This is a working draft of Part One
.
The most accessible field in science,
from the point of view of language, is astrophysics.
―Neil deGrasse Tyson
James, a retiring professor of astronomy at a California university, invites two fellow members of the University Haiku Society to a renga session, a friendly competition of linked verse. The bout takes place up at an old disaffected observatory on a hillside on the edge of campus, where he once worked and taught years before the site became too flooded with ambient light from the surrounding suburban spawl to serve any scientific use anymore.
The result is a poem with a poem, the renga, unnecessarily in terza rima, within the versified narrative itself, composed in modified Onegin stanzas.
*
The slope grows steeper the higher
You go. “Exponentially,”
James thought, his soon-to-be prior
Profession essentially
Kicking in. Uranologists,
Unlike those brazen sophists
Who disparage higher math
And who used to provoke his wrath,
Hold that the sinuous curves nature
Is clothed in are best exposed
In numbers, prime or not. Thus posed,
Problems are not mere nomenclature.
But he had decided to retire.
So should we all, before we expire,
First mentally, then in carnal
Fact. Only a scant quarter remained
Of his teaching, a formal
Seminar, plus, for the untrained,
Intro to the Stars. Not basket-weaving,
Even so it was often full, leaving
Many frosh (so they should be styled,
Gendering having become reviled)
And other desirous takers waiting.
They’d have to wait forever now
That he had honestly to avow
His lust for quanta had begun abatting.
They no longer stuck in his mind.
Better to leave astronomy behind.
His condition was subclinical
And definitely not praecox
Because (not to sound cynical)
As measured by calendars and clocks
His grasp at seventy was past due to falter.
No way for aging to alter
Its course. Yet like the stoic stars, red
Giants or blue dwarfs, we should not dread
Death, though theirs take eons.
(Instants in the universal scheme
Are epochs in our own brief dream.)
James reacted as epicureans
Do. Live modestly, calm the brain,
Enjoy moderation, avoid pain.
So he had crafted the Letter
Whose burden cannot be reversed:
“Dear Dean, With regret (better:
Relief) I’ll be stepping down the First
Of July next.” The real reason\
He decided to squeeze in
Obliquely among the official bull
That his career had been long and full,
Rewarding, even inspiring.
A vague reference to “life change”
Wouldn’t appear the least strange
For someone who was retiring.
Though neither Altzy nor Parky yet,
He’d seen signs of their imminent threat.
The letter stayed on his computer,
Unsigned, unsent, awaiting the right
Moment. Mood would be his tutor.
Meantime, there was an annual rite
To attend to. The equinox,
His Feast of Equal Arcs,
Fell fell on his birthday, or else
This fell on that. Nothing less
Would do but to convene the members
Of the University Haiku Society
For the yearly renga. There was a variety
Of amateurs around, but Septembers
Are hard on academics. Attendance had shrunk
To three, which first put him in a funk.
The egotism inherent in hosting
His own birthday was thus tempered by
The modesty of its scope. Toasting
With ceremonial kanpai
Was certified ritual in a renga session.
He would feel free to freshen
The small cups after each round,
Making sure there was sake around
For the three of them. But he wanted
No special attention to fall
On his person. This was the protocol.
Poetry itself should be vaunted;
Phones would be turned off;
All three would be free to quaff.
Haiku is an affectation
Which must yield to the concerns
Of the living. Its creation,
In this case by taking turns
In improvised linked renga,
Is an onerous agenda
On its own. The pool is small
And shallow. Many go AWOL.
Few within this academic ghetto
Cultivate this archaic form.
They all have duties to perform.
Even if they regret in petto
Having to leave the fold
They can easily catch a diplomatic cold.
So he had proposed a three-sided
Bout with Jim, protégé, and Luisa,
Oldest friend. It would be guided
By himself, though Luisa, a diva,
Would doubtless keep a hand on
Things. In fact he planned on
It. Master is a role he was loath
Freely to assume. It was both
Out of character and ill-suited
To the group. Principles too
Were involved, ones he had thought through.
Renga, though firmly rooted
In customs from the Japanese past,
Ought not be ruled by feudal caste.
Custom wants a single sitting
To wind up a hundred lines.
Impossible! Even admitting
That these three amateurs showed signs
Of talent, they could not keep up
A Masters’s pace. No way to speed up
The pace of verse. Besides, they’d start in late
Afternoon, so darkness would dictate
An end to their proceedings.
Not for them paper lanterns lit
From within by candles. No fire pit
To warm their feet and encourage readings.
Their venue was disaffected, shut down,
With a gate they’d have to climb around.
Mid-afternoon on the designated
Date they rendez-voused at James’s place,
Where he impatiently waited.
In his canvas shoulder bag, in case
Anyone needed to nosh, were his own
Home-made sushi, his silenced iPhone
And, of course, the sake. They hiked
Up to the site, increasingly psyched
At the thrill of composition.
The path led past remnants of chaparral
That once covered the locale,
Just a phase in the transition
To the ticky-tacky that would come,
The dull suburb it would become.
The University had promised
This old observatory would be
Preserved, perhaps an honest
Claim, but one which James patently
Disbelieved. Any occasion
He could use his powers of suasion
To get people up there, he did.
Ambiant light from the suburban grid,
Campus, and the gated communities
Arrayed on surrounding hilltop
Summits had finally put a stop
To research requiring real expertise.
Now it just sat there, its green dome
Rodents’, lizards’ and insects’ home.
It would be dusk when they finished.
Not the poem, which they’d only start,
But the sake. As light diminished
They’d gather their things and depart,
Taking a look at the starry
Sky emerging above, chary
Of slipping coming down the hill
In the looming dark. Below, they’d chill
In his garden with another flagon
Of sake and snacks. They were old
Friends so events couldn’t be foretold:
They might or might not drag on
Depending on if someone needed to bail.
The renga they would finish by email.
*
By venerable tradition
The first to weigh in should be
The honored guest, whose mission
Was to set the terms for all three.
He or she should be followed
By the host, if the hallowed
Rules hold. James was both honoree
And master of the ceremony.
So he went first, reciting
Then fingering his words onto his screen,
Which they had shared between
Each of them, implicitly inviting
The next in line to step up and reply,
To compete, to contend, to vie.
Day sheds its sheath
of light, the skin of things,
a wisp, an aura, a wreath.
Rhyme was not the point of haiku.
Sometimes the first and third lines
Could, but no one was obliged to try to
Rhyme. Renga itself had other designs:
The elegance of reciprocation,
Thr necessary sophistication
Of knowing which rules to obey
As well as when to display
License. Haiku was but a component
Of renga proper, since the well-known
Verse form does not stand alone,
Rather is followed by the opponent,
Luisa in this case, placing a riposte,
A two-line rejoinder to the host.
(Day sheds its sheath
of light, the skin of things,
a wisp, an aura, a wreath)
Every stem and blade clings
to the flare once within.
James resisted the temptation
To censure her second rhyme, unheard
Of in the annals. Inspiration
Should not be denied, but a single word,
Once placed, can produce worrisome
Side-effects, from which can blossom
Verbal flowers–but also thorns.
Even an accidental rhyme transforms
Everything, sets up a rigid schema.
If Jim echoed clings and then within,
Itself in internal rhyme with skin,
They might be trapped in terza rima!
James decided better not to voice
His fear: let Jim make his own choice.
0He had caught Luisa’s allusion
To the agèd who cling to a flare
Within. He had no personal illusion
About mortalty, a fate he would share
Sooner or later with every creature
On earth, and beyond. Death is a feature
Of life. Indeed, he had implied
So in the lines to which she had replied.
One purpose of poetry is to sow doubt
A wreath is often placed on a grave,
Though it can also garland the brave.
Does life shine from within or without?
Doubts are fine for poets. He knew. He was one.
As for doubts about his dying, he had none.
(Every stem and blade clings
to the flare once within.)
Such a wakening!
As shadows climb the mountain
the heavens stir anew
After Jim finished composing,
They saw they were doomed to terza
Rima, incongruously imposing
Italian onto Japanese forms (or vice-versa).
He had had to be dauntless
To throw down such a gauntlet,
Which was one reason James liked
Him. Everyone wants to write,
But Jim wanted to write audaciously,
Though boldness here was not in the sense
But its garb. “There is a difference”,
Badinage he offered facetiously.
Such is the nature of youth,
Honest but brash, lacking couth.
In olden days, a renga session
Began at sundown. Images from the night
Were far from banned, but self-expression
Fed mostly off memories graced with light
Of day, like those culled and recollected
By someone of his age, James reflected,
Who, in the sunset of his span of life,
Finds that signs of darkness are rife
And turns, as if by intuition,
Towards his light-crowned past,
Brighter by way of contrast.
Ever the technician,
Without looking up at the sky,
James drafted his reply.
(Such a wakening!
As shadows climb the mountain
the heavens stir anew.)
Held in their slow spin
now but a planet or two.
The evening star is a planet
As even frosh know, so
Out of the narrow gamut
Of objects bright enough to show
In the advancing
Dusk, he knew without glancing
Up that Venus would be among
Any celestial objects hung,
Against the darkening fabric
Of the sky, once the sun set.
But it hadn’t. It was time for a reset,
Which Luisa, given her maverick
Manner mixing candour and guile,
Was sure to deftly launch in style.
(Held in their slow spin
now but a planet or two)
Thistle, laurel, sage,
manzanita, sumac, rue:
only names on the page
For now, there was a plethora
Of visible shapes and forms,
Entrancing in the waning aura
Of the sun, which adorned
Them with a soft yellow
Verrneer. The sharp yet mellow
Aroma of dissicated chaparral
Held Luisa in thrall.
Before, sumac and manzanita
Were mere names on a page,
Like laurel, rue, and sage.
They were truly incognita
Until she smelled them
Up there, then finally beheld them.
(Thistle, laurel, sage,
manzanita, sumac, rue:
only names on the page)
which assume the shape
of gilded shafts of foliage
Jim had concluded the waka
With a classic distich
Showing, with no lack of
Finesse, he could stich
Disparate lines together.
Around them was heather
Of a sort, but “interwoven strand”
Of colored yarn” also stands
In any good dictionary.
Opposite “heather”. How a word rhymes
Then joins with another was sometimes
Eery, even nothing short of scary.
Jim had consolidated the terza rima.
It fell to James to launch a new thema.
(which assume the shape
of gilded shafts of foliage)
each stem a landscape
of prickles and involuted bracts
from which there is no escape
It was not in the traditional
Esthetics of renga to comment
On or to adduce additional
Abstractions to what was meant.
Telling as opposed to showing
Usually makes for slower going.
But they were not Japanese.
They could do what they please,
Which is what the former
Did themelves. If they wanted to shift
Focus to the unseen, what a gift
To them all, a foreigner’s
Prerogative, perhaps, but one
To be judged on its own.
Twenty years before he had given
Lectures on exoplanets at Meiji U
In Tokyo, which was a kind of heaven
For him. What particularly drew
Him to it was how this mosaic
Of simulacra was basic-
Ally and utterly itself: a French cafe
Detailed down to a Cinzano ashtray
Replete with aproned garçon
(Sauf qu’il n’parle pas français),
Bookshops in a language there was no way
To read. James loved the foreign.
Tokyo was a place to find it within,
Either the foreign itself, or its twin.
A young colleague at Meiji,
Whom he told he’d once tried
Aikido, asked him if he’d maybe
Enjoy the service of a personal guide
To the headquarters, the Hombu Dojo.
He would never have gone solo.
He was eternally grateful he did
Accept. Aikido took, so amid
His abtruse models of planetary
Formation, birth and death there arose
A paradigm of throws and blows
Turning around balance and ki.
One reason he liked linked verse:
Its goal to persuade, not coerce.
(each stem a landscape
of prickles and involuted bracts
from which there is no escape.)
Even the far-flung jet lacks
impetus to slip away.
Luisa was wont to reply directly
But always with her own twist,
Which she did circumspectly
With her couplet. Its gist,
Not quite a prevarication,
Was definitely the predication
Of a self-evident fact.
No one or nothing can abstract
Away the pull of gravitation.
This was music to James’s ears,
Attuned to the sounds of the spheres,
To a planet’s revolution and rotation.
Luisa had asked that they lift their eyes.
Jim ‘s turn contained a surprise.
(Even the far-flung jet lacks
impetus to slip away)
One eye, two : parallax,
perspectival interplay
measured in space
A meta-reflection on vision
Itself is not within the usual remit
Of renga, which aims at precision
Of objective reference. But lit crit
Be damned, especially that waged by
Professionals who are enraged by
What others not themselves have writ.
Jim didn’t care a whit.
He loved nothing more than a ditty,
A sally, a jibe, a wisecrack, a quip.
He urged the offended to get a grip.
If not, well … more’s the pity.
So again it fell to James to remind
We should bear passing itself in mind.
(One eye, two: parallax,
perspectival interplay
measured in space)
where tracks begin to decay
before they leave a trace
Loosely woven criss-crossing vapor
Trails had begun to catch the pink
Of sunset where their ends taper
Off to the east. Day and dusk would soon sync
With one another, leaving
The contrails in the dark, their weaving
Unfinished, divined but unseen.
But the crepuscular scene
Before them was prolix
In its offering. No need to turn
To intangibles or to spurn
What is belowthe skies for solace
Then arose an evening breeze
Which Luisa sought to capture in a frieze.
(Where tracks begin to decay
before they leave a trace)
Breeze brushes the bristles
of the thorny spines, the carapace
of dessicated thistles
There was less and less sunlight.
Soon they’d scuttle down the hill,
Hurrying to beat the dark of night.
Just time enough for Jim to distill
A final couplet before retreating,
By James’s count completing
Thirty lines, eleven haikai, four
Full exchanges, not a bad showing for
An informal friendly outing.
Jim came through.
No need inventing new
Rules nor flouting
The old nor mixing metaphors
To open doors.
(Breeze brushes the bristles
of the thorny spines, the carapace
of dessicated thistles,)
scratches on the lambent air
of evening’s shredded whispers.