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For Wednesday, I had assigned my Composition II class a short haiku poem and a definition of the form. At the class’ start, I explained to them that the term was originally called hokku
and that the 19th century Japanese poet Masaoka Shiki was responsible for giving it its present name. I also introduced to them the concept of kigo, which is a seasonal word utilized in traditional haikus and explained to them that the common haiku form took on a 5, 7, 5 syllables order.
“Alright, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to write two haiku poems. For one, you’ll use the concept of kigo, which I just explained. Since that’s a seasonal word, that could be something like ‘snow’ or pumpkin.’” Then, for the second poem you can write about anything you like.”
When I gave them their assignment, some displayed a subtle emotional groan, though some showed a curious interest at the
job laid before them. I thought about how much I would have enjoyed such an easy assignment when I was in Comp 2 but then reminded myself that I was looking back through the lens of years of literature studies and that nothing is easy in the early days of one’s education.
I let them work for about thirty minutes and then showed them a short film that utilized a haiku poem of Basho’s. After that, I asked them “Has anyone ever heard of Jack Keroac?” There were a few quiet coughs and timid affirmations. “Jack Kerouac was what is known as a beat poet. Have ya’ll ever heard of the term ‘beatnik’? You know, goatees, bongos and all black?” Most of them had heard of the term. I played them a recording of Jack Kerouac reciting his “American Haiku” which was comprised of him reciting a line and then a saxophone commenting musically on what he had just said. In effect, the two were riffing back and forth. At the recording’s end I asked, “What did ya’ll think
about that?” They responded with a series of noises that could only be summed up as a collective and hesitant “uhhhh…” I was pushing them culturally but I knew most of them would never again be exposed to poetry outside of the class. I gave them the remaining time to finish up their poems and gave a few some advice about how to count syllables.
Towards the class’ end, I asked. “Alright, who is bold enough to share one of their poems with everyone?” One student offered so I prefaced his boldness. “When people recite poetry we don’t clap at the end, we snap our fingers like beatniks.” He recited both of his and we all snapped at the end. I could tell they were having fun but felt a little uneasy about something so new. Another student offered his poems to be read but only if I read them. I did and they garnered the same response. “Hey, they liked it!” I exclaimed to him.
I let them go with five minutes left but one student stayed until the very end. He approached my desk with his finished poems and declared, “I don’t like writing poems.”
“Well, it’s not easy, is it?”
“I couldn’t show you the first one I wrote.”
“Well, what was it about?”
“Beer.”
“Well, that would have been alright” I said with a smile.
As I walked to my car, the sun shone warmly on me and the wind rustled through the trees. I thought back on their uneasiness with the new information. As much as I was pleased to know they had been stretched a little and that I had taught them well, I thought on how the role of teacher is at times a lonely profession and how it’s sometimes not unlike the prophet with bad news. But a little voice reminded me how so much of what we’re taught comes back to us only later when we need it.
8:09 AM
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