How I tackled Alan Summers’ prompts at NaHaiWriMo last May
Here’s a week of responses to Alan Summers’ prompts at the NaHaiWriMo (National Haiku Writing MOnth, which Michael Dylan Welch created at Facebook three years ago). YES, definitely, a daily challenge to write haiku has cranked up my mind or better yet, like a fit body, oiled it to resiliency. Writing with a group on cyberspace without the politics of bodily presence and its complications of commitments, has also made me fearless about risking my inadequacies–this turned out to be the secret to finding out who I am as a haiku poet as my lines do reveal. But who this is, until now, I can’t put it in a word…perhaps you can! Here then for you to enjoy, I hope.
#05/07/13 (green/gold/gone )
lunar eclipse—
his eyes on her frayed
jeans front
shattered eye what’s left of her mirror
gold leaf saint—
his indifferent stare
#05/06/13 (found as implied)
petal gust–
the street flutist’s
scrambled notes
under her hat…
the missing stubbles
tunnel spigot …the broken loo
fan tail on second thought
pointed fingers his guilt in black nails
#05/05/13 (echo)
weaving
through a cross stitch
of their argument…
her echo
spring echo–
the baby confronts
a Buddha
echo–
he smiles to his own smile
his other smile
#05/04/13 (den)
behind
the den mother’s back…
murmuring cubs
den of iniquity he finds his own sky
reeking of prey the fox’s den
#05/03/13 (curve)
the curve in her thighs wind chart
Lothario–
the river curves
out by rote
curved furrows a worried moon
05/02/13 (blue)
blue dawn…
the rain’s last phrase
on a glass pane
05/01/13 (asperity)
next I look…
the staccato scratching
of his rake
tea rings in my cup the grumbling darkness
on gravel
a day moon’s
sniffle
Haiku favorites of mine and of other poets from the 2013 NaHaiWriMo month
Dear followers and readers,
I’d like to apologize for a ‘long absence’ here. I could give you a thousand reasons but none would make up for the time that had flown by. In that flow, however, I had gathered more skies, more suns rising and setting, stars, fallen petals and laughing fishes, herons and gulls and countless sighs. And in them or because of such harvest, my haiku, tanka, haibun, and haiga have taken wing onto wind paths I couldn’t have imagined. Most of all, perhaps because I persisted, my haiku writing has grown stronger limbs with daily prompts at NaHaiWriMo (NHWM). Herewith then, like a ‘take home’ gift from a long trip are haiku by me and my choices by other poets during last year’s NHWM anniversary when founder, Michael Dylan Welch gives the daily prompt. He made us chose favorites from ours and those of other poets–these are mine, of which I hope yours, too. Thanks so much for being with me all these years and for those who simply stumbled into here, welcome!
Alegria
#04/02/13 (spice)
First off, I’d like to thank you, Michael, for NaHaiWriMo, and for this year’s month, your concrete prompts that are so everyday, it was a challenge yet a joy to see them with a new eye. Second, I’d like to say , “Many thanks, Pamela and Carole for choosing one each of my haiku for your favorite!!” Third, I wish to thank the many poets, a lot of them I’ve written with a haiku daily here (except for a few weeks that I couldn’t) for the past three years, flourishing in our community. Such joy to find not just a few of yours that resonate, nay, sun-splash on my way everyday. I’ve learned so much about and from you.
And now because I’m always overwhelmed and overjoyed, I cannot limit my choices to just one, of course, except for mine. But I have gathered those of others as if they were mine, too! Indeed, as in one of the resources you posted here, Michael, haiku binds because we open up ourselves to and for its lines. What greater bind is there than one that’s straight from one’s heart (spirit) and into another’s and into one’s own from another’s.
A favorite from mine though there’s about a dozen in my shortlist!
cardamom
in curry rice, a past
she cracks open
Of others and like the process for mine, dozens in my shortlist!
orange blossom –
lifting her burqa
just enough
Eider Green
sleepless . .
the path from my bed
to the Pleiades
Sandi Pray
the secret door
to grandpa’s room
in grandma’s closet
wild roses
Stevie Strang
garage sale
my past fills
a stranger’s car
Michele Harvey
closet
my rebellion taped inside
a cardboard box
Scott Abeles
father’s garage
the painted outline
of a missing tool
Bret Mars
a red mark
on her test paper . . .
Indian summer
Michael Dylan Welch
blue
as her corsage
wallflower
Haiku Elvis—Carlos Colon
riverbed…
the sound of moonbeams,
playing rocks
Ted van Zutphen
mixing bowls (my haiku at the 10th International Kukai)
mixing bowls—
the shallow echoes
of bells
4th place (tie) 10th International Kukai ‘bell’ 114 entries, 24 countries
Six of my haiku at DailyHaiku Cycle 14 Round 3 (Jan 2013)
Jan 06 2013
swing
twisting by itself—
wreathed school yard
Jan 07 2013
snowfall
…in a cup
…the hush
Jan 08 2013
red lobster–
her prying glance
through the mist
Jan 09 2013
as needed
to plumb the darkness–
night dew
Jan 10 2013
empty birdhouse—
I check my voice mail
in grey light
Jan 11, 2013
cold sheen
in the raised chalice—
her wet mumblings
Jan 12 2013
brittle
to my touch…
the old moon
DailyHaiku Cycle 14 Round 3 (January 2013)
sae foam (my tanka last year at Eucalypt)
sea foam
withdraws from the shore . . .
unspoken
these longings
that return to their birth
Eucalypt 12 May 2012
a tanka journal
Qualicum Beach
sudden hail/distant thunder/overcast (my three haiku at Multiverses first issue)
“I have become more attached to these particular haiku than any others I have ever read, most likely due to the time I spent with each poem and the fact that I personally selected them as my favorites from the many submissions we received. Some are safe but well-crafted while others are daring yet unconventional. Regardless of their ‘place’ in the haiku form, they each stand on their own as haiku poems of merit, and, in my opinion, deserve to be read and appreciated. I hope you come to enjoy them as I have.”
—John Hawk, Haiku Editor
sudden hail
among my silk scarves
a silverfish
distant thunder
the flagstones
fading away
overcast
an orange scarf flails
on the clothesline
Multiverses 1:1 June 2012
(click on my blogroll for Multiverses)
morning dew/and still, a scratchy…(my haiku at LYNX June 2012)
morning dew
and still, a scratchy
cricket song
LYNX, June 2012
some of my spring haiku with French translation by Serge Tome@tempslibres.org
gray spring dawn-
the shiver of daffodils
in my bones
aube grise de printemps –
le frisson des jonquilles
dans mes os
this cold-
Sakura cherry blossoms
on my window
ce froid –
fleurs de cerisiers Sakura
à ma fenêtre
this sunless spring day
chickadees chatter on-
my indecisions
ce jour de printemps sans soleil
les mésanges discutent –
mes indécisions
watching rain
drum beat on window pane–
the deaf cat
il regarde la pluie
tambouriner sur la vitre —
le chat sourd
spring fever–
shoots among the lilies
she can’t name
fièvre de printemps —
des pousses parmi les lys
qu’elle ne peux nommer
tempslibres.org
‘pine strand’ one of 365 haiku on your mobile phone
Read a haiku-a-day on your mobile phone. Yes, simply access your haiku app and anyone of the 365 haiku would show up as you click or shake your screen. You might read mine:
pine strand
flailing in night sky—
the first low star
Alegria Imperial
Lynx XXIII (2008)
The Haiku Foundation Haiku app Data Base 2012
About
autumn wind
wondering about lilies
in a mountain pond
Tell me a writer who really gets a satisfying jornal, in Spanish a daily wage or its equivalent, and I’ll bare a spirit in constant bouts of doubtfulness. Does a writer earn more because of what he writes and how he does it? Or is a writer paid more or less because of who he is? Is it money or honor he expects to receive?
Ahhh … but money as wage, and praise or honor as reward would be too predictable, too common as Job lamented in the Book of Job. It is in these lines that read: “Is not man’s life on earth nothing more than pressed service, his times no better than hired drudgery? Like the slave, sighing for the shade, or the workman with no thought but his wages, months of delusion I have assigned to me, nothing for my own but nights of grief. Lying in bed I wonder, ‘When will it be day?’ Risen I think, ‘How slowly evening comes!’
Restlessly I fret till twilight falls. Swifter than a weaver’s shuttle my days have passed, and vanished, leaving no hope behind. Remember that my life is but a breath, and that my eyes will never again see joy.”
Not money but joy is the ultimate wage as the passage implies. And joy is not hard to earn for it is in everyday life if we have eyes to see, a nose to smell, fingers to touch, ears to hear–a heart beating. This to me, is how a writer earns a daily wage. His wages then take the guise of treasures his heart can transfigure into a universe of thought that taps into other hearts, that causes a swirl in the depth of other souls, or that makes wings to sprout on leaden heels.
Sometimes not joy but rueful, poignant moments are my pick. Take what I earned once: On my walk home in my neighborhood, I caught two clumps of snowdrops–such tiny blossoms smaller than fingertips that do not look up but shyly droop close to black patches on the ground winter has frozen. That afternoon in the frosty wind, they trembled as if ready to turn away and run but how could they? For that poignant moment on seeing the wintry rain beat on the fragile snowdrop–as if pushing it to go home now, go to sleep–I earned my jornal, my daily wage.
Once on summer walk, the crackle of dried leaves just hit me both like the laughter of children and sobs long suppressed. Neither one of them would resolve the dryness, but I recalled how each does bring tears: laughter for joy, sobs for healing that comes with the release of a dammed-up pain. My jornal that day came as two haiku.
Fall has since shortened the day and the heart begins to crave for lost space that it doesn’t even recall which or where. I feel that most treasures have turned into mush so much so I wouldn’t be able to sift them off the ground. Yet I caught the dying day yesterday–so glorious in the gold of autumn it opened a flip side of serene heaven. Blades of grass coated in diadems of rain that carpet the lawns render royal walks poor by imitation. A burst of red maple against an inky blue sky humbled me, a soul bragging about her skill to recreate beauty in words.
I suppose I’m taking Job’s reflections to heart. I’d rather not gloss over each day and look beyond what’s there, right before me, or else fragile as is my breath one day “my eyes may never again see joy” to write. With what then will I compare the eternal joy, the ultimate wage I await?
Yet for now, as other eyes hanker to make the invisible visible, I put a tag on some moments of joy. Like on seeing the snowdrops, I paid myself $200 as my jornal.
What could have been yours?
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