Hisaye Yamamoto
SEVENTEEN SYLLABLES
The first Rosie knew that her mother had taken to writing
poems was one evening when she finished one and read it aloud for
her daughter's approval. It was about cats, and Rosie pretended to
understand it thoroughly and appreciate it no end, partly because
she hesitated to disillusion her mother about the quantity and quality
of Japanese she had learned in all the years now that she had been
going to Japanese school every Saturday (and Wednesday, too, in the
Summer). Even so, her mother must have been skeptical about the
depth of Rosie's understanding, because she explain"ed afterwards
about the kind of poem she was trying to write.
See, Rosie, she said, it was a
haiku,
a poem in which she must
pack all her meaning into seventeen syllables only, which were divided
into three lines of five, seven, and five syllables. In the one she had
just read, she had tried to capture the charm of a kitten, as well as
comment on the superstition that owning a cat of three colors meant
good luck.
"Yes, yes, I understand. How utterly lovely," Rosie said, and her
mother, either satisfied or seeing through the deception and resigned,
went back to composing.
The truth was that Rosie was lazy; English lay ready on the
tongue but Japanese had to be searched for and examined, and even
then put forth tentatively (probably to meet with laughter). It was
so much easier to say yes, yes, even when one meant no, no. Besides,
this was what was in her mind to say: I was looking through one of ..
your magazines from Japan last night, Mother, and towards the back
I found some
haiku
in English that delighted me. There was one that
made me giggle off and on until I fell
aslee~
It is morning, and lo!
I lie awake, comme il taut,
sighing for some dough.
Now, how to reach her mother, how to communicate. the mel-
