my ‘precious stones’ haiku thread on Sketchbook February 2012
It’s been quite a whirl for me as I tried to keep up with submissions and still failed to meet some including that of Sketchbook for February. These pieces for the haiku thread, in fact, got to the editor’s inbox a day after the deadline. I marked it as another flop but John Daleiden had kindly put it in…Working on the next deadline for April 19 now: ‘pond life’ for the haiku thread and ‘swing’ for the kukai. Check out Sketchbook from my blogroll.
1.
midnight sky
the glint of sapphire
on wet leaves
2.
first meeting
her opal smoothness
in a handshake
3.
diamond stud
rooting on her chin
unsaid words
4.
her eyes
on the emerald display case
mid-sea calm
5.
bishop’s ring
i kiss a ruby stain
on the martyr’s relic
6.
waning moon
the scent of topaz
fainter
7.
an onyx heart
in grandma’s jewelry box
hidden crescent
8.
the sultan taps
the serpent’s sapphire eyes
ceremonial belt
9.
champagne cabochon
her tears as he slips his mom’s
wedding ring in hers
10.
candle fingers
the snake’s garnet scales
wraps her pinky
Three of my favorite ‘insect’ haiku…
dragonfly
from stalk to stalk–
moonrise
trying my way
through yours—
Monarch butterfly
shifting light–
the truth about black
in this spider
…of the others in the ten published at Sketchbook 6-4 July August 2011 haiku thread. Again, I can’t seem to apply any haiku quality in any of these, except of course, that they’re written in three lines–though not in 5/7/5 syllables, which Michael DW has long debunked–and I believe present two images/thoughts not necessarily complementing each other but serving as a counterpoint for each other in what’s identified as ‘juxtaposition’ in haiku writing. I’ve posted here some reflections on my haiku but lately I seem unable to. I leave these three for now hoping they could stand on their own as haiku or poem should if they are good, that is. What do you think?
My voted haiku and haiku ranked ‘with merit’ in Sketchbook 6-4 July-August 2011
Sketchbook 6-4 July-August 2011 haiku kukai ‘starry night’
Forty-one poets from 15 countries contributed 111 poems to this kukai. A kukai is a peered review poetry contest wherein a haiku Topic is assigned by the editor. An ‘anonymized’ list of submitted haiku is then distributed to all participating poets and they are invited to vote. Votes are returned to the editor who tallies the votes and publishes the haiku for the participants, this time with names and points revealed. The following haiku that placed 7th (tied with 5 others) is one of three haiku I submitted and published.
opaque windows—
we dwell on remnants
of starry nights
Haiku thread: ‘insect’
Forty-three poets from 13 countries contributed 273 poems to Sketchbook 6-7 July-August 2011 haiku thread with the kigo ‘insect’. Two of ten I submitted and published were ranked among others as’haiku with merit’ by editor John Daleiden, which he arranged into sequences under the following titles:
The Carriers (with 6 other haiku)
crossing
our invisible bridges–
army ants
Dawn to the Light (with four other poems)
summer wind–
our thoughts imitating moths
circling the light
I feel honored and delighted! I hope they, too, entertain you. But to read the more outstanding haiku in this issue, access Sketchbook 6-4 July-August 2011 on the web.
autumn wind (correction 11/09)
autumn wind–
the chapel door
closes early
by Alegria Imperial
7th place Sketchbook 5 SeptOct kukai
(Checkout the haiku thread as well–a lot of great haiku from poets of 70 countries who participated. Correction: 70 poems sent with 27 voted on/posted from poets of 10 countries)
Sometimes, a haiku moment just crystallizes. I must have been quite stilled when this one slipped in. But of course, just as swiftly, such a moment has sort of vanished and I’m fumbling through some lines again.
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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