pack slung over a shoulder, I walked the street to the first intersection, then turned towards the harbor, the glint and blue of the sea beyond. A breeze would fill from the gulf as the afternoon heat rose and created a vacuum. Gulls mewed about the pier where the boats of the fishermen tied up. The hills above the town were sere, withered, and bare of trees. The town, rising gently from the sea, had taken its plan from Frenchmen come to mine copper, cobalt, and manganese; and was gridded in parallel streets that crisscrossed through a grid until the rising desert hills impinged.
   A small stream of turbid water and a cemetery on its far side marked the town’s southern edge. A small cluster of palo verde trees shaded a cluster of mausoleums, crypts more like, unkempt but not unwelcoming. A disreputable footbridge without railings crossed the creek, and I made my way to the most imposing of the buildings. Sat, leaning against a column supporting the small portico, knee raised with arms encircling.
   The usual gibberish marked the head stone. Born, died, loving son, caring father, rest in peace. And graffiti, done with a spray can of red paint: salsipuedes. I shook my head to see the word. As a boy I had played in a creek that ran from the brown bare hills of East San Jose, mudfights, and frog snatching, fist fights, cigarettes, and bad wine.
   Get out if you can.
   I had; or so I thought, but now knew better.
   A breeze rose from the sea carrying a tang of salt while just below came the muted sound of wave lap and mewling gulls.
   Somnolent, this town, moribund in afternoon heat. Sure, why not.
   Along the creek a coyote passed quickly, head turning to see me, tongue hanging, loping away through the bunchgrass. Standing now, I could see the mounds of fresh dirt, the dark rectangle of a newly dug grave, and a row of weathered tombstones standing along that far edge of the cemetery, the creek bank just beyond. The stones stood askew, their inscriptions effaced save for the faint outlines of what would be numbers and letters. As I walked, drawn to the old burials, I swiped an arm across my forehead, eyes smarting with sweat, squinting, seeing now the man with his shovel, rising from the grave, swiping an arm across his forehead, squinting, who turned to me and said, salsipuedes.
   Working an ebb tide, the cry of gulls.
   There will be no respite.