In the Weekend section of The Columbian, there was an announcement for Poetry Night to be held at El Presidente, a well-known Mexican restaurant here in The Couv. The event would be hosted by Christopher Luna, the Clark County poet laureate. To expand my knowledge of writing genres, I decided to attend. It was my intention to be the proverbial fly on the wall and absorb writing tips from a group of people who, by definition, are of a creative bent.
Mr. Luna gave us an introduction to haiku. It is a Japanese form of short poetry traditionally composed of three lines — of five, seven, and five syllables — and usually about nature or love. Here’s an example.
A single poppy (five syllables)
Blowing in a field of wheat (seven)
Your face in a crowd (five).
There are no hard and fast rules in haiku. Mr. Luna gave the group of about 15 people the challenge of creating a haiku with a different syllable scheme: 4-3-4-3. Journals opened, and pens and pencils etched beautiful words on handmade parchment and recycled paper in distinctive composition books. I scribbled on the back of an extra place mat. Flies are not expected to write.
El Presidente used to serve free, oven-baked nachos with their own Vancouver-famous salsa. I was writing, drinking beer and noshing on the free goodies like there was no tomorrow. I was being as creative as I could be, but my mind was blank except for some silliness that ruins a good place mat.
As is customary at such events, participants were given the opportunity to stand and read their creations. It was strictly voluntary, so I continued drinking, munching and enjoying the short, exquisite poems about nature and love. In a few cases, about the nature of love.
Every single person read their haiku except … The Fly. All eyes turned toward me. I politely declined and offered a few lame excuses like, “My method is to just start writing and something will come to me, but tonight, it didn’t.”
They insisted. And I had no shame. So I explained, “I like my poems to rhyme and couldn’t think of anything about nature. However, I did stick to the 4-3-4-3 syllable format, but added some actions to my poem which makes it kind of fun.”
The group grew quiet. Blank stares awaited my genius. I turned over the place mat. I knew my poem, which was easy to remember. Only 11 syllables, with action. I began the haiku of a lifetime by saying, “Haiku seems to have no rules, so here goes”:
Nachos, nachos (4)
Clap, clap, clap (3, clapping my hands as I recite)
Nachos, nachos (4)
In my lap. (3)
There arose one of those awkward silences when people don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Some were embarrassed for me. I easily got over it. A little water took care of the salsa blotch on my new slacks. My confidence grew. I had the group recite and clap along with me. People were belly-laughing. I think that’s original to poetry readings.
My kids and grandkids get a kick out of my nachos poem. That’s all that matters.
To those who think my ditty is less than brilliant, well, haiku to you, too.
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