Some of these beach haiku were written by random trips to beach.
Most of these are part of a series based on afternoons spent at the beach on Hilton Head Island with my pad out ( a real paper note pad), hoping for words with my iPhone camera handy to add illustration to my thoughts.
I wanted to see if I would be ‘inspired’ by what I saw, by what I heard, by what I smelled, by what I tasted, what I felt emotionally and what I felt tactilely.
Some turned out okay.
Some were too forced.
Some were just bad.
Some did involve some or all of those feelings.
As far as it goes, I guess I was inspired by by what I saw, by what I heard, by what I smelled, by what I tasted, what I felt emotionally and what I felt tactilely.
Please aware that most of these haiku were NOT WRITTEN on the date in the title – for an explanation of this please see The Series link in the navigation table.
it begins to rain first harsh, sparse, swift drops across ground in a long sigh
“It begins to rain. The first harsh, sparse, swift drops rush through the leaves and across the ground in a long sigh, as though of relief from intolerable suspense. They are big as buckshot, warm as though fired from a gun; they sweep across the lantern in a vicious hissing.”
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner (New York: Jonathan Cape and Harrison Smith, 1930).
In the original screen for the movie, Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, Ricky Bobby’s two boys are named Hank and Williams, Jr. which gets changed to Walker and Texas Ranger in the movie.
There is a scene that is only on the DVD in the extended cuts where Grandma Lucy is reading to Hank and Williams Jr. They are asking her questions. We see she is reading them Faulkner’s The Bear.
Williams, Jr. asks, “But doesn’t the bear symbolize the old south and the new dog, the encroaching North?”
Hank responds, “Duh! But the question is, should the reader feel relief or sadness at the passing of the old south?”
Grandma asks, “How about both?“
To which Hank gets it and says, “Ahh!… I get it, moral ambiguity! The hallmark of all early twentieth century American fiction!”
I went for a walk on the beach today and it started to rain and I got soaked.
I was there for a short time on my lunch break.
There were lots of families there who had spent a lot of time and effort and money to be on that same beach for just a few days.
Did I feel relief or sadness at being caught in the rain with all those poor folks, struggling to say, “I don’t think the hard stuff is going to come down for some time yet.”
Or …
Did I feel both.
Moral ambiguity! The hallmark of all early twentieth century American fiction!
a corner of the deserted beach solitary sea loudly claps its hands
Midday. A corner of the deserted beach. The huge, deep, open sun on high Has chased all the gods from the sky. The harsh light falls like a punishment. There are no ghosts and no souls, And the vast, ancient, solitary sea Loudly claps its hands.
Midday by Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen as published in Obra Poética (translated by Richard Zenith) I. Lisbon: Caminho, 1990.
you cannot even remember the questions that weigh so in your mind
Laughing Gulls on the shore of Hilton Head Island with Imelda just over the horizon – September – 2025
Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought, but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.
It’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky, and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,
sweeping over the waves, chattering and plunging,
their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes happy as little nails.
The years to come — this is a promise — will grant you ample time
to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.
But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding, than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.
The flock thickens over the roiling, salt brightness. Listen,
maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world in the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer,
but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt, is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,
but of pure submission. Tell me, what else could beauty be for? And now the tide
is at its very crown, the white birds sprinkle down,
gathering up the loose silver, rising as if weightless. It isn’t instruction, or a parable.
It isn’t for any vanity or ambition except for the one allowed, to stay alive.
It’s only a nimble frolic over the waves. And you find, for hours,
you cannot even remember the questions that weigh so in your mind.
Terns as published in Devotions: The selected poems of Mary Oliver by Mary Oliver, (New York : Penguin Press, 2017).
I am often asked how many times can I go to the beach?
I reply how many times do I get?
Working on the coast I know a lot of people who live and work here and yet, do not go to the beach.
And I ask them why do they live here, put up with the crowds and humidity (ever had the ignition on your car go bad … due to salt air?) and the hurricanes if you don’t like the beach?
Never really get a good answer.
But I love the beach.
In the sunshine.
In the gray clouds.
In the winter.
In the spring.
Just sit there.
Listen,
Maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world in the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer, but it must be close.
Tell me, what else could beauty be for?
It’s only a nimble frolic over the waves.
And you find, for hours you cannot even remember the questions that weigh so in your mind.
No Haiku For You 