When It Rains

Rain is a cup of tea cooling beside you.

On Sundays, the day crawls down to these parts. But when it rains, it slows to another level—like it’s moving on its hands and knees, over satin. There’s something essentially comforting about rainy days, and rainy Sundays in particular. With no traffic, no erratic honks or bursts of motion, all that can be heard is the pitter-patter of rain. And the secondary sounds: rain hitting different surfaces and deflecting into a hundred variations—all of them strangely pleasant, always welcome.

From my window I can see only a few shrunken wet crows, complaining. But then the rain picks up pace, as if nudging the crow to shut up. Which they do.

To me, rain has always brought a sense of comfort. Just as it audibly mutes the intrusive world, it physically holds you in a cool embrace—one that’s easily converted to a warm one with a blanket close at hand. I think the bed is the best place to enjoy the rain. Preferably with a slowly developing, easygoing murder mystery. A book, a blanket, and the gentle sounds of rain, together with the darkened sky, create the perfect atmosphere for slipping into another world. Like a kind of teleporter. The book becomes you, and you lose yourself inside.

The other thing rain is perfect for is poetry.

Rain makes me feel like I can both receive and give poetry. I absorb it with the right temperament—gentle, emotionally alive, softened by humility and love. I suppose it’s this same quality that rises when I write. The darkness, the cold weather, and the isolation created by the rain become the ideal conditions for moments to bloom into ideas, and ideas to rearrange themselves into songs—quickly, effortlessly. It feels like a quiet conspiracy. As if all these elements come together in the service of art. The Illuminati of poetry. The secret society of abstract things for abstract expression.

Like the Japanese haiku—which I also practice—most of my poems are about rain. They begin with what I feel. Then they become what that feeling makes me think. My poems are collections of rain-related moments, translated into words. I don’t know how good they are. I never cared. I just love the act of writing them. I love that feelings can travel through me and come out as reasonably coherent words.

I make it a point not to strain for a poem. And if a poem comes, I don’t break my head trying to polish it. There’s a right amount of effort—just enough so that it doesn’t feel like effort. I spend only that much. Anything more feels out of tune. The rain doesn’t try too hard. The clouds don’t either. The cold in the room is just enough. The blanket is just warm enough. So who am I to force anything?

Haiku are a beautiful form too. They capture the essence of a moment and nothing more. Hence the minimalism. Most of my haiku are about rain. But I sometimes wonder—could snow also provoke the same poetic impulse? After all, snow is just rain in slow motion. That alone could hold a whole new universe of feelings—and therefore another universe of expression. I imagine myself as a witness again, writing from the edge of that world.

moss fluorescent green
whispers with the rain — listen 
— songs for beginners 

#haiku


If there’s anything I wish for, it’s this: two months in the snow, in a warm wooden cabin, with enough food, a cat for company, and pen and paper.

These are the things I think about when it rains. And that’s the magic of rain. I have yet to get bored of it.