May 1, 2022

We tend to think of Japanese forms as tight, syllable-counting, and focused on nature, but the zuihitsu is a kind of anti-haiku—a long prose poem that brings in personal issues and can reflect on the social world. My own tend to run one or two pages, but there’s no limit to the length. I number my sections, but numbering is optional.

As far as I can tell, the Japanese-American poet Kimiko Hahn brought the form into English. In her book The Narrow Road to the Interior (2006), she writes: “I love the zuihitsu as a kind of air current: and what arises is very subjective, intuitive and spontaneous—qualities I trust. It is by its own nature a fragmented anything. I love long erratic pieces into which I can thrash around—make a mess.” She notes that the zuihitsu was invented by Japanese women writers a thousand years ago, then adopted by some male poets because it allows for a wider emotional range. She calls it, “A portion of chaos set loose on the page.”

It’s a form that allows for—even demands—free association. Many of Hahn’s zuihitsus read like notebook jottings, and by dating them she indicates that that’s what they are. She’ll include quotations, sections in verse, confessional passages, philosophical ruminations, and whatever else comes to mind. The zuihitsu has room for it all.

For me, mental leaps are part of the fun. But once I have a draft, I try to organize the randomness and make something that works as a single, somewhat unified (but not too unified) statement. I try to limit each one to three or four subjects, so they’re not totally chaotic. Over the past year and a half I’ve written a dozen of them and “The Abortion” in the current issue of Marrow is an example.