A Thing Or Two About Haiku

It’s not haiku if the poem has fifteen lines. I tried telling him this time and again, but he didn’t want to hear it.

“I think I’d know a thing or two about haiku,” he’d say, his voice above the acceptable volume for the reception lobby. “I’m the one writing the haiku, so I think I know a little something about haiku.”

“Okay, okay,” I’d always reply. “You know all about haiku.” But he didn’t.

“It’s a form of Chinese poetry,” he’d tell me.
“Japanese,” I’d reply.
“Each word has to have five or seven syllables.”
“You mean each line.”
“It goes seven, five, seven.”
“Five, seven, five.”
“And you have to have at least 10 lines.”
“Nope, only three.”
“And every line has to rhyme.”
“Actually, there’s no rhyming at all.”

It was always the same with him. “I got a new haiku for you to read.” And I’d have to push 99 on the phone to keep it from ringing, or tell him to hold on for just one second so I could finish dealing with a call. Then I’d just sit and listen as he’d go on and on: 10 lines, 12 lines, 15. One haiku about waking up a new man, feeling sorry for all the mistakes of the past. Another haiku about what one “young punk” said to him that made him yell and curse.

“All these young guys think they’re so tough. Those damn punks make my life rough,” he’d read.

“You know, none of those words have five or seven syllables,” I’d tell him.

“So what?” he’d reply.

“Well you said each word in a haiku is supposed to have five or seven syllables.”

“Yeah, seven syllables. Those-damn-punks-make-my-life-rough. Seven,” he’d count off on his fingers. “I think I know a thing or two about writing haiku.”

“Right, of course. Sorry. I’m just saying.”

“Well you go ahead and try it then,” he’d challenge me, anger mounting in his voice. And then softer, “Will you write me a haiku?”

“Give me ten minutes,” I’d tell him. “I have to take care of a couple things first.”

In precisely ten minutes, he’d be back. “Let me hear the haiku,” he’d say. “I want to see if it is better than mine.”

“Okay,” I’d reply. “Here you go.”

Haiku are short poems
They come to us from Japan
Lines: five, seven, five.

“That’s terrible,” he would say when I was finished. “You really don’t know anything about haiku.”

And I’d just smile and nod my head. “I have to take this call,” I’d tell him, answering the phone.