Haiku Quotes

Dreams like a podcast, Downloading truth in my ears. They tell me cool stuff." "Apollo?" I guess, because I figured nobody else could make a haiku that bad. He put his finger to his lips. "I'm incognito. Call me Fred." "A god named Fred?

What a strange thing! to be alive beneath cherry blossoms.

You only live twice: Once when you are born And once when you look death in the face

Dare to love yourself as if you were a rainbow with gold at both ends.

He cleared his throat and held up one hand dramatically. “Green grass breaks through snow. Artemis pleads for my help. I am so cool.” He grinned at us, waiting for applause. "That last line was four syllables.” Artemis said. Apollo frowned. “Was it?” “Yes. What about I am so bigheaded?” “No, no, that’s six syllable, hhhm.” He started muttering to himself. Zoe Nightshade turned to us. “Lord Apollo has been going through this haiku phase ever since he visited Japan. Tis not as bad as the time he visited Limerick. If I’d had to hear one more poem that started with, There once was a godess from Sparta-" “I’ve got it!” Apollo announced. “I am so awesome. That’s five syllables!” He bowed, looking very pleased with himself.

Here's a haiku/palindrome I wrote called, "Obsession." Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob

Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.

O snail Climb Mount Fuji But slowly, slowly!

Blood is really warm, it's like drinking hot chocolate but with more screaming.

Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.

Un-winged and naked, sorrow surrenders its crown to a throne called grace.

Here I'm here- the snow falling.

Meaning lies as much in the mind of the reader as in the Haiku.

Your hair is winter fire, January embers. My heart burns there, too.

It is easy to believe we are each waves and forget we are also the ocean.

Haiku sounds like I'm Saying hi to someone named Ku. Hi, Ku. Hello.

Love taught me to die with dignity that I might come forth anew in splendor. Born once of flesh, then again of fire, I was reborn a third time to the sound of my name humming haikus in heaven’s mouth.

Since my house burned down I now have a better view of the rising moon

Summer grasses, All that remains Of soldiers' dreams

Quote words that affirm all men and women are your brothers and sisters.

This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.

Haiku is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life.

Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.

Each person you meet is an aspect of yourself, clamoring for love.

Used to be goddy Now uptown feeling shoddy Bah, haiku don’t rhyme

The world of dew is the world of dew. And yet, and yet--

stronger than mountains. a place where my heart feels the safest- underneath his shirt.

If life transcends death Then I will seek for you there If not, then there too

Arise from sleep, old cat, And with great yawns and stretchings... Amble out for love

When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.

In your hands winter is a book with cloud pages that snow pearls of love.

Calligraphy of geese against the sky- the moon seals it.

April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances

All Heaven and Earth Flowered white obliterate... Snow...unceasing snow

Hope drowned in shadows emerges fiercely splendid–– boldly angelic.

History dressed up in the glow of love’s kiss turned grief into beauty.

The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

Change happens for you the moment you want something more than you fear it.

Many solemn nights Blond moon, we stand and marvel... Sleeping our noons away

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping.

So, dear reader, we have come to the end of my trials. You have followed me through five volumes of adventures and six months of pain and suffering. By my reckoning, you have read two hundred and ten of my haiku. Like Meg, you surely deserve a reward. What would you accept? I am fresh out of unicorns. However, anytime you take aim and prepare to fire your best shot, anytime you seek to put your emotions into a song or poem, know that I am smiling on you. We are friends now. Call on me. I will be there for you.

We had a threesome You, me and my depression Depression fucks hard

Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.

Dead my old fine hopes And dry my dreaming but still... Iris, blue each spring

Love, Mercy, and Grace, sisters all, attend your wounds of silence and hope.

Until today, it really pissed me off that I'd become this totally centered Zen Master and nobody had noticed. Still, I'm doing the little FAX thing. I write little HAIKU things and FAX them around to everyone. When I pass people in the hall at work, I get totally ZEN right in everyone's hostile little FACE.

In the city fields Contemplating cherry-trees... Strangers are like friends

In pale moonlight / the wisteria's scent / comes from far away.

How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.

Ceaseless. Almost too much for this small frame. You make me part of the sky.

Describe plum-blossoms? Better than my verses...white Wordless Butterflies

She would disappear folded like origami into her own dreams

On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening

Your pain is a school unto itself–– and your joy a lovely temple.

Feet sandaled with dreams tread paths of vision leading to wisdom’s sharp peaks.

He is not elegant enough for a sonnett, too well-thought-out for a free write, taking too much space in my thoughts to ever be a haiku.

Come windless invader I am a carnival of Stars, a poem of blood.

On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting

A world of grief and pain Flowers bloom Even then

Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music

I'll never ask you to be anything other than exactly you.

Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate

Fear is an enemy that can be killed only at close range. The closest range of all is intimacy. The deeper the fear is embedded in one’s spirit, the more vulnerable it is.

The temple bell stops But the sound keeps coming out of the flowers

I explained it loud and clear. What part of "meow" don't you understand?

Percy shrugged. “Okay. But a word of advice: when you see Apollo, don’t mention haiku.

Where humanity sowed faith, hope, and unity, joy’s garden blossomed.

Over the wintry forest, winds howl in rage with no leaves to blow.

I stared at his cock, mesmerized. Even encased in rubber it remained a thing of true beauty. Had I any talent with a pen, I’d have written it poems. A haiku perhaps … I was hypnotized, helpless. Cock-struck.

If this were real life, Ed would have looked at her neck- bite, dead, burp, credits.

before the gate -- my walking stick's made a river of melting snow

Awakened at midnight by the sound of the water jar cracking from the ice

If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling

If it weren't for dreams," he said. "I wouldn't know half the things I know about the future. They're better than Olympus tabloids." He cleared his throat then held up his hands dramatically: "Dreams like a podcast, Downloading truth in my ears. They tell me cool stuff" "Apollo?" I guessed, because I figured nobody else could make a haiku that bad. He put his finger to his lips, "[Shh] I'm incognito. Call me Fred.

Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?

Artemis grit her teeth. "I need a favor. I have some hunting to do, alone. I need you to take my companions to Camp Half-Blood." "Sure Sis!" then he raised his hands in a "stop everything" gesture. "I feel a haiku comIng on." The Hunters all groaned. Apparently they'd met Apollo before. He cleared his throat and held up one hand dramatically. "Green grass breaks through snow. Artemis pleads for my help. I am so awesome.

Giddy grasshopper Take care...do not leap and crush These pearls of dewdrop

‎I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo's cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring at your window.

Real haiku is the soul of poetry. Anything that is not actually present in one's heart is not haiku. The moon glows, flowers bloom, insects cry, water flows. There is no place we cannot find flowers or think of the moon. This is the essence of haiku. Go beyond the restrictions of your era, forget about purpose or meaning, separate yourself from historical limitations—there you will find the essence of true art, religion, and science.

I find you in storms, I feel you in the lightning, I miss you in rain.

Until today, it really pissed me off that I'd become this totally centered Zen Master, and nobody had noticed. Still, i'm doing the little FAX thing. I write little HAIKU things and FAX them around to everyone. When i pass people in the hall at work, I get toally ZEN right in everyone's hostile little FACE.

If the dawn should break and take away this sunrise, I hope I break, too.

Old dark sleepy pool... Quick unexpected frog Goes plop! Watersplash!

You may exist in this world--but I exist too and I will not yield

And so the spring buds burst, and so I gaze, And so the blossoms fall, and so my days ...

Kareeda ni Karasu no tomarikeri Aki no kure trans: On a bare branch A crow is perched - Autumn evening

No good news awaits I warned you right at the start Turn away, reader

come crawl atop me and we will spend the daylight buried in kisses

Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness

I knew I loved you when 'home' went from being a place to being a person.

But for their cries, The herons would be lost Amidst the morning snow.

Moon woke me up nine times —still just 4 a.m.

opened cage if only you'd obey the words of spring go in please

Don't touch my plumtree! Said my friend and saying so... Broke the branch for me

Stars ink your fingers with a lexicon of flame blazing rare knowledge.

Great works of art in all cultures succeed in capturing within the constraints of their form both the pathos of anguish and a vision of its resolution. Take, for example, the languorous sentences of Proust or the haiku of Basho, the late quartets and sonatas of Beethoven, the tragicomic brushwork of Sengai or the daunting canvases of Rothko, the luminous self-portraits of Rembrandt and Hakuin. Such works achieve their resolution not through consoling or romantic images whereby anguish is transcended. They accept anguish without being overwhelmed by it. They reveal anguish as that which gives beauty its dignity and depth.

In the narcissist's world being accepted or cared for (not to mention loved) is a foreign language. It is meaningless or even repellent. One might recite the most delicate haiku in Japanese and it would still remain utterly meaningless to a non-speaker of Japanese. This does not diminish the value of the haiku or of the Japanese language, needless to say. But it means nothing to the non-speaker. Narcissists damage and hurt but they do so offhandedly and naturally, as an afterthought… They are aware of what they are doing to others - but they do not care.

If a man is only as good as his word, then I want to marry a man with a vocabulary like yours. The way you say dicey and delectable and octogenarian in the same sentence — that really turns me on. The way you describe the oranges in your backyard using anarchistic and intimate in the same breath. I would follow the legato and staccato of your tongue wrapping around your diction until listening become more like dreaming and dreaming became more like kissing you. I want to jump off the cliff of your voice into the suicide of your stream of consciousness. I want to visit the place in your heart where the wrong words die. I want to map it out with a dictionary and points of brilliant light until it looks more like a star chart than a strategy for communication. I want to see where your words are born. I want to find a pattern in the astrology. I want to memorize the scripts of your seductions. I want to live in the long-winded epics of your disappointments, in the haiku of your epiphanies. I want to know all the names you’ve given your desires. I want to find my name among them, ‘cause there is nothing more wrecking sexy than the right word. I want to thank whoever told you there was no such thing as a synonym. I want to throw a party for the heartbreak that turned you into a poet. And if it is true that a man is only as good as his word then, sweet jesus, let me be there the first time you are speechless, and all your explosive wisdom becomes a burning ball of sun in your throat, and all you can bring yourself to utter is, oh god, oh god.

Japan Today I pass the time reading a favorite haiku, saying the few words over and over. It feels like eating the same small, perfect grape again and again. I walk through the house reciting it and leave its letters falling through the air of every room. I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it. I say it in front of a painting of the sea. I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf. I listen to myself saying it, then I say it without listening, then I hear it without saying it. And when the dog looks up at me, I kneel down on the floor and whisper it into each of his long white ears. It’s the one about the one-ton temple bell with the moth sleeping on its surface, and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating pressure of the moth on the surface of the iron bell. When I say it at the window, the bell is the world and I am the moth resting there. When I say it into the mirror, I am the heavy bell and the moth is life with its papery wings. And later, when I say it to you in the dark, you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you, and the moth has flown from its line and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massive insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt in your voice under a blanket and said there’s two kinds of women—those you write poems about and those you don’t. It’s true. I never brought you a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed. My idea of courtship was tapping Jane’s Addiction lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M., whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked within the confines of my character, cast as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side. We don’t have a past so much as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power never put to good use. What we had together makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught one another like colds, and desire was merely a symptom that could be treated with soup and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now, I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy, as if I invented it, but I’m still not immune to your waterfall scent, still haven’t developed antibodies for your smile. I don’t know how long regret existed before humans stuck a word on it. I don’t know how many paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light of a candle being blown out travels faster than the luminescence of one that’s just been lit, but I do know that all our huffing and puffing into each other’s ears—as if the brain was a trick birthday candle—didn’t make the silence any easier to navigate. I’m sorry all the kisses I scrawled on your neck were written in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you so hard one of your legs would pop out of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you’d press your face against the porthole of my submarine. I’m sorry this poem has taken thirteen years to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding off the shoulder blade’s precipice and joyriding over flesh, we’d put our hands away like chocolate to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy of each other’s eyelashes, translated a paragraph from the volumes of what couldn’t be said.