Why I will never write another haiku

Basho’s frog

was just a toad.

Never had a wart

in all the years.

I mean Basho,

not the toad.

How can he write

of life

without the harbouring

of what’s grotesque?

I will pen them in.

The splash was

from a stone.

Tossed by boys of mischief,

who hoped that he would

swivel like an eddy, would spot the

gruesome boils on his face.

How can I convey it

in the fetters of

5/7/5? Half the syllables

squandered on the pond,

its pads and rippled breath;

the ones he claims are

lotus but they’re not.

Andreas Gripp

October 6, 2025

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