inglés example sentences with "haiku"

Mr. Satoyama's work made a big impression in the world of haiku.
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This is a very famous haiku by Basho.
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A famous Japanese poet does not approve of any fixed doctrine in haiku.
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Haiku are closely related to the seasons of the year.
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Now that I think of it, I've been asked to look at a haiku he'd written by the tipsy bloke sitting next to me on the train.
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This is a sentence that has the syllable count of a haiku.
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This is a sentence that has the syllable count of a good haiku.
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A haiku is one type of poem.
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When I was in my first years of grade school, my father taught me a haiku and I longed to be a poet. On my Tanabata wish, I also wrote "Please make me a poet". Thirty years have passed and my wish has been granted. I am without doubt an invalid.
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Like a bolt of lightning, a haiku struck me this morning, then vanished.
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Haiku is a poetic form originating in Japan.
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A haiku ought to have a word that pins it to a season.
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Under the shadow of the oak tree, Tom and Mary recited haiku to each other all day long.
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A Haiku is a very short poem.
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Tom wrote a haiku.
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What is a haiku?
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Taneda Santoka spent the twilight years of his life writing freestyle haiku as an impoverished, wandering drunkard.
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I've written a few haiku in Toki Pona.
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Mary explained the haiku poem by Shūōshi Mizuhara. “The drumming of the woodpecker,” she wrote, “indicates that it is autumn. The season is drawing to a close, however, as the leaves are already falling swiftly from the trees standing in the meadow — a picture that, accompanied by the drumming of the woodpecker, the industrious herald of autumn, generates a feeling of gloomy loneliness in the face of walks soon to be over. Since the noisy woodpecker is in the foreground of the soundscape, it must be otherwise very still.”
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I opine that languages with ambiguous syllabic boundaries are not really good for haiku.
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I opine that languages with ambiguous syllabic shapes are not really good for haiku.
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The Thai sci-fi writer Somtow Sucharitkul's novel, Starship & Haiku, is about a future world torn by war and pollution. Some create a starship to escape the Earth.
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I went to Victoria, BC, with my cousins, uncle, and aunt years ago. It was too bad that I did not bring a camera with me. I bought a used book about haiku in a secondhand bookstore. I also saw a book on scientific Russian, but unfortunately, I decided not to buy it.
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In the 1980s, my family sometimes visited my uncle and aunt's home on top of a mountain in Oregon. Their neighbourhood was full of fragrant bark mulch. I watched MTV, a music video channel that we did not have in BC, on their television. Music videos were like haiku for my generation. The Grotto, a Roman Catholic shrine, was a nice visit on top of a mountain. There were gardens and statues.

I read the thesis "Identity in the Papiamentu Haiku of Elis Juliana."

I have a book full of haiku in romaji and translation. I wish they included the original Japanese characters as well.

Haiku is a very short poem.

Writing a haiku is easier than writing a sonnet.

The haiku is a Japanese poetry form.

A Japanese haiku traditionally contains a reference to the season and one of a set of "cutting words" (kireji).

In good Western haiku, modeled off the original Japanese tradition, kireji are replaced with some sort of logical division.

In the most common Western understanding, a haiku is just a poem of 5-7-5 syllables.

Early Western haiku often rhymed the first and third lines.

It's Lulu Island, the 26th of July of 2025. It begins as always—with sunlight glinting off sidewalks and the easy rhythm of habit. I walk to Tim Hortons, a modern pilgrimage. The oat-milk coffee, a small rite. Gary is there again—Gary the Cantonese, as I've come to call him in my inner haiku. We talk over steaming cups and breakfast sandwiches, meandering from Japan to Thailand to the war. I tell him: "One week Tokyo, one week Okinawa." He nods. We agree: the taste of a place is its soul. We smile at the thought of izakaya clamor and the smell of fish sauce. Then history unfolds like an old film reel. In the Philippines, my mother—a child—was given a toy chick by a Japanese soldier, who spoke of returning, of marriage. Gary speaks of rivers crossed under fear, in "Occupied Hong Kong" in the shadow of Empire. We don't mention everything. I don't mention my alternate histories—the Dai Tōa Kyōeiken, shimmering in some parallel world. The unspoken sometimes speaks loudest. Yesterday, the forest of South Arm Park. I wandered there in contemplative silence. A lone ice cream truck rolled by, blaring "Music Box Dancer"—a tune too cheerful for the tangle of emotion in my chest. / ice cream melody— / childhood ghosts stirring / in the shade of firs