Vanished Roads
by Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Reviewed by Sean Wright
These Haiku
July 2026
Publisher: Wolf
Twin Books
Length: 104+
pages
Buy
The
book as object
For many
readers today, English-language haiku, senryu, and related Japanese
short forms exist almost entirely on a screen. Poems arrive through
Substack newsletters, Facebook groups, online journals, or social
media feeds, often stripped of any physical context. Vanished
Roads is therefore refreshing
before one even begins reading.
The volume
itself is beautifully conceived. Although I am unfamiliar with the
American sizing conventions, it measures roughly three-quarters of an
A5 page—slightly larger than an iPhone. It feels substantial
without being cumbersome: slim enough to slip into a back pocket yet
sturdy enough to withstand repeated reading.
The cover
illustrations possess a quiet whimsy that immediately reminded me of
the work of Australian author and illustrator Kathleen Jennings. They
invite rather than overwhelm, suggesting the reflective tone of the
poems within.
More
surprising is the inclusion of interior artwork. Contemporary
English-language haiku collections often present poems without
illustration, trusting entirely in the language. Here, however, the
illustrations appear sparingly and with considerable restraint. While
stylistically diverse, they share a preference for simple
black-and-white line work that evokes mood rather than narrative.
Their relationship to the poems recalls the long association between
haiku and sumi-e painting: minimal marks suggesting far more than
they describe.
It is also
obvious that genuine care—and no small financial investment—has
gone into the production of the volume itself. Haiku publishing has
never been a path to riches, which makes these choices all the more
admirable. The book is perfect bound, printed on quality matte stock,
and finished with a heavy cover that feels durable in the hand.
Perhaps the
most pleasing production decision is that every poem occupies its own
page.
Many
publishers, understandably conscious of production costs, squeeze
several poems together. It saves paper, reduces page count, and
lowers expenses. Wolf Twin Press has resisted that temptation. Each
poem is allowed to breathe. Each page becomes a pause, encouraging
the reader to linger before moving on. It almost certainly increased
production costs while reducing commercial efficiency, but
artistically it is unquestionably the right decision.
As someone
deeply interested in the presentation of poetry, I can only tip my
hat to the publishing team.
The
poems
The collection
contains 104 short poems, each afforded its own space.
What
immediately struck me is how comfortably Vaultonburg inhabits the
porous boundary between modern English-language haiku and senryu.
Depending on one’s exposure to contemporary practice—and given
that definitions continue to evolve—many readers will disagree
about where individual poems belong.
Personally, I
find this one of the collection’s greatest strengths. There is
personality here. There is emotion. There is wit. There is
reflection.
The old
caricature that haiku consists solely of objective nature observation
has always been an oversimplification of the Japanese tradition, and,
frankly, it often produces rather dull English-language poetry.
Vaultonburg understands that observation is never neutral. Every
observation contains a choice: what to notice, what to omit, and how
to frame experience.
Three poems,
in particular, illustrate both the breadth of the collection and the
consistency of the poet’s voice.
Observation
as meditation
empty chapel—
a
wasp tapping
at
the stained glass
On first
reading this appears to be a straightforward observational haiku.
Yet, like many of the finest examples of the form, its apparent
simplicity conceals remarkable depth.
The opening
line immediately establishes stillness.
empty
chapel—
The emptiness
matters. Had worshippers been present, the poem would become social
observation. Instead, the silence transforms the chapel into a
contemplative space where the smallest sound becomes significant. The
cut after the opening line is beautifully judged. Only then does our
attention settle upon a single wasp.
The verb
“tapping” is perfectly chosen. It is neither violent nor frantic.
It is simply persistent. In the silence of an empty chapel, such a
tiny sound becomes almost monumental. What elevates the poem,
however, is its central ambiguity. We never know which side of the
stained glass the wasp occupies. If it is outside, it seeks entry
toward coloured light, continually thwarted by an invisible barrier.
If it is inside, it longs to escape into the natural world beyond,
with the chapel transformed from sanctuary into prison.
The poem
wisely refuses to resolve this uncertainty.
The stained
glass itself becomes a threshold between sacred and secular, inside
and outside, permanence and transience. Yet those distinctions depend
entirely upon where one stands.
Like the
glass, the poem itself becomes a threshold. The reader may approach
it from either side.
This ambiguity
is not a puzzle requiring solution but part of the poem’s
architecture. It rewards repeated reading because it continues
generating fresh possibilities without ever abandoning the integrity
of its observation.
Haiku
and senryu meet
sagebrush flat—
a
copperhead
corrects
my posture
If the
previous poem leans toward contemplative haiku, this one occupies the
fascinating territory where haiku and senryu become almost
indistinguishable.
The opening
immediately places us within an unmistakably American landscape.
sagebrush
flat—
The image
evokes openness, dryness and solitude. Then comes the interruption.
a
copperhead
Instantly the
emotional atmosphere changes. Before the poem has even finished, the
reader’s own body reacts. The final line delivers both humour and
truth.
corrects
my posture
No one
consciously chooses impeccable posture when unexpectedly encountering
a venomous snake. The body simply decides. The genius lies in the
understated verb.
The snake
becomes, momentarily, an involuntary yoga instructor. Yet the humour
never depends upon anthropomorphism. The copperhead does nothing
except exist. The correction belongs entirely to the speaker. This is
why the poem succeeds simultaneously as haiku and senryu. Without the
landscape and the snake there is no insight. Without the human
response there is no humour.
Nature creates
the revelation rather than serving merely as decorative scenery. It
is difficult to imagine a better example of how artificial the
haiku/senryu divide sometimes becomes.
Beyond
haiku
I kept my shape
through
stranger weather
than
this
This third
poem pushes even further. Some readers would no longer consider it
haiku or senryu at all. I think they are both right—and missing
something.
Formally
speaking, this is lyric poetry.
There is no
juxtaposition. No seasonal anchor. No single observed moment. Yet its
sensibility remains unmistakably rooted in haiku practice. The
opening line introduces an image that is simultaneously physical and
metaphorical.
I kept my
shape
Identity and
Integrity. Resilience and Dignity. All remain possible readings.
The second
line expands that metaphor beautifully.
through
stranger weather
Choosing
“stranger” rather than “worse” proves inspired. The emphasis
falls not upon suffering but upon unpredictability. The final line
quietly opens the poem into universality.
than this
The present
difficulty remains unnamed. That omission allows every reader to
supply their own illness, grief, political uncertainty or heartbreak.
The poem never insists. It trusts. This trust in implication is pure
haiku thinking.
Although
formally lyric poetry, its DNA remains unmistakably that of someone
who has deeply internalised haiku aesthetics: compression,
suggestion, emotional restraint, and confidence in silence.
It
demonstrates that haiku is not merely a form but a way of seeing.
A
consistent poetic voice
Across the
collection, what impressed me most was not simply the quality of
individual poems but the consistency of Vaultonburg’s voice. There
is a recognisable intelligence behind the observations. Humour
appears without becoming whimsical. Emotion emerges without
sentimentality. Nature is present throughout, yet it is never reduced
to decorative scenery or empty seasonal reference.
Instead, the
poems repeatedly reveal moments where landscape, perception and human
experience intersect.
Modern
English-language haiku continues to evolve, and Vanished
Roads embraces that evolution
rather than policing artificial boundaries between genres. Some poems
would comfortably appear in haiku journals. Others lean towards
senryu. Still others move into compressed contemporary lyric while
retaining unmistakable haiku ancestry.
Rather than
weakening the collection, this flexibility gives it its character.
The poems never feel like exercises in definition.
They feel,
unsurprisingly, like poems.
Verdict
Vanished
Roads is an immensely
satisfying collection that rewards both casual reading and close
study.
Its physical
production reflects genuine respect for poetry as an art object. Its
design encourages slow reading. Its illustrations complement rather
than compete with the poems. Every production decision suggests care
rather than economy.
More
importantly, the poems themselves possess an unmistakable voice.
Vaultonburg
writes confidently across the shifting borders of modern haiku,
senryu and short lyric poetry without becoming constrained by debates
over taxonomy. The collection is observant, humane, quietly humorous
and emotionally intelligent. Even when individual poems move beyond
strict haiku conventions, they retain the compression, suggestiveness
and trust in the reader that define the best work influenced by the
Japanese tradition.
In an era when
so much short-form poetry can feel interchangeable, Vanished
Roads possesses something
rarer: a coherent artistic personality.
That, more
than any adherence to formal definition, is what makes the collection
memorable.
Highly
recommended.
Read Sean Wright's review at These Haiku
Read Magedah Shabo's review of Vanished Roads
