Zuihitsu

Only yesterday, a senior and respected poet friend of mine introduced me to a new form of Japanese poetry – Zuihitsu.

Google says :

“Zuihitsu (meaning “running brush” or “following the brush”) is a traditional Japanese literary genre that blends prose, poetry, and essay. It is characterized by fragmented thoughts, sudden juxtapositions, and random observations without a rigid, linear plot.“

Rather than following a strict plot or argument, it mimics stream-of-consciousness, stringing together seemingly random diary entries, lists, contradictions, and observations to create a cohesive mosaic.

A few examples of Zuihitsu courtesy poetryschool.com –

“Hahn’s introduction to her book, which is also the first poem, is written in the form of a letter and offers itself as a directional guide (it is titled ‘Compass’) as well as a demonstration of zuihitsu.

It begins:

Dear L–
You asked for a little compass. Thank you!
I was looking for a definition of the zuihitsu from my shelf of
Japanese texts, but discovered none gave more than a sentence or
two. None seemed especially scholarly–which might be a good
thing. None offered the sense of disorder that feels so integral.”

***

A few more from poetryfoundation.org

Even when I was young, I loved peering at faces in films. The pleasure of
watching and of not being watched.

***

Funny, the way we come to understand a place by wanting to escape it.

***

I can shake out the imprint of my body on the sheets each morning. But the
mind–the mind is a different matter.

***

Long car trips where I sat in the back of our family’s used Nissan. The stale
odor of plush seats and sun-warmed cola. My parents’ and my words do not
touch. I grow adept at tunneling inward, a habit I have yet to let go of.

***

Someone once told me, before and after is just another false binary. The
warmed-over bones of January. I had no passport. Beneath the stove, two mice
made a paradise out of a button of peanut butter.

***

Suffering operates by its own logic. Its gropings and reversals. Ample, in ways
that are exquisite. And how it leaves—not unlike how it arrives, without clear
notice.

***

Nights when I shared a bed in a small room. Another’s body to the left, hooked
by a heavy dream.

***

As is my way, I was in a hurry to try it out. Though mine are more direct and minimal compared to the ones I have cited which I think are more dramatic and metaphorical.

Here are a few –

A clear morning.

The sky is a startling blue.

A whiff of fragrance from the garden.

Spring outside!

But the grey in my hair says autumn.

***

By the open window

a steaming cup of chai goes cold

reading you…

the tears tickling my eyes

simmer like a pot of water ready to spill.

***

In my garden a batch of rodents

raking the soil

chewing the leaves

killing the plants

with such precision !!

Helpless… I watch every morning

how I build

and

how they destroy disdainfully

***

My monkey mind sprints

from a spiritual talk

to a murder mystery

to a motivational book

to the holy Gita.

In between the impatient dance of words

I vainly look for a moment to think

***

This month the burden of tax.

The rigors of filling up the forms !

Before….and…. after….

I feel lighter…

My pocket does too.

***

My name lost

in the maze of many

As they review…

Yet to prove

I am one of them

A lifetime after

on this sacred soil

I call my motherland

***

Self evaluating, I think I have just grazed past the form and perhaps transgressed a few techniques as is with me.

In spite of the randomness and fragmented musings of the poetical form I discern a conspicuous shift and link as in other Japanese style of writing – haiku, tanka, renga.

Let me know which  poems, specifically among  the traditional ones, appeal to you.