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Only previously unpublished texts can be submitted (also applies to publications in blogs, forums, social media and workshops etc.).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 seaAnne 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 doorRuth 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 shadowsKlaus-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 haikuFriedrich 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-notEllen Althaus-Rojas
Onset of rain
Straws and people
straighten upEllen Althaus-Rojas
herb beds
the gardener dries
summer scentsChrista Beau
midnight
the book pages of the thriller
crackleChrista Beau
in the hood
after picking blueberries
a handful of forestChristopher 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 morningHorst Oliver Buchholz
familiar handwriting
of Love
stowed in boxesStefanie Bucifal
Dawn.
A blackbird pulls
all registers.Reinhard Dellbrugge
finally dreamed up
the dream
from the blue horsesFrank Dietrich
Stand at the flea market.
For autumn leaves
nobody offers.Volker Friebel
boy
Throwing snowballs
for yourselfGregor 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 autumnTaiki Haijin
thunderclouds
a flock of birds changes
the colorGabriele Hartman
historical market
fragile maps
of peaceMartina Heinrich
write my name
in the sand
and become seaAnne Holtz
in the rose garden
among all the beautiful ones
none that smellsAngelica 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 islandPetra Klingl
Blonde braids
many adults
thoughtsHildegard Korsten
dusty road -
come with little ant
I show you the seaEva Limbach
Dusk -
Father is sitting
in my shadowEva 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 inHorst Ludwig
End of vacation
the groan
the confessional doorRuth Caroline Mieger
Call cranes
our silence turns
heavenwardRuth Caroline Mieger
left house
complaining in the wind
the gateEleanor Nickolay
crescent moon
one more time
I forgive himEleanor Nickolay
Guest of honor tonight.
In the Manhattan skyline
The full moonRene Possel
the tick
under the eye
overlooked for daysPetra Quintus
on the way to the alm
the crunch under the wheels
the housesSonja Raab
almond kernels -
bitter the aftertaste
your wordsBirgit Schaldach Helmlechner
nightingale ...
the whisper of the trees
for the house soldHelga Stania
gold wedding
the storks carry the
summer awayHelga Stania
Kunstwanderweg
an old turner
becomes a shooting starBrigitte ten Brink
in the crooked forest
nobody knows the secret
his birthBrigitte ten Brink
security
the shadow tree
in the old cemeteryErika Uhlmann
recovery
my hand trembles
a haikuFriedrich winemaker
end of the month
the empties machine
spits out propFriedrich winemaker
Flamingos
Flamingos in the sunset glow
afterglowKlaus-Dieter Wirth
Hoar frost morning
Seagulls snuggle up
to their shadowsKlaus-Dieter Wirth
the moon is moving away
3,82 cm per year
from Earth... your fingers slide
from my handFrank Dietrich
what a letter
he received today
I don't like to ask
so I cut in silence
the stems of rosesGabriele Hartman
Italian
he wants to be
but every night
he dreams
from PalmyraGabriele Hartman
hospice station
in cool silence
a soft gurglingthe song of the blackbird
before the nightMargareta Hihn
wakes up early
I saw the full moon
deep on the horizon
he seemed
listening to the blackbirdAngelica Seithe
View of the grain
in soft yellow waves
where does it hide it
the blue name flower
and the bright red poppyErika Uhlmann