Writing Haiku in English: Is the 5-7-5 syllable format required?

This morning I posted three haikus I wrote yesterday on the Beach to Facebook. I described them as “haikus” because I was aware that I had not followed the traditional 5-7-5 syllable format when writing them. I was pretty sure someone would question me on this, and, someone did.

I wasn’t at all surprised because I had been taught, probably in High School, that the proper format for a haiku is five syllables, then seven syllables, then five syllables again. I think most of us in US English classes, at least of a certain era, were taught this.

While on vacation, I Have been making my way through The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson and Issa. I noticed that Robert Hass, the translator of the poems and editor of the book, had not rendered the poems in the 5-7-5 format I expected. I figured that rather than hold to syllable structure, which might have forced words that were not the best translation of intent, he had opted for making the cleanest translation rendering the mood and imagery of the poems most accurately. It turns out I figured well, but there was more to it than I thought. More about that in a minute.

Reading Hass’s translations gave me the idea that very brief poems focusing on the exquisite moments of a scene could be successful. I set out to ignore the 5-7-5 rule and focus on capturing the moment.

As I wrote all this to answer the individual who questioned the format on FB, it occurred to me that what constitutes a syllable in Japanese might be somewhat different than what constitutes a syllable in English. I did a search and this very detailed article about the differences popped up. I was right. Expecting Japanese syllables to be the equivalent of English syllables is, as the article put it, like expecting the one Japanese Yen to equal one American dollar. They aren’t and it doesn’t.

Japanese syllables are (almost?) always short and staccattic, whereas english syllables run a gamut of length and intonation. There are all kinds of subtle differences that start to arise as a result. For example, 17 syllables in English can be twice as many words as would be possible in Japanese pursuing the equivalency idea. Japanese Haiku are therefore almost always being more minimal with words than English haiku written to the 5-7-5 standard. For that reason, poets writing Haiku in English often don’t stick to it. It is also the reason why trying to preserve 5-7-5 structure in an English translation of a Japanese haiku is probably not the best way to go.

There are other fascinating nuances arising from the differences, making it counterproductive to try to adhere to 5-7-5 in english. You can read about them in the referenced article.

One other thing I learned about Japanese vs. English haiku that I might actually start to emulate. The arrangement of haiku into three separate lines is a western convention. The Japanese write it all on one line.

09 Beach Haiku

Child squealing,

waves breaking,

indolent summer chatter.

07 Beach Haiku

Umbrella raised,

dogs and wife settled,

sea scrubbing the shore.

02 Buson

… i keep searching for a name for this daily 02 slot post, which i like to be based on readings that are inspirational or in some way dealing with bigger questions… i intend the readings to be a moment of centering and contemplation, a meditation perhaps…

… this morning i continue with the haiku of Buson as translated by Robert Haas…

… as i open my book, i turn to a reproduction of a painting by Buson… Two Crows in Winter (the left panel)…

… i am reminded of Masahisa Fukase’s photo book, Ravens… an acknowledged masterpiece… i have a copy and look forward to looking at it when i get home…

… a poem about a quilt, stained with urine, drying on a line in Suma Village… Buson has no qualms about mentioning urine or shit, in his poems… we shit, we pee, and not always with decorum… an example of the down to earth nature of his poems…

02 Buson

… crows end their flight, one by one, as they return to roost at the end of the day…

… even holy people crap in the fields…

… a tree, the blow of an ax, the scent of pine, all this in the woods, in the winter…

… Buson poems seem only to be about the here and now recorded as succinctly as possible…

… i can’t decide if i like Buson… i miss the layered interpretations of Basho’s poems, the nod to spiritual dimensions… in Buson, the spiritual is entirely contained within the moment… is not a separate thing… could that be the message?… we find meaning if we engage with the moments, pay attention, notice them… commit them to a poem so we can remember them…

02 Buson

… Buson continues to be a very down to earth poet… one about a snail with unequal horn length, wondering what is on its mind… another about a frog swimming awkwardly which resonates with a song i learned in grade school, (middle school?)… i google it, there is a wikipedia entry on it which gives me the complete lyrics…

_ What a queer bird, the frog are_

When he sit he stand (almost)

When he walk he fly (almost)

When he talk he cry (almost)

He ain’t got no sense, hardly

He ain’t got no tail, neither, hardly

He sit on what he ain’t got hardly

… i learn the song was first published in 1922 and attributed to “a young Norwegian living in Chicago at the time…

… a fun song… stuck in my mind (mostly) all these years… Buson brought it back to me…

… thinking about Buson and Basho, it seems to me that Basho was often looking for the transcendent metaphor, the one about plowing a field and a stranger asking for directions then disappearing being a prime example… an immediate literal interpretation, a second metaphorical one… Buson seems to be more concerned with moments in and of them selves and for themselves… in a way, this is transcendent too, because being purely in the present moment is that… right here, right now, that is what matters… very Buddhist…

02 Haiku of Buson

… the poem that grabs my attention…

Fallen petals of red plum—

they seem to be burning

on the clods of horse shit.1

… it makes me laugh, the contradiction, something so ethereal in nature juxtaposed with something natural that is not…

… another one catches my attention… it is about tilling a field and a man who asks the way then disappears… my first understanding is literal… that a man has asked directions and once received, has proceeded on his way and moved out of sight… with a second reading the metaphorical nature of the poem comes through to me… the man asking the way is the same man doing the tilling and the way is spiritual practice… physical labor grounds one in the right hear, right now… the way… is that how crewing on the boat today will be?… my doubts and questions will recede into the necessity of the moment?…


  1. Buson. The Essential Haiku: versions of Basho, Buson & Issa. Translation, Robert Hass. The Echo Press, 1994. ↩︎

07 Sea Fingers

Footprints in the sand,

sea fingers reach in

to erase.

02 Haiku of Basho

… i have a thick book of haikus composed by Basho, Buson and Isa… i have been reading two to four pages worth daily as a kind of spiritual observance… i think about them, summarize them, sometimes quote particular ones that land more firmly than others in my mind…

… the one that lands most firmly this morning is about being in a winter garden, the moon thinned to thread width, the insects singing… if it’s winter, the insects wouldn’t be singing, at least not where i live, and not in Japan?… the poem is about the garden of old age, the light diminishing, insects singing the poet off into approaching blackness…

02 Haiku of Basho

… i learn about… Risshaku-ji, a mountain temple, an unusually well kept quiet place1… i morning-dream of going there… i know i am unlikely to, would be a cool adventure though… the more i read the Haas translations, the more i think they might not be so good… the first Haiku i read this morning …

Stillness—

the cidada’s cry,

_drills into the rocks.

… i have no knowledge of the Japanese, but i would never think of the noise cicadas make as a cry, is that really the best translation of the Japanese?… it is loud and i can imagine it drilling rocks… it’s a high pitched washboard sound, that’s how i’d describe it… or, simply, cicada noise, most of us know it… still, i do get the image…

… the next one, fifth month rains swell a local river… as they do Fishkill Creek at home, something i have photographed many times… Haiku strike me as minimalist notes on attention paid… can i replicate this in a photograph?…


  1. Basho, translation Robert Hass, The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson and Issa, The Echo Press, 1994. ↩︎

20210615.02 Haiku

Basho

… birds weeping, fish crying; dusk in spring, no bells in the village, how is life possible; art origins, planting song, back country; chestnut trees, in written chineese, west + tree = amida’s paradise, the wood useful for walking sticks and pillars of a house; summer grass, warriors dreams; fleas, lice, horses peeing near one’s pillow…

… this morning’s set seems more cryptic than some… how does summers grass evoke warriors dreams?… one needs to be in the spring of youth to fight?… i like that chestnut trees are associated with the western paradise, the place of pure bliss, that because of that one fashions walking sticks and house pillars from the wood, to embody the place one hopes to attain… a village without bells, no time keeping, no regulation of the rhythms of the day… how does one perceive weeping in a bird, or tears in the eye of a fish?, the later especially something to do with cosmic integration, and sadness of animals at the end of spring… human projection?, and in any case, most of us are happy with the arrival of summer…

20210614.02 Haiku

… sleepless nights, oil freezes; after winter crysanthemums, radishes; she cats, love and barley; a monkey’s face is a monkey face; fish guts smell; a woman fingers back her hair while wrapping rice cakes; life is a makeshift hut like Sogi’s; summer robes and lice; when there are clouds, moon watchers take a break; is there a god?; even children gaze at the moon while husking rice; heat shimmers above dead grass…

… i have this thought, what if we only spoke to one another in haiku?… would we make progress?…

20210613.02 Haiku

… as a spiritual practice, i read haiku, twelve at a time… i learn broadly about moments right here, right now…

… i read about midnight frost and borrowing the shirt of a scarecrow; dusk dimming the eyes of hawks and quail chirping; spiders singing in the autumn wind; calm moons and gay boys fearing the howling of foxes (do foxes howl?); human sadness, the cry of a single cukoo; sadness, morning glories and bad paint jobs; that banana trees are superior to bush clover; the painting of field stubble black by winter rain; first snows on bridges only half finished (this in particular strikes me as a metaphor for the plans we make for our lives, ever the unfinished work, we leave this world still without ever finishing); cocks crowing, hard winter rain, cow sheds; bamboo groves hiding winter storms; that winter worlds have one color brushed by the wind…

birds praising the dawn

the dog paces

its a new day

… my attempt at a haiku sort of poem… one thing the Robert Hass translations have given me is freedom from the syllable structure…

20210612.02 Haiku

… i turn to the Haiku of Basho, Buson, & Issa for the centering spiritual start to my day… one by Basho catches my attention in particular…

the spring we don’t see—

on the back of a hand mirror

a plum tree in flower1

… at first i read it as a comment on vanity, that we stare at our own reflections in the hand mirror, and fail to notice the flowering plum tree out the window… then i realize that the back of the mirror is likely to be decorated with an embossed or painted image of a plum tree in bloom… still, there is the issue of being more interested in our own reflections than the beauty on the other side of the mirror…


  1. Basho. Translated by Robert Hass. The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, & Issa, edited by Robert Hass. The Echo Press, 1994 ↩︎

03 Walking

… taking a break, sitting in the crook of a tree…

… turns out S and G are in Cannes, the film festival?… i may be jealous… i think of Haiku, which tell me everything you need is now, in this moment, what, then, is Cannes, relative to a Haiku?…

04 The End of Spiritual Observance

… i strike the metal bowl,

… the end of spiritual observance,

… now, what’s not important?

03 What Basho Tells Me

… i read of Kyoto and cuckoo’s cries; roads not travelled and autumn evenings; whitebait with black eyes in nets; felled trees and moonlight; autumn moons and chestnut worms; snowy mornings and dried salmon; crows and bare branches; outhouses, moonflowers and torchlight; crane’s legs shortening in spring rain; how spring implies autumn; weathered bones and wind-pierced bodies; misty rains that obscure Mt. Fuji…

… this is what Basho has to tell me in twelve poems… he makes much of little things, brief crystalline moments… i think back to the irritation of messy food falling in my lap, repeatedly, a little thing, a brief moment, a moment i was alive and present… should i be grateful?…