A total of 188 haiku and 36 tanka were submitted by 71 authors for this selection.
The closing date for entries was July 15, 2017. I anonymized these texts before the selection began. The jury consisted of Ramona Linke, Ruth Guggenmos-Walter and Peter Wißmann. The members of the selection group did not submit their own texts.
All selected texts - 43 haiku and 6 tanka - are published in alphabetical order of the author's names. Up to max. two haiku and two tanka per author added.
"A haiku / a tanka that appeals to me particularly" - this is the motto for each jury member to choose up to three texts (still anonymized), to present and comment here.

The next closing date for the Haiku / Tanka selection is October 15, 2017.

Each participant can submit up to five texts - three of which are haiku. With the submission, the author gives his consent for a possible publication on http: /www.zugetextet.com

Each member of the DHG has the option of naming a submission that should be published on the member's own page if the jury disregards it.

Only previously unpublished texts can be submitted (also applies to publications in blogs, forums, social media and workshops etc.). No simultaneous submissions please!

From now on you can enter the haiku / tanka yourself:
DHG website / activities / haiku tank selection / online form
Or please send to: auswahlen@deutschehaikugesellschaft.de

Since the jury should consist of changing participants, I would like to cordially invite all interested DHG members to participate as a jury member in upcoming selection rounds.

Petra Klingl

A haiku that particularly appeals to me

write my name
in the sand
and become sea

Anne Holtz

A powerful stream. It falls into a deep waterfall over expansive rock formations. During this descent, individual drops come out of it and float sparkling in the air for a moment before they reunite with the roaring waterfall. Once in the deep, the stream continues on its way.
Nothing has ever been able to clarify the mystery of being and human existence better than the image of the stream that derives from the Daoist-Buddhist tradition and that changes its shape for a brief moment, but the stream always remains. The stream: That is eternal being and the drops of water dancing over the abyss, that is us, the people. We come from the great stream, we return to it, and only for a tiny amount of time are we what we value and overestimate: individual earthly livelihoods.
I immediately thought of this picture when I read the haiku. Someone writes his name in the sand. The name is what is supposed to be the clearest testimony to our individual existence as a human being and as a distinctive person. But it is only written in the sand, in unsafe terrain, so to speak, and for a limited time. Because the sea already starts to tongue, send its waves forward until they finally erase the name in the sand or, to put it another way: bring it back home. I'm going to sea.
For me, haiku, like the image of the stream and waterfall, addresses the big question of human being and being itself. And that is usually a challenge where the risk of failure is excessive. This is borne out by many short poems that come across as artificially intended and badly constructed. But this haiku is different. An observation on the beach, three lines, thirteen syllables, simple words: sand, name, sea. That's all. But everything is in there.
Selected and commented on by Peter Wissmann

End of vacation
the groan
the confessional door

Ruth Caroline Mieger

It is not the confessional itself that groans under the weight of the sins of all chastities these summer days and nights, and also not the hidden pastor who is "damned" to endure.
It is the confessional door.
Whether she groans because she is so often opened and closed.
Or is it the one, single shape that makes you groan when you enter the confessional - and then leave the door groaning when you leave?
A scene that stimulates the imagination is described in Haiku with a low sense of humor.
Aside, it is about the big issues of love, guilt and hope for forgiveness.
I can always enjoy this haiku.
Selected and commented by Ruth Guggenmos-Walter

Hoar frost morning
Seagulls snuggle up
to their shadows

Klaus-Dieter Wirth

Like humans, the seagulls probably pull their heads in, so their shadows shrink or become more rounded. But it's not just that the seagull and its shadow move closer together. The birds "cuddle up" - and that expresses for me a search for protection like in a nest, but also a feeling of wellbeing. The hoar frost doesn't mind the gulls, they expect the morning in a self-protected way.
And what a beautiful relationship a living being has with its shadow!
A "small" observation, interpreted very personally in an interesting picture.
For me actually what makes a good haiku.
Selected and commented by Ruth Guggenmos-Walter

recovery
my hand trembles
a haiku

Friedrich winemaker

Was recovery there first or does recovery not begin until the trembling hand writes the first haiku? Maybe she's trembling in the air too.
The haiku describes a turning point - and with the "my hand trembles a haiku" - I find it expressed very touchingly.
Selected and commented by Ruth Guggenmos-Walter

The selection

Evening light -
the old neighbor
plants forget-me-not

Ellen Althaus-Rojas

Onset of rain
Straws and people
straighten up

Ellen Althaus-Rojas

herb beds
the gardener dries
summer scents

Christa Beau

midnight
the book pages of the thriller
crackle

Christa Beau

in the hood
after picking blueberries
a handful of forest

Christopher Blumentrath

first rust stains
on the leaves of the linden tree -
we both blush ...

Gerd Borner

In the pool idyll
the brittle jetty
like every morning

Horst Oliver Buchholz

familiar handwriting
of Love
stowed in boxes

Stefanie Bucifal

Dawn.
A blackbird pulls
all registers.

Reinhard Dellbrugge

finally dreamed up
the dream
from the blue horses

Frank Dietrich

Stand at the flea market.
For autumn leaves
nobody offers.

Volker Friebel

boy
Throwing snowballs
for yourself

Gregor Graf

Keys ...
Watering the salt gardens
with the evening tide.

Hans-Jürgen Goehrung

Wake.
He turns to the end
of the book.

Hans-Jürgen Goehrung

Rainy night -
under a clear sky
the scent of autumn

Taiki Haijin

thunderclouds
a flock of birds changes
the color

Gabriele Hartman

historical market
fragile maps
of peace

Martina Heinrich

write my name
in the sand
and become sea

Anne Holtz

in the rose garden
among all the beautiful ones
none that smells

Angelica Holweger

Praying bent over,
the old woman at the street shrine,
pink clover flowers.

Saskia Ishikawa Franke

New Year
always the ferry
to the next island

Petra Klingl

Blonde braids
many adults
thoughts

Hildegard Korsten

dusty road -
come with little ant
I show you the sea

Eva Limbach

Dusk -
Father is sitting
in my shadow

Eva Limbach

I pick flowers -
One after the other.
I leave the poppy.

Karina Lotz

At the tram stop -
the wind leaves the cemetery door
then click in

Horst Ludwig

End of vacation
the groan
the confessional door

Ruth Caroline Mieger

Call cranes
our silence turns
heavenward

Ruth Caroline Mieger

left house
complaining in the wind
the gate

Eleanor Nickolay

crescent moon
one more time
I forgive him

Eleanor Nickolay

Guest of honor tonight.
In the Manhattan skyline
The full moon

Rene Possel

the tick
under the eye
overlooked for days

Petra Quintus

on the way to the alm
the crunch under the wheels
the houses

Sonja Raab

almond kernels -
bitter the aftertaste
your words

Birgit Schaldach Helmlechner

nightingale ...
the whisper of the trees
for the house sold

Helga Stania

gold wedding
the storks carry the
summer away

Helga Stania

Kunstwanderweg
an old turner
becomes a shooting star

Brigitte ten Brink

in the crooked forest
nobody knows the secret
his birth

Brigitte ten Brink

security
the shadow tree
in the old cemetery

Erika Uhlmann

recovery
my hand trembles
a haiku

Friedrich winemaker

end of the month
the empties machine
spits out prop

Friedrich winemaker

Flamingos
Flamingos in the sunset glow
afterglow

Klaus-Dieter Wirth

Hoar frost morning
Seagulls snuggle up
to their shadows

Klaus-Dieter Wirth

the moon is moving away
3,82 cm per year
from Earth

... your fingers slide
from my hand

Frank Dietrich

what a letter
he received today
I don't like to ask
so I cut in silence
the stems of roses

Gabriele Hartman

Italian
he wants to be
but every night
he dreams
from Palmyra

Gabriele Hartman

hospice station
in cool silence
a soft gurgling

the song of the blackbird
before the night

Margareta Hihn

wakes up early
I saw the full moon
deep on the horizon
he seemed
listening to the blackbird

Angelica Seithe

View of the grain
in soft yellow waves
where does it hide it
the blue name flower
and the bright red poppy

Erika Uhlmann