Five Seven Five and what it means to socks.
Take the haiku for example. It is a simple three line Japanese poem with a total of 17 syllables broken down into a 5-7-5 format. For those that have forgotten, this entails five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third.
Most have some familiarity with haiku as it was but one form of poetry introduced to us in junior high school and in some cases, as early as middle school. We wrote limericks and haiku and studied rhythm, rhyme, and iambic pentameter. Some later studied poetry in college. I was one of those people, failed almost miserably, managing to scrape by with a C+, which I still blame on the 8 AM start time. It was a challenging class regardless of the time and my advisor had discouraged me from taking it as a freshman. But I didn’t listen.
I do, however, still have a fond place in my heart for The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams which I attribute to that class and which is not a haiku but is certainly structured.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
But back to small packages, the haiku. During the development of thefreshlyminted and all things Mint, we agreed that we would seek content contributions. It was never just about selling socks and being freshly minted. It is and was a lifestyle choice. I mean… we want to bring back the typewriter. But alas, that’s for another day.
We started asking friends to considering sharing or creating favorite bike related stories, favorite post ride food, experiences, images, or poems. My friend Barry claims he has a haiku website. I’ve yet to find it but he says it exists. So last night while waiting for the sunset I pressed him, “Barry, when are you going to write that freshly minted haiku?”
“Well, I really haven’t been writing haikus all that much lately,” he said, “I’ve been focusing on the sonnet.”
“That’s quite fine,” I replied, “Why don’t we start small with a simple haiku and if you’d like, you can work on a larger sonnet project. Content can come in many forms and you are not limited.” He chortled at my glaring goad.
Ten minutes later, as the sky began to transform into delicious hues of burnt orange and fuchsia and as the curtain began to fall on that January blue moon eve somewhere in the hills of Berkeley, he turned to me and said:
Mint socks make the man.
Better, socks make the woman.
All feet are equal.
I couldn’t really argue with that.