inner cities (a sort of versified haibun, an experiment)
draperies of wrinkled winds the affectations we traded for dawn kisses straining the moon
listen to the children beginning their climb on a spiral of electives we elders concocted out of broken yarn
they’ll string them together with knots we had thought as we waxed the yarn sliding them between our canines
a child bursts into a scream at birth shedding his mother’s blood-coating a slimy red he knew he did not need but by then gurgling through his veins
this evening of attrition it’s blood roiling unseen that drives him to untangle the net he knotted and wove from broken yarn those strands his mother also called blood
we watch out for when he and his siblings scramble up our limbs and bite our tongue and begin to scale the spiral to the moon
a tale of inner cities
…flat lining a wall
the Date (a haibun)
I haven’t posted a haibun in a long while. Here’s one I wrote yesterday:
the Date
I turn towards the brambles—there’s nothing but twig skeletons, and dumpsters waiting for the undertaker. The bus driver takes a minute to shake off the drizzle from his hair, another to brush his moustache, take his jacket off, fluff the cushion on his seat, wiggle for comfort, secure his belt in, fix the mirrors to his eye level, chipping off three hundred or so seconds, splintering my anxiety. The sun would have edged to its zenith by now, the moon fading in its rims, and the bay inhaling air globules soon to heave and ebb. I’ve distended into a thin membrane of capillaries throbbing with a star, waiting for his name to come up in my mind.
mnemonic drill
the trench deeper
in sand dunes
random seasons, a haiku/senryu series
stone wall
mottled hands escaping
through air
ham flavor
hangs about her sweater
hospice weekend
though touch-less
the intimate rustle of silk
fall
dog buries
bruises
hobbling out of my midnight winter moon
apple core
how to bottle
memories
a tiger
musing on my eye
autumn dusk
chopped beets
i wash the knife
of traces
open page
an opaque scent
in his bath water
oak stump–
i remember the hornets
last summer
shell shards
on a paint roller
a womb
another throwback post…a tanka ‘duet’ at LYNX journal
as the moon
transforms in sunlight
we shift roles
you into a clown, i
a hummingbird
in my palm
the fortune teller
traces lines
one slides off my destiny
away from yours
LYNX XXVII:I February 2012
Updates: a few of my awarded haiku and recent select publication
recent awards
first tea with her—
cherry blossoms cloud
the skylight
Sakura Award 2014 VCBF Haiku Invitational
our breaths
suspended between skies—
monarch butterfly
honourable mention
2013 Diogen Autumn Contest
first dawn alone–
the widow eats his half
of the orange
First Place, free format category
Shiku kukai Sept 2013
recent select publications
dawn again–
parts of us unscathed
from war mongering
A Hundred Gourds September 2014
with a shredder
he talks of restoring
a broken vow
The Haiku Foundation Per Diem August 2014
shadows
in a burst of twilight
Luna moth
cattails May 2014
Haiyan debris…
a search team spots
an orchid
limp wind…
holding on to the sound
of our vows
#3:2 March 2014 A Hundred Gourds
moon’s rim…
fractions of what we yield
to each other
haiku news feb 17 2014 vol 3 no. 3
My 2012-13 published haiku…I hope you like them!
selected published haiku (international haiku journals)
her stiff lip
breaks into a smile
clown for hire
***
swinging
on hooped earrings
bag lady’s air
***
weaving in and out
of whole conversations
his Pinocchio nose
LYNX June 2013
xxx
insomnia—
a restless dream
stalks the moon
moongarlic ezine 1:1, May 2013
xxx
moss bed
a moonbeam sits
on my lap
A Hundred Gourds May 2013
xxx
bilingual haiku
(Iluko)
panagawid–
nakabaklay kaniak ti napilay
nga Apo Init
(English)
homebound–
perched on my shoulder
a lame sun
(Iluko)
panaglunag ti niebe–
agririn dagiti billit
gapu ken Apo init
(English)
thaw–
sun sparks a row
among the wrens
(Iluko)
sabsabong ti sardam
agararudoken kas mabain
ti duduogan a bulan
(English)
dawn flowers—
creeping away as if shy
the old moon
(Iluko)
ranitrit dagiti kawayn
iti baet ti danarudor didaya–
arko ti kanta dagiti bulilising
(English)
bamboo creaks
between a roaring in the east–
an arc of bird song
kernels 1:1 April 2013
xxx
between us
a pie cut
of infinities
Notes from the Gean, April 2013
xxx
still pond—
not a hole in the sky
I swallowed
Notes from the Gean, March 2013
xxx
turtle pond
a girl shares unshelled
peanuts
One of seven in a four-week run of 28 as contributing poet at DailyHaiku’s Cycle 14
October to March, 2013
xxx
tomorrow still a house of knives
Bones 1:1 December 2012
xxx
overcast
an orange scarf flails
on the clothesline
Multiverses 1:1 June 2012
xxx
figuring out
wintry patterns
fretwork sky
Daily Haiku Selection Mainichi, Japan
Feb. 20, 2012
The last of my haiku in DailyHaiku’s Cycle 14
February 23, 2013
palm reader’s eyelashes my fortune in a hat pin
wall portraits—
I begin my yoga count
from the top
turtle pond
a girl shares unshelled
peanuts
first stanza . . .
the missing subject
is a snail
adrift
in a fishbowl . . .
stray moon
what if
beneath footfalls
an egg laid
always
a raindrop hangs on her gaze—
Black-eyed Susan
to read in succession the whole Cycle 14 click on DailyHaiku
on my blog roll and go to archives
Thank you for staying with me in this haiku journey
(artwork is mine from a doodle play on my iPod touch)
…
What is ‘zoka’? (Prompt at NaHaiWriMo: My response, added comment and Alan Summers’ reply)
15/10/12 (prompt by Scott Abeles: zoka)
Zoka is defined as “the process of creation, transformation, and destruction in nature”. The presence of “zoka” separates “object-based” haiku from “activity-based” haiku. Indeed, some argue that an object-based, zoka-free poem is not, by definition, a haiku.
Not quite sure I get it but here are my attempts at a response to the prompt:
sniveling wind
a puppy looks at me
for a nod
oak shadow—
a nesting moon rusts
on cloud mist
autumn stillness
a doddering mosquito’s
break-away
(Comment I added)
Honestly, the prompt almost made me sleepless as the term, ‘zoka’, intimidated me but I wrote three, in case, any might be the right response to the prompt. This happens every time I’m confronted with Japanese terms. And yet, as I’ve been resistantly dealing with my doubts whether or not I’ve been writing haiku, I realized like the other evening, some of what I’ve tried to put in lines are quite ‘zoka’.
Learning more of this poetry form is constantly challenging given the many ‘voices’ that spangle the haiku-sphere. I do read and hear them as ‘voices’ rather than this and that ‘form/term’ because as in any art, each line for me, is of the writer’s/artist’s world.
Again, this too, had confused me when first reading haiku. It was a challenge to be ‘objective’ (stripped of the personal or hints of it as perhaps I misunderstood), a view quite alien to Poetry as I know. But I’ve persisted and still do bravely write haiku the way I filter a seeming sea of knowledge on it from a mosaic of my own lenses. I wonder though if it’s valid, ‘voice in haiku, I mean.
(Alan Summers’ reply)
Yes, all debates such as this do enlighten greatly. Thanks for the discussion. And thanks for the challenge, Scott!
“Honestly, the prompt almost made me sleepless as the term, ‘zoka’, intimidated me but I wrote three, in case, any might be the right response to the prompt.”
It made you write some good haiku using that prompt. Sometimes too easy prompts do not push us into stretching.
You should never feel uncomfortably intimidated, just enough to stretch those writing muscles.
In fact I’ve observed you, and many others, become incredible writers of haiku, in various styles, through NaHaiWriMo prompts, thanks to MDW!
“This happens every time I’m confronted with the Japanese terms. And yet, as i’ve been resistantly dealing with my doubts whether or not I’ve been writing haiku, I realized like the other evening, some of what I’ve tried to put in lines are quite ‘zoka’.”
Exactly! What’s good about the NaHaiWriMo page is that we are all in this together, and out of that support there has been some incredible work.
When I did my recent prompt courtesy of MDW, I was astonished how many fine, not just good, but very fine haiku I had to reduce to the nominated number for the forthcoming anthology. And it was a difficult prompt too!
You can always use Google or Bing to search these terms out. I have a huge database backed up on my computer for the benefit of my workshops.
You can always email or FB message if you are not sure. We are always learning, so I keep up to date as much as possible, and have a useful set of resources.
“Learning more of this poetry form is constantly challenging given the many ‘voices’ that spangle the haiku-sphere. I do read and hear them as ‘voices’ rather than this and that ‘form/term’ because as in any art, each line is of the writer’s world.”
Exactly!
“ Again, this too, had confused me when first reading haiku. It was a challenge to be ‘objective’ (stripped of personal perception as perhaps I misunderstood), a view quite alien to Poetry as I know. But I’ve persisted and still do write haiku the way I filter a seeming sea of knowledge on it from a mosaic of my own lenses.”
You have a remarkable style and voice in haiku, it’s a privilege to know you and read your work.
“ I wonder though if it’s valid, ‘voice in haiku, I mean. Yes, all debates such as this do enlighten greatly. Thanks!”
Having a voice in poetry is what we all aspire to, and so I’d say we can also have our own voice in haiku. After all Basho wanted his students (and in a way, we are his students too) to go their own way in haikai literature, not to copy what he had done.
We don’t know what he’d like or dislike but I think many of us would be both surprised and delighted that he’d like certain developments and progressions in haiku. Alan Gibbons
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)
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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‘the colour plum’ in a quartet of (non-haikai*) 3-line poems…and why
I think I’m veering farther and farther away from haiku, but the structure has stayed like a template in my being; hence, my lines insist on being ‘three’, of two parts often unrelated (juxtaposition). While I still draw the essence of my poems from Nature, what comes out no longer expands contemplation but rather, the lines focus often on painful truths. I know there’s enough pain swirling in the universe right now (as is perceived) and it’s what I can’t seem to whitewash with the beauty of virgin snow. I wish I could but in writing haiku, the practice of finding ‘two-sides’ in a whole, has stayed with me as a simultaneous numbra/penumbra, thus, these non-haikai* poems. Still, it could just be a phase that has slipped in with grey November, which spring will lift up.
the colour plum
hints of pay back
maneuvers
bramble flower
still not enough
prickly stares
isolation bars
no matter our fingers
in knots
speckled steps
dare you break
rain patterns
moon basket
in it I carry
a widow’s comb
*nod to Johannes S. H. Berg, who coined it
November 28, 2014 Posted by alee9 | comment, non-haikai, poetry | bramble, colour, comb, fingers, flower, moon, plum, rain | 2 Comments