Welcome to Notes from the Gean the haiku journal
Brought to you by Gean Tree Press
featuring haiku, tanka, haiga, & more.
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We seek to encourage excellence, experimentation and education within haiku and its related genres. We believe this is best accomplished by example and not imitation. Our aim is for authenticity above all else. We therefore solicit your finest examples of haiku, tanka, haiga, haibun and renga/renku so that we may "hear" your voices speak.
The Editors
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cover artwork Grum Robertson
Magazine content copyright © 2011 Gean Tree Press. All Rights Reserved. Individual works copyright © the artist/artists.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 2
contents
haiku
pp.4-33
tanka
pp.34-44
haiga
pp.45-99
haibun pp.100-120
renga/renku pp.121-145
special feature pp.146-149
interview pp.150-158
reviews pp.159-167
article pp.168-178
backpage p.179
Editor-in-Chief / Resources: Colin Stewart Jones - Scotland
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 3
Fukushima... ah, the cloud over Fukushima
Liz Rule - Australia
praying together with my Muslim neighbor — clouds over Fukushima
Radostina A. Angelova - Bulgaria
spring break white foam surfing plum trees
Jerry Foshee - U.S.A.
last day at the beach content with watching almost no waves
Scott Owens - U.S.A.
days of our lives — going round in circles on melting ice
Barbara A. Taylor - Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 4
hazy dawn the blue jay before the alarm
Michele Harvey - U.S.A.
nuclear spring — monitoring which way the wind blows
Margaret Dornaus - U.S.A.
gaining an hour — a long solo on the erhu
Ruth Holzer - U.S.A.
back of my throat first Spring day
Greg Hopkins - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 5
haiku: Carolyn Hall - U.S.A. haiga: Ron Moss – Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 6
the Ides of March — a blade of grass emerging from its sheath
Grace Galton - U.K.
iceland poppies wondering how long I can keep silent
Carolyn Hall - U.S.A.
white tulips in bloom — realizing there was nothing I could have done
Deborah Finkelstein - U.S.A.
klompen dancers tulips bend toward the sound
Jennifer Corpe - U.S.A.
prognosis uncertain... the fragile scent of bluebells
Jo McInerney - Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 7
spring rain seeping through the sprigged wallpaper
Helen Buckingham - U.K.
intensive care — confirming the status of the apple blossoms
Melissa Allen - U.S.A.
my mother's childhood... from the flower press a celandine
Claire Everett - U.K.
trustee room a gentle request for more light
Bill Cooper - U.S.A.
the dying light in my friend's old room the clock ticks on
Chen-ou Liu – Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 8
after the funeral boys cast into infinite shimmer
Jennifer Corpe - U.S.A.
obituary column his smile forever crooked
Kala Ramesh - India
silent secateurs — a cabbage white flutters over the fence
- In memorium, P.K. Page Richard Stevenson - Canada
banks of azaleas captured on Fujichrome the rite of spring
Margaret Dornaus - U.S.A.
swamp lagoon two fighting frogs stir the sky
Rosa Clement - Brazil
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 9
first cookout the red haze of buds on the maple
Catherine J.S. Lee - U.S.A.
pea stew for lunch my son asks about the princess
Radostina A. Angelova - Bulgaria
spring sale a grey-haired man sprints up the down escalator
Cynthia Rowe - Australia
Easter morning — a parade of new clothes going to church
Adelaide B. Shaw - U.S.A.
spreading manure — the farmer stops to gossip
Michele Harvey - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 10
Saturday sleep-in one local woodpecker has his own plan
Adelaide B. Shaw - U.S.A.
snapdragon... the toddler mouths what is said
Peter Newton - U.S.A.
hummingbirds at the feeder I photoshop dad's frown into a smile
Carolyn Hall - U.S.A.
at last finding the bird feeder: mum's darting eye
Helen Buckingham - U.K.
planting marigolds — a bee can't wait
Ann K. Schwader - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 11
summer solstice cicadas slice the heat
Petrus Heyligers - Australia
summer solstice a fruit bat circles the circle
Nathalie Buckland - Australia
yabby pump a following of gulls
Quendryth Young - Australia
drawbridge the span of the fisherman's arms
Alan S. Bridges - U.S.A.
bait fish shadows slipping through the shadows
Gerry Bravi – Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 12
widgeon rising between the waves widgeon falling
Neal Whitman - U.S.A.
Purgatory Chasm — sky-colored sea glass just out of reach
Ellen Pratte - U.S.A.
willow shade a jackdaw turns the skimming stones
Claire Everett - U.K.
a room for the night or a summer moon for the road
Jeffrey Woodward - U.S.A.
cane fields... pulling off to piss in the Mississippi
John Hawk - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 13
the king snake and I regarding each other remain ourselves
Ruth Holzer - U.S.A.
a rifled cottage the watchman's flashlight chasing fireflies
Garry Eaton - Canada
firefly a small shadow on the star chart
Melissa Allen - U.S.A.
falling stars sand crabs dash across the strand
L. Costa - Brazil
incoming storm pine boughs surf the wind waves
Frances Jones - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 14
thunderclap my boot just missing a butterfly shadow
Jan Dobb - Australia
a woodknot twists across the garden table black drops of rain
John Hawkhead - U.K.
cyclone's eye — do you still want a divorce?
Liz Rule - Australia
storm damage the tradesman's trail of old spice
Cynthia Rowe - Australia
dog days boys make a contest of catching flies
Christopher Patchel - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 15
August stillness a fly still on the swatter
Steven Carter - U.S.A.
parched fields the low hanging clouds just passersby
Gerry Bravi - Canada
mountain wind moves the deck chairs
Steven Carter - U.S.A.
after the freight train thistledown
Polona Oblak - Slovenia
daydreaming thistledown drifts on the breeze
Cara Holman - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 16
an old man walking an old dog — ninety mile beach
Rodney Williams - Australia
coastal map the sand etched by snails
G.R. Le Blanc - Canada
awake but still caught in the dream summer clouds
Peggy Heinrich - U.S.A.
cirrus clouds a lifeguard's hut oversees the beach
Gillena Cox -Trinidad and Tobago
Virgin Islands laughing gulls mingle on the beach
G.R. Le Blanc - Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 17
honeymoon — behind security glass Gioconda's smile
Krzysztof Kokot - Poland
cameras capture a fine sunset the smiles of strangers
Nick Sherwood - U.K.
alone in a crowd his eyes hold fireworks and hers
Autumn N. Hall - U.S.A.
meteor shower the small safety pin on her bra strap
Ignatius Fay - Canada
giving my father's advice to my father — the echo of wind chimes
Michael Morell - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 18
fog shrouds the sky in this uncertain summer her first chest x-ray
Beverly Acuff Momoi - U.S.A.
morning walk the path glittered with cicada wings
André Surridge - New Zealand
late night I let the spider sleep in the bathroom
Rosa Clement - Brazil
haiku: William Cullen Jr. - U.S.A. haiga: Ron Moss - Australia Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 19
silent morning at my mother's bedside fading queen-of-the-night
Urszula Wielanowska - Poland
giving up, giving in grass bends with the weight of a sparrow
Susan Constable - Canada
new moon — drunk, walking the lane's other gravities
Kevin Gillam - Australia
From other angles there are still peaches in the tree
Bruce England - U.S.A.
after meditation... my fingers trace healed scars on the oak's trunk
Nathalie Buckland - Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 20
end of the night... the white under the buzzard's wings
Helga Stania – Switzerland
Indian summer I wander into the wrong locker room
Melissa Spurr - U.S.A.
que sera a wind-blown seed
Christopher Patchel - U.S.A.
Hampton Court maze so many familiar dead-ends
Berenice Mortimer - Canada
I apologize first — morning mist burning off
Terri L. French - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 21
the river beneath the river of fog
Polona Oblak - Slovenia
night fog stillness in the unseen
Frances Jones - U.S.A.
moonrise the cat hides in the usual place
Carolyn Hall - U.S.A.
this rock — as close as i will get to the moon
Alan S. Bridges - U.S.A.
Lipizzans... once my hair was brown
Polona Oblak - Slovenia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 22
jar of skin cream — the chuckle of dry leaves on the patio
Ignatius Fay – Canada
autumn dusk I see my childhood in her eyes
Gautam Nadkarni - India
anniversary of her diagnosis she sends a card
Pat Prime - New Zealand
yellow moon ...knowing it's the last time
Steven Carter - U.S.A.
toadstools in the hollow woods their secret names
Nick Sherwood - U.K.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 23
earthquake I apologise to my mother
Quendryth Young - Australia
around the bedpost the prayer beads she never used
Robert Epstein - U.S.A.
shavings curl away from a carpenter's plane — billowing clouds
Jeffrey Woodward - U.S.A.
my childhood dreams... steam from the wok evaporating
Nu Quang - U.S.A.
leaning in to tell my story the old barn
John Hawk - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 24
moonglow with each telling his tale grows taller
Melissa Spurr - U.S.A.
a maple leaf slips slowly downstream... 'me' time
Claire Everett - U.K.
last log split... I hear the reply of the woodpecker
John Hawk - U.S.A.
up there a woodpecker underneath splinters rustle
Michael Lindenhofer - Austria
crooked path an old man bends against the wind
Myra King - Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 25
autumn wind — waiting in a patch of sun for the next train
Peggy Heinrich - U.S.A.
filling the oil lamps... another ring around the moon
Catherine J.S. Lee - U.S.A.
tired of counting death anniversaries — descending moon
Seren Fargo - U.S.A.
flickering stars my old bedroom now a study
Cara Holman - U.S.A.
autumn stars we discuss our anxieties point after point
Mary Davila - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 26
red dwarf star the slow burn of apple wood
Bill Cooper - U.S.A.
crescent moon — hanging in the room her scent
Angelo B. Ancheta - The Philippines
frost on the window the same words scratched out more than once
Bob Lucky - Ethiopia
autumn rain the moth-eaten pockets of my cagoule
John McManus - U.K.
steady rain the dog foregoes his daily news
Bill Cooper - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 27
winter begins harsh words with my son sharpen the chill
T. D. Ingram - U.S.A.
cat's cradle the conversations we never have
Aubrie Cox - U.S.A.
cold weather watching the small clouds of her words
Ernest Wit - Poland
cold morning the thermometer says nothing
André Surridge - New Zealand
white hair on my chin this grasping at something I cannot see
Autumn N. Hall - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 28
red light life in other cars a winter night apart
Michael Lindenhofer – Austria
year's end the night wind finds every crack
Ann K. Schwader - U.S.A.
the pull of the turning tide winter solstice
Dawn Bruce - Australia
the possibility of being who I am winter loneliness
Kala Ramesh - India
dried roses tied to the easel hunger moon
Carolyn Hall - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 29
ice moon the coyote's call through the pines
Catherine J.S. Lee - U.S.A.
snow-covered hills... howling back to the coyote
Seren Fargo - U.S.A.
this winter wind — I step outside my comfort zone
Susan Constable - Canada
from trash can to trash can hobo and crow
Nika - Canada
nobody's coming out tonight tapping rain
Ernest Wit - Poland
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 30
mid-winter rain in fits and starts he asks about the prognosis
Beverly Acuff Momoi - U.S.A.
asking over and over what winter wants of me
Robert Epstein - U.S.A.
shadows the difference between winters
Greg Hopkins - U.S.A.
winter tree the wind moving through my bones
Bill Kenney - U.S.A.
snowy walk following my tracks from yesterday
Catherine McLaughlin - Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 31
deep winter the new neighbor has cleared my path
Bill Kenney - U.S.A.
february flurries the fear my body won't last...
Aubrie Cox - U.S.A.
yoga show the elephants bowing into crow pose
Ramesh Anand - Malaysia
after the parade crickets
Alan S. Bridges - USA
gingko poets some inside the fence some not
David Ash - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 32
paper weight so many words slip away
Bob Lucky - Ethiopia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 33
across the platform a metro-clown juggles pears but i can't see past these bare tracks where my train should be
Jade Zirino - USA
I sign it the announcement of my retirement — the phone on my desk rings and rings. . .
Dave Bacharach - USA
you call from another time zone and I smile at the contours of your presence still pressed into the couch
Shona Bridge - Australia
alone all night in a king size bed I leave at dawn dropping candy kisses on his pillow
Joyce S. Greene - USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 34
afterwards. . . fields of prairie grass bend in the wind as we walk hand in hand along an unmarked path
Susan Constable - Canada
a hot wind flips the olive's leaves to silver no way back to who I was before this first arousal
Beverley George – Australia
from a dusty box his journal describes a day I'd forgotten — in the deep Arctic night icebergs calve and drift
Hannah Mahoney - USA
more accurate than the mind can fathom the atomic clock tracking fractional seconds of our floating lives
Ruth Holzer - USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 35
no one on the beach but an old man and woman arm in arm — they gaze off at a boat sailing towards the horizon
Dave Bacharach - USA
at life's shoreline the sands of time escape from many gaps. . . I collect memories embedded in sediment
P.K. Padhy - India
almost dark the scent of wood smoke drifting. . . his last words whispered in the language of his birth
Susan Constable - Canada
a handful of petals beneath the winding sheet. . . mother's heart infused with the lingering scent of her favorite rose
Margaret Dornaus - USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 36
snowmelt and the black earth beneath: I abandon the idea of dying on purpose
Melissa Allen - USA
print hospital gown and blue robe for all white sheets on every bed — how does death know which of us to take?
Dorothy McLaughlin - USA
within a fortnight both our mothers gone. . . grimalkin gives me a cuff without claws our last feisty girl
Rodney Williams - Australia
her favorite sleeping spot among the gardenias — now only a bed of matted fur
Nancy Nitrio - USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 37
he purrs and stares at nothing for hours on end the cat totally relaxed at one with my ommm
Carol Raisfeld - USA
winter holidays a spill of sun-warmed cat on the rug where you pick colours for a crazy quilt
Maria Steyn - South Africa
dragons painted on ceramic pots six weeks in China and I've only seen a peaceful people
Angela Leuck - China
four months old and he smiles at everyone without guile expecting only goodness and a world of delights
Elaine Riddell - New Zealand
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 38
a canyon gouged towards city and sea — this stream glinting through redwoods dives beneath concrete
Rodney Williams - Australia
the rump of a chestnut harrier so white this sweep of peaks under snow all summer
Rodney Williams - Australia
odd places we call home. . . under the corbel at the top of the facade where a kestral slips in
Michele Harvey - USA
Claret Ash I remember now it's a name to melt on the tongue this lanquid summer's day
Patricia Prime - New Zealand
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 39
an unnamed rose in an overlooked corner brought across by some uprooted wife of a homesteading man
Michele L. Harvey - U.S.A.
on bare ground I sprinkle small seeds with abandon as if growing wildflowers requires a lack of care
Janet Lynn Davis - U.S.A.
seeing the whole fruit contained in a blossom I look at the vast sea and all that it holds
Kala Ramesh - India
I know it's people more than places that merit concern but oh Matsushima if you should perish too
Beverley George - Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 40
great god of mountains and mudslides thank you for blessing these hills with your gift of soft rain
Peggy Heinrich - U.S.A.
spring fever — the sap in the maple is ready to tap and you, love are looking younger
Carole MacRury - U.S.A.
this afternoon's movie to which I went for popcorn and escape — a short one about networking and the famine to come
Michael McClintock - U.S.A.
an Ozu movie reminds me how short a long life is. . . bicycles rolling by are suddenly metaphoric
Lucas Stensland - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 41
wrinkled tattoos across sun-tanned biceps The Exterminator printed on his motorcycle's rattling carrier box
Maria Steyn - South Africa
I cobble together just enough courage to tell you — the cable car sways as it reaches the dock
Julie Thorndyke - Australia
Palm Sunday Jesus' hands folded in solemn communion with the plastic flowers on my dashboard
Al Fogel - U.S.A.
Sunday mass for the hearing impaired words dance from the signers' hands with our spoken prayers
Dorothy McLaughlin - U.S.A.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 42
pointing his skis straight down the icy slope he races past all caution and his parents' fear
Amelia Fielden - Australia
summer afternoon my children and I form a three-headed shadow — moving apart we carry bits of each other with us
Craig Steele - U.S.A.
sharing a bed this long summer night like dolphins swimming parallel but never touching
Julie Thorndyke - Australia
the water down to a trickle my suggestion to shower together raises a smile
Bob Lucky - Ethiopia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 43
a splash of sherry and a dash of danger simmering on low our first ragout of wild mushrooms
Carole MacRury - U.S.A.
we celebrated that night by roasting chestnuts yet I no longer recall the taste or the reason
Cynthia Rowe – Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 44
Haiku - Melissa Allen, USA Photograph - Jay Otto, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 45
Haiku - Melissa Allen, USA Photograph - Jay Otto, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 46
Photograph - Bea Bareis, Germany Haiku - Simone K. Busch, Germany
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Photograph - Bea Bareis, Germany Haiku - Simone K. Busch, Germany
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Photograph - Bea Bareis, Germany Haiku - Simone K. Busch, Germany
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Photograph - Bea Bareis, Germany Haiku - Simone K. Busch, Germany
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Photograph - Bea Bareis, Germany Haiku - Simone K. Busch, Germany
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 51
Image - Beate Conrad, USA Haiku - Horst Ludwig, USA
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Image - Beate Conrad, USA Haiku - Horst Ludwig, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 53
Image - Beate Conrad, USA Haiku - Horst Ludwig, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 54
Image - Beate Conrad, USA Haiku - Horst Ludwig, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 55
Beate Conrad, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 56
Susan Constable, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 57
Haiku - Susan Constable, Canada Photograph - David Constable, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 58
Haiku - Susan Constable, Canada Photograph - David Constable, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 59
Susan Constable, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 60
Haiku - Susan Constable, Canada Photograph - David Constable, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 61
Tanka - Melissa Allen, USA Photograph - Aubrie Cox, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 62
Tanka - Carmella Braniger, USA Photograph - Aubrie Cox, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 63
Mary Davila, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 64
Mary Davila, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 65
Cherie Hunter Day, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 66
Cherie Hunter Day, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 67
Haiku - Ônishi Yasuyo (Richard Gilbert and Itô Yûki,translation) Photograph - Cherie Hunter Day, USA
Richard Gilbert, "Cross-cultural Studies in Gendai Haiku: Ônishi Yasuyo" Gendai Haiku Online Archive (2008), Kumamoto University, Japan gendaihaiku.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Haiku - Mike Montreuil, Canada Page 68
Photograph - Carole Daoust, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 69
Haiku - Mike Montreuil, Canada Photograph - Carole Daoust, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 70
Haiku - Ignatuis Fay, Canada Photograph - Ray Belcourt, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 71
Ignatuis Fay, Canada
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 72
Haiku - Ramona Linke, Germany Collage -Gerda Foerster, Germany
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Haiku - Ramona Linke, Germany Collage -Gerda Foerster, Germany
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 74
Haiku - Ramona Linke, Germany Photograph -Gerda Foerster, Germany
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Haiku - Ramona Linke, Germany Photograph -Gerda Foerster, Germany
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Terri L. French, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 77
Heike Gewi, Germany
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Heike Gewi, Germany
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Heike Gewi, Germany
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Heike Gewi, Germany
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 81
Maya Lyubenova, Bulgaria
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Maya Lyubenova, Bulgaria
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 83
Haiku - Diane Mayr, USA Image - Hokusai
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 84
Ron Moss, Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 85
Ron Moss, Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 86
Ron Moss, Australia
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Ron Moss, Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 88
Adelaide B. Shaw, USA
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Adelaide B. Shaw, USA
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Adelaide B. Shaw, USA
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 91
Brendan Slater, The Netherlands
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Brendan Slater, The Netherlands
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Brendan Slater, The Netherlands
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Brendan Slater, The Netherlands
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Brendan Slater, The Netherlands
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 96
Barbara A Taylor, Australia
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Barbara A Taylor, Australia
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 98
Urszula Wielanowska, Poland
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 99
Gerry Bravi, Canada
Beneath the Topsoil
We park the car on a gravel shoulder and walk down an old country lane. Leaning away from the wind an old mailbox announces V. Klimchuk in fading black letters. Swallows now claim it as theirs. The homestead, roof caved in, a weathered grey. Clumps of orange tiger lilies linger on. An outhouse tilts east, inside a stack of Winnipeg Free Press turning yellow. The fields empty except for a rusting Ford.
reflections on a cracked windshield autumn sun
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 100
Owen Bullock, New Zealand
work
I take some time off from my job and we head for the bush.
almost at the lookout
a tui opens a door
A truck with lawnmowers in the back moves through the grid-like suburbs below. Blue sky has settled into marshland. my daughter skips down the mountain... my work almost done
Note: The tui is a passerine bird unique to New Zealand. They belong to the honeyeater family, which means they feed mainly on nectar from flowers of native plants.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 101
Susan Constable, Canada
Metamorphosis
Our daughter's three years old when I discover the doll, its soft, pale legs disfigured by swirls and bold slashes. "Did you do this?" I ask. She shakes her head, utters a defiant "No!"
Taking two felt pens from his desk, her father holds them up, one in each hand. "So which did you use, honey? This one . . . or this one?"
a slight sag to the pumpkin's grin autumn rain
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 102
Garry Eaton, Canada
It's 1954
And I am twelve. One day in early summer, a day I've spent loafing around, not doing much because I'm out of school, my Dad comes home from work in an excited mood to tell me Little League Baseball is being organized in our home town, and I'm still young enough to try out. Sandlot softball, the kind we play at school, is one thing, but this is different, he tells me. Regulation ballparks, scaled down to kids' size. Rulebooks and grown up umpires. Sponsors. Team names and uniforms that imitate the big leagues. Wow! After a day of tryouts, I go home to await the bidding, and soon learn that my 'contract' has been picked up by the Indians. hummmpph! While my lucky younger brother is going to play for the Yankees!
By the end of the summer the Little League Indians, with me as a starting pitcher, prove their dominance, taking home the pennant and the series, and for the first time, I go back to school feeling like a winner. A year to remember, 1954.
and somehow Cleveland also makes the series — Indian summer
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 103
Seren Fargo, USA
Dust
I don't think the sting will ever go away. His daughter's words after he died. I imagine she was trying to find justification for her horrific treatment of me: her deceptions, her verbal abuse, and her refusal to allow me even the smallest amount of his ashes.
Instead, she spoke to his mother of distributing them somewhere from their life long before I met him, not only as if the last year of his life and my life with him were irrelevant, but as if I wasn't sitting right there.
I desperately tried to reach some part of her that I hoped had a sense of compassion, but all I was met with were her words, "You weren't married. You weren't even with him a year!"
ask me what he was like not how long I was with him one year, one lifetime his death is an eternity
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 104
Gary Ford, Canada
Just Grazing
Late at night, few on the road, I work to keep from nodding off. An empty tank and a full bladder drive me into a gas station. I fill up, rush inside for relief. On the way out, I grab a giant chocolate bar to spike my energy for the long drive.
"That'll be $3.35" she says. I hand her a five. "$1.65" as she places the change in my palm and our hands lightly touch. Eye contact ... a nod ... and ...... I head for the truck.
high beams two deer nuzzle on the edge of the road
No tes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 105
Autumn N. Hall, USA
Taps
Etched steel in brass scabbard bearing your name, this sword knows its Captain. It hung at your hip when you pinned on pilots' wings, cut the first piece from your white wedding cake. Ivory hilt, black leather braid, it graced every place that you lived. Now, in your will, you leave it to me, your oldest, your daughter, because we both served.
testing my metal
I fasten the collar brass I bit as a babe
Collected bits of your life on display: a shadow box with your Distinguished Flying Cross, a fly fishing rod and creel, your touring bike and jersey, a six string Goya guitar. Four photo boards filled to their borders: Your wife's holds morels, merlot, gourmet makings of domestic tranquility. Your son's sports your sporting side. Your youngest daughter has staged all your plays. Mine finds you, naturally, with your granddaughters, in nature.
I feel the pricking
of blackberry brambles your hand holds back
A clear tenor, second only to yours, rises. A tune from your roots, to be sung by a father for his son- gone-off-to-war. Now sung by the son-who-never-went-to-war for the father who returned. One day, we "might return...to bend and tell you that we love you." Today, we stand silent beside the few, the proud, the detachment dispatched in white caps and navy wool to stand at attention on this 6th day of June for you, their fallen brother.
cloud garments rent
morning sky rains tears for Danny Boy
Nineteen years since I last stood Color Guard. For lack of push-ups, my arms have gone slack. Now witness, I wish: to honor you one last time — officer, patriot, pilot, combat vet, hero, man, father. But caught up in the flipping folds of the flag, the slow ceremonious salutes, I forget to await the command, "Order Arms," and drop my offered salute too soon.
baa baa black sheep
neglects to answer "Yes, Sir—yes, Sir"
A bugle bawls, "Day is done, gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the skies...." Water beads on polished mahogany. Your second wife, blue eyes red-rimmed, remains while you are lowered to rest beside your first. Grasping the flag that one might have held, the other weeps beneath her black umbrella.
Semper Fi the sodden blanket of greening grass
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 106
Jeffrey Harpeng, Australia
Between the Pages
The words of Moses Mendelssohn concealed between the Talmud's pages travelled by coach the rutted roads past whispering rye, and raven woods.
My eye said that was one song. The road said there are many more. The house said everything can be seen from my windows. My answer, I climbed a ladder to the roof. The chimney declared the house a train. There were no timetables, with their tiny articles of faith. "All aboard!" a porter cried. From the rooftop the landscape was more rooftops. An earthbound angel might drown in that sea. Mountains crumbled as they rose, whole ranges! Two falcons swept across the lawn, climbed thermals, banked and soared. My children travelled the eddies of the spring air. My heart is a constant prayer.
twilight among pines
dust motes and a wish upon the first star
The sun had sunk below the roofline. Honeycomb light haunted the house. She leant against the doorframe, as bees were a humming cloud in the blossoming sycamore. The heady scent was another swarm. Winter is past and yet to come. Footprints from the house and the snow are gone. A swallow arced across the new-mown lawn. Her clothes had their own yarns to tell. They whispered changing intimacies, dizzy translations of her fluid geometry. I unbuttoned her dress, drew it over her shoulders. Hear how much of what spring says is a prayer in avian languages.
looking up
to a spider web I walk into another
And here is an old woman. She draws a crocheted shawl around her shoulders. She knits by a window crowded round with ivy. Sunlight thaws the smaller aches in her bones. She learnt to knit with two nails and a length of string, educated herself in patterns. The shawl tells her it is woven from angel-down. But the only angels are her own. They are grown and live in little stories of their own. In a reverie, she is daydreaming under the kitchen table. Her mother moves round, places a cold iron on the coal range, swaps it for a heated one. Ah, the scent of steam and starch.
The words of Moses Mendelssohn concealed between the Talmud's pages travelled by coach the rutted roads past whispering rye, and raven woods. No talk of salvation. God is constant. Let us begin the lesson with a prayer.
No tes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 107
Michele L. Harvey, USA
The Birdwatcher
He had moved from a quaint run down apartment in Barcelona to an immense loft in the busy midtown garment district of New York. The front windows looked across to other windows and other lives. It was just what he liked, to be anonymous in a crowd that flowed and pushed around him. But it was changing, with many young, hip artists flocking to the district, lured by lots of space and little rent. His loft was empty except for a huge bed and big easel, and oh yes, there was something else?
signs of spring
binoculars focused on a new bird
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 108
Helen E. Herr, Canada
On the Rails
Riding a passenger night train is a raucous event. From our reclining position, bodies corkscrew into pretzels, heads bob and joints complain. Once the engineer surmises everyone is asleep, he begins his plan to capture lost time. The train rattles as rails quake. Hyena screeches on every curve. In all this, we sleep. That is until the train stops and quiet prevails.
voices gossip until you walk in the door
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 109
Ruth Holzer, USA
Meservy Street, Salem
My grandmother's house was the last one on the street, standing in peeling wooden grayness at the edge of the Atlantic. Every summer, my parents would drive us up four hundred miles to spend our vacation with her.
high tide —
at the kitchen window seasick
With neighborhood friends, I'd climb down to the beach, picking my way barefoot over broken glass and globs of tar. I'd swim among poisonous violet jellyfish and climb jagged granite rocks encrusted with barnacles. On the beach were spread pearly mussel shells, periwinkles, tangled lengths of seaweed, pale crab claws and silvery fish speckled with flies.
endless summer —
outliving all my family
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 110
Chen-ou Liu, Canada
Meeting Place
For Mary Macdonell who encourages me to write in English
I wander the streets of Toronto all morning, thinking of moving yet again. I lean against a wall, weary, and feel the urge to cry out: "I'm tired of starting over!"
snow-covered street
looking back which footprints are mine?
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 111
Bob Lucky, Ethiopia
Some Nights
Sometimes I sit in the dark for the simple reason there is no electricity and I'm too lazy to light candles or haul out the portable generator and crank it up. I go into the garden and look at the stars. I know so little about them. Some nights they seem closer than others.
canis minor
the puppy's cold nose in my hand
Sometimes the electricity comes back on and I don't know it because there were no lights on when it went out. I'll get up and go into the bathroom or the kitchen and reflexively switch on the light, discovering I've been sitting in the dark needlessly. I quickly turn it off. crescent moon an alley cat tightropes the garden wall
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 112
Ed Markowski, USA
The Morning After a One-Night Stand
Jan? Jane? Jean? Joan? Jenny? Gina? scribbled my alias & phone(y) number on a sweet & sour sauce stained carry out menu from Wang Ho's Hong Kong grease garden sporting an Authentic Schezwan Cuisine Hot & Spicy sign on Cadillac Avenue.
clear night my moon shadow settles on a white tombstone
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 113
Berenice Mortimer, Canada
A Far, Far Different Life
Julian Fellowes's films "Gosford Park" and "Downtown Abbey" bear a small resemblance to what one would now call my privileged childhood.
There, too, it was commonplace for the butler to iron "The Times," then a broadsheet, behind the green baize door.
The 'tweenie' peeled the vegetables. No cook, worth her salt, would dream of sullying her hands.
A parlour maid in maroon and cream uniform, with matching cap, served tea in the double drawing room. One was sometimes invited to tea, but we children had to sit with crossed ankles and only speak when addressed.
The lady's maid attended to my mother's toilette, also even becoming an accomplice to stealing her jewels.
A chauffeur ferried me to school, once forgetting to fetch me.
Helping further our education, before and often after boarding school, a governess gave us after-school and holiday tasks. A hard taskmistress, she often made me write lines: "I must be obedient," "I must not answer back" and "I must not scratch my wounds" being among the most frequent that I remember.
It certainly did not help: I still question authority, often contradict and my fingers scratch each and every itch. No wonder writing thank you letters often became a tiresome task and my handwriting is what a kind friend calls "unformed."
garden swing the cat watches I don't fall
red currants prising them from frail stalks with baby teeth
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 114
Carol Pearce-Worthington, USA
Next of Kin
The small museum park provides a gently curving path. Rose bushes grow behind a fence that protects them from tourists and baby strollers. They would like it here — my grandmother, mother, and great- aunt. So I gather them on a bench, put my grocery bag to one side, and we sit for a while without speaking. Getting dark early, summer's ending, my mother observes. A breeze finds us, licks the sweat from my forehead along with the wear of memories, flickers my hair and absorbing the blessing of a warm breeze, the four of us watch the roses waver. They send out no perfume, but so many things are missing now that we don't comment, and the unscented dusk settles over our laps, around our knees and shoulders. Darkness seems to pause when for some reason I tell them that a woman drowned her two children yesterday, and in the ensuing silence I study my toes and wonder at the mystery of mothers and flowers and summer evenings that seem to move so slowly yet go by like lightning flashes. Oh my, oh my, my great-aunt says. Well they're gone now — out of pain — and the mother here? she asks. Yes, I say. Alive. In prison. Well, not so alive, my grandmother points out in her practical voice; but we all know that kids can drive you crazy. Oh no, no, my mother says. You are the light of my life. She turns to me for no good reason. What light can I be, I wonder, this soot-worn lamp of me? What light? Yet I allow her thought to pass through me with the evening breeze as from an empty bench I watch the roses move.
faded instructions — how to grow the tomato plant
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 115
Miriam Sagan, USA
La Jolla
Memorials seem to be everywhere, even on this sunny southern California day. There is an informal shrine carved in a grotto of sand to a surfer who died in an "alcohol related accident" after he found Jesus. And a lifeguard box, one of those old-fashioned metal ones on poles that houses an emergency phone. This one covered in metal words, a memorial to someone drowned.
over the cove
a wishbone of pelicans daytime moon
A girl with reindeer horns runs into the Pacific — it is Christmas Day. Strolling the beach, the whole world seems to be here, including women in saris, women in veils, and their children, running. America — graveyard of mother tongues
We go out for Moroccan food, eat with our fingers. At the next table, there is a gentleman with a pair of identical twins dressed provocatively. They are dark haired, of no identifiable nationality. We can only conclude that they are professionals. It's not just the scanty outfits but the fact that they stare in rapt attention at him as he monologues on...agriculture.
The mint tea is sweet. The music changes, and belly dancers appear. You switch seats and sit next to me, presumably to see better but also I think so that you can shelter in the notion of wife. You aren't on the loose, about to stuff a dollar in a jingling belt. can she feel our eyes on her — belly dancer in red
No tes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 116
Adelaide B. Shaw, USA
The Long Night
A walk through the rooms. Hot milk. A game of solitaire. Reading. Watching television. One or the other of these. Sometimes all of them in the hope of finding a remedy for insomnia. naptime rocked to sleep on grandma's lap
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 117
Lucas Stensland, USA
8:35 a.m.
"Pinot Noir" the detective book we never wrote
I was still a little drunk when I got the bleeps of three incoming text messages. Grabbing for my phone on the nightstand, I accidentally knocked it to the ground. I wasn't surprised to learn it wasn't three messages but one very long one from Mae.
We had been out drinking and dancing the previous night, something that was becoming our Saturday night ritual, and she had drunk-called me when she got home, a little after three a.m. Apparently, Doug — her best friend and ride home — had said something derogatory about our pantomime, although the specifics were a little cloudy. Our relationship was on the down-low, and gossip and flies were surrounding us. She had burst into tears, told Doug to go to hell and ran into her house, feeling "lost, and, and, just so sickened by viciousness, you know? Why can't two people just like each other and let the rest fall away?" no matter the position summer ends
"Wait, what do you mean by let the rest fall away?" I had asked.
"God, I just said it!" she replied. "I'm not getting angry! I'm not. It's just that you want something from me right now that I don't know if I could even give you in the future. This is complicated stuff. We're not playing old-man checkers here. I'm still married. I have a kid. You were engaged twice in the past year and a half." At times the truth could feel unreal.
We had only talked a bit longer since I had Mick and Sara over at my apartment for whiskey and drunken YouTubing. I had once again talked Mae into not ending it. Even though we had only been seeing each other for three weeks, it was starting to seem like every other day one of us was falling more in love or falling all over the place. I was hoping this was only natural. So there I was, living one morning-after to the next. Awakened by Mae's texts regarding a relationship that was dead on arrival, I clicked to read the first and flinched at seeing "bastard" and "moron" in the same sentence. Suddenly I remembered sending her an I-give-up text before passing out. She deserved better. In a way, I did love her. Somehow she managed to make everything a little funnier, even tragedy and burned potpies.
Wishing I had a smoke, I surmised the situation: I keep staggering down the same dark corridor toward a door that will never open. My hangover and the thought of trying to solve this case made me weak. I needed bacon, black coffee and some goddamn Willie Nelson.
Somehow lately I've been consistently waking in rough patches. It hadn't always been like this. I figured I was ready for another change. too weary for words... morning shadows
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 118
Barbara A. Taylor, Australia
Free Again
Gerry and Jenny, it rolls off one's tongue, smoothly, like their balanced coterie, back then when plans to bloom together into permanency were the only reasons to exist. The calm before the storm. I should have known, he sighs, knows he must move on, transcend, find solace in these tranquil scenes. Arms outstretched, he beams, breathes in the beauty of the distant rocks: in this magical light, a crusader castle, solid, golden, that penetrates a cobalt sky. Hallelujah! Spring is in the air! Irresistible blossom time. Dappled landscapes: a breathing, rippling Pissarro through his window. Rainbows in sprays of water sprinklers dance. Bees buzz let's do it. An energetic sense of fertility exudes. Vibrancy abounds in scents of sun-warmed jasmine, cool frangipani nights of swaying palms and gentle breezes. A season this of new beginnings. Deep breaths. In. Out. He smiles, finds heaven again — heaven he'd wanted to share with her, to build, to nest, to nurture romance. Madness. Jenny left him. Now to Gerry she's naught but a dream or a ghost. Agh, Pisceans, never constant. Here today, gone tomorrow. Pragmatic drifters in the wind. a single swallow nine frenzied circles around the ceiling... Go with the flow and go she did
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 119
Neal Whitman, USA
Endless Summer
June 30, 1958. Saxonville Elementary School. "The last day of school." Not really. The end of summer proves it so. But, this really is my last day of school. June 18, 2008. University of Utah. In a farewell address at the Academic Senate, I tell the story of Jeremy Bentham who had taught at London's University College. When he died in 1832, he willed that his body be preserved and displayed in a glass case at the College. He stipulated that he be trundled into the annual Faculty Convocation and listed as "Present, but not voting." This was my final motion. Seconded. Call the Question. The vote: Unanimous. The "ayes" have it. summer doldrums rubber trees need little care the florist tells me
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 120
SNOW GOOSE Special Feature
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Tomegaki and Kanso After Thoughts
Tomegaki - Linda Papanicolaou
The basis of this shisan with images is graphic renga, an art form of linked images that was invented in 1992 by Nakamura Rieko and Anzai Toshihiro (www.renga.com). In this kind of renga, images are passed between participants, who alter the image and pass it on to the next participant. The received image may be altered by adding something to it, cutting something out of it and pasting it into a new image, or manipulating it until it becomes substantively new in its own right. Nakamura and Anzai's concept was the exchange of images. A few years ago, under the leadership of Carol Raisfeld, we, the members of WHChaikumultimedia, developed our own variant by including haiku for a series of linked haiga. The results of these exercises have been published in Simply Haiku, Sketchbook, and Haigaonline.
The graphic renga at WHChmm employed various ways of linking verses as well as images, including simple six-image rengays and word linking. Soon, some of us became interested in testing the viability of building linked images into renku and have adapted graphic renga to the text forms of shisan and junicho. "Snow Goose", a graphic shisan, is the latest in this series as we explore the possibilities of linking images with texts.
Kanso - Jim Swift
These are not the thoughts of an experienced renkujin, but of someone who has just caught a glimpse of the artistic realms whithin renku.
There could be so much to cover here, but I will restrict this to just two topics, links and dynamics.
1. Links
When we first started adding verse to graphic renga, it seemed relatively straightforward. The image to image link was a cut/paste/alter technique, so we just wrote a current verse (tsukeku) that linked to the previous verse (maeku) and the new image.
But here in the shisan I realized, for the first time, that in adding a new haiga to the renku, we are adding 5 new links (think of drawing a square with diagonals below an existing horizontal line).
Only the mind of a J. S. Bach can juggle such complexities into harmony. But it was quite wonderful to see how, more often than not, harmony did come from the simple procedure of linking the tsukeku to the maeku, and the tsukeku to its image.
Sometimes, as with 9 to 10, it was more natural to generate the image first and then write a tsukeku with the needed 2 links.
Fortunately for the two of us, there were no renku police around, for with 5 new links to check at each addition, they would surely have found something!!
One other new aspect of linking concerns image linking. While we often used the Anzai/Nakamura technique, we did also explore other kinds of image linkings that are, perhaps, analogous to the nioi kinds of links. This could become a most interesting topic to explore in future graphic renku.
2. Dynamics
It was instructive, in trying to write the ageku, to print out just the text part of the shisan. There was a recognisable dynamic in the text that helped to determine the mood for the ageku.
But when it was all finished, I printed all 12 haiga on 11x17 paper in 4 columns, one for each side. At that scale, the dynamic is all visual, and with subtle differences from the dynamic of the text.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 134
Adding graphics to a renku produces an entirely different art form, but it's one that does resonate with text renku for me. But at the same time, there's a new language to explore here and I expect that it will take some time to do more than scratch the surface of the possibilities as we have done here.
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 135
Imprinted A Rengay
wd: Wende DuFlon, Guatemala rm: Ron Moss, Australia fg: Ferris Gilli, USA
night feeding my chin cupped in his palm /wd
a wallaby shakes off dew as a joey wriggles in the pouch /rm
from porch to kitchen an imprinted gosling follows the farmer's wife /fg
a bobcat kitten peeks from the backpack /wd
Snowy Mountains a brumby and its foal lean into the moon /rm
snuggled with tissue nearby mother and son watching Bambi /fg
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 136
Three Rengay
rm: Ron Moss, Australia kc: Katherine Cudney, USA fg: Ferris Gilli, USA
Vespers
outback flame tree the southern cross through its branches /rm
a kangaroo rat ventures in search of favorite seeds /fg
indigo stains on the pottery shard hallowed ground /kc
lucerne flowers tremble over a sand dune /rm
vespers a crumb disappears down the ant lion's pit /fg
the storyteller's voice carried by the wind /kc
Last-Stop Motel October, 2010
border crossing a raven's caw skims the arroyo /kc
strewn wombat bones in the poppy field /rm
full sails a blue tarantula hidden among the bananas /fg
losing my religion to the mezcal worm /kc
a neon halo sparks from a cockroach at the last-stop motel /rm
from their bridge roost a million bats take the sky /fg
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 137
Angel Hair 11/01/ 2010 - 11/8/2010
bright sky released butterflies drift toward the bride /fg
twin shafts of light where the towers once stood /kc
tiny fingers making angel hair birthday smiles /rm
Māori boys get down with a breakdance show /fg
solstice moon a primal pilgrimage to Stonehenge /kc
late sunrise spectrums of colour on the christening gown /rm
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 138
Two Renhai
hs: Helga Stania, Germany rl: Ramona Linke, Germany
a bleak wind
unemployed father remains in silence /hs
perusing the housekeeping book /rl
the windows clatter in the storm /hs
where Luther felt cold on his last journey a temporary traffic light /rl
translation – the authors
the color red
potter's clay she molds a chawan /rl
the lake already turns red... /hs
our wishes, with the wind /rl
skirts flutter whilst the waltz from the Rosenkavalier /hs
translation – the authors
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 139
Tao A kasen renku
ac: Aubrie Cox, USA wc: Wayne Chou, Canada
spring breeze tea stains on the atlas /ac
first daffodil blooms by the crossroad /wc
crow on the rusty barbwire fence gazing forward /ac
new stars in the sextant lens /wc
hunter's moon streams through the keyhole /ac
a hidden oasis in each floating seed /wc
•
mossy stones sacred temples of my childhood /wc
she ties a pink charm on his keychain /ac
we watch the sunrise atop a broken ferris wheel /wc
cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven /ac
summer heat the bowerbird picks thicker reeds /wc
minnow breaks the water's surface /ac
•
kamuro fireworks leave a trail of moondust /ac
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 140
her kimono's sheen tanabata night /wc
wishes tremble on bamboo in the aftershock /ac
paper cranes in the donation box /wc
beggar bowl overflows with plum blossoms /ac
he burns sweet grass singing for spring rain /wc
•
oak tree's shadow grows longer with the days /wc
girl swings higher not ready to let go /ac
holding my breath as they dot the Dragon's eyes /wc
blank face at the window /ac
lone wolf trails its pack beyond the frost line /wc
howling wind across snow country /ac
•
ink bleeds into the crisp white page /ac
evening before battle I open her letters /wc
after the call wedding invites packed away /ac
kitsune mourns for her fallen mate /wc
sliver of the autumn moon cradles a star /ac
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 141
crowded platform for the way home /wc
•
each stalk plowed under is a promise /wc
dinner table set with hope /ac
the vagabond rests at last by the old lighthouse /wc
spring sea laps against my feet /ac
pink clouds of hanami will never be the same again /wc
the butterfly awakens /ac
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 142
Flight A solo kasen
Aubrie Cox, USA
heat hangs in the temple halls — sweating buddha
a dull splash in the shallow wishing well
lazy circles ending at the beginning
luna moth lands on the windowsill
lightning moon pierces the hazy clouds of my thoughts
writing a novel at the stroke of midnight
•
texts bounce off satellites between us
jet streams streak the morning sky
speckled eggs in the folds of the farm girl's apron
bird's nest woven with Easter grass
the key to their first home on a string
construction crew packs up for the day
•
all night long the rabbit pounds away on the moon
enough mochi for the whole world Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 143
a small fox out of and into the darkness
rainy streets glisten with broken glass
foundation slips through a hole in the makeup bag
when you're not looking I paint over my lies
•
tea left to cool after the fight now too cold
even the paper cranes are unflappable
two days after she left the frog is back
wind in the willows gently stirs pond scum
toy boat run aground in the sandbox
pillowcase parachutes off the garage roof
•
dandelion seeds carry a little piece of me away
barbeque pit filled with ashes of your diary
dust gathers on the new gravestone
Mother's Day telegram still unopened
Major Tom phones home 1-800-MOON
distant galaxies in the kaleidoscope
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 144
•
stained light washes over empty pews
holy books stacked on top one another
school bell cuts through the pouring rain
gum under the desk from her braces days
notebooks covered in cherry blossom stickers
suitcase sitting empty on the bed
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 145
Dear Readers,
While we may never be able to adequately express our sympathy for the people of Japan following the triple disasters of the earthquake, tsunami and subsequent nuclear radiation, poetry can still give expression to our thoughts and feelings. As Notes from the Gean is a journal of Japanese form poetry, we felt that it was fitting and right that we show our support for Japan with this tribute.
Though we do not intend to mark every disaster that occurs in our world with special features, our thoughts and prayers are also with those who have suffered following the earthquakes in New Zealand and Spain.
Colin Stewart Jones, managing editor.
Melinda Hipple
our axis shifts — Fukushima Daiichi through flurries of snow
spring tide
the daikaiju hidden in every wave
new daffodils bloom among the rubble... lanterns floating by
Lorin Ford
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 146
A New Raw Season
Early spring in Utah's canyon country, red and mauve sandstone pillars, wind carved canyons, the land still denuded by winter's fury. In the dry, sandy washes, bits of green here and there, a few wildflowers starting, a purple locoweed that grows only in disturbed areas.
A static-riddled radio, my only connection to the world, brings the news, each day's worse than the previous day's, a land devastated by an artificial sun's fury, a village washed away by a tsunami, a people, stunned, in tears. Japan, it seems so far, yet so near, that small island of a people who love cherry blossoms, who gave haiku to the world.
bent low from a flash flood — ancient cottonwood
Ray Rasmussen
haiku: Lorin Ford haiga and image: Colin Stewart Jones
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 147
Shichi Fukujin
on the makeshift map we kiss the lost cities
starlight cold my finger traces the north star
petal-like moon over Fukushima consoling people
dealing with loss my childhood in bookcovers
baby giggle the man resurfaces with sea-green eyes
Myoken Bosatsu your compass for safe voyage
Alan Summers Japanese translation: Hidenori Hiruta
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 148
Colin Stewart Jones
tanka: Kirsty Karkow haiga and image: Melinda Hipple
Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 149
An Interview with Jane Reichhold by Colin Stewart Jones
Colin: Jane, most interviews with haiku luminaries usually start with a variation on the same question which is "what first sparked your interest in haiku?" I am not going to ask you that. Over your illustrious career writing within the haikai genres you have accomplished all there is to accomplish; and if parts of haiku theory, practice and knowledge was not already in place then you ably wrote the book on it. Having been there, done that and got the T-shirt, so to speak, what is it that still keeps you motivated?
Jane: When I get into new situations or am visiting different places, I become aware of special images or incidents that form fresh connections or associations and something in me becomes alert and searches for words for what I am feeling or observing. The ten day trip to Japan last September, naturally unleashed a flood of tanka and haiku daily. When I am rested, or at the beginning of an adventure, I will write tanka; as the images pile up I will often drop back to haiku. Later when I rework the poems (I revise and rewrite a lot) I will sometimes expand some of the haiku into tanka when what I was feeling at the time clings to the words. I never get just one haiku or tanka from an experience. They come in bunches and I feel they carry their original emotional connections. That is why it is very hard for me to show or submit just one poem. It is like plucking one sparkly bead off of a shimmering evening gown.
I can also get into new areas of experience through reading. Rilke, Dickinson, Woolf, the Japanese and Chinese Master Poets and even the works of so-called unknowns can put me into emotional states where I can see my familiar environment in previously unrecognized ways.
That is the motivation for writing my own poems. Still, there is a lot of days filled with time that I am not or can not be in these 'states of grace' where the poems come to me. So I do whatever needs to be done: write an article someone wants, publish a book, start a project to further poetry, fill a gap in the current understanding of something, thank someone for their work which has impressed me, wash the dishes, feed the cat.
Colin: Your literary interests and sources for inspiration are wide and varied. It would also be fair to say that sloth is not a sin you suffer from. I see from your website you have recently completed a book on the Psalms: Psalms as New Testament, because as you state you wished to return God to "the New Testament idea of being a loving and compassionate part of our lives." Do you mind discussing faith and
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theology. Surely, it was Christ who first put forward the idea of God as a loving Father, which was considered blasphemy by the Pharisees, and seeing as the New Testament comes later in the chronology would it not be an impossibility to "return" The New Testament idea of God to a point before this idea was known?
Jane: The Biblical Psalms are in the Old Testament, where they reflect the ideas of a god at that time — a being of wrath, anger, and punishment. However, now we have other images of God, especially since the teachings of Christ as you say, so many of us are uncomfortable using prayers and other devotional materials that reinforce the idea of a god that is still portrayed in such negative terms. The Old Testament Psalms are beautiful poetry and too magnificent to discard along with these outmoded ideas of a god. Also the way they are written in the OT, the couplets of parallel poetry have been destroyed. So I tried to bring back the poetry of the Psalms, along with our current ideas of a loving god. I did this by resetting the Psalms into couplets and substituting more modern ideas of God which equals the Psalms of the New Testament.
Originally I did the work for myself. I was keeping the Divine Office — prayers and readings 8 times a day in the Catholic tradition of Saint Benedict and I simply could not say or pray such vengeful ideas about God as was in the Psalms. Then I found out there were others who agreed we needed to up-date God's image and rebalance the strongly patriarchal slant of the OT version of the Psalms. The use of "Lord" implied a male ruler. To use "Beloved," as a term of address, brings the relationship into a warmer more personable marriage of souls. Such seemingly small things become very important when praying or meditating as the soul and mind merge to enlarge them into beliefs.
By the way, I worked on the Psalms in 2000 - 2001, and carried it on my website. Last summer, I greatly feared that the trip to Japan would be "too much for me" and that I would die. I felt I had to get the Psalms into a real book before that happened.
Colin: I am pleased to see that your fears were not realized on your Japan trip. Yes, much of the poetry and devices such as acrostics are lost when translating from the original Hebrew. This is true for most translations of poetry into different languages. Translations often seem to concentrate on the meaning of the words but sometimes the musical qualities of the lyrics are lost. I encountered much of same problems when I studied Gaelic language and literature. As we know Japanese is a non-syllabic language and there has been much discussion and debate surrounding the translation of the haiku of the master haijin into English. What are your views about R.H. Blyth, and his adherence to a 575 metre, and those who have followed him who advocate a less strict metre. Should we, at least, keep to the s/l/s format; and what are your own ideas about current English Language Haiku (ELH) insofar as following the
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Japanese model; and should we be following set patterns or aiming to capture the spirit of the form, above all else?
Jane: R.H. Blyth, though I have all his books and have read them each several times, lost his credibility with me when he stated that women could not write haiku. Beyond that is the problem of trying to use one method of structuring a poem form in languages as different as Japanese and English. The Japanese kana or sound unit is so much shorter than our syllables that one cannot interchange one for the other. Seventeen English syllables will contain about 1/3 more information than 17 sound units in Japanese. For a poem form built on brevity it seems self-defeating to use a rule that binds us to repeating the problem. I am very much for the guideline of using short, long, short lines as I think this is easier for non-poets to follow than one based meter. In fact, in the past couple of years I have embarked on a crusade to get haiku to return to this s,l,s form. Too often I am finding haiku written with the longest line at the end when following the rule would actually make a better haiku. An example would be:
evening dark shore rocks washed by the sea
I feel the poem is stronger if it is written as:
shore rocks washed by the sea evening dark
Do you see the vast difference in what this haiku is saying?
Colin: Yes I do. Do you, then, regard ELH as a completely separate entity?
Jane: In many ways it would be easier to view what we write as haiku completely separated from Japanese haiku because there are so many differences. The list would include:
1. We are mostly basing the form on line lengths instead of the count of sound units. 2. The season word which is dropped from so many of our haiku. 3. The fact that we cannot use kireji or cutting words because we don't have any. We do have punctuation but since that does not influence the length of the haiku (as it does in Japanese when the sound units in the punctuation add to the count) I feel we only need punctuation in haiku when we have failed to use the grammar to make clear the breaks between the fragment and the phrase. 4. The fact that we do not differentiate between haiku and senryu and many of our 'haiku' would be judged as senryu if written in Japanese. 5. Japanese haiku are often written in one line while we have the convention of placing each poem part on a separate line. I do think this is an improvement for several reasons. We do not have the history and habit of hearing these separate poem parts and it is too easy for the haiku to become a run-on sentence. Also, more and more people are seeing the advantage of having a space at the end of the poem part in order for the reader, or listener, to have time to form an image based on the information given in the line. In the nanosecond it takes for one's eyes to shift from the right- to the left-side of the page, there is time for the creation of the personal image. I feel this is where the actual poetry begins. When the reader/listener allows the words of the poem to create a personal and individual image, then adds another and "sees" (!) the connection to the two parts, then that person, and not the author, is creating poetry.
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However, I feel it is too late in the game, now after 100 years and the countless efforts of the Japanese to bring their haiku to us, to make the change in our naming the form haiku. However, we should note, and keep in mind, that when the Japanese create contests they usually keep our work separate from theirs and use the English-Language or Non-Japanese haiku category.
Colin: Indeed, the cat is out of the bag! Jane, you list the differences between ELH and Japanese haiku and also note at the end of your last response that:"...when the Japanese create contests they usually keep our work separate from theirs and use the English-Language or Non-Japanese haiku category." given this, I am prompted to ask:
Do you think the Japanese will, or must, always have authority over the rest of the world in haiku matters?
Jane: Lacking a working crystal ball, I cannot answer the "will" part of your question. As to the "must the Japanese have authority over the rest of the world in haiku matters" part of the question I can only say that when the poets of any other language take up haiku to make it their poetry form, changes will occur. These have happened already and with the increased exposure haiku has due to the Internet, these changes will manifest faster and be reflected in more poets' works. I believe the future of any poetry form is completely in the hands of the poets. Teachers and authorities may exist but the future of poetry is within the poets — who they believe in, who they follow, who inspires them to their best work and who keeps the form alive for them will all be forgotten as it is the poem alone that lives.
Colin: I agree, it must be the writers and not the theorists or academics that should shape the future of any form. Do you think, ELH and Non-Japanese haiku has grown sufficiently, in the past hundred years, to now start influencing Japanese thinking then?
Jane: Now this is a novel idea. I find it very hard to judge this. First of all, there are so many haiku writers in Japan and so many organizations, (Gabi Greve answered when I asked her for a number, "add up the number of towns and villages and multiply it by ten.") Out of that number how many person read ELH? And out of that small number, who would admire anything we wrote or did enough to emulate it? However there are some bright spots in the night sky. The magazine HI of the Haiku International has for over 25 years printed a bi-annual journal of English and Japanese haiku and The Mainichi Daily Newspaper regularly prints a column of haiku in English and even runs a yearly contest. The Tanka Journal for the Nihon Kajin Club also comes out twice a year with an English version and Aya Yukhi, the editor has also translated the tanka of Anna Holley into Japanese and is currently working on a book of my tanka.
Colin: Publishing Non Japanese work is not the same as being influenced by it though, is it? Hmmn... "who would admire anything we wrote or did enough to emulate it?" I do find that response to be rather limiting, on two fronts: it is very dismissive of ELH as poetry of any worth whatsoever and rather paints the Japanese as insular and isolationist when it comes to art. Yet there are some Japanese artists from other genres who have been open to occidental aesthetics, I am thinking of the filmmaker Kurosawa, in particular, who was heavily influenced by the American Western film genre when he made his classic Seven Samurai and Yojimbo films which were in turn made into "Spaghetti Westerns" (Italy/Spain) which then influenced the stylistically violent Peckinpah and Tarantino (USA) who brought all these ideas back to the American Western. So if there can be cross-fertilisation in film then why not in poetry. Even though ELH is one hundred years on do you think some people are still actively trying to bolt the stable door?
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Jane: Well, since poetry is a written art, publishing is the main way of sharing it. I feel that if someone cannot read our work he or she will never find out its possible admirable qualities. It is a well-known fact, that in the past, the Japanese were seen as insular and isolationists, but this is changing, in more than just the cases above which I listed. Still it has been my observation that the Japanese persons seemed to be of two kinds (forgive the generalization). Those who felt, and may still feel, that we non-Japanese cannot begin to write in their poetry forms because we lack the literary history, the cultural sensibilities, the amount of understanding of references which enriches the ambiguity of their slender forms. They think, not without grounds, that we as a people and as writers are not able to admire their work to the level which they can and do. The very small number of Japanese who did not feel like this, instead felt a missionary-like zeal to teach us their ways, culture and literature. Here comes the rub! Because of the differences in our languages and our cultures, we cannot follow their methods to create poetic work that approaches theirs. For the nay-sayers this 'proved' that we were incapable of, for example, writing a real haiku. It has been my impression that those Japanese who do try to work with us, do so with considerable risk and possible rejection from fellow citizens. Therefore we need to be even more grateful to them even when they cannot always give us what we need to bring our poetry up to theirs.
I clearly remember my shock and dismay when after working years with Hatsue Kawamura on translations, she one day said, "These translations, they are so far from the beauty of the tanka in Japanese." I felt as if I was trampling flowers.
Colin: Trampling flowers! Now there is an image that should motivate every non-Japanese to aim for musicality in their haiku and tanka. Jane, thank you for giving generously of your time and participating in this interview and now I would like to present some samples of your work for our readers to enjoy.
Jane: Thank you, Colin, for initiating this interview. You have a marvelously quirky mind and it has been a joy to match wits with you. I hope the readers of Notes from the Gean enjoy reading this as much as I did dancing it with you. You are proving to be an inspiration to me with your work as editor of Notes from the Gean. It was partially your increased interest in haiku education that motivated me to post my Bare Bones School of Haiku online. So I want to thank you, for not only looking at my work long enough to think of these innovative questions, but for all the work you do for Japanese genre poetry. A deep bow in the direction of Scotland!
Colin: Thank you, Jane. If you ever make it to Scotland I will take you to a Ceilidh, and we will dance the night away!
POINT ARENA WHEN IT RAINS
tires tread through small waves with the sound of gutter rivers running full the street becomes a shining sheet of water between the sash and glass a spider nest lets fall black droplets of future fly meals in the diner windows steamed with gossip "Keith's woman had a baby girl" tracks in and out the door remember other places that come through walls made of piecrust bursting under a fork shaped as a loud laugh
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another squall sweeps down the town so the edges of real things fizzle and dance a sparkle to cover the ordinariness of miracles two by two car lights search for the dotted line that calls out singing, "home, home" even when these people only borrow roofs as does the bellied landowner who stares into an empty cup the rain no longer fills with coffee in drought times the sky lightens when the door opens and the water bill goes over a hundred again
warm and dry a house of sound above the beach
Jane Reichhold
the long letter lacking a certain grace yet it was folded the way a swan settles
on a still bright pond
cliffs holding their sides in a rocky rattle the laughter of children old, bent and slow afoot Notes from the Gean No.9, June 2011 Page 155
beach rocks changing the creek's course with each tide I come back to find the landscape new
sundown ripeness coming into a life-like old age the done and undone in a blaze of fruit colors
early to the beach beating holiday crowds surprised thinking I am alone to see the quarter moon
Jane Reichhold
music
in the grass
lovers
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fusion music apple trees bloom at the winery
eastern melodies the apple trees newly planted
cloud fire on every tree blossoms
the murmur around outdoor tables the wine
the afternoon rolling downhill live music
spots of beauty under the apple trees alto sax solo
falling petals the afternoon ends with applause
music covering the musicians petals
packing up the chatter of musicians snap their cases
taking home an afternoon of music sunburn
Jane Reichhold
www.AHApoetry.com/
http://beadsnjane.blogspot.com
Lynx: A Journal for Linking Poets
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Peeling an Orange: Haiku by Peggy Heinrich Photographs by John Bolivar
A review by Colin Stewart Jones
Peeling an Orange is a truly beautiful book whose cover invites one in to sample and enjoy. It was also personally inscribed to me, by Heinrich, which was a nice touch. Peeling an Orangebegins with the charming longer piece: Conversation With Bashō; and is then set out, rather like an orange, in segments that follow the pattern of the seasons and interspersed with Bolivar’s lovely descriptive black and white photographs.
Heinrich is a master of her craft. She writes with both intuition and instinct:
just knowing the velvet touch of pansies without touching
income tax time — scribbling on the tax form notes for a haiku
One gets a sense of Heinrich's delight with all nature and her concern for all its creatures.
holding my breath until the cormorant resurfaces
Indeed, it seems she would not even hurt a fly:
carelessly, brushing away a fly into a cobweb
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But the same cannot be said for her cat:
beneath the feeder a scattering of feathers — sunbathing cat
Heinrich is not afraid to show her emotions but seems to use humour as a mask for her grief and loneliness. The man is missing from her bed yet she tries to make this a positive by remembering his bad points. Interestingly the inclusion of the word “try” is very telling and significant:
half-empty bed I try to recall his faults
One sees her hesitation about her loss from the spacing in the following poem which also signifies her reluctance to bring finality to the matter:
packing up his clothes giving away everything giving away
The matter of fact nature of Heinrich's haiku belies the inherent sadness that is clear on closer reading:
after the funeral I come home to leaky faucets and a pile of leaves
One senses there is a stoical nature to Heinrich where she must put on a brave face and get on with the day-to-day things but it is evident she is missing a man about the house.
Given Heinrich's already noted concern for nature, the irony of our duality when it comes to nature's scarier creatures is beautifully and funnily brought home:
ten below zero carefully setting the spider outside
There are so many more examples I could choose but copyright laws only allow me to include a small percentage and I would not want to give away all this book's delights. However,Peeling an Orange is a collection from a poet at the top of her game and is a must for all who have a taste for quality haiku and is thoroughly recommended reading.
Peeling an Orange, Peggy Heinrich MET Press Baltimore MD 21236 USA ISBN 978-1-935398-12-7
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Home to Ballygunge: Kolkata Tanka by William Hart
A review by Colin Stewart Jones
William Hart is a poet and novelist who also holds a PhD in English from the University of Southern California. As the title suggests, Home to Ballygunge, Kolkata Tanka is a collection of tanka poems set in Kolkata, formerly known as Calcutta, the state capital of West Bengal, India. Rarely does one read a book of tanka that manages to sustain the imagery throughout the collection and still delight the reader with something new in each poem.
Hart uses light and dark, and the shades in-between as a metaphor for human relationships in his tanka. He is not afraid to mix the poetic with concrete imagery and the result is often philosophical:
this thing between us like sun rising in fog— brightness without light day with no beginning words with no sound
Similarly philosophical and perhaps inspired by the Wheel of Life from the Indian flag Hart muses on the cyclical aspect of nature:
this apple core to me an ending is to the waiting crow a new beginning waiting to begin
And again he is both poetic and philosophical, using an eye as a metaphor for the sun:
the eye that can’t close opens bright orange blazing in place it walks the earth feeding on the night
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There is an openness and honesty to Hart’s poetry that is refreshing. In the following poem we get a glimpse of someone perhaps trying meditation because of their geographical position and failing because of the gnat, not quite a mote, has taken his focus and is irritating his eye.
the center of my life all at once becomes the gnat drowning in my eye
The eye and what is seen, or unseen, plays large in Hart’s poems. Darkness can paradoxically often prove to be illuminating:
the power cut blinds us with darkness that was always there we just forgot about it
And again the absence of light heightens the senses:
the blind wear black glasses or bare their eyes to the light most can hear a lotus blooming all peer with their fingertips
This sensory overload does, however, come at a price. Hart has obviously been indulging in the local cuisine but is suffering the next day as his insides are dancing from eating hot curry.
I love all these spices but today they love me back like a brute tango leaving me hot and wobbly dizzy and a little wan
Each poem has a page of its own (which they all deserve) in this very nicely presented pocket-sized book and I have no hesitation in recommending Home to Ballygunge.
______
Home to Ballygunge, William Hart Modern English Tanka Press PO Box 43717 Baltimore, MD 21236, USA
ISBN 978-193539817-2 ______
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A New Resonance 7: Emerging Voices in English-Language Haiku Edited by Jim Kacian and Dee Evetts
A Review by Billie Wilson
The New Resonance series is one of the most important and enjoyable English-language haiku series published today, and is a major resource for haiku historians. In this seventh volume we find another solid collection with the consistently high standards we've come to expect and anticipate.
We are introduced to 18 poets who are likely "destined to be amongst the leaders in the genre," as the editors note in their foreword about previous poets selected for this series. With a generous showcasing of 15 haiku for each poet, a photograph, and a brief snippet of prose, the reader is allowed to get better acquainted with writers from Australia, Canada, Japan, New Zealand, Scotland, and the United States. There is an excellent mix of previously-published and unpublished work.
I knew from my experience with the previous six volumes that I was in for a real treat when I first sat down with this new treasure. There was the desire to greedily devour it in one sitting, and the wish to slowly savor, making it last as long as possible. I couldn't resist — I did both. Despite the richness of seven pages of haiku for each poet, I found myself begging at the seventh page for, "Just one more!"
As a sampler, I've selected one of my favorites from each poet:
a long journey to stand by this grave — mackerel sky
Susan Antolin Walnut Creek, California
tai chi class the slow curve of a train's whistle
Alan S. Bridges Littleton, Massachusetts
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one empty bowl inside another winter moon
Joyce Clement Bristol, Connecticut
low-lying fog the house guests outstay their welcome
Jennifer Corpe Elkhart, Indiana
a silver hair woven into the nest winter light
Lorin Ford Melbourne, Australia
all night long small frogs keep my windows open
Jeff Hoagland Hopewell, New Jersey
the time it takes to thaw the breast milk — winter night
Duro Jaiye Hirakata, Japan
no moon my mind follows the wild geese
Colin Stewart Jones Aberdeen, Scotland
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morning hush the fisherman casts a thread of sunlight
Catherine J. S. Lee Eastport, Maine
summer road trip a change in mood with the top up
Erik Linzbach Dewey, Arizona
the distance between my attic and the moon — April rain
Chen-ou Liu Ajax, Ontario, Canada
summer's end — I lick the popsicle down to wood
Tanya McDonald Woodinville, Washington
invisible now the path I followed river starlight
Fonda Bell Miller Alexandria, Virginia
how far will this busyness take me dandelion seeds
Renée Owen Sebastopol, California
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the rainstorm eases people drift back to what they were
Greg Piko Yass, Australia
motel room passing headlights change the shape of darkness
Melissa Spurr Joshua Tree, California
fallow field the frosted shadow of a scarecrow
André Surridge Hamilton, New Zealand
salt spray a taste of peat in my whisky
Quendryth Young Alstonville, Australia
______
A New Resonance 7: Emerging Voices in English-Language Haiku Edited by Jim Kacian and Dee Evetts Red Moon Press, 2011 P.O. Box 2461, Winchester, VA 22504-1661, USA
ISBN 978-1-936848-00-3 ______
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All That Remains by Catherine J.S. Lee
A Review by Lorin Ford
Catherine J.S. Lee's All That Remains begins with a haiku which hints at the layering of present and past to be found over the course of this sensitively edited chapbook:
hometown visit no trespassing signs where we used to play
Set in four sections, All That Remains gains the formality of musical structure. Each movement develops the themes of return to family and family traditions and the persistent influence of the past but with a difference in mood and pace each time. A narrative framework of impressions and memories from childhood to the present is implied.
In the first section a pervading stillness is barely disturbed by the murmur of a scythe, a stirring of leaves and a swirl of pine needles on a roof. There is the silence of a tin roof after rain, the lingering scent of sun-dried linen, a braided rug hung out to dry in haying weather and a rebuilt porch on which a single chair indicates not only a grandmother's widowed status but something of her stoic character as well. Images of the past glow as if in an eternal present.
In section two, a freighter's horn heard through fog and a wharf listing under the weight of storm clouds presage the emergence of unsettling, darker undercurrents. Family secrets, lies, hidden personal histories are enfolded within objects — photograph albums, diaries, war medals and a flag set against the rattling of dry leaves:
tri-folded coffin flag — dry leaves in a corner of the empty pool
After the hard territory of the decline and death of parents in the third section, there is the comparative energy and gaiety of a family reunion in the closing section:
horseshoes and gossip tossed around the grove family reunion
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Horseshoes are tossed (reminding the reader that this is a family which proudly adheres to traditions which have died out in many places in the world) dust eddies, winds unravel, a moth clings and a Great Blue Heron fades in such a way as to become one with the sky. The greater frequency of verbs in section four suggests that the world itself has now become more active. A commitment seems to have been made to be present for all that remains to be experienced in a life:
backlit clouds the slow wait for sunset
All That Remains shows that Cat Lee writes haiku with subtlety and precision, and she writes from a strong sense of place — Maine, in the New England region of north-eastern U.S.A. — and heritage. She evokes mood and changes in mood through expert use of the technique of juxtaposition, blending images from the natural and human worlds into the one fabric.
Winner of the second Turtle Light Press biennial haiku chapbook competition, All That Remainsis a delightfully produced, hand made chapbook which will please the most fastidious collector.
______
All That Remains, Catherine J.S. Lee Turtle Light Press, 2011 Highland Park, N.J., 08904 U.S.A.
27pp, ISBN 978-0-9748147-2-8 ______
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The Intentional Ellipses: Haiku and its Relationship to Space
by Tracy Koretsky
There was a great guru of Zen Who ran out of ink in his pen All the better, he said For these words in my head ....
Aaaannnd.....? you say. The other shoe? I'm waiting. Well, if you're Japanese, and instead of limerick, you're hearing haiku, you can just go on waiting, for that is precisely the intended effect of haiku. To the Japanophone it offers no cadence, no satisfying sense of resolve. It is the poetry of deliberate incompletion — a conduit from here to someplace else. There are myriad ways how, like a koan, haiku's inherent quality of incompleteness enables this most compact of poetic forms to be one of the most expansive. By considering the relevance of space to examples ranging from haiku's three classical masters1 through today's avant-garde2, the wide breadth of haiku, as well as techniques for comprehending it, becomes evident. It's time to put away the notions instilled by your third grade teacher. Modern English language haiku are not limited to three lines of 5/7/5 syllabication beginning with a reference to nature. Now your third grade teacher wasn't trying to scam you. Chalk it up to some skewed interpretations and misappropriations by the well-intended pioneers who brought haiku form to the attention of the Western world. Today however, haiku artists benefit from a more accurate understanding of the form's origins.
The Party Game
Haiku had its beginnings in a popular pastime called renga3. This elaborate and refined parlor game began in the courtly era of Shogun Japan, though, by the time of its 17th century hey-day, it was played by noble and peasant alike. People enjoyed it at parties as an excuse to drink, though it was also "played" seriously by clubs and societies who edited and published their results. Established masters, including the renowned Bashö, considered by most to be the father of the form, were called in to supervise. It is from the initial, premeditated, renga fragment, assisted by the advent of the printing press, that the form we now know as haiku was born. Renga was built upon the basic units of the tanka, a form as common to Japanese poetry as the pentameter quatrain is to English language poetry, and quite natural to the Japanophone's ear. Tanka required 31 onji, or sound-symbols which are similar to, but in practice substantially shorter than, English language syllables. These were arranged in lines of 5-7-5-7-7. The following is an early tanka by Ono no Komachi4, a woman about whom little is known. The last two lines, in particular, are quite famous:
Did he appear because I fell asleep thinking of him? If only I'd known I was dreaming, I'd never have wakened.
Many authors compare tanka to the Western sonnet. The similarity lies in the function of the last two lines which, like the final tercet of the sonnet, comment upon the previous. However, when considering the form's musical qualities, the better comparison might be the limerick, with its pleasing return to the tonic rhyme. To play a renga the first player would offer a hokku, literally a "starting verse" consisting of the first three 5-7-5 onji lines of the tanka. The next player would then "cap" the verse by adding on two lines of seven syllables to make a tanka. Riffing off only the lines offered by the second player, the third player would now attempt a brand new poem — a sort of upside down tanka — by adding three lines of 5-7-5 to the two lines of seven. The result, if successful, is an entirely new piece. It would, ideally, have no relationship to the meaning of the first tanka. Now can you guess what the next player must do? If you said add two lines of seven syllables to the 5-7-5 just played, you'd be right. And, once again, if the players were adept, the images would morph into a wholly different piece.
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An important rule of renga is that no story line be developed. The sense of logic must always be undermined, the sense of completion, ever elusive. If the renga were a film it would be constructed with rapid dissolves into surprising, unrelated, images. These images are more related to one another than say, a string of commercials on television, but they transmute and even disappear quite rapidly. The ability to let go of the previous image and be present in the reality of a totally new image is an Eastern, or actually, Buddhist, way of thinking, quite foreign to us. The medieval poet Nijo Yoshimoto5 put it this way:
"Renga is not exhausted by the meaning of the stanza that preceded or of the stanza that follows ... for just as we set boundaries only to have them shift away, so there is nothing in this transient world. As we consider today, it has grown tomorrow. As we consider spring, it has become autumn."
In other words, each ephemeral tanka fragment offered in the renga is an arrow pointing. Towards what? Towards intentionally undefined space.
"It's just so lonely"
To illustrate what this means expressively, allow me a brief anecdote. I used to sing jazz professionally, and, because I'm known to enjoy an expressive risk now and then, worked up a little arrangement for one of my tunes calling for an unresolved final chord. It drove the accompanists nuts. Half of them resolved the chord anyway, despite my red circles and double underlines instructing them not to. Most lectured me in rehearsal believing, as accompanists frequently do, that because I'm a singer, I don't understand theory. One bohemian sort just loved it, shaking his head and saying "Whoa, out there." But my favorite accompanist, he actually begged. "Just let me resolve it," he pleaded, his hand hovering above the keys. "Look, I'll just play one little note." So I asked him why. What was it about breaking this rule that was so hard to do, so objectionable, so "whoa, out there"? "It's because it breaks my heart," he said. "It's just so lonely." Precisely. That is exactly the effect the unresolved tanka that is haiku has upon the Japanophone's ear. This trailing off, this ellipses leading to nothing, effectively imbues haiku with its predominate tonal mode: the quality known as sabi. Inadequately translated, sabi is the sadness of aloneness, or perhaps better phrased as the more Zen concept of the solitariness of no-mind. Notice how space functions to convey this quality in the following haiku by Bashö
First snow falling on the half finished bridge.
The bridge, the only mode of connection between people of the day, is not only unfinished, but, because of the snow, will remain so for the long winter ahead. The image confirms an unbroken emptiness of space and time lying ahead. Former poet laureate Robert Hass writes of Matsuo Munefusa Bashö6 (1644-1694) that "it would appear that the world contrived to serve him with a lesson in nonattachment every decade or so." He is referring first to Bashö's father's death, then to his beloved master's, and finally to destruction of his house due to fire. These life lessons, combined with Bashö's dedication to Chinese poets and Zen meditation, characterize the form to this day. Emptiness is a characteristic common to the Zen-influenced arts. Consider for example, Ikebana, Japanese flower arranging, with its paradoxical qualities of sumptuousness and austerity. Barbara Joyce, a well-known practitioner of the Sogetsu School, instructs her students to consider the unfilled space equally to the physical material. In truth, the unfilled space is actually the compositional focus of Ikebana. Does this not go to the heart of the following haiku by Anita Virgil7?
the black spaces : as much star as star!
Echart Tolle, possibly the most influential contemporary popularizer of Zen concepts puts it this way: "You contact the all not only from within, but also in the silence between sounds and in the space between objects."8 That probably explains why William J. Higginson, one of the world's foremost authorities on Japanese haiku in English, had the insight to title a piece constructed of linked haiku "Interstices".
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Take a look at this piece by Virginia Brady Young:
On the first day of spring snow falling from one bough to another
Young focuses our gaze. Instead of the large vista, we are asked to envision a space delineated by two boughs. The fact that snow falls from one to the other is an apt summation of the first day of spring — a proof of its coming. It is not uncommon for haiku to be constructed from this sort of equation. Notice too, how the lines are broken in such a way that the middle line might either be read as completing the first phrase or beginning the second. Snow falling on the first day of spring is a disappointing event, but then we learn that what she really means is that it falling away from the trees. The last line functions similarly to punchline of a joke. While focusing on the space between things does create balance, as in Ikebana, and contribute to the sort of spiritual stillness referred to by Tolle, perhaps of greater importance to poets, it has enormous expressive value. Consider this haiku by Marco Fratecelli9:
between each wave my children disappear
Now, not all haiku are Zen — quite the contrary. In fact, as Hirosaki Sato wrote in One Hundred Frogs10
"Haiku artists have ... (always) ... had less grandiose intentions than enlightenment. Haiku have been written to congratulate, to praise, to describe, to express gratitude, wit, cleverness, disappointment, resentment, or what have you, but rarely to convey enlightenment."
Not all haiku are Zen, but Fratecelli's "between each wave" is. It speaks of transience, the ephemera of existence, our contingency with nature. Each "space" in this haiku, that is, the cresting of each wave, contains consequence; each space is fraught with fear and anxiety — of breath held. And yet it is a poem of trust as the author allows his children to remain in the ocean, letting them go and allowing them to be free entities.
Space Vs. Place
But wait, if the subject is the area bounded by borders, be they physical or temporal, is that "space"? Because I am not Bashö's buddy with their unlimited associative minds, but rather the daughter of Aristotle, I found it essential to know this. How is "space" different from "place"? Actually, this distinction is more than semantical sophistry. After all, to discuss the use of place in haiku is hardly an assignment worth doing. Haiku is the quintessential poem of place, one of its most common attributes if not, arguably, a defining characteristic, being the kigo, or seasonal word, which functions as a sort of dateline, specifying the particular time and, often, location. My American Heritage gives "place" as:
"1. A portion of space; an area with definite or indefinite boundaries. 2. An area occupied by or set aside for a specific person or purpose. 3. A definite location."
whereas "space" is defined as:
"1.(a)A set of elements or points satisfying specified geometric postulates. (b)The infinite extension of the three- dimensional field of everyday life. 2. The expanse in which the solar system, stars and galaxies exist. 3. A blank or empty area : the spaces between words." (and so forth).
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The question therefore becomes, how does one manipulate the quintessential poetry of place to encompass "space"? How can the three-dimensional field of everyday life be extended in a form prized for its brevity? One way, to borrow a term often applied to the paintings of Edgar Degas, is to "break the frame". He was the first painter, at least in the Western tradition, to "crop" in ways that implied extension or continuation beyond the composition. For example, by depicting only the thigh and forearm of one of his famous dancers, Degas left the viewer to complete the partial limbs mentally. This is, in a sense what the second of the great classical masters, Yosa Buson (1716-1783) is doing in this haiku:
field of bright mustard, the moon in the east — the sun in the west
Buson was a man of a very different disposition than Bashö. Many scholars enjoy polarizing them, even calling them "the two pillars of haiku". Bashö, the mystic seeker, versus Buson, the worldly artist. Gentle, wise, Bashö versus brilliant, complex, Buson. Although in general such devices are false and derisive, of more use to scholars than to the service of biography, if one's goal is to understand haiku as opposed to biographies, the conceit can be useful. It yokes the aspects of haiku that are concerned with heightening consciousness with those concerned with artful description. Notice that in Buson's haiku above there is just pure description, and sparse description at that. Not only must the continuation of the mustard field be supplied by the reader, so too must the emotional content, the sense of awe, or perhaps humility, the poem instills. By the way, take care not to read meaning into the moon coming before the sun. The haiku has been translated both ways. In this contemporary haibun — a haiku linked to a piece of prose — by Penny Harter11, the subject is most definitely a specific place. Yet it draws its emotional content from the concept of space.
During the summer of 1987 my husband and I were fortunate enough to spend the night in a pilgrims' dormitory on Mount Haguro in Yamagata Prefecture, Japan. When I entered the room, its entire far end open to the sky, I quickly crossed the space to the edge of the tatami-matted floor and opened my arms:
fingertip to fingertip and still more sky — Mount Haguro
Harter has made several admirable choices of diction here. As is true with all poetry, this can be an essential key to appreciating a piece. Unlike the piece from Buson, Harter's haiku is not framed by the sky, but by her own reference. To convey this she has not chosen "hand to hand" or even "arms open wide", but "fingertip to fingertip", as much as a mere human can physically encompass. And not only is there "more", there is "still more." Notice too the inclusion of the word "fortunate" in her preface. This contributes to the sense of wonder and delight. Moreover, it is an expression of humility frequently invoked in haiku. Harter has captured the moment truly and naturally. Specifically, she has captured its spontaneity. Spontaneity, for which there is no apt synonym, is another element — if not the subject — of some of the best haiku. When the technique of "breaking the frame" is applied not to the strictly visual, as was the case in these two examples, but to the conceptual, the reader is led towards something further. Here is a piece by George Swede, a professor of psychology, in which the "border" is broken literally and figuratively:
passport check : my shadow waits across the border
At first glance the poem appears somewhat humorous, a sort of glib visual notation, but a second glance is merited. The word "shadow" is laden with connotations that move this poem into the Swede's particular realm — the psychological. Because there is always something inherently uneasy about having one's identification checked, just as there is about moving beyond one's own known and safe borders, there is something eerie about the shadow taking the lead here; it is as if one moves inexorably beyond oneself.
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Another method of breaking the conceptual frame is to point towards the future. Buson did this when he wrote dozens of haiku beginning with the kigo "the short night", which is to say, the short summer night. He always chose the early morning as his subject, looking forward towards what would come next. The luminous clarity of these haiku sometimes remind of paintings by Edward Hopper:
the short night — on the outskirts of the village a small shop opening
Nicholas Virgilio, an early pioneer in exploiting the emotionally expressive capacities of haiku, especially in his famous series dedicated to a beloved brother lost in Viet Nam, provides a strong example:
Adding father's name to the family tombstone with room for my own.
By striking two notes simultaneously — his father's death and his own impending one — Virgilio creates a minor chord. Note how he has chosen to layout the piece, with each line taking subsequent steps to the right, inevitably marching on.
Every Ying has a Yang
As effective as haiku can be at expanding beyond itself, it is equally as effective at the opposite. Just repeat this one- line haiku of Cor Van Den Heuvel's aloud twice, as is the traditional custom with haiku:
raining at every window
and see if you do not instantly feel more circumscribed. This is a very universal notation, so much so, that Van Den Heuvel recognizes he need not provide any further information for us to rush immediately to our own private and very accessible association. Articulating a transferable association — capturing a moment and sharing it — may actually be the primary goal of haiku. I find that I am moved by this piece by Betty Drevniok:
snow at dusk: our pot of tea steeps slowly darker
In her first line she employs not one but two images that suggest a quieting, a shutting down. It is a bit reminiscent of Bashö's piece about the unfinished bridge. With the two elements — snowfall and nightfall — amplifying one another, it is clear to the reader that no one is going anywhere soon. A simple, homey, pot of tea — a substance that requires time and enclosure to come into being — provides an oasis of warmth. Note too how Drevniok has spaced her final line, leaving room, taking time, moving onward toward ultimate darkness. Another effective method to achieve spatial reduction is to scrutinize the minute. If Buson's "field of bright mustard," may be thought of as shot through a wide-angle lens, then certainly he has attached his telephoto to create this one:
white dew — one drop on each thorn
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Here is another one-liner from Cor Van Den Heuvel:
the shadow in the folded napkin
To bring to consciousness this humble element, this play of light that the less-present mind would almost surely overlook, is a characteristic of artistic tradition of Zen, and is often attempted in haiku. Bringing our attention to this "negative space" as the visual artists would say, quiets us and allows us a brief pause. For similar reasons, one can find a great many haiku exploring silence. (Oddly, there are almost no haiku about noise, that is, obnoxious, distracting noise, despite the fact that it is so much part of the fabric of contemporary urban existence. Perhaps it is fertile soil for poets interested in breaking new ground.) Here, in this haiku by Lorraine Ellis Harr, silence is used as a device to evoke distance:
after the snowfall . . . deep in the pine forest the sound of an axe
Another technique often found in haiku is the yoking of two disparate elements, perhaps something enormous to something miniscule, or something spiritual to something mundane, in order for each to reflect upon the other. This is another Zen-influenced expressive technique because it emphasizes the interconnectedness of all things and elevates the ordinary. Take a look at this haiku by Gary Hotham:
distant thunder — the dog's toenails click against the linoleum
Far is contrasted to near. Both images — thunder and a dog's toenails — come to us from nature, but one is the huge, impersonal nature to which we are subject, and the other is our darling companion animal. Like Ellis Harr, Hotham is using sound to express distance. The intimate sound of the near-by dog is a comfort as the storm approaches. Here is a poem by Elizabeth Searle Lamb12 in which far and near are played against each other by depicting them as mere illusion:
the far shore drifting out of the mist to meet us
"Space" is actually the subject of this haiku, and — like many poems by Emily Dickinson — it wonders at the disjunction between our perception and reality. The sense of the knowable, the trustable, is here undermined by nature. Whereas in this haiku by Clement Hoyt:
down from the bridge rail, floating from under the bridge, strangers exchange stares
space is contained — tamed, if you will — at least "bounded" by the passing glance of two strangers. One looks down from the bridge, one looks up to the bridge, an imaginary line is created, and as swiftly as the next play in renga, dissolved, as the boat floats beneath the bridge. In both poems, Searle Lamb's, "the far shore", and Hoyt's, "Down from the bridge rail," something is present and by the time you've observed it, present no longer. The manipulation of space allows these authors to pull of conceptual disappearing acts.
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Haiku Diaspora
Consider now an entirely different aspect of haiku and its relationship to space: global diaspora. Undoubtedly, haiku is a world art. Says Jim Kacian, editor of Frogpond, the journal of the Haiku Society of America, "haiku is now the most practiced form of literature in the world... it is arguably Japan’s foremost cultural export.13" Certainly there are haiku journals currently published in the United States, England, Australia, Germany, France, Spain, Portugal and Italy. When William J. Higginson published Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac14 in 1996, he was able to include 600 poets from 45 countries writing in 20 languages. What effect does this diaspora have upon the quintessential poetry of place? Well, first there is the pressure to loosen haiku from its customary grounding in place, traditionally accomplished through the use of a kigo, or seasonal reference. While some vehemently adhere to the belief that a kigo must be included in order for a piece to be haiku, others as actively ignore the practice entirely or substitute "keywords". This is probably the most vehement debate within the haiku community today. There are conference sessions and special supplements of journals dedicated solely to its discourse. It could easily sustain an essay as long as this entire piece just to air the major points. The problem, briefly summed is this: the attributes that signify seasonal or cultural markers for one culture do not necessarily translate to another. In other words, place does not communicate through space. Compare the following two pieces, the first, a haibun by Bashö,
A view of Narumi:
early fall — the sea and the rice fields all one green
the second, a haiku by North American, Foster Jewell:
nearing the mountain yesterday, and still today . . . tomorrow
The first is the vision of a man who lives on a narrow island with a north-south orientation for whom the slopes and the sea come together. The rice is, of course, in full bloom. In Japanese haiku, the trees are always depicted as in full bloom, the bird, in full-throated song. On the other hand, Jewell portrays seemingly endless vastness, and too, the dogged persistence to claim the mountain. Haiku is always a study in comparative culture. It is interesting, for example, that Americans, the people of manifest destiny, for whom every frontier is meant to be conquered, include "outer space" as part of their milieu. Haiku poet Penny Harter frequently incorporates objects like satellites and telescopes as in this example:
distant thunder overhead a satellite moves in the dark
After all, are satellites not as much a part of our surroundings as rain? Not surprisingly, haiku lends itself superbly to the expression of the immigrant or expatriate experience — people for whom a sensitivity to place is necessarily informed by dislocation. San Francisco haiku poet Fay Aoyagi15 frequently makes this her subject as in the following examples:
migrating birds — the weight of my first voter's guide
elderberries — his childhood ritual unfamiliar to me
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Looking at these poems a bit more deeply can help unlock the mechanics of a great many haiku. I borrow here from Harold G. Henderson's An Introduction to Haiku16. Henderson was one of the first scholars who worked to popularize and interpret haiku for a Western audience:
"The two parts that make up the whole are compared to each other, not in simile or metaphor, but as two phenomena, each of which exists in its own right. This may be called 'the principle of internal comparison' in which the differences are just as important as the likenesses."
Immigrant and expatriate experiences are, by their nature, projects in 'internal comparison'. Haiku is a natural form for their eloquence.
Haiku and White Space
Like the codified kigo of traditional Japanese haiku, the liniation of text does not culturally translate. Japanese is, after all, written vertically and Japanese haiku are generally expressed in a single column of symbols that can be apprehended instantly together, as with an illustration. Early English language translators broke the lines into onji, or sound symbols, which led to our presumption of the three-line form. Like kigo, Western haiku poets have questioned this presumption and created a variety of solutions. A poem from the third of the triumvirate of classical masters, Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) demonstrates the point:
the snow is melting and the village is flooded with children
At this time, Issa is beloved above all other haiku masters in Japan, and it is perhaps for this reason, that his biography and the interpretation of his work are sentimentalized. In general, Issa is characterized as a country bumpkin with a terribly sad life. Unlike Bashö, schooled in a noble's home, or urbane, cultivated Buson, Issa was a bumpkin. At least he was born in a small mountain village and lived a life of true — not affected — poverty. But at closer look, Issa can only be thought of as a true country mouse if forced into a comparison with Bashö and Buson. Viewed independently, one sees a boy who was shipped off to the city at the age of fourteen and spent his life in travel, much of it in cities. He is often compared to Robert Burns — and quite aptly. Another comparison presents itself — Will Rogers — for in this poem it is Issa the humorist which concerns us. Notice how the poem sets up its first two ominous lines and then cuts, like a punchline, to its resolution. In Japanese, Issa would have had a variety — nearly fifty — ways to punctuate the end of the lines to build toward the joke, then to let us know it was time to relax and smile. Western poets, on the other hand, have about four end punctuations from which to choose. There is the dash, the ellipses, the comma, the colon. As we have seen in Virginia Brady Young's "on the first day of spring", line breaks are often used to effect associations between images or, as in the break between the second and third lines of Ellis Harr's "after the snowfall", to create a pause. We have also noted how Betty Drevniok has spaced her third line to slow it and convey a certain inexorable quality. Nicholas Virgilio achieves a similar affect by indenting each line just a bit more deeply than the previous one. Clement Hoyt uses the same technique to suggest motion. Finally, there have been two examples of fine one-line haiku by Cor van den Heuvel — perhaps attempts to capture some of instant apprehension available in the Japanese form. Van den Heuvel has, quite famously, pushed this envelope. He once reduced the form to its essence with his "tundra" haiku in which the single, uncapitalized word was centered on an otherwise large blank sheet. The "internal comparison" in this case is between the concept and the page. As is common in haiku, many derivative pieces exist. These are considered more homage, as in the Eastern tradition, than imitation, as in the Western. One of these comes from Charles Trumbull, the current president of the Haiku Society of America. The directions, which he requires accompany the piece, read like the instructions for a Fluxus installation.
INSTRUCTIONS for publishing the poem "I" by Charles Trumbull
The text of the poem consists solely of the letter "I".
"I" is to be printed in the exact center of an otherwise completely blank recto page. No header, footer, page number, or other text may appear on the page with "I".
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The text of "I" is to be printed in 24-point, boldface type. Ideally an Egyptian-type typeface (with equal horizontal and vertical stroke weight) will be chosen, but a modest serif font such as Garamond or Times may be substituted if an Egyptian face is not available. Under no circumstances may a sans serif face be used!
The usual author and location information should appear at the foot of the facing verso page. In the best of all worlds, this page also would otherwise be blank, but we acknowledge that the economics of printing may not permit this.
Both John Cage and Joseph Beuys would likely approve. Sigmund Freud would probably appreciate it as well! How odd that a form more steeped in tradition than even the sonnet so perfectly provides a container for avant-garde conceptual pieces. This happens all the time in haiku, particularly in regard to its concrete elements, that is, how text is laid upon the page. Marlene Mountain is another haiku poet renowned for pushing the envelope. Her work — especially her vividly imagistic longer pieces — have engendered debates about whether they may truly be considered haiku. Here is one of her many memorable concrete pieces:
rain dr p o
Personally, for me, this crosses a line. I would not consider this a haiku, but rather a very charming and witty concrete poem. It lacks internal comparison, transcendence of the physical, or transferable experience, which in general, are the content of haiku. On the other hand, this almost purely concrete piece by Alan Pizzarelli:
flinging the frisbee skips off the ground curving up hits a tree
petals
does merit the term because it captures a translatable moment. That is, like van den Heuvel's "rain in every window", this piece conveys an image that is accessible, relateable. The layout supports a sense of play. Pizzarelli has dropped two lines before his last word not only out of whimsy, but to anchor it. The voice tends to drop when reading the final word aloud. The Frisbee has settled and come to earth. The moment is over. It is fun to compare the following two pieces by Michael McClintock and Anita Virgil respectively:
a poppy . . . a field of poppies! The hills blowing with poppies!
walking the snow-crust not sinking sinking
The simple, unabashed, joy of the McClintock piece is pellucidly expressed. Obviously the poem is constructed by building layers of repetition. The physical layout creates a hill, the punctuation — heavy for a haiku — is decorative, a suggestion of its floral subject. Yet the temporal necessity of apprehending English slows the unveiling of the poppies. We are left to discover them — and delight in them — for ourselves, as if panning a camera or walking a trail. The experience is successfully transferred. Virgils's "walking the snow-crust" reverses the strategy. The lack of punctuation adds to the suggestion of snow cover. Not sinking/sinking economically creates a tension which resolves into humor. Physical reality is reflected with the eye's steady thrust downward. It is likewise fun to compare the following pieces by Alan Pizzarelli, Myra Scovel, and Raymond Roseliep, respectively.
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the bearded lady hangs her wash against the wind
the silence while the gift is being opened
pacing the shore the ship's cat
The Pizzarelli piece reminds me of the annual backwards day at my grade school during which we ate our chocolate pudding before our sloppy joes and put our mittens on the opposite hands. Everything is wrong; the lady has a beard, the margin keeps moving left, and the wash is making a slapstick of the whole event. Scovel, on the other hand, uses spacing to effectively amplify anticipation, while Roseliep moves the margins to and fro in imitation of his subject.
The Nature of Elastic
From the above examples it is clear that haiku is a surprisingly elastic form. That is to say, there is a spaciousness within the confines of the form not generally appreciated by readers unfamiliar with contemporary haiku. A piece may be considered haiku for no other reason than that it is fundamentally minimalist and relates a translatable form. Three lines of long-short-long, one of them being a season reference, are common, but not always present. In this way, haiku bears comparison the American blues. Deceptively simple at first appearance, both forms manage to provide containers for a wide variance of tonal modes, from the sabi of Bashö and Robert Johnson, to the giddiness of Michael McClintock and James Brown. Just as the blues encompass work songs from the Delta and dance songs from Chicago, a range of tempos are possible to achieve in haiku. From Betty Drevniok's slowly steeping tea to Alan Pizzarelli's crashing Frisbee, the words fall from our tongues at different rates. Finally, like the blues, a variety of forms, from avant-garde concept pieces to collaborative linked renga, are engendered by contemporary haiku. After all, is it not the nature of elastic to stretch?
Resolving Not to Resolve
In so many ways — from encompassing the infinite to page layout — contemporary haiku is exploiting its inherent quality of incompletion to lead the reader beyond the scope of the poem. Because, by its very nature it is a trailing off — an arrow pointing to nowhere:
winter burial : a stone angel points his hand at the empty sky —Eric Amann
Because it is brief, it expands beyond itself:
i end in shadow —Bob Boldman
The intentional ellipses of haiku allows, indeed forces, a moving forward toward what is next. Stubbornly, it resolves not to resolve, for
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There was a great guru of Zen Who ran out of ink in his pen All the better, he said For these words in my head Now are "now" but in time will be "then".
______
The Intentional Ellipses: Haiku and its Relationship to Space was originally published in Triplopia (Volume III, Issue 4: Spaces), an online literary magazine of contemporary free verse poetry. An abridged version was reprinted in the publication of The New Zealand Poetry Society.
The Intentional Ellipses: Haiku and its Relationship to Space won first place in the 2004 Springfield Writers Guild competition and received an Honorable Mention in the 2005 CNW/FFWA Florida State Writing Competition (both awards were in the category of previously published nonfiction).
As Triplopia no longer exists on the web and The New Zealand Poetry Society archives are only available to its members, Notes from the Gean is pleased to republish The Intentional Ellipses in its entirety.
More can be found out about the author on her website: www.TracyKoretsky.com
1 Translations from The Essential Haiku: versions of Basho, Buson & Issa, edited by Robert Hass, (The Ecco Press: 1994). Permission to reprint from Robert Hass. In this addition to The Essential Poets series, arcane or geographically untranslatable references are explicated in endnotes. The humor and significance of these haiku are unlocked for the contemporary reader. 2 This essay contains 27 examples of contemporary haiku, representing 22 authors. The vast majority have been taken from The Haiku Anthology edited by Cor Van Den Heuvel (Second edition —Simon and Schuster : 1986). Please note, a third editon (W.W. Norton: 2000) is currently in print. Permissions to reprint were obtained from individual authors. A note on permissions: of the 25 authors cited in this essay, permissions were explicitly obtained from 17. Of the 8 remaining, 5 are deceased, and 3 untraceable, despite my best efforts. In all cases, repeated attempts were made to locate the individuals who hold the rights. Obtaining permissions is of particular concern to those writing about haiku because the form falls into a legal gray area. The "Fair Use" laws intended for critical purposes such as this essay allow for the free use of some portion of a poem. However, when a piece is as brief as a haiku, using a portion becomes a major impediment to understanding. Should haiku poets allow their pieces to be reprinted in their entirety for critical purposes? This is a currently active debate within the haiku community For my part, as an author unable to obtain 100% of the reprint rights, I have a difficult choice to make. I can drop a given example from the essay and risk failing to make a point. I can "write around" the example, that is use description to explain what the poet tried to achieve, not only possibly failing to make a point but also adding considerably to the essay's overall length. Or, I can go ahead and reprint. I have chosen the latter. I do so not only because I have made every reasonable effort to obtain permissions in good faith, but because I do not truly believe these permissions are necessary. Though I have willingly extended considerable efforts as a courtesy to the poets I have included, I do believe that it is within the spirit of the "fair use" law to fully quote haiku without specific permissions in a critical essay. I have had this opinion validated in numerous personal correspondences, including a former poet laureate and the current president of the Haiku Society of America. If the discourse of haiku is to be open to more than a select inner core, full quotation of haiku within critical contexts must be accepted, even welcomed. With the exception of a few poets who have made specific requests regarding the attribution of their poems, this statement will serve for all pieces herein. 3 For an informative and entertaining history of Japanese renga, see One Hundred Frogs: From Renga to Haiku in English, Hirosaki Sato (Weatherhill : 1983) 4 Public domain 5 William J. Higginson with Penny Harter, The Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Share and Teach Haiku, (McGraw Hill : 1985) 6 Ibid. Hass 7 Poems appearing in this essay originally appeared in A 2nd Flake (publication of author: 1974). Ms. Virgil's other books are available from [email protected] 8 The Power of Now (New World Library : 1999) 9 Mr. Fratecelli's books are available from www.kingsroadpress.com 10 Ibid. Sato 11 Ms. Harter's books are available from http:penhart.home.att.net 12 Ms. Lamb's most recent book is available from http:www.laalamedapress.com/catalog.html 13 "Beyond Kigo: Haiku in the Next Millennium", (Haiku Moment Magazine) 14 William J. Higginson, Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac (1999) and companion volume The Haiku Seasons: Poetry of the Natural World (1996) both published by Kodanasha International. 15 Reprinted from Chrysanthemum Love (Blue Willow Press : 2003) available from [email protected]. 16 Harold G. Henderson's An Introduction to Haiku, (Doubleday, 1958)
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