Introduction

My fondest memory of poetry, especially Haiku, was with my brothers, Simon and Jason. We were part of a group of 4 canoes maneuvering through a small stream, paddling and prodding our way through a rocky little current. It was the 12th day of a two-week trip the summer of 1988 in Northern Ontario. Simon is a large husky man, a curious combination of rhinoceros when peeved and sweet as cream when peaceful. Jason is much younger and made of sinew and bones. He is even-tempered and quick to find the ridiculous in the foibles of man. Simon started. Standing in the stern of his canoe, for the better view it afforded, like a gondolier in Venice he stood dramatic and proud at the helm and began free-form Haiku composition. I mean no disrespect for the ancient and revered literature, steeped in culture requiring immense skill and grace when I say that I have never been so moved – to tears that is, of laughter. He was quite good! And maybe it was because there were delicate and precise words coming from this large, though never clumsy man, whom I knew has a deep creative soul but would rather play rugby. The paradox was too much to bear. Then Jason started. He was equally adept as he commented on our pristine wilderness surroundings. Subtle was the jest and clever were the comparisons. They, of course, feigned a seriousness that made it all the more hilarious.

This is a memory that is hard to shake. It has made much too deep an impression. So much so that I have found it hard during this study to stay appropriately serious. I am not usually one to make fun of something but have tried to allow myself as much freedom of expression within the context of this very contrived and controlled poetry form. The result is not very good poetry. Not good at all. But, at least I know it. My hope is that you’ll enjoy the pictures.