Vanished Roads
Publisher: Wolf
Twin Books
Length: 104+
pages
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
