Writing Poetry for Rokugan
Incoprorating Haiku into L5R RPG
by Shosuro Kiseki
Writer’s Note: One of the great things about Legend of the Five Rings is that it draws on and incorporates many real world historical cultural aspects of Japan and other Asian cultures. While such incorporation can sometimes be a double-edged sword, especially when it comes to representation of peoples with less agency over their history than modern Japanese people and when depicting sacred religious beliefs that are held by people alive today, it can also be used as a gateway into art forms and history that might not have otherwise been explored. The best games encourage learning, thinking, and creating, and L5R is uniquely poised to open windows into real life Japanese culture.
This document is intended for game masters and players who want to inject a bit of authentic learning and a bit of creative expression into their sessions. None of the suggestions here are mandatory, nor should they be. If you prefer to resolve your sessions involving in-character poetry by rolling dice, spinning improvised limericks, or a rap battle, those are all equally valid choices. This is specifically for the player who wants more out of their game, and to help them extract that bit of fulfillment and accomplishment from their role-playing hobby.
For our purposes we’ll be using the current state of Modern English Haiku as our launching point since that is a language that many or most players will be familiar with. Most Western language incorporations of Japanese poetry have followed similar paths, and most of the things we’ll discuss in regards to English language haiku will also apply to other Western languages. The Modern Japanese interpretation is a little different than what we’ll be discussing, but did still develop to include some of the specific features we’ll be looking into as well. We won’t be discussing those here simply due to a lack of familiarity on my part.
For the purpose of this discussion, we’ll be drawing heavily from William J. Higginson’s The Haiku Handbook as well as conversations with David Wevill, an early translator of the form and a scholar of Japanese poetry (who, even early on eschewed some of the translation conventions), lectures from Dr. Robert Khan at the University of Texas, and from conversations with modern English haikai - writers who engage extensively with the modern incarnation of the style. All credit for this information, where it is accurate and helpful should go to these poets and scholars, while all blame for inaccuracies should rest entirely with me for misremembering or mischaracterizing what they taught. I hope that you’ll keep an open mind and take a journey with me into a beautiful and misunderstood art form.
However, as with any deeper learning or study, there will be a bit to unlearn as well…
History of the Form
Haiku, as we know it today, is a relatively modern style. The first acknowledged great master of the form is generally considered to be Matsuo Basho who lived and wrote between 1644-1694. This means that the rise of haiku predates the formation of the United States by about a hundred years, and puts it contemporary with philosopher Rene Descartes and author John Milton on the early end and Isaac Newton and John Locke at the later end. Basho greatly admired the Chinese poet Li Po and many of the austere and ascetic poems written by Japanese Zen monks centuries earlier. Basho’s work is especially important for the study of haiku because not only was he considered a master of the craft, but he and his disciples wrote much on the subject and these writings and examples of the form have become the de facto standard for nearly all haijin who would follow.
Haiku is actually derived from the much older hokku - part of the renga, or linked verse in Japan. Renga was a word and poetry game played by middle and upper class Japanese alike in which players would offer up a short verse (hokku) and expect an answering verse from a different player in the form of a couplet (to use a term we can understand, though it isn’t entirely accurate). The next player would respond to the couplet with another hokku and so on. These poems were a collaborative way to play with language, pass the time, and tell stories. The most celebrated renga were the ones where players managed to create clever wordplay, beautiful imagery, or startling juxtaposition. These renga might be retold later and even resurface to be added to or played with by later players.
Basho was a celebrated renga player, and spent much time specifically practicing and refining his hokku, or main body verse. Over time these hokku became known as haiku and accepted as having value of their own outside of the renga. The longer form of renga with its answering couplet was later adapted into other modern Japanese poetic traditions like tanka.
Poetry’s job is to convey information observed (or sometimes imagined) by the writer in a way that provokes an emotion in the reader. Basho really seized on this as part of his vision for the form, and as such this has become the primary goal and justification when writing haiku. From his own body of work, it can be seen that while he wrote prolifically, most of his work wouldn’t reach his own standard of excellence. This is entirely normal and expected in the creative process and as an artist matures into their art. His works that do reach his pinnacle of excellence though, hold up to scrutiny to this day.
Other prolific haijin like Issa, Buson, and Shiki also played important roles in the development and refinement of the style, but all mostly followed the groundwork that Basho laid to pave the way for the hokku to become its own form: the haiku.
(GM Note: It would not be unreasonable for a character in Rokugan to resemble the historical influence of Basho where haiku is concerned. In setting, this character would most likely belong to the Crane Clan, but practically any Clan could house such an artist with sufficient justification. Other haiku masters may belong to any Clan. Poetry is seen as a high skill, and even characters who aren’t scholars, but are bushi will be expected to at least have a passing familiarity with writing and reading poems.)
Haiku and the 5-7-5 Structure
Most people who know of haiku in passing know first and foremost about the famous syllable structure found in most older Japanese haiku and its early English language translations. Because this is the primary, or often the only, feature that the average person associates with haiku and other Japanese poetry styles, it has become entrenched for a lot of people that this is either the only feature or that it’s somehow the most important feature (and by extension any poem that doesn’t include this feature, no matter how lovely or well crafted isn’t “real” haiku). Just as with the rhyme patterns of the English sonnet, the alliteration of Old English ballads, the Greek epic’s meter or any other fixed form of poetry knowing the how and the why is important to understanding the rules, and how and when they can be broken. Poetry is art, afterall, and art isn’t made by just working within the rules, but also by how, when, and the way in which those rules might be broken or manipulated or sometimes outright subverted.
The elephant in the room that must always be talked about with people who only have a casual understanding of the form is the syllable structure or “5-7-5” as most people tend to remember it. This structure is, in fact, an actual component of traditional haiku, but it is based on a deeply flawed translation and misapplication of the Japanese term onji into the Western “syllable”, and this misunderstanding keeps Western audiences from being able to fully enjoy and appreciate haiku. The Japanese sense of what makes an onji is entirely different and unintuitive from our interpretation of syllables in English. In Japanese the term onji, despite being a close thematic cousin of our concept of syllables, has several caveats unique to it, leading to many misunderstandings when onji is translated as “syllable” without footnote or asterix.
Onji (or “on”) are the smallest metrical unit in the Japanese language, and more closely correspond to the Roman concept of mora rather than syllables. “Beats” might serve as a better translation in English, but because most early translations of haiku, especially by prolific translators like Ezra Pound, latched onto the concept of syllables and translated them that way, it’s too late to make that change to the public consciousness. Each on generally corresponds to one character in the Japanese syllabary (most katakana characters consist of one or more consonant sounds plus a vowel sound). This means that in some cases an onji might be a CV combination like “ka”, in some cases it might be a consonant cluster CCV as in “tsu”, it can sometimes be a single V sound like an independent “a” or “u”, it can be a lengthened vowel in a VV cluster like the “u” in “ou” or it can even be a single C in one specific case: the coda final “-n”. Attempting to count “syllables” in original Japanese haiku without this knowledge can lead to confusing or frustrating results.
You should be able to see already that the correspondence between syllable and onji begins to diverge rapidly and falls apart if you try to apply onji to the English language with the arbitrary example listed below.
“This is an example haiku.” In English we would call that an 8 syllable line. If we were to adjust for the sounds that don’t exist in Japanese and grouped them by similar logic of the Japanese onji to the English language we would get something like the following distinct on: CCV /thi/ would be one. CV /s[u]/ would be two (the /s/ would need a vowel in Japanese, but might be silent. It is irrelevant whether the on is fully pronounced or not to be counted). The V /i/ would be three. The CV /s[u]/ would be four. The V /a/ would be five. The C coda /-n/ would be six. The /e/ would be seven. The /xa/ would be eight. The /-m/ C coda would be nine. The CCV cluster /ple/ would be ten (some speakers might break this into two onji). The CV /ha/ would be eleven. The V /i/ would be twelve. The CV /ku/ would make thirteen.
So by using the terms interchangeably we arrive at a completely different result. In the Western style of counting syllables, our example line was eight syllables. One too long to be a real line of a haiku some might say. However, by a counting of onji we arrived at a count of thirteen - a little over two lines of a Japanese haiku. For this reason, most English language haiku, when written in the 5-7-5 form counting syllables sounds overly wordy and clumsy compared to its Japanese language counterparts. To combat this, there are two schools of thought.
The first, is that if the writer feels they need a syllable structure as a guide in order to be successful in writing haiku, would be to adopt another, shorter, pattern to prevent the poem from feeling wordy and stilted. One suggestion that I’ve seen offered is to aim for a 3/5/3 syllabic pattern when writing in English or other Western languages. The second is to eschew syllable counting altogether, and to aim instead for a general feeling of brevity that roughly corresponds to the brevity found in the original untranslated Japanese haiku. This is the path that most modern haijin take, but in order to forgo what is considered by many to be the single defining characteristic of haiku means that the other lesser known elements need to be explored, examined, and in some cases adapted.
So what are these other important features?
The Kireji or Cut Word
The first of the lesser known features of the haiku, the kireji or cut word is a feature that exists primarily to give the writer an opportunity to create contrasting and juxtaposing images. In the Japanese language, the kireji is most often a grammatical particle -wa, -wo, or -no. These particles are appended to other words or sometimes stand on their own, and create a very distinct pause or catch in the rhythm of the poem. The most readily available example of a kireji is actually not in a poem at all, but in the simple greeting “Konichi-wa?” The topic particle -wa in this case marks “konichi” as the topic is usually seen as a sort of dangling statement which is waiting for the listener to fill in the blanks. The listener would be expected to fill in the blank as appropriate It would be presumptuous for the speaker to tell the listener how this day is, because from their perspective it might be totally different than your day.
An exchange in English that captures some of this nuance might be: “This day, huh?” with the responder saying something like “Yep, it’s been a day.” If we wanted a hyper current example, it’d be like one person turning to another when something bad happens this year and saying “2020, huh?” and they simply respond “Yep, 2020.” Both speaker and listener agreed on what was being said although neither of them actually said anything more than the year.
Obviously this very literal reading is an oversimplification, but the use of cutwords in that way does interest us when it comes to haiku. When haiku is translated to English, and because we don’t have grammatical subject or topic particles, we tend to use punctuation instead. Most frequently an m dash (-) or ellipsis (...) serves the function of a cut word in English and other Western language interpretations of haiku. The intention is to let the reader fill in the blanks and imagine what you’ve just described, and the best haiku use that transition point as a sort of pivot, changing the image from what the reader or listener was expecting into something completely different. When done well, the result is an “Ah ha!” moment where the reader and the writer share in a moment of understanding that, for the briefest of times, exists only between the two of them. It’s the same sensation of seeing a magic trick for the first time or discovering an optical illusion in plain sight. It’s a delightful instant of mixed understanding and wonder.
Examples…
Kigo and Seasonal Words
Another characteristic of Japanese poetry that often gets lost when shifted to another audience is the kigo or season word. These terms can be difficult to translate effectively, and many even might be lost to modern development or changes in climate or landscape. In the Japanese tradition seasons were extremely important, and the people, rich and poor alike, were always on the look for signs of the seasons beginning to change. Life in Japan centered around the capital - originally Kyoto, but later Edo - and travel routes between the capital and other major parts of the island were well travelled and well documented. Wandering poets seized on this regularity and familiarity, and began using shorthand terms to instantly and accurately place the reader in either the right time or the right place for them to observe what’s being described.
When we describe something to a listener and expect them to visualize it, we do the same thing, and the clarity of the reader might depend on the familiarity with the setting. For instance, I might be able to tell someone a story and explain that it happened at John’s house. If the listener knows John and/or has been to their house, they might immediately be able to imagine the place I’m referring to. I can talk about the tree in the yard and they’ll picture a specific tree, or mention the tire swing hanging from it. If the listener is familiar with that specific tree and swing they might even have strong recall of details around it. The feeling of the wind on their face while swinging. The smell of the rubber or the rope as friction warmed it up. The feeling of a loving parent pushing them gently. The sensation of swaying.
The example used in the above paragraph should resonate very well with people who grew up in the American South especially. This type of swing and setting is extremely familiar to someone who lived in a rural or semi-rural place and was a cheap and easy thing for practically any parent to set up for their child. If I wanted to envoke a sense of bliss or longing for a happy time, “tire swing” could easily be a stand-in for the feeling I had at this specific house and tree and tire swing and become a kigo for that universal (though regional) set of feelings associated with that type of swing.
The Japanese did the same thing, except they focused on the natural changes along the paths to and from the capital and the things that might be seen in the towns and waystations along the way. Because poetry was a major pastime for travellers and scholars these kigo became codified over time and through countless repetitions, to the point that one could simply invoke a place name that was famous for a certain sort of flower or a river that had a certain fish in it at a certain season, and a knowledgeable reader would instantly be able to put themselves into the shoes of the speaker.
In translation, these types of kigo don’t hold up well. If you haven’t grown up in a place where the smell of plum blossoms permeate the air at a specific time of the year, and it recalls the tasks or feelings that accompany this blossoming, some of the poem won’t resonate with you. Instead, write using kigo that will resonate with your audience. If you’re writing for a modern audience, use things like the smell of the paper mill nearby, the condensation trail of a jet in the sky, or the glow of a streetlamp at night.
(GM Note: If you’re writing for a fictional audience (such as when playing a game of L5R), write to the things those characters would know. Make the process collaborative so that you invite the other character into your character’s vision of the poem. Such a thing can be an extremely powerful narrative moment, and many stories in the setting actually hinge on little details being shared between characters to symbolize an understanding, or loyalty, or even a longing (whether romantic, or for fulfilment of duty, or just for peace). If you are portraying a poet (or aspiring poet) you should absolutely incorporate kigo into your poetry, just know that you might have to give an out of character explanation to the intended recipient if you do. Writing a poem that references a specific place that a character should be familiar with is a great way to send “coded” information to the other player. You could be saying that you are also familiar with a place, that you know things about their hometown that not everyone knows, or that you’ve observed something about them that you’ve noted in the haiku.)
Writer’s Note: One of the great things about Legend of the Five Rings is that it draws on and incorporates many real world historical cultural aspects of Japan and other Asian cultures. While such incorporation can sometimes be a double-edged sword, especially when it comes to representation of peoples with less agency over their history than modern Japanese people and when depicting sacred religious beliefs that are held by people alive today, it can also be used as a gateway into art forms and history that might not have otherwise been explored. The best games encourage learning, thinking, and creating, and L5R is uniquely poised to open windows into real life Japanese culture.
This document is intended for game masters and players who want to inject a bit of authentic learning and a bit of creative expression into their sessions. None of the suggestions here are mandatory, nor should they be. If you prefer to resolve your sessions involving in-character poetry by rolling dice, spinning improvised limericks, or a rap battle, those are all equally valid choices. This is specifically for the player who wants more out of their game, and to help them extract that bit of fulfillment and accomplishment from their role-playing hobby.
For our purposes we’ll be using the current state of Modern English Haiku as our launching point since that is a language that many or most players will be familiar with. Most Western language incorporations of Japanese poetry have followed similar paths, and most of the things we’ll discuss in regards to English language haiku will also apply to other Western languages. The Modern Japanese interpretation is a little different than what we’ll be discussing, but did still develop to include some of the specific features we’ll be looking into as well. We won’t be discussing those here simply due to a lack of familiarity on my part.
For the purpose of this discussion, we’ll be drawing heavily from William J. Higginson’s The Haiku Handbook as well as conversations with David Wevill, an early translator of the form and a scholar of Japanese poetry (who, even early on eschewed some of the translation conventions), lectures from Dr. Robert Khan at the University of Texas, and from conversations with modern English haikai - writers who engage extensively with the modern incarnation of the style. All credit for this information, where it is accurate and helpful should go to these poets and scholars, while all blame for inaccuracies should rest entirely with me for misremembering or mischaracterizing what they taught. I hope that you’ll keep an open mind and take a journey with me into a beautiful and misunderstood art form.
However, as with any deeper learning or study, there will be a bit to unlearn as well…
History of the Form
Haiku, as we know it today, is a relatively modern style. The first acknowledged great master of the form is generally considered to be Matsuo Basho who lived and wrote between 1644-1694. This means that the rise of haiku predates the formation of the United States by about a hundred years, and puts it contemporary with philosopher Rene Descartes and author John Milton on the early end and Isaac Newton and John Locke at the later end. Basho greatly admired the Chinese poet Li Po and many of the austere and ascetic poems written by Japanese Zen monks centuries earlier. Basho’s work is especially important for the study of haiku because not only was he considered a master of the craft, but he and his disciples wrote much on the subject and these writings and examples of the form have become the de facto standard for nearly all haijin who would follow.
Haiku is actually derived from the much older hokku - part of the renga, or linked verse in Japan. Renga was a word and poetry game played by middle and upper class Japanese alike in which players would offer up a short verse (hokku) and expect an answering verse from a different player in the form of a couplet (to use a term we can understand, though it isn’t entirely accurate). The next player would respond to the couplet with another hokku and so on. These poems were a collaborative way to play with language, pass the time, and tell stories. The most celebrated renga were the ones where players managed to create clever wordplay, beautiful imagery, or startling juxtaposition. These renga might be retold later and even resurface to be added to or played with by later players.
Basho was a celebrated renga player, and spent much time specifically practicing and refining his hokku, or main body verse. Over time these hokku became known as haiku and accepted as having value of their own outside of the renga. The longer form of renga with its answering couplet was later adapted into other modern Japanese poetic traditions like tanka.
Poetry’s job is to convey information observed (or sometimes imagined) by the writer in a way that provokes an emotion in the reader. Basho really seized on this as part of his vision for the form, and as such this has become the primary goal and justification when writing haiku. From his own body of work, it can be seen that while he wrote prolifically, most of his work wouldn’t reach his own standard of excellence. This is entirely normal and expected in the creative process and as an artist matures into their art. His works that do reach his pinnacle of excellence though, hold up to scrutiny to this day.
Other prolific haijin like Issa, Buson, and Shiki also played important roles in the development and refinement of the style, but all mostly followed the groundwork that Basho laid to pave the way for the hokku to become its own form: the haiku.
(GM Note: It would not be unreasonable for a character in Rokugan to resemble the historical influence of Basho where haiku is concerned. In setting, this character would most likely belong to the Crane Clan, but practically any Clan could house such an artist with sufficient justification. Other haiku masters may belong to any Clan. Poetry is seen as a high skill, and even characters who aren’t scholars, but are bushi will be expected to at least have a passing familiarity with writing and reading poems.)
Haiku and the 5-7-5 Structure
Most people who know of haiku in passing know first and foremost about the famous syllable structure found in most older Japanese haiku and its early English language translations. Because this is the primary, or often the only, feature that the average person associates with haiku and other Japanese poetry styles, it has become entrenched for a lot of people that this is either the only feature or that it’s somehow the most important feature (and by extension any poem that doesn’t include this feature, no matter how lovely or well crafted isn’t “real” haiku). Just as with the rhyme patterns of the English sonnet, the alliteration of Old English ballads, the Greek epic’s meter or any other fixed form of poetry knowing the how and the why is important to understanding the rules, and how and when they can be broken. Poetry is art, afterall, and art isn’t made by just working within the rules, but also by how, when, and the way in which those rules might be broken or manipulated or sometimes outright subverted.
The elephant in the room that must always be talked about with people who only have a casual understanding of the form is the syllable structure or “5-7-5” as most people tend to remember it. This structure is, in fact, an actual component of traditional haiku, but it is based on a deeply flawed translation and misapplication of the Japanese term onji into the Western “syllable”, and this misunderstanding keeps Western audiences from being able to fully enjoy and appreciate haiku. The Japanese sense of what makes an onji is entirely different and unintuitive from our interpretation of syllables in English. In Japanese the term onji, despite being a close thematic cousin of our concept of syllables, has several caveats unique to it, leading to many misunderstandings when onji is translated as “syllable” without footnote or asterix.
Onji (or “on”) are the smallest metrical unit in the Japanese language, and more closely correspond to the Roman concept of mora rather than syllables. “Beats” might serve as a better translation in English, but because most early translations of haiku, especially by prolific translators like Ezra Pound, latched onto the concept of syllables and translated them that way, it’s too late to make that change to the public consciousness. Each on generally corresponds to one character in the Japanese syllabary (most katakana characters consist of one or more consonant sounds plus a vowel sound). This means that in some cases an onji might be a CV combination like “ka”, in some cases it might be a consonant cluster CCV as in “tsu”, it can sometimes be a single V sound like an independent “a” or “u”, it can be a lengthened vowel in a VV cluster like the “u” in “ou” or it can even be a single C in one specific case: the coda final “-n”. Attempting to count “syllables” in original Japanese haiku without this knowledge can lead to confusing or frustrating results.
You should be able to see already that the correspondence between syllable and onji begins to diverge rapidly and falls apart if you try to apply onji to the English language with the arbitrary example listed below.
“This is an example haiku.” In English we would call that an 8 syllable line. If we were to adjust for the sounds that don’t exist in Japanese and grouped them by similar logic of the Japanese onji to the English language we would get something like the following distinct on: CCV /thi/ would be one. CV /s[u]/ would be two (the /s/ would need a vowel in Japanese, but might be silent. It is irrelevant whether the on is fully pronounced or not to be counted). The V /i/ would be three. The CV /s[u]/ would be four. The V /a/ would be five. The C coda /-n/ would be six. The /e/ would be seven. The /xa/ would be eight. The /-m/ C coda would be nine. The CCV cluster /ple/ would be ten (some speakers might break this into two onji). The CV /ha/ would be eleven. The V /i/ would be twelve. The CV /ku/ would make thirteen.
So by using the terms interchangeably we arrive at a completely different result. In the Western style of counting syllables, our example line was eight syllables. One too long to be a real line of a haiku some might say. However, by a counting of onji we arrived at a count of thirteen - a little over two lines of a Japanese haiku. For this reason, most English language haiku, when written in the 5-7-5 form counting syllables sounds overly wordy and clumsy compared to its Japanese language counterparts. To combat this, there are two schools of thought.
The first, is that if the writer feels they need a syllable structure as a guide in order to be successful in writing haiku, would be to adopt another, shorter, pattern to prevent the poem from feeling wordy and stilted. One suggestion that I’ve seen offered is to aim for a 3/5/3 syllabic pattern when writing in English or other Western languages. The second is to eschew syllable counting altogether, and to aim instead for a general feeling of brevity that roughly corresponds to the brevity found in the original untranslated Japanese haiku. This is the path that most modern haijin take, but in order to forgo what is considered by many to be the single defining characteristic of haiku means that the other lesser known elements need to be explored, examined, and in some cases adapted.
So what are these other important features?
The Kireji or Cut Word
The first of the lesser known features of the haiku, the kireji or cut word is a feature that exists primarily to give the writer an opportunity to create contrasting and juxtaposing images. In the Japanese language, the kireji is most often a grammatical particle -wa, -wo, or -no. These particles are appended to other words or sometimes stand on their own, and create a very distinct pause or catch in the rhythm of the poem. The most readily available example of a kireji is actually not in a poem at all, but in the simple greeting “Konichi-wa?” The topic particle -wa in this case marks “konichi” as the topic is usually seen as a sort of dangling statement which is waiting for the listener to fill in the blanks. The listener would be expected to fill in the blank as appropriate It would be presumptuous for the speaker to tell the listener how this day is, because from their perspective it might be totally different than your day.
An exchange in English that captures some of this nuance might be: “This day, huh?” with the responder saying something like “Yep, it’s been a day.” If we wanted a hyper current example, it’d be like one person turning to another when something bad happens this year and saying “2020, huh?” and they simply respond “Yep, 2020.” Both speaker and listener agreed on what was being said although neither of them actually said anything more than the year.
Obviously this very literal reading is an oversimplification, but the use of cutwords in that way does interest us when it comes to haiku. When haiku is translated to English, and because we don’t have grammatical subject or topic particles, we tend to use punctuation instead. Most frequently an m dash (-) or ellipsis (...) serves the function of a cut word in English and other Western language interpretations of haiku. The intention is to let the reader fill in the blanks and imagine what you’ve just described, and the best haiku use that transition point as a sort of pivot, changing the image from what the reader or listener was expecting into something completely different. When done well, the result is an “Ah ha!” moment where the reader and the writer share in a moment of understanding that, for the briefest of times, exists only between the two of them. It’s the same sensation of seeing a magic trick for the first time or discovering an optical illusion in plain sight. It’s a delightful instant of mixed understanding and wonder.
Examples…
Kigo and Seasonal Words
Another characteristic of Japanese poetry that often gets lost when shifted to another audience is the kigo or season word. These terms can be difficult to translate effectively, and many even might be lost to modern development or changes in climate or landscape. In the Japanese tradition seasons were extremely important, and the people, rich and poor alike, were always on the look for signs of the seasons beginning to change. Life in Japan centered around the capital - originally Kyoto, but later Edo - and travel routes between the capital and other major parts of the island were well travelled and well documented. Wandering poets seized on this regularity and familiarity, and began using shorthand terms to instantly and accurately place the reader in either the right time or the right place for them to observe what’s being described.
When we describe something to a listener and expect them to visualize it, we do the same thing, and the clarity of the reader might depend on the familiarity with the setting. For instance, I might be able to tell someone a story and explain that it happened at John’s house. If the listener knows John and/or has been to their house, they might immediately be able to imagine the place I’m referring to. I can talk about the tree in the yard and they’ll picture a specific tree, or mention the tire swing hanging from it. If the listener is familiar with that specific tree and swing they might even have strong recall of details around it. The feeling of the wind on their face while swinging. The smell of the rubber or the rope as friction warmed it up. The feeling of a loving parent pushing them gently. The sensation of swaying.
The example used in the above paragraph should resonate very well with people who grew up in the American South especially. This type of swing and setting is extremely familiar to someone who lived in a rural or semi-rural place and was a cheap and easy thing for practically any parent to set up for their child. If I wanted to envoke a sense of bliss or longing for a happy time, “tire swing” could easily be a stand-in for the feeling I had at this specific house and tree and tire swing and become a kigo for that universal (though regional) set of feelings associated with that type of swing.
The Japanese did the same thing, except they focused on the natural changes along the paths to and from the capital and the things that might be seen in the towns and waystations along the way. Because poetry was a major pastime for travellers and scholars these kigo became codified over time and through countless repetitions, to the point that one could simply invoke a place name that was famous for a certain sort of flower or a river that had a certain fish in it at a certain season, and a knowledgeable reader would instantly be able to put themselves into the shoes of the speaker.
In translation, these types of kigo don’t hold up well. If you haven’t grown up in a place where the smell of plum blossoms permeate the air at a specific time of the year, and it recalls the tasks or feelings that accompany this blossoming, some of the poem won’t resonate with you. Instead, write using kigo that will resonate with your audience. If you’re writing for a modern audience, use things like the smell of the paper mill nearby, the condensation trail of a jet in the sky, or the glow of a streetlamp at night.
(GM Note: If you’re writing for a fictional audience (such as when playing a game of L5R), write to the things those characters would know. Make the process collaborative so that you invite the other character into your character’s vision of the poem. Such a thing can be an extremely powerful narrative moment, and many stories in the setting actually hinge on little details being shared between characters to symbolize an understanding, or loyalty, or even a longing (whether romantic, or for fulfilment of duty, or just for peace). If you are portraying a poet (or aspiring poet) you should absolutely incorporate kigo into your poetry, just know that you might have to give an out of character explanation to the intended recipient if you do. Writing a poem that references a specific place that a character should be familiar with is a great way to send “coded” information to the other player. You could be saying that you are also familiar with a place, that you know things about their hometown that not everyone knows, or that you’ve observed something about them that you’ve noted in the haiku.)
