Like Cutting a Watermelon with a Sharp Knife

In his didactic notes on poetic craft, the incomparable 15^th century haiku master, Bashō, writes of the importance of concentrating one’s mind on an object and then, when the space between oneself and the object disappears, “express[ing] it immediately. If one ponders it, it will vanish from the mind.” Although Bashō’s deeply contemplative background encourages us to think about a meditative dissolution of self, I’m also interested in Bashō’s emphasis on the immediacy of expression, and the ways in which such a flash response might help creative writers cultivate an attentive receptivity for images. 

The poet Robert Hass writes that images “are not quite ideas, they are stiller than that, with less implication outside themselves. . . . In the 19th century one would have said that what compelled us about them was a sense of the eternal.” Hass’s sage reflection on the power of images bears a deep connection to his work translating the great haiku poets Bashō, Issa, and Buson. In the same essay, “Images,” published in Twentieth Century Pleasures, he dedicates some of his exposition to closely reading their poems—and this work has long helped me contemplate the possibilities of poetic imagery. 

[Images] are not quite ideas, they are stiller than that, with less implication outside themselves. . . . In the 19th century one would have said that what compelled us about them was a sense of the eternal.

— Robert Hass

Among these possibilities is the recognition of an intimate correspondence between our inner landscape and our sensory encounters with the outside world. As Jane Hirshfield writes, “keeping one foot braced in the physical and the other in the realm of inner experience, image enlivens both.” 

Consider this haiku by Issa, translated by Hass: “The snow is melting / and the village is flooded / with children.” Issa presents an observational description of a seasonal moment, of what is happening in the outer world: melting snow, an abundance of children in the village. However, observing the children coming out to play at the end of winter corresponds to an inner experience, perhaps of relief and excitement of finally being on the verge of this seasonal transition. While images might seem to be purely descriptive, they often do much more. As Hirshfield suggests, deep images recognize “our continuity with the rest of existence.” In this example, the snow is melting and so are the spirits of the children—and perhaps of the reader as well. Crafting images in writing requires a receptivity to sense encounters, as well as to how those encounters resound on an emotional level.

But how to teach the image, both to developing writers and to students of poetic language? How to get beyond ideas and closer to that sense of the haunting “eternal” to which Hass alludes? In addition to helping writers get a feel for images, I’m also interested in framing the value of the image in cultivating mindfulness.

Over a decade ago when I was writing my dissertation on ecopoetics and contemplative practice, I found myself drawn to the haiku poets and decided to write a haiku a day for a year as an exercise in both discipline and practice. What I realized, among many other insights, was that my passion as an amateur photographer aligned well with this haiku practice. 

I have long loved photographing resonant moments: an eggplant heavy on the vine, a cup of cappuccino in a cobalt blue mug, a child’s abandoned tricycle, a half-filled glass of water in the sunlight, a bicycle with a wicker basket down by the beach. Later I print and mat the photographs, using the images to frame a letter to a friend or accompany a gift. 

For many years, I have taught an image exercise that emerged from Hass’s essay, my own love of the haiku masters, and the stack of matted photographs that sit in a shoebox on my desk. I also share this exercise regularly at mindfulness retreats, yoga and poetry workshops, and in a range of more traditional literature classes. I think of it as a mindfulness exercise that also helps writers think about the writing practice at large, as well as the possibilities of the poetic image. 

. . . what really matters in their own responses is containment and brevity—and the expression of a momentary “flash.”

In the activity, students are handed photographs in succession and are encouraged to try and write a haiku draft in response to each picture. The goal is to generate a receptivity to the images as they are presented, rather than a forced search for meaning. 

Before we start, I offer a brief introduction to haiku and provide a few examples. While these examples are traditional three-line haiku, I try to alleviate the pressure students feel at following syllable counts by suggesting that what really matters in their own responses is containment and brevity—and the expression of a momentary “flash.” It’s fine to write a sentence or sentence fragment, I tell them. I try to keep the tenor of participation informal and amusing, reminding the students that we’re playing a game rather than producing masterpieces. 

If I sense that students feel stuck while we play, I might introduce the concept of the kigo, or seasonal reference, as a point of entry. In each photograph they encounter, I tell them, they can ask themselves: What time of year is it? How does this moment in the calendar make me feel?

Finally, I offer some advice from Hass’s translation of Bashō and his essay, “Learn from the Pine”: 

When you are composing a verse, let there not be a hair’s breadth separating your mind from what you write. Quickly say what is in your mind; never hesitate a moment. 

Composition must occur in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree, or a swordsman leaping at his enemy. It is also like cutting a watermelon with a sharp knife or like taking a large bite at a pear.

— The Essential Haiku: Versions of Bashō, Buson, & Issa edited by Robert Hass, p. 234

I emphasize to my students that Hass’s metaphor, cutting a watermelon with a sharp knife, means working to quiet the analytical mind in favor of allowing room for an intuitive response. I leave them with the idea of “first thought, best thought,” as expressed by Allen Ginsberg and his emphasis on trusting the initial flash of awareness that might arise with perception. Less analysis and more action via the pen’s motion. 

I then hand each student a photograph and we begin. As soon as they have something jotted down, I swap their image for a new one. This continues for about 15 to 20 minutes. I always wear sneakers the day we do the exercise because it requires me to quickly move around the room to swap the photos. 

Over the years, I’ve facilitated this experience with dozens of different groups, from high school students to senior citizens, and every time I’ve seen how it helps participants develop a rhythm that seems to cultivate deepened attention. About five to seven minutes in, an absorbed quiet emerges in the room. Because this exercise is deployed as a bit of a game, students tend to be a little more playful and unattached to their output. They are also curious about (and sometimes delighted by!) the photographs, which can later create a discussion of how narrative might eventually leap from an image. I often can’t predict which students will be most comfortable with the exercise. Those that are the most successful at it tend to not be overly attached to the quality of their first thought. Students who get stuck are encouraged to abandon the photograph for a new one to see if it helps the pen move. 

After we complete the exercise, I ask students to write briefly about how they feel in the present and how they felt during the activity. Many note how absorbed they were and how generating the haiku became easier as they got into the “flow” of the process. As one student explains, she learned to think about “not just what was in the photo, but what it reminded me of or what it made me feel. . . . For example, a single empty chair in the woods made me think about loneliness, memory, and quiet conversations with nature.” 

In response to this same image, another student wrote the following words. “A scatter of leaves / a diagonal of trees / and a chair longing for company.” 

This next photograph was the inspiration for a student haiku that brings together a description of the cat and washing machine with an understated personal reflection on the nature of time passing: 

“Laundry day on a pause / the cat guards the door, / nothing spins, but time.” 

I like to close out this activity by suggesting the ways in which writing might serve as a mindfulness practice in spontaneity and non-attachment and how attention to image can, in turn, deepen the connection between self and world. I also express my hope that students find joy in their contemplation of the abundance of images that surround them and an awareness of our constantly changing and impermanent world.

---

I would like to thank my students Jasmeen Kaur, Shaimaa Abdalla Santis, and Joelle Velasquez for generously allowing me to share their writing in this piece. 

Featured photo by Judah Wester on Unsplash.