ahg 3:4 september 2014 - thehaikufoundation.org
TRANSCRIPT
AHG 3:4 September 2014
AHG 3:4 September 2014
2
Welcome to A Hundred Gourds. Our journal's name is taken from a haiku by Chiyo-ni (1703–
1775), who is widely regarded as one of the greatest haiku poets of the Edo period:
Haiku Editor, Managing Editor – Lorin Ford
Haiga Editor – Aubrie Cox
Expositions Editor – Matthew Paul
Haibun Editor – Mike Montreuil
Tanka Editor – Susan Constable
Renku Editor – William Sorlien
Resident Artist -- Ron Moss
Webmaster – Jim Sullivan
All works herein are the property of the authors and artists. No work may be republished or used in any
way without their explicit permission. A Hundred Gourds reserves first serial rights and the right to
republish all works herein. Images credit: Ron Moss, consulting and contributing artist. Website design a
collaboration between Lorin Ford, Melinda Hipple, Ron Moss & Ray Rasmussen. Special thanks to
Michael Rehling who so generously has contributed a server for the AHG website.
Copyright © A Hundred Gourds, 2014 ISSN 2202-0087
Acknowledgements - (PDF Version)
Many thanks are due to Lorin Ford, Haiku and Managing Editor of A Hundred Gourds, for her
enthusiasm, encouragement and suggestions in this project of converting the web-based issues of the
journal to PDF. Ron Moss for the new cover illustration used in the PDF issues. Jim Sullivan, the
webmaster of A Hundred Gourds, for providing me with the web files needed to complete the conversions
to PDF.
Mike Montreuil
AHG 3:4 September 2014
3
Contents
Feature 4
In Memoriam - Martin Lucas 1962-2014 5
Haiku 11
Haibun 65
Tanka 84
Renku 113
Haiga 120
Expositions 136
Jim Sullivan, Commentary: On a haibun by Ray Rasmussen 137
Aubrie Cox, Review: micro haiku: three to nine syllables – George Swede 139
Matthew Paul, Review: Beyond the Muted Trees – Glenn G. Coats 143
AHG 3:4 September 2014
4
AHG 3:4 September 2014
5
In Memoriam
Martin Lucas 1962-2014
Martin Lucas was an extraordinary haiku poet, reviewer and essayist and a superb editor, of the
magazine he founded – Presence – and of two major anthologies; but first and foremost, he was
an extraordinary man. I won’t attempt to write Martin’s obituary here, since Ian Storr, with input
from Martin’s brother Peter and me, has already done that in Presence 50. Nor is this piece a
thorough survey of Martin’s poetic and critical career, which I will leave to someone far better
qualified than me to do in due course. What I do intend, though, is to write a personal
appreciation of Martin, focusing on Martin’s early writing and digressing as I go.
I don’t pretend to have known Martin better than anyone else, but I do think that, as is so often
the case among haiku poets, he and I were on the same wavelength about haiku and most other
things; and in all the years – from about 1995 – that I knew Martin, I can’t recall any but minor
disagreements between us. I served on the British Haiku Society’s committee throughout
Martin’s presidency of the Society, from 2003 to 2006, which was a difficult period dominated
by arguments invariably caused by one individual, and saw at first hand Martin’s attempts to
move the Society forward. I was honoured when Martin subsequently asked me to help with
Presence by becoming its reviews editor. But for now, that’s probably enough about me and my
connection with Martin.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
6
Martin, or rather his writing, first came to my attention in the pages of Blithe Spirit in the early
1990s, not long after the British Haiku Society’s foundation at the start of that decade. As far as I
can ascertain (though he later wrote that his “first ‘live’ encounter with haiku took place in the
autumn of 1986 at the beginning of a Creative Writing course at the City Lit., Holborn, London,
tutored by Mark Williams” 1 ), his first published haiku was in the April 1993 issue 2, which
coincidentally saw the publication of the first haiku by Stuart Quine, who would become a great
friend and colleague of Martin. Martin’s haiku went like this: ‘amber incense burns… / the
record stops. i’m listening / to the rain gush down’. Despite its 5-7-5 padding, the mini-story,
excessive verb use, un-haiku-like punctuation and overall beginner’s approach, what is clear is
that from the outset Martin was attentive to the moment and wasn’t afraid to bring different
senses into play; facets that were to characterise his particular Lucasian style of haiku writing in
the next two decades.
By the next issue, whilst still employing a padded-out 5-7-5, Martin had clearly been reading
widely and improving: ‘song of a greenfinch; / a ray of sun on cold steps / and a few
snowdrops…’ 3 . As someone who went on to champion the cause of English-language nature
haiku, it’s interesting to note here Martin’s depiction of a bird and flowers; the notes of the
greenfinch song are implicitly echoed by the thinness of the sun’s rays and the first snowdrops.
It’s no wonder that Martin went on to be featured so heavily in, and was so supportive of, both
Wing Beats 4 and Where the River Goes 5.
An issue later 6 and Martin was hitting his stride, noticing things that would otherwise go
unremarked:
summer heat:
the greengrocer stacks
watermelons
mumbled thanks…
on the beggar’s palm
a coin-sized callus
tipped from the beer can
the centipede staggers from
foot to foot to foot…
AHG 3:4 September 2014
7
Each of these three does what haiku should do: present moments without fuss, letting the pictures
speak for themselves without elaboration or exposition. In ‘summer heat’, one can feel the
weariness of the greengrocer carefully stacking the melons. In ‘mumbled thanks’, attention is
skilfully diverted from the beggar’s half-heard words to the sore sight of his hand, effortlessly
engaging the reader’s sympathy without any emotive language. It is the observational accuracy
of the two adjectives – ‘mumbled’ and ‘coin-sized’ – that works the magic. In ‘tipped from the
beer can’, we see the first appearance in print of Martin’s trademark wry humour, and a far more
natural and appropriate use of the 5-7-5 form.
By 1994, Martin had developed his style to the point where he was writing classic haiku and his
first tanka:
evening hush…
a tabby cat
slips through the railings 7
on the walk home
streets empty of people
stars hidden
and the half-moon soft-edged
through haze 8
The first of these was chosen – together with another, lesser piece by Martin (‘cars race noisily /
into / the gentleness of drizzle’ 9) – by Stephen Gill, who became a mentor of sorts to him, as the
winner of the Museum of Haiku Literature Award for the best haiku/senryu of the issue; and it’s
easy to see why: a poem constructed around a framework of masterly word choices, of noun
(‘hush’ setting a tone of summery equipoise), adjective (‘tabby’, neatly assonant with ‘cat’) and,
crucially, verb (‘slips’ being perfect). The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. It’s tempting
to think that Martin pondered long and hard as to whether ‘slips’ should be placed where he
eventually decided or at the end of line two; the latter would have been visually more balanced,
but aurally the pause after ‘cat’ gives ‘slips’ more emphasis and impact, and I have to conclude
that Martin made the right call. The tanka form gave Martin the room to expand musically, here
with a series of ‘h’ and ‘s’ words that bind the five lines together, culminating in that lovely
‘half-moon soft-edged / through haze’.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
8
Martin continued to hone his style further:
after the goodbye kiss
the sweetness
of a russet apple 10
shadows lengthen
across the fields
a thrush’s song 11
Fred Schofield selected ‘after the goodbye kiss’ for another Museum of Haiku Literature Award
for Martin; and in his adjudication rightly noted that, “The assonance coupled with the apparent
simplicity of the language entices us to let images form without effort.”12 The specificity of
‘russet’, an English apple with a particularly tangy, sweet and nutty flavour and brownish-green
coloration, is characteristic of the style that Martin developed: his view was that the specific
invariably works better than the generic. It’s worth noting, too, that Martin loved crunching into
apples, so it’s unsurprising that he wrote about them here and elsewhere.
Martin’s first collection of haiku, bluegrey, was published by Colin Blundell’s Hub Editions in
1994; followed by Darkness and Light (1996, Hub Editions), .. Click .. (1998, Hub Editions),
Violin (1998, from Brian Tasker’s Bare Bones Press), Moonrock (2002, from Graham High’s
Ram Publications) and Earthjazz (2003, also from Ram). Each book was excellent and varied. It
is a pity that more of Martin’s haiku and tanka were not collected in the decade between
Earthjazz’s publication and his death, but that will surely be remedied in the years to come. A
selected haiku and tanka encompassing all periods of Martin’s writing life would arguably be as
good as any in the English language. For the time being, though, readers unfamiliar with
Martin’s work would do much worse than to read the selections anthologised in The Iron Book
of British Haiku 13, The New Haiku 14, Wing Beats and Where the River Goes, the first two of
which Martin co-edited (with fellow major British haiku poets David Cobb and John Barlow
respectively).
Those readers unfamiliar with Martin’s extensive writings about haiku should obtain and read a
copy of Stepping Stones 15, his Blyth-like anthology-with-commentaries, and read his (with input
from Stuart Quine) seminal, manifesto-like essay, ‘Haiku as Poetic Spell’ 16, which should be
required reading for all aspiring haiku poets.
Martin, with assistance from David Steele, founded Presence haiku journal in 1996, and Martin
had started preparing for its fiftieth issue at the time of his death. The 49 issues of Presence that
AHG 3:4 September 2014
9
Martin oversaw contain a wealth of contributions from English-language haiku poets across the
world; a true global village of like-minded souls who were guided by Martin’s unwavering
pursuit of excellence and his encouragement of new talent, intellectual standards and debate of
the highest order. For those of us – Chris Boultwood, Matt Morden, Stuart Quine, Fred
Schofield, Ian Storr, Ian Turner and myself – who assisted Martin with aspects of the journal,
Martin’s sure hand on the tiller is and will be missed to an immeasurable extent. For me, as the
reviews editor, I found that Martin would, without fail, spot and correct any faults in the
arguments expressed in my and others’ reviews. In all, Martin’s journal was as good as any in
the English language – and a darn sight less pretentious, and warier of five-minute wonder haiku
trends, than supposedly far superior haiku publications. Stuart, Ian Storr and I are determined to
keep Presence going and maintain the wonderful community of writers and readers that Martin
engendered and nurtured during the last 18 years.
Aside from his exceptional writing and editing abilities, Martin was naturally very clever and
knowledgeable; and great, very funny company, with a contagious laugh and twinkling eyes.
Like anyone part of collaborative efforts, he could be bloody-minded at times, but he usually had
enough self-awareness to know if he’d gone too far. I was – and remain – in awe of Martin’s
ability to notice the small things in life, find beauty in the unlikeliest of places, see the best in
people and be at one with the natural environment, whether along the banks of the Ribble in and
below Preston or elsewhere. Martin kept extensive records of his bird sightings and regularly
assisted local groups and the British Trust for Ornithology in their heroic efforts to monitor bird
population patterns. On a bitterly cold day in January 2012, Martin and I met up for a walk in
Wat Tyler Country Park in deepest Essex, along the creeks that feed into the Thames estuary:
after his seemingly endless packed lunch, inevitably involving cake and an apple, Martin
excitedly pointed out that the Redshank that I thought I was looking at wasn’t a Common one but
a slightly larger and scarcer Spotted one. He always wore his knowledge proudly – he even won
an edition of the British quiz show Fifteen to One and was delighted to hear that although I’d
been on it once too, I hadn’t fared anywhere near as well as him – but lightly and, having an
enquiring mind, was invariably thrilled to have his own knowledge extended by facts that were
new to him. An ambition of Martin’s was to visit all the islands within the British archipelago
and he’d made substantial progress in that regard, including far flung ones like St Kilda. Martin
was also a talented table tennis player who played every week for a team in the Preston League,
and a lifelong armchair supporter of Middlesbrough Football Club. But no details or anecdotes
can adequately sum up a person, and in Martin’s case they could never do justice to his sheer
intelligence, abilities, complexity and creative energy.
- Matthew Paul, Expositions Editor
AHG 3:4 September 2014
10
- Photo by Frank Williams
1. Blithe Spirit, Volume 6 Number 4, December 1996, ed. Jackie Hardy.
2. Ibid., Volume 3 Number 2, April 1993, eds. Colin Blundell and Richard Goring.
3. Ibid., Volume 3 Number 3, July 1993, ed. Jackie Hardy.
4. Wing Beats, British Birds in Haiku, John Barlow and Matthew Paul, Snapshot Press, 2008.
5. Where the River Goes, The Nature Tradition in English-language Haiku, ed. Allan Burns,
Snapshot Press, 2013.
6. Blithe Spirit, Volume 3 Number 4, October 1993.
7. Ibid., Volume 4 Number 1, February 1994.
8. Ibid.
9. Ibid., Volume 4 Number 2, May 1994.
10. Ibid., Volume 5 Number 1, February 1995.
11. Ibid., Volume 5 Number 3, August 1995.
12. Ibid., Volume 5 Number 2, May 1995.
13. Eds. David Cobb and Martin Lucas, Iron Press, 1998.
14. Eds. John Barlow and Martin Lucas, Snapshot Press, 2002.
15. British Haiku Society, Snapshot Press, 2007.
16. Presence 41, May 2010.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
11
AHG 3:4 September 2014
12
dawn waking up in the field of my projections
Dietmar Tauchner - Austria
when to surrender the sky full of open window
Els van Leeuwen - Australia
how much longer
along this path …
lesser celandine
Thomas Powell - N. Ireland
flood tide
we have another talk
about the future
John McManus - UK
downriver my thoughts drift in monochrome
Carl Seguiban - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
13
sunshine chasing clouds
across the reeds
a bunting's song
Thomas Powell - N. Ireland
my feet in the North Sea cries of a tern
Polona Oblak - Slovenia
when there was
no word for time
the wash of the waves
George Swede - Canada
a time for everything …
in my opened hand
a starfish
Meik Blöttenberger - USA
after the Facebook post
a blizzard
of condolences
Beverly Acuff Momoi - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
14
after the funeral
rain soaked newspapers
on the doorstep
Joe McKeon - USA
rippling
the stillness of the sky –
a duck's wake
Kashinath Karmakar - India
near the cemetery
a river
unravels
Liz Nakazawa - USA
cemetery visit
some things yes
written in stone
Peter Newton - USA
Fetal Doppler –
the swaying ocean
within her womb
Paresh Tiwari - India
AHG 3:4 September 2014
15
nearly lost
in larksong
morning star
Richard Tindall - UK
just another ladder to climb lark song
Johannes S. H. Bjerg - Denmark
silage fields
an uplifting
of skylarks
Máire Morrissey-Cummins - Ireland
galahs breaking dawn over the lake
Lyn Williams - Australia
east wind rising the curlew and its cry
Claire Everett - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
16
stiffness in my bones
the bird song I don't know
comes closer
Carolyn Hall - USA
lyrebird
across the stream
another’s song
Rose van Son - Australia
refusing to be less swallow song
Autumn Noelle Hall - USA
returning swallows
the dead tree
suddenly alive
Carl Seguiban - Canada
rook
rising
separating light from shadow
Thomas Powell - N. Ireland
AHG 3:4 September 2014
17
spring gusts
a robin crosses the yard
in fits and starts
Brad Bennett - USA
open windows
birdsongs fly
through every room
Katrina Shepherd - Scotland
spring breeze
the drift of birdsong
towards evening
Bob Lucky - Ethiopia
pink moon
a loon’s call
fades into it
Angela Terry - USA
spring morning sun –
even the gravestones
look hopeful
Joseph M. Kusmiss - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
18
it is what we call it swift
Johannes S. H. Bjerg - Denmark
seaweed shimmer
the red knot rinsing
a plump egg
Bill Cooper - USA
through my
stogie smoke
a bluebird
Chris Gusek - USA
morning thoughts
drifts of mist rise
from the gully
Elaine Riddell - New Zealand
water meadow sky
the new calf starts to teeter
among floating clouds
John Hawkhead - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
19
patching up
the cyclone fence
thornbills
Jan Dobb - Australia
a lull
in the conversation –
first bluebells
Ruth Holzer - USA
april snow …
a heart
becomes available
Julie Warther - USA
wild iris
the DNA on
her fingers
Stella Pierides - Germany
a world
before selfies …
cherry tree pond
Claire Everett - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
20
Brendan Slater - UK
power surge
my lost archive
of selfies
Peter Newton - USA
tilted mirror I repose upright
Pravat Kumar Padhy - India
self-similarities
again and again
folding my doubts
Helga Stania - Switzerland
mortgage overdue –
tent caterpillars
in the cherry blossoms
S.M. Kozubek - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
21
blossoming pear ...
a dream slips
from its chrysalis
Rebecca Drouilhet - USA
wings fluttering
under buddleias –
the recurring dream
Weelee Hsieh - USA
Hofstadter's butterfly
in a detail on its wing
Hofstadter's butterfly
David J. Kelly - Ireland
a bee buzzing Om
Stuart Walker - Japan
home sweet home
in the brick pile
bees
David Serjeant - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
22
barefoot children
a bee’s path
among the clover
Ronald L Kirkland - USA
lavender seed heads
a ladybird hurries
up a sunlit wall
Katrina Shepherd - Scotland
meditation garden
a ladybird explores
my lifeline
John McManus - UK
ladybug
naturally I let her
pass first
Robert Epstein - USA
so many wishes
the weight
of a dandelion
Annette Makino - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
23
dandelions …
news of my affair
spreads through town
Jennifer Thompson - USA
azalea hill
the color pink spreading
across her face
John J. Han - USA
my new spring jacket
made in Vietnam …
the Pacific Ocean shrinks
Nu Quang - USA
My head
in the garden
in her skirt
Bruce England - USA
the wake of the scaup
keeps widening …
my love for you
Owen Bullock - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
24
equinox
I play the robin's song
back to him
Carolyn Hall - USA
blooming greenhouse
the hummingbird looks
for a way out
Jari Thymian - USA
a feather
in an empty cage ...
Promised Land
Rita Odeh - Israel
Passover eve –
all the thoughts I won't
bring to the table
Roman Lyakhovetsky - Israel
with a Dutch hat
up and down the face of the hill
yellow broom
Joseph Llewellyn - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
25
peak of spring –
tracking the beagle pups
by ripples in the grass
Elizabeth Howard - USA
still green the leaves of a fallen tree
Nathalie Buckland - Australia
alone
in the wilderness
nibbled leaves
Quendryth Young - Australia
a twig breaks
a sudden craving
for potato chips
Raj K. Bose - USA
temu kunci –
popping out the smell
of slumberous earth
Ken Sawitri - Indonesia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
26
petrichor
infusing the riding trails –
spring canter
Devin Harrison - Canada
I collapse on the gurney …
in dreams
riding Rosebud again
S.M. Kozubek - USA
stubs of dream –
the ashtray fills with
morning chill
Paresh Tiwari - India
the ride home
the silent film
of my father's hands
Chad Lee Robinson - USA
denim sky
a saddle resting
on the top rail
Chad Lee Robinson - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
27
AHG 3:4 September 2014
28
sick leave
her desk plants
slowly dying
David Serjeant - UK
throat cancer –
orchids multiply
along her kitchen sill
Helen Buckingham - UK
intensive care -
a blooming chestnut
casts its shadow
Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu - Romania
his just like my father’s chemo smile
Matthew Caretti - USA
morphine drip a hawk's gyre edged with sunset
Mark E. Brager - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
29
slice of sun
my dad remembers
my name
Karen O'Leary – USA
dusk as far as the eye can see
Alan S. Bridges - USA
cobwebs never easy letting go
Margaret Dornaus - USA
a gray morning
the day unfolds
cloud by cloud
Adelaide B. Shaw - USA
bedside vigil –
she clasps a hand
I do not see
Elizabeth Howard - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
30
she turns
towards me –
North wind
Mike Montreuil - Canada
a needle left
in the unfinished quilt –
her final words
Theresa A. Cancro - USA
trailblazer
first of us
to choose cremation
Mary Frederick Ahearn - USA
scattering your ashes
the morning tide
still pulled by the moon
Chase Gagnon - USA
probate
the lilies
long gone over
Helen Buckingham - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
31
brighter stars
through the window blinds
jasmine in bloom
Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu - Romania
after the whippoorwill breath enough to whisper yes
Ferris Gilli - USA
spelling out
their love songs
fireflies
Jeff Hoagland - USA
exploding
from behind the brick wall –
passion fruit
Freddy Ben-Arroyo - Israel
wedding
LeRoy Gorman - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
32
first summer heat
you roll away
for the first time
Olga Skvortsova - China
a sliver of a moon –
soundless on the lawn
her naked feet
Anitha Varma - India
the
way
dust
motes
speak
for
silence
Robert Epstein - USA
trembling aspen
anticipating
the sound of a breeze
Jeffrey McMullen - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
33
clouds on the horizon
I practice
being the sky
G.R. LeBlanc - Canada
hazy dream clouds
fields of poppy stretch
to the Pacific
Bruce H. Feingold - USA
island water taxi
the beginning of symbolism
in the clouds
Bruce Ross - USA
clouds pass by –
the window-cleaner
scrubs each one
John McDonald - Scotland
cumulus clouds …
I pop brussels sprouts
off their stem
Michele L. Harvey - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
34
traffic jam
watching the clouds
pile up
Bob Lucky - Ethiopia
slow day
the old topics
circled
Ramesh Anand - India
centuries later
the buzz
of Basho's cicadas
Beverly Acuff Momoi - USA
battlefield
the grass overrun
by sheep
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy - UK
summer solstice –
the sheep pass into darkness
one by one
Sandra Simpson - New Zealand
AHG 3:4 September 2014
35
grass bends a long way away the payday wind
David Boyer - USA
summer solstice –
the long light shrinks
from my windowsill
Pravat Kumar Padhy - India
amid July’s
rolling boil
cherry perogies
Robert Piotrowski - Canada
today at lunch as if we were family Nisei smiles
Marian Olson - USA
barbecue night
wafting over my fence
the swear words
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
36
ma belle-mère
hugs me goodbye
scent of dry lavender
Louisa Howerow - Canada
lawn sprinkler –
my daughter catches
tiny rainbows
Arvinder Kaur - India
in its leap
the rainbow trout's
rainbow
Alan S. Bridges - USA
the sound of rain
enthusiastic applause
from the balcony
kate s. godsey - USA
summer rain
once again I read
the text on her T-shirt
Gabriel Sawicki - Poland
AHG 3:4 September 2014
37
AHG 3:4 September 2014
38
rainy season
a childhood spent
in cardboard boxes
Urszula Funnell - UK
wet sky
the rainbow's colours
run over
Gautam Nadkarni - India
shady hangout
after a heavy shower
snails emerge
Patricia Prime - New Zealand
all day drizzle
the steady progress
of a snail
Rachel Sutcliffe - UK
sunshine returns . . .
the shadows of eucalypts
trickle down the trail
Jan Dobb - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
39
testing
the trickle-down effect
wa
ter
fall
Angela Terry - USA
snake skin
the path to you
unfolds behind me
Marcus Liljedahl - Sweden
summer heat
the sweaty wake
of a jogger
André Surridge - New Zealand
the circle of Willis
bringing my nothingness
to the sidewalk sale
Patrick Sweeney - Japan
second hand book store
I browse
through Sunday
Rachel Sutcliffe - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
40
the lean
on the old fence
another hour of sunlight
Simon Hanson - Australia
my foot’s shadow
steps on the crack
I jumped over
Michael Rehling - USA
cobbled streets
an old man massages
his donkey's feet
Tracy Davidson - UK
towpath
a woman pulled along
by her Chihuahua
André Surridge - New Zealand
twilight
the sound of cowbells
growing louder
Raj K. Bose - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
41
AHG 3:4 September 2014
42
abandoned hamlet —
solitude breathes
the smell of manure
Minh-Triêt Pham - France
four mile beach
only the patterns
of sand crabs
Cynthia Rowe - Australia
ghost crabs
feeling the pinch of our
summer vacation
Michael Henry Lee - USA
third year abroad
the stranded crabs'
pale shells
Polona Oblak - Slovenia
smoke-colored ripples
slip over the morning sea
the stingray’s breach
Ferris Gilli - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
43
sandy shallows
the bar-tailed godwit stirs
the cumulus
Cynthia Rowe - Australia
after the crash –
a smooth ride
to the sandcastle gate
Ken Olson - USA
foreclosure
our sand castle
underwater
Stanley Siceloff - USA
sea-fog morning the fine print in my contract
J. Zimmerman - USA
sea fog
watching the horizon
come into focus
Elizabeth Steinglass - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
44
stink bug as plain as the nose on your face
Michael Henry Lee - USA
morning chill - a scorpion salutes the sun
SB Wright - Australia
a pheasant's yellow eye
the rainy uncle
I wouldn't let in
Patrick Sweeney - Japan
distant thunder
crickets on pause
restart
Jeffrey McMullen - USA
the cricket's calling song –
summer's impending
surrender
Ken Olson - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
45
nightfall ...
coming home
cricket by cricket
Leanne Mumford - Australia
shrinking
in the rearview
mountains we climbed
LeRoy Gorman - Canada
September woods –
whispering to a fawn
in my mother tongue
Meik Blöttenberger - USA
wild quince …
I entangle myself
in trailing brambles
Samantha Sirimanne Hyde - Australia
the fence sags
under morning glories
autumn equinox
Leanne Mumford - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
46
wheat ears –
the sunlight braided
by the wind
Sanjuktaa Asopa - India
taken lightly
this long discussion ...
reeds rustling
Minh-Triêt Pham - France
constellations
the names of all
our ancestors
Annette Makino - USA
flute solo the spiral swirl of a nebula
J. Zimmerman - USA
s t a r s …
on its rock a lighthouse
holding steady
Jan Dobb - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
47
nightfishing …
the river's stars
outstare me
Richard Tindall - UK
Sonoran stars –
adding to the symphony
coyote voices
Meik Blöttenberger - USA
without a sound
the coyote
and I
Jeff Hoagland - USA
Indian summer
an inmate’s
commuted sentence
Michele L. Harvey - USA
indian summer
nana writes her name
with a sparkler
Joe McKeon - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
48
AHG 3:4 September 2014
49
indian summer
I pick out the colors
from a spice stall
Maria Kowal-Tomczak - Poland
the shadow
my horse takes for water
splashes moonlight
Garry Eaton - Canada
raga malkauns
our moon shadows soften
on the floor
Arvinder Kaur - India
shimmering pebbles
under the sea’s dark rollers
glimpses of moonlight
John Hawkhead - UK
lakeside vigil ...
rising fish ripple
the moonlight
Ivan Randall - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
50
taking on water
the moon
fast approaching full
Julie Warther - USA
waxing moon
all the answers
in a lullaby
Diana Teneva - Bulgaria
still night ...
one jet's journey
across the moon
Ben Moeller-Gaa - USA
missed flight ...
the moon belongs
to someone else
Steliana Cristina Voicu - Romania
Texas moon
the smell of refinery lights
by the highway
Deborah P Kolodji - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
51
time to adjust before it has set the fading moon
Jonathan McKeown - Australia
crescent moon
a dinghy
riding the waves
Payal A Agarwal - India
in the moonless wake
of an empty canoe ...
a loon’s call
Mark E. Brager - USA
moonless night
depths of darkness
lapping the pier
Gavin Austin - Australia
stormy seas
each wave reclaims
our reclaimed land
Gautam Nadkarni - India
AHG 3:4 September 2014
52
AHG 3:4 September 2014
53
the shape
of things to come
starlings at dusk
Tracy Davidson - UK
first cold night
the insistence
of crickets
Ann K. Schwader - USA
autumnal dew malingering in a sunless hollow
Jonathan McKeown - Australia
shortening days
a last patch of sunlight
filled with dog
Nathalie Buckland - Australia
slow train home
a cloud’s shadow running
across the stubble
Ernest Wit - Poland
AHG 3:4 September 2014
54
class gathering
the path of our youth
full of potholes
Irena Szewczyk - Poland
twilight …
the goat-herd merges
with the fog
Geethanjali Rajan - India
scrub oak hiding my roots
Gregory Longenecker - USA
how deeply
should i know myself?
a large rock
on the well cover
George Swede - Canada
fall drizzle
the pileated woodpecker
drills the willow's base
Nola Obee - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
55
dzong ruins …
the red cotoneasters
redder in the rain
Sonam Chhoki - Bhutan
the rustle of corn stalks
a scarecrow’s arms
conduct the wind
Terri L. French - USA
one wind
many dances
buffalo grass
Autumn Noelle Hall - USA
autumn leaves a smell of death
Stuart Walker - Japan
wet leaves
the slippery path
of memory
Gregory Longenecker - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
56
blustery gales
the give and take
of tree-top branches
Petrus Heyligers - Australia
chilled wind ...
one last leaf falls
from the moon
Pris Campbell - USA
puffed up sparrow –
the cold wind gathers
another feather
Kashinath Karmakar - India
storm front
shadows filling the gorge
in his life
Marian Olson - USA
SnowstormVoicesoftheAncestors
Dietmar Tauchner - Austria
AHG 3:4 September 2014
57
Chinese New Year ...
the rain tonight
too quiet
Chen-ou Liu - Canada
winter dawn
reading TuFu’s poem
hungover
Matthew Caretti - USA
onset of winter
the big picture becomes
black and white
Ernest Wit - Poland
crackled glaze in a handmade bowl deer vertebrae
Carolyn Hall - USA
shiny coffeepot –
my long face
down its side
Ruth Holzer - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
58
headlights
through the wintry fog,
a flash of kangaroo
Samantha Sirimanne Hyde - Australia
clear winter sky
Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”
on the radio
Patricia Prime - New Zealand
warm winter
cobwebs on the sleigh
in the cellar
Gergana Yaninska - Bulgaria
deep winter space between branches
Ann K. Schwader - USA
winter worries
the frayed edge
of my favourite scarf
Jennifer Sutherland - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
59
store window
my mother returns
my smile
Margaret Conley - Australia
first light
snowflakes treading
the silence
Chen-ou Liu - Canada
as if i cared or not the boolean nature of snow
Michael Rehling - USA
snow cover –
a pheasant finds refuge
in the color of rust
Chad Lee Robinson - USA
frozen valley
the echoing echoes of
a dinner bell
George Swede – Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
60
frost …
our noses
invite comments
Kala Ramesh - India
icicles
not melting
not even to doo wop
Bill Cooper - USA
mole map his voice still the same size
Sandra Simpson - New Zealand
buffalo country
he digs through snow
to dig the grave
Marilyn Appl Walker - USA
no one's footsteps
left to follow –
late winter rain
Chase Gagnon - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
61
cold moon rising
after the drone strike
a child's drum
Stewart C Baker - USA
squad reunion
under the table he caresses
his friendly fire scar
Roman Lyakhovetsky - Israel
memorial day –
the cathedral bells
toll on and on
Elizabeth Steinglass - USA
spiral stairwell winding sunlight to the bell tower
Sonam Chhoki – Bhutan
dawn again –
parts of us unscathed
from war mongering
Alegria Imperial - Canada
Bethlehem breeze –
two kites flying over the
Separation Wall
Rita Odeh – Israel
AHG 3:4 September 2014
62
Index of Haiku Poets
A
Payal A Agarwal – 51, 52
Mary Frederick Ahearn – 30
Ramesh Anand – 34
Sanjuktaa Asopa – 46, 48
Gavin Austin – 51
B
Stewart C Baker – 61
Freddy Ben-Arroyo – 31
Brad Bennett – 17
Johannes S. H. Bjerg – 15, 18
Meik Blöttenberger – 13, 45, 47
Raj K. Bose – 25, 40
David Boyer - 35
Mark E. Brager – 28, 51
Alan S. Bridges – 29, 36
Helen Buckingham – 28, 30
Nathalie Buckland – 25, 53
Owen Bullock – 23
C
Pris Campbell – 56
Theresa A. Cancro – 30
Matthew Caretti – 28, 57
Sonam Chhoki – 55, 61
Margaret Conley – 59
Bill Cooper – 18, 60
D
Tracy Davidson – 40, 53
Jan Dobb – 19, 38, 46
Margaret Dornaus – 29
Rebecca Drouilhet – 21
E
Garry Eaton – 49
Bruce England – 23
Robert Epstein – 22, 32
Claire Everett – 15, 19
F
Bruce H. Feingold – 33
Terri L. French – 55
Urszula Funnell – 27, 38
G
Chase Gagnon – 30, 60
Ferris Gilli – 31`, 42
kate s. godsey - 36
LeRoy Gorman – 31, 45
Chris Gusek - 18
H
Autumn Noelle Hall – 16, 55
Carolyn Hall – 16, 24, 57
John J. Han – 23
Simon Hanson – 40
Devin Harrison – 26
Michele L. Harvey – 33, 47
John Hawkhead – 18, 49
Petrus Heyligers – 56
Jeff Hoagland – 31, 47
Ruth Holzer – 19, 57
Elizabeth Howard – 25, 29
Louisa Howerow – 36
Weelee Hsieh – 21
Samantha Sirimanne Hyde – 45, 58
AHG 3:4 September 2014
63
I
Alegria Imperial – 61
K
Kashinath Karmakar – 14, 56
Arvinder Kaur – 36, 49
David J Kelly – 21
Ronald L Kirkland – 22
Deborah P Kolodji – 50
Maria Kowal-Tomczak – 49
S.M. Kozubek – 20, 26
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy – 34, 35
Joseph M. Kusmiss –17
L
G.R. LeBlanc – 33
Michael Henry Lee – 42, 44
Marcus Liljedahl – 39
Chen-ou Liu – 57, 59
Joseph Llewellyn – 24
Gregory Longenecker – 54, 55
Bob Lucky – 17, 34
Roman Lyakhovetsky – 24, 61
M
Annette Makino – 22, 46
John McDonald – 33
Joe McKeon – 14, 47
Jonathan McKeown – 51, 53
John McManus – 12, 22
Jeffrey McMullen – 32, 44
Ben Moeller-Gaa - 50
Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu – 28, 31
Beverly Acuff Momoi – 13, 34
Mike Montreuil – 30
Maire Morrissey-Cummins – 15
Leanne Mumford – 45
N
Gautam Nadkarni – 38, 51
Liz Nakazawa – 15
Peter Newton – 14, 20
O
Nola Obee – 54
Polona Oblak – 13, 42
Rita Odeh – 24, 27, 61
Karen O'Leary – 29
Ken Olson – 43, 44
Marian Olson –35, 56
P
Pravat Kumar Padhy – 20, 35
Minh-Triêt Pham – 42, 46
Stella Pierides – 19
Robert Piotrowski – 35
Thomas Powell – 12, 13, 16
Patricia Prime – 38, 58
Q
Nu Quang – 23
R
Geethanjali Rajan – 54
Kala Ramesh – 60
Ivan Randall – 49
Michael Rehling – 40, 59
Elaine Riddell – 18
Chad Lee Robinson – 26, 59
Bruce Ross – 33
Cynthia Rowe – 42, 43
S
Gabriel Sawicki – 36
Ken Sawitri – 25
AHG 3:4 September 2014
64
Ann K. Schwader – 53, 58
Carl Seguiban – 12, 16
David Serjeant – 21, 28
Adelaide B. Shaw – 29
Katrina Shepherd – 17, 22
Stanley Siceloff – 43
Sandra Simpson – 34, 60
Olga Skvortsova – 32
Brendan Slater – 20
Helga Stania – 20
Elizabeth Steinglass – 43, 60
André Surridge – 39, 40
Rachel Sutcliffe – 38, 39, 41
Jennifer Sutherland – 58
George Swede – 13, 54, 59
Patrick Sweeney – 39, 44
Irena Szewczyk – 54
T
Dietmar Tauchner – 12, 56
Diana Teneva – 50
Angela Terry – 17, 39
Jennifer Thompson – 23
Richard Tindall – 15, 47
Paresh Tiwari – 14, 26
Jari Thymian – 24
V
Els van Leeuwen – 12
Rose van Son – 16
Anitha Varma – 32
Steliana Cristina Voicu – 50
W
Marilyn Appl Walker – 60
Stuart Walker – 21, 55
Julie Warther – 19, 50
Lyn Williams – 15
Ernest Wit – 53, 57
SB Wright – 44
Y
Gergana Yaninska – 58
Quendryth Young – 25
Z
J. Zimmerman – 43, 46
AHG 3:4 September 2014
65
AHG 3:4 September 2014
66
Other voices, other—
Steven Carter - USA
That year winter came in like a pride of lions and hung around into early spring.
In Northern California the Eel, American, Napa, and Sacramento rivers flooded; there was high
water in some areas surrounding the group foster home where I lived.
I remember trees being thrashed by the wind like rag dolls shaken by a dog.
And I loved it—loved the sound of wind in the trees and rain lashing my window in the dorm. —
So much so that one sleepless night I decided to sneak out. Bundling up as best I could, I crawled
through the window onto the walkway in front of the dorm, welcomed by the open arms of
darkness and cold.
Where have you been, Steven? We’ve been expecting you.
Hunching a yellow raincoat around my shoulders, I explored the grounds of Twelve-acres, so
different at night. I walked to the big front gate, pushed it open—it was never locked—turned
and looked upward where the wooden sign TWELVE-ACRES used to be (I’d smashed it with a
rock the week before).
Crossing fields of oak and pine trees and flowers curled up for the night, I was acutely aware of
the presence of mountains not far away, though I couldn’t see them. I knew these fields like the
back of my hand, even in the dark, so there was no danger of getting lost.
Why not keep walking to the edge of the world? What might I encounter along the way? —
Perhaps the mountain lion I dreamt about the night before.
It’s about time, kid, he hisses at me. . .
I picked up a small stone and tossed it upward into the dark, catching it once, twice, three times
before it disappeared in the wet grass.
The moon broke through a bank of clouds, illuminating the trees around me; the rain thinned, the
wind died, and I plopped down under a live-oak to rest.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
67
Then, as the sky turned gray and I heard the chug-chug of a garbage truck on Pine Lane, I made
my way back to the home—disgruntled since there was never any danger of getting lost.
Pinks of dawn
Catching the light
A red-tailed hawk
AHG 3:4 September 2014
68
Mapping Memories
Sonam Chhoki – Bhutan
I trace the old mule track that winds around the valley, a strand of my ancestors' dreams as they
explored boundaries beyond their own. The cobbles, which once clattered with the footsteps of
travellers, traders and pilgrims, are now silently cast into the loam. Fern fronds bob in the breeze.
Blackbirds flit between the gorse weaving invisible patterns.
I come to the crest of the hill. Dawn streaks the sky where the dark bars of rain clouds have been
broken. The watery sunshine catches the tops of pines on the hump of the hill. Below the pines,
irregular slabs of shadow slant away towards the gorge. A gauge of mist hangs over it. Amidst
the roar of the gorge in full monsoon spate I pick the melodious pitch of birdsong. A humid
draught plays in my hair. The dankness of hay and cow dung fills my nostrils. I breathe in the
comforting scent of chillies and cucumbers maturing on the slopes below. Rows of newly-sown
rice seedlings ripple in the pale sunlight.
Everything is alive with a still expectancy.
ancestral valley -
the sounds and scents muted
in photographs
AHG 3:4 September 2014
69
The Forbidden Corner
Claire Everett – UK
in early light
your shape while you are sleeping . . .
if we should part
I'd bring to each sunrise sky
the landscape I've called home
It's traditional. Every year, sometime between Summer's Day (when we were first handfasted
with sheep and crows as witnesses) and May 15th (our 'official' anniversary). After all, if the
Queen can have two birthdays. . . I'm sure most folk have taken Tony's declaration with a pinch
of salt, but renewing your vows on a tandem is not so outlandish when you consider people
parachute and deep sea dive into wedded bliss. Tallulah is as good at multi-tasking as any other
of her sex and can't wait to have petals drifting through her spokes as she doubles up as transport
and maid of honour. We just might have to forgo the exchanging of rings.
Blue skies at dawn. A perfect day for heading into the Dales. Such an aisle! May, with all the
trimmings. And this bride in Lycra, happy to be out-blushed by the Shire in her heirloom gown
of hawthorn and wild garlic.
I've been mentally-rehearsing my vows, but I'm still taken aback when, on a quiet stretch of
(uphill) road, just after Middleham, my pilot, my betrothed, my better half, suddenly calls upon
the Gods and the wights of this land and finds himself oh-so-gently heckled by a wide-eyed, dun-
brown cow. His gift for speaking so eloquently off the top of his head and from the bottom of his
heart, never ceases to amaze me and by the time it's my turn, I'm teary, cars are starting to pass
by and most of what I wanted to say has vanished into the ether. But as I finish and we whoop
downhill, I can't help but notice a pair of swallows flanking us momentarily, then tinkling and
chittering into the wind like tin cans trailing the newlyweds' car as it disappears over the horizon.
Our destination suits the occasion, especially when many a casual observer might have thought,
given the twists and turns our lives had taken up to that point, the adventure we embarked on five
years ago was pure folly. What better way to spend the day than following paths that lead to
nowhere among cascades of wildflowers; climbing spiralling staircases for no reason but to
admire the view; opening door after door until you find the right one that takes you to Neptune's
AHG 3:4 September 2014
70
fountain just so you can return via the stepping stones, avoiding every moss-clad gargoyle that
threatens to squirt you as you hurry by? Why not venture a little closer to Caliban's cave, or peer
through the branches to catch a glimpse of Aphrodite, just as Actaeon did?
Hand in hand we go. Round and round we go. Such laughter. Almost too relaxed for the long
ride home.
you took the road
that led to a woman
with five children . . .
all the puzzles and the joys
of that forbidden corner
Notes: The Forbidden Corner is a tourist attraction in North Yorkshire, originally built as a
'folly'.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
71
Freak Show
Chase Gagnon - USA
My mind is a circus train that runs on a rusted track over gorges where dragons swim. The
colorful carriages are filled with thoughts dressed as clowns, whose makeup is streaked by sweat,
after all having a turn with the bearded lady. They’re not sure what town they’ll stop in next, but
it’s been a while since the last show. My hand is on the throttle, but the rails decide where I’ll
end up.
driving to therapy
for the first time in years . . .
I take the long way
AHG 3:4 September 2014
72
Empty Boxes (Part 1)
Beverley George - Australia
A straggle of shops roadside, in a nearby seaside village. I stop to buy fresh produce, am eyeing
off avocados, gauging ripeness, when I notice a new business has opened next door.
‘Massage’ it offers, in bold letters.
In the window, square boxes of skin care products are piled up like children’s building blocks.
The brand name catches my attention. It is a product I have been unable to source locally,
depending instead on a city-dwelling friend to buy it for me, when convenient.
The proprietress rushes to greet me. She is conspicuously tanned on every inch of visible flesh,
and a sea-horse tattoo adorns the left side of her neck. Over her shoulder I can see two cubicles,
an empty bed in each.
I ask to purchase a day and a night cream. She takes two boxes from the window, flips one in
each palm to show me they are empty.
‘Display,’ she explains. ‘I can order the creams in for you. Takes three days.’
It is then that I notice two young children with a scatter of toys, huddled in the corner of a
storage area. Her eyes follow my gaze.
‘School holidays,’ she says. ‘Nowhere to leave them.’
I order the products, offering a deposit, which she accepts.
empty boxes
each one holding
hope
AHG 3:4 September 2014
73
Transformations
Mac Greene – USA
The teenage girl sits in my office, purple Chuck Taylors, burnt orange skinny jeans with fleur de
lys on the back pockets, a bloody zombie on her t-shirt, long straight hair barely washed or
brushed, too much green eye-shadow, and that sullen coquettishness that keeps grown men off
balance. But the intake says this is a 14-year-old boy named Andrew. Marly (Andrew) found my
name on the internet and persuaded her mother to bring her 75 miles from their small city in the
heartland. Her father will not look at her, and barely talks to anyone anymore. His entire family,
including Marly’s favorite grandparents, will not speak to her now that she has chosen Satan.
Boys at school threaten to rape her, to see if she really is a girl, and she cannot use a rest room all
day long.
My job is . . . to make this normal? I will guide her and her mother through the stages of
transgender transformation; brainstorm with them about how to cope with family and
community; put them in touch with other trans teens and their mothers. We will set up safety and
suicide prevention plans.
I respond to their overpowering desperation with all my compassion and experience with teens
and LGBT. I affirm them, and yes, make it normal.
What do I do with my feeling that I have stumbled down the rabbit hole into that nightmare
carnival with the evil clown, where Vanessa is Vinny and every card is wild?
buzz in cicada land
from dirt she emerges
touches the sky
AHG 3:4 September 2014
74
Bare Branches
Penny Harter - USA
As I drive a snow-covered road through this old-growth forest, winding between towering trunks
at twilight, I suddenly understand that the fretwork of bare branches is tree talk—the twists and
turns of these limbs volitional as they stretch to greet one another or welcome the sky.
before the strike—
the owl's shadow
grows
We are together, the trees sign against the dusk. We are one. And when their limbs can’t mingle
above ground, their roots find one another.
family plot—
always room for one more
cremation
AHG 3:4 September 2014
75
Illusion
E.J. Holleman - USA
I cheered for him when I read the "The Three Little Pigs" and laughed when he snarled in the
Disney cartoons. He was a bad guy with a devious spirit which made me a die-hard fan. I
identified with villains and The Big Bad Wolf was my favorite. Each huff and puff and the way
he turned purple when out of breath excited me. His cunning grin and the way I imagined him
licking his lips were energizing.
But darkness transformed the shadows under my dresser into a den for the wolf or the heartbeat
on my pillow into his steps up the stairs. He would crawl into my nightmares and drag me out to
face the frightening prospect that somehow he was there waiting for me. The darkness coated the
idea of him in a terrible paint that would only wash off in the light of the morning.
One particular night I didn't move a muscle for a good thirty minutes in fear that he would
devour me. I sat rod straight, eyes wide. Sleep never came easily on the nights when the wolf
entered my head.
Yet, I cradled the illusion that the wolf and I were friends and labored to maintain this flimsy lie.
Over time the fear of my boogeyman waltzed away, only to be replaced by the fear of guns and
ruthless people that unfortunately exist.
pillow fort
children's laughter
sheltered inside
AHG 3:4 September 2014
76
Trap
Marilyn Humbert – Australia
A shadow drifted into my life and stayed. Catching me unaware, nipping my heels, reminding
me of forgotten errors and hasty ill-considered words.
leaves and thistledown
pursued by the wind—
autumn
Winter falls quickly in the tangled hills of the high country. Snow falls cover my tracks. Snug
and warm within my cave I thought I had dodged the trap.
shadows
share my fire
and haunt my dreams
AHG 3:4 September 2014
77
Tom Painting – USA
My Bad
No more bullshit she says. I’m done reading between the lines. I’ve had it with your verbosity.
Say it the way you mean it, like you mean it and quit wasting my time.
And with that, I say in 11 syllables, what had previously taken me seventeen.
rented flat
the sound of lovers
settling in
Mercy, Mercy
The good Sister tells me I’m headed to hell on the installment plan. Pre-ordained… I was the
child who couldn’t sit still. Even today, I bounce out of bed hoping to outrun the devil.
bingo palace in all probability
bingo palace in all probability
AHG 3:4 September 2014
78
Pitter Patter
Hema Ravi – India
Last night there was a thunderstorm, which lasted for an hour. The midnight sky was ablaze with
light and sound. It was as if Nature was saying, “Heed my words!” with patterns of light across
the sky, the astras; as if the gods were testing them, prior to war! The orchestration ranged
between soothing growls, startling claps and roars, in synchronization with the plummeting
cataract of water or a heavy pitter patter.
At first, it startled me from sleep, soon sleep eluded me, so I began to enjoy the light and sound
sequence from the comfort of the air conditioned bed room. Human intervention played the odd
note, when the burglar alarm in the car parked on the ground floor went off. . .
fallen leaves
her dreams
buried beneath. . .
AHG 3:4 September 2014
79
no preferences
Michael Rehling - USA
for the last several weeks i have been caught up in the ‘news’ of the day. not very interesting
news, not even ‘compelling’ news, just the news. and so now, when the gist of the argument rests
in some dusty corner, at least for now, i have come to rest here, on my cold but very sunny front
porch. i am trying to remember other times, other places, other friends (many who are no longer
on this plane we ride in), and wondering where it all fits. then it dawns on me, like the revelation
to st. john, that what matters is not what we think about, but what IS when we stop thinking . . .
sitting still
steam from my cocoa rises
to somewhere else
AHG 3:4 September 2014
80
The Scent of Ylang Ylang in Her Hair.
Violet Rose-Jones - Australia
River ripples are above us in light reflecting on mango leaves. She takes my hand and places it
on her bare, caramel belly: Lower? A ripe mango drops, splits, oozes juice . . .
paper daisies
seeds flying free:
last clouds of summer
AHG 3:4 September 2014
81
Nowhere Special
Adelaide B. Shaw – USA
After several days of heavy rain, dawn comes up dry. The sun, as it rises, evaporates the beads of
water on plants, the puddles in the driveway and the soggy low places on the lawn. Pines
gradually lift their rain heavy boughs until they are again well above my head. The breeze is
warm; the sky is a spotless blue stretching into infinite space.
journey’s end
a country road
to nowhere special
AHG 3:4 September 2014
82
Sword of Honour
Paresh Tiwari - India
in memory of Lt Cdr Kapish Muwal
Too soon they come - the fumes and the curdling stench of battery acid. The white tendrils curl
slowly around the steel-mesh light fixtures. The fire fighting systems engage and the
compartment seals shut as the pale green numbers on his digital watch go by in slow motion.
But he knows that death when she comes will be swift, like a raptor swooping down on its prey.
Has he done his bit? Can he let go now?
Closing his eyes he lets the years gone by flood in . . .
safe in the arms of his mother
hold your breath
he crosses the finishing line the applause
threads of red lace his eyes
off the rain drenched train a platform full of recruits
the need to breathe now
limb tearing pushups regulation haircut the training
smoke and bile smoke s m o k e s m o k e
best all-round cadet the golden stripes
face down in oil grime h o l d don’t breathe s m o k e . . .
the first bouts of cough blood breathe s m o k e . . .
then nothingness . . .
Outside, in the growing Babel of voices, a rusting cigar hull continues to smoke feebly.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
83
noon stillness
tracing the rustle of
a young leaf
NOTES:
Sword of Honour - The award conferred to the best all round cadet of a course in Indian Military
Academies.
The Haiku is the winning entry from the Shiki Kukai: Apr 14.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
84
AHG 3:4 September 2014
85
rays of moonlight
through a gap in the clouds
summon your image
but it’s only a shadow
on the white garden wall
Patricia Prime - New Zealand
a winter gust
riding the old swing
in the backyard ...
my childhood sweetheart
in and out of my thoughts
Chen-ou Liu - Canada
after 20 years
I find you on Facebook
smiling
where you followed your dream
I followed my heart
Susan Burch - USA
changing light –
a splatter of poppies
at our meadow’s edge
the silvery ghost
of Monet at his easel
Jenny Ward Angyal - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
86
sitting zazen
the faint scent of grass
from the tatami –
how far can they travel
those ghosts without feet?
Sondra J. Byrnes - USA
unearthly shrieks
reverberate across the valley;
how can I go
into this haunted night?
how can I stay here alone?
Elizabeth Howard - USA
rumors of war
from the other side
of the world
a robin pins an intruder
to the ground
John J. Han - USA
torch songs
from my parents’ youth
a war overseas
and neither one
here to remember
Maxianne Berger - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
87
bagpipes skirl
from the castle wall
in the twilight
arousing the night sky
waking the banshee
Marilyn Humbert - Australia
flag waving
and trombone parades
the silence
of unclaimed bones
and poppy fields
Pris Campbell - USA
it may never
become a memory
but for today
the way her breath
turns the pinwheel
Terri French - USA
from wind
came music,
and to wind
music returned,
that day in March
M. Kei - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
88
Indian summer –
near my house a fruit tree
blossoms again
but all around the orchard
no bee, no butterfly
Vasile Moldovan - Switzerland
walking alone
the ridge of this mountain
were you here
you would have named
each birdcall, each wildflower
Paresh Tiwari - India
rocky bluff –
an old boot
stuck in a crevice …
did he too
have a blistered heel?
Elizabeth Howard - USA
My two sons
share too many of
my bad habits –
the dandelion reveals
a crack in the cement
George Swede - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
89
wild flowers
squabble with the wind
schizophrenia
traps him
between two voices
Mary Davila - USA
wandering
with a hatful of sky
the night
is my only cloak
and soon my shroud
Raamesh Gowri Raghavan - India
Behind the mesa
a glowing full moon –
I was in love
with love
then I met you
Marian Olson - USA
this evening
for a few moments
moon shadows
played across our bed
the wisteria by the window
Simon Hanson - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
90
Soul ending
or soul beginning
the birth cry
from the room
of the unwed teen
J. Zimmerman - USA
the quivering rose
reveals a bushtit’s nest
cleverly concealed –
my mother gives no clue
she feels any tenderness
Sally Biggar - USA
beyond the fence
on the wasteland
a flower grows
I always knew there was more
to be found in your heart
Steve Wilkinson - UK
an old woman
stoops to weed her poppies –
I glimpse
the sprite of a girl
still dancing inside her
Jenny Ward Angyal - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
91
AHG 3:4 September 2014
92
putting on the kettle ...
this job of making tea
as mindful
as sipping our cups
of conversation
Anne Curran - New Zealand
I used to think
there was no poetry
in the mundane …
through frosted glass
a dish-rag moon
Claire Everett - UK
I can no longer
deny you are the craftsman
of my dreams
who shapes faltering thoughts
into fevered words of love
Sonam Chhoki - Bhutan
AHG 3:4 September 2014
93
after the heat of the day
this cool touch
of autumn
the way she turns over
when we’ve made love
André Surridge - New Zealand
plump and sweet
from her bramble patch –
she and they
arrive in pies, puddings
and my dreams
Christopher Luck - UK
embraced in the grass
each in the other's dream –
the wind
unfolds a poppy
petal after petal
Steliana Cristina Voicu - Romania
AHG 3:4 September 2014
94
if only
she knew how to
stay in love
without losing herself …
jasmine scent in the air
Kala Ramesh - India
a young girl
now poses for his pictures
with a swift glance
he pauses to remind me
I too, was once beautiful
Michele L. Harvey - USA
the many things
dismissed by you as small,
inconsequential …
the voices of sparrows
one hundred strong
Claire Everett - UK
whispered words
stolen by the breeze
I wait
until all of the petals
have fallen
Urszula Funnell - UK
AHG 3:4 September 2014
95
it matters not
whether I sit here alone
the sunset
still melts the horizon
into molten gold
Thelma Mariano - Canada
wave
after wave
a sandcastle
returns to
what it was
Carl Seguiban - Canada
a heron
takes its long shadow inland
at sunset
the search for a drowned man
ends
LeRoy Gorman - Canada
a rose
dipped in liquid nitrogen
how fragile
the heart that suddenly fails
the wife suddenly widowed
Maxianne Berger - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
96
scattered
beneath the roses
these questions:
are you not more than ash
am i not more than rain
Debbie Strange - Canada
leaving
we take one last measure
on the doorjamb –
she’s lost two inches
since my father died
Sally Biggar - USA
an owl
asks me who I am
every night
mother repeats
the same question
Debbie Strange - Canada
a night like this
can only fall short
on promises
a pale-faced moon
buries itself in cloud
Thelma Mariano - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
97
one white tulip
in a blaze of color –
though alone
its stem
never wavers
Karen O'Leary - USA
the exile
in her prison cell
scratching poems
on a bar of soap …
bubbles rise to the moon
Jenny Ward Angyal - USA
as if to remind me
that the world can still
surprise me
my poems came back
as a song
Alison Williams - UK
no difference now
than when I was twenty –
put on the coffee,
sit by a quiet window
and write things down
Roger Jones - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
98
eleven years
he never did understand
haiku
I still don't write about him
even when it rains
Els van Leeuwen - Australia
my bed
crowded with ghosts
one tanka
after another
making love in it
Chen-ou Liu - Canada
snow-heavy sky
the weight of the world
on his shoulders
scarf slapping in the breeze
my snowman smiles at me
Tracy Davidson - UK
the back roads
already drifted over with snow
I re-read my old journals
who was this girl
who knew so much, so little?
Mary Frederick Ahearn - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
99
if only you had left
taken your things
banged shut the door
instead of being there
not talking anymore
Jack Galmitz - USA
I finally forgave you
for not answering
those letters
that I wrote to you
and never sent
Alison Williams - UK
notice of default …
I take a walk in the rain
just to see
the cherry blossoms
strewn along the path
Stewart C Baker - USA
vacation detour –
a truckload of green tomatoes
spilled on the road
fantasies
of being sun-ripened
Jari Thymian - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
100
no longer
a look back when we part
color drains
from the pin oak leaves
with each touch of frost
Michele L. Harvey - USA
sky lit with debris
from stars
dead long ago
a summer romance
flames & dies
LeRoy Gorman - Canada
spreading roots
of the live oak tree ...
I find my ancestors
stepping down from the stars
to plant another acorn
Rebecca Drouilhet - USA
the old farmhouse
still unsold
is it so hard to see
the moonlit fields
where foxes dance?
Mary Frederick Ahearn - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
101
wild pansies
infiltrate
her perfect garden –
lanky, jagged-leaved,
grins on their faces
Janet Lynn Davis - USA
surviving
a sea of repellent
a mosquito
and my mother-in-law
drone on into our evening
Keitha Keyes - Australia
one sultry day
sinks into the next ...
a mud dauber
intent on mating
with its reflection
Janet Lynn Davis - USA
wardrobe
of clothes too small …
when will I realise
the hollowness
of this bloated ego?
Samantha Sirimanne Hyde - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
102
AHG 3:4 September 2014
103
everyone
at the county fair
a year older –
the cocoa-colored ponies
the honeybees under glass
Ruth Holzer - USA
a butterfly
on the doctor's table
motionless
with thin needles
in my flesh
Sharon MacFarlane - Canada
What a trip to be you –
to climb my creation
to see it from all angles
to have it sustain me –
spider wrapping your prey
George Swede - Canada
drenched
in the sounds of traffic ...
she offers
a string of wilted jasmine
and her toothless smile
Paresh Tiwari - India
AHG 3:4 September 2014
104
there was no rain
for his funeral
only tears
shed amid laughter
at the memories
Adelaide B. Shaw - USA
this frenzy
in our virtual contact
how I miss
the intimacy of touching
the promise of your hand
Sonam Chhoki - Bhutan
the cries of geese
vast and already lost
in the skies
the timber of your voice
I vowed never to forget
Beverly Acuff Momoi - USA
an egret follows me
as he searches the shore
my own hunger
filled by the roar and hiss
of the morning tide
Thelma Mariano - Canada
AHG 3:4 September 2014
105
coming to the bench
where we used to rest
beside the river
I pause momentarily
but choose to move on
Elaine Riddell - New Zealand
when I wanted
the whole world …
bluer still
a butterfly’s small piece
of sky
Jennifer Thompson - USA
small child
orphaned by a car crash
precious
glass treasure
on a tilting shelf
Jan Foster - Australia
blackberrying
along the river bank
the fragrant canes
evoking those lost
summers of childhood
Gavin Austin - Australia
AHG 3:4 September 2014
106
cloud burst
how thunder reminds me
of father's fists
the sudden violent clap
that hurts the ears
Tracy Davidson - UK
scuttling under
canvas, tin or tile
until the tempest fades
how like my star sign
I have become
Margaret Conley - Australia
getting lost
deeper and deeper
in the fog
she finds her bearings
in her husband's face
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy - UK
gunmetal sky
and chain link stars
this love
is the grinding of bones
beneath flesh
Jennifer Thompson - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
107
AHG 3:4 September 2014
108
no heart
to strip the wallpaper
behind his bookshelf
lions and tigers
in a nursery long ago
Keitha Keyes - Australia
breaking up
my jigsaw puzzle
piece by piece
I’m torn
apart
Susan Burch - USA
the first time
my mother told me
fix it yourself
I put a band-aid on
my own skinned knee
Carole Johnston - USA
they will grow up
timid, ruined children
in the shadows
of their parents' anger …
the sudden wing-beat of a hawk
Stewart C Baker - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
109
dead ladybugs
on the sill
what I don’t say
scribbled on
the therapist’s pad
Terri French - USA
the scent
of petrichor seeps
into the room
as though my silent tears
were not enough
Shloka Shankar - India
skipping stones
I watch the ripples fade
as if nothing happened
on this placid lake
that took your breath away
Joe McKeon - USA
late autumn
wet leaves cling
to her grave
in how many colors
can you miss someone
Jennifer Thompson - USA
AHG 3:4 September 2014
110
tell me
how long is long enough …
raindrops fall
from the canopy of leaves
long after the sky is clear
Michele L. Harvey - USA
I start packing
before she’s ready
to move –
our son’s baby photo
back on the mantel
Bob Lucky - Ethiopia
best not to know
just how many days
are left –
how quickly the breeze
strips leaves from the beech
André Surridge - New Zealand
and when at last
I turn away from this life
behind closed eyes
that colour negative of you
framed by the window's light
Claire Everett - UK
putting on the kettle ...
this job of making tea
as mindful
as sipping our cups
of conversation
Anne Curran - New Zealand
AHG 3:4 September 2014
111
Index of Tanka Poets
A
Mary Frederick Ahearn – 98, 100, 102
Jenny Ward Angyal – 85, 90, 91 97
Gavin Austin – 105, 107
B
Stewart C. Baker – 99, 108
Maxianne Berger – 86, 95
Sally Biggar – 90, 96
Susan Burch – 85, 108
Sondra J. Byrnes – 86
C
Pris Campbell – 87
Sonam Chhoki – 92, 104
Margaret Conley – 106
Anne Curran – 92, 110
D
Tracy Davidson – 98, 106
Mary Davila – 89
Janet Lynn Davis – 101
Rebecca Drouilhet – 100
E
Claire Everett – 92, 94, 110
F
Jan Foster – 105
Terri French – 87, 109
Urszula Funnell – 94
G
Jack Galmitz – 99
LeRoy Gorman – 95, 100
H
John J. Han – 86
Simon Hanson – 89
Michele L. Harvey – 94, 100, 110
Ruth Holzer – 103
Elizabeth Howard – 86, 88
Marilyn Humbert – 87
Samantha Sirimanne Hyde – 101
J
Carole Johnston – 108
Roger Jones – 97
K
M. Kei – 87
Keitha Keyes – 101, 108
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy – 106
L
Chen-ou Liu – 85, 98
Christopher Luck – 93
Bob Lucky – 110
M
Sharon MacFarlane – 103
Thelma Mariano – 95, 96, 104
Joe McKeon – 109
Vasile Moldovan – 88
Beverly Acuff Momoi – 104
O
Karen O’Leary – 97
Marian Olson – 89
AHG 3:4 September 2014
112
P
Patricia Prime – 85
R
Raamesh Gowri Raghavan – 89
Kala Ramesh – 94
Elaine Riddell – 105
S
Carl Seguiban – 95
Shloka Shankar – 109
Adelaide B. Shaw – 104
Debbie Strange – 96
André Surridge – 93, 110
George Swede – 88, 103
T
Jennifer Thompson – 105, 106, 109
Jari Thymian – 99
Paresh Tiwari – 88, 103
V
Els van Leeuwen – 98
Steliana Cristina Voicu – 93
W
Steve Wilkinson – 90
Alison Williams – 97, 99
Z
J. Zimmerman – 90
AHG 3:4 September 2014
113
AHG 3:4 September 2014
114
Afternoon Light
a trickle of juice
from the just cut melon
late summer
the retired scarecrow
at the head of the table
approaching autumn
the crackle
of footsteps
from deep in the leaf pile
a child’s laughter
football practice
a boy lost inside
his equipment
a father shouts
from the sidelines
the geometry
of afternoon light
mid-October
the shaded areas
we used to share
Composed via email over the fall of 2013
by Kathe L. Palka (New Jersey, USA)
& Peter Newton (Massachusetts, USA)
AHG 3:4 September 2014
115
The Demons I Still Haven't Slayed
Diwali lights . . .
exposing the demons
I still haven't slayed Sameer
inner darkness hidden
we light the façade max
dusky hands count
cartons of fairness cream
in the factory raamesh
the touch of cool lips
on my fevered brow anitha
once again
that unfamiliar
perfume on his shirt jayashree
this summer night
my dog sniffs for the moon raamesh
the lean shadow
cast by
a paper wasp's hive samar
fighting for queenship
of hexagonal cells raamesh
frosty starlight
drapes the bare branches
of an unknown tree samar
through the grassland
this kangaroo skips a beat jayashree
AHG 3:4 September 2014
116
we were together
the last time
the kurinji* bloomed anitha
alive again
I enjoy the hum of bees shrikaanth
*the Kurinji blooms in profusion every twelve years
A junicho composed by the members of IN haiku on facebook, started on 3rd November and
finished on 26th May 2014.
IN haiku was formed on 23rd February at the Haiku Utsav 2013 by a group of like-minded
people to promote, enjoy and sink deeper into the beauty and intricacies of haiku and allied
genres.
Contributors:
Sameer Ramakrishna
Max Babi
Raamesh Gowri Raghavan
Anitha Varma
Jayashree Maniyil
Samar Ghose
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy
Kala Ramesh - sabaki
AHG 3:4 September 2014
117
Liquid Sky
liquid sky . . .
a steel bucket hits
the well water kala
crevices are filled
by torrential rain nina
the ringing telephone sounds
like a doorbell
in my dream keemaya
the beggar picks up
a coin from his bowl snigdha
by the roadside
blossoms swaying
beneath a nest snigdha
all the twitter
stretching into a new language ammu
the touch
of his fingers
makes my cheeks turn pink ambika
silences widen
the void within me tina
after many moons
a wolf’s cry
across the valley alaksha
the setting sun
silhouettes the migrating birds werner
AHG 3:4 September 2014
118
the river gushes
as it unites
with the stormy ocean nina
I smile at unopened gifts
under the Christmas tree snigdha
Sunaparanta Goa Centre for the Arts conducted a four day haiku workshop. On 26th April, we
had “Illuminating the Natural World” a collaborative session presented by Liz Kemp and Kala
Ramesh -- combining the art of haiku with visual art.
From 27th to 29th April Kala Ramesh conducted a solo haiku workshop. A live Junicho renku
was also composed by the participants of Sunaparanta – Goa Centre for the Arts on 28th and
29th April, 2014.
The Participants:
Kala Ramesh [sabaki] vs -1 Notes from the Gean #4, 2010
Nina Trivadi
Keemaya
Snigdha Manchanda
Ammu Chaterji
Ambika Unni
Tina Costa
Alaksha
Werner Egipsy Souza
AHG 3:4 September 2014
119
Index of Renga Poets
A
Alaksha, 118
B
Max Babi – 116
C
Ammu Chaterji – 118
Tina Costa – 118
G
Samar Ghose – 116
K
Keemaya – 118
Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy – 116
M
Snigdha Manchanda – 118
Jayashree Maniyil – 116
N
Peter Newton – 114
P
Kathe L. Palka – 114
R
Raamesh Gowri Raghavan – 116
Sameer Ramakrishna – 116
Kala Ramesh – 116, 118
T
Nina Trivadi – 118
U
Ambika Unni – 118
V
Anitha Varma – 116
W
Werner Egipsy Souza, 118
AHG 3:4 September 2014
120
AHG 3:4 September 2014
121
Anne Tourney
AHG 3:4 September 2014
122
Debbie Strange
AHG 3:4 September 2014
123
Ramesh Anand, haiku & Ranjana Pai, photograph
AHG 3:4 September 2014
124
Wahyu W. Basjir
AHG 3:4 September 2014
125
Shloka Shankar, haiku & Dwarakanathan Ravi, photograph
AHG 3:4 September 2014
126
Shloka Shankar
AHG 3:4 September 2014
127
Shloka Shankar, tanka & Steve Wilkinson, photograph
AHG 3:4 September 2014
128
Cynthia Rowe
AHG 3:4 September 2014
129
Katerina Eroshina
AHG 3:4 September 2014
130
Pris Campbell
AHG 3:4 September 2014
131
Terri L. French, haiku & Anne Barnes, photo
AHG 3:4 September 2014
132
Steve Hodge
AHG 3:4 September 2014
133
Violette Rose-Jones
AHG 3:4 September 2014
134
Lavana Kray
AHG 3:4 September 2014
135
Lavana Kray
AHG 3:4 September 2014
136
AHG 3:4 September 2014
137
Commentary: On a haibun by Ray Rasmussen
By Jim Sullivan
Counting
the days until she arrives.
Our first morning offers a pink dawn filtered through light snow.
Let’s stay in bed and count snowflakes, I whisper.
the tawny cat
kneading—
lace curtains
Ray Rasmussen, Haibun Today, June 2014
In the haibun 'Counting', Ray Rasmussen has created a limited slice of life. A man counts the
days until a woman arrives and he would like to count snowflakes in the morning, the cat kneads,
and there are lace curtains. A very contained view.
In this minimalist haibun every word and every image has to carry its weight. In addition the
reader needs to find the vastness of this haibun. How does it break out of the close confines of its
sparse images and speak about the human condition? I am reading expectation, apprehension,
and tension as dominant themes of this haibun.
What struck me early on was the very last image, "lace curtains." Why are they even mentioned?
For sure curtains mirror the kneading cat. The cat stretches, the curtains billow in the breeze. The
cat is very comfortable in the room and, most likely, the lace curtain and the cat have been
around for awhile. The curtains have hung there, they are familiar, they breathe "do not disturb."
The curtains are also an echo of the real image of counting days, lace curtains are real, no
fabrication. They bracket the haibun between a beginning image and an ending image that are
grounded in reality.
However, in the larger story the lace curtains are vulnerable (and maybe the cat too). Once "she"
gets comfortable here, she may well want to change window treatments. The apprehension lives
just under the surface in these taut images.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
138
Going back to the beginning of counting days, a very natural and rational approach to the arrival
of a significant woman in a man's life - a pleasant expectation. The blending of title and prose
leads the reader perfectly into the tale. But then this image "a pink dawn filtered through light
snow" strikes a discordant note. I have seen a pink dawn and I have seen light snow. They do not
normally coexist. Dull gray clouds accompany light snow. The haibun has shifted into a dream
of a perfect dawn with a woman and light snow and the very romantic phrase of counting
snowflakes - nothing major but apprehension has begun. The apprehension is the forcing of
perfect pink dawn and counting snow to stretch out the moment and push the limits of what
might be possible in this relationship.
The haibun dream of counting snowflakes is no longer tethered to reality. One cannot count
snowflakes, it is impossible. But romantic, unexpected, and perfectly logical in a dream world of
expectation. Will she be comfortable with him, the cat, the curtains, his life?
The image of the cat kneading struck several chords with me. Ever since The Beatles wrote their
song with the words "I'm lonely as can be, I need you," I have always thought of two needs - the
regular "need" of another person and the verb knead like one kneads bread and one kneads
another's skin and muscles. And now a third knead, the languid comfortable stretch of the limbs.
This is a full image that enhances the different moods of this haibun.
There is expectation, apprehension, uncertainty, tension, and drama all wrapped into Ray
Rasmussen's minimalist haibun. This is indeed a vast area beyond that one small slice of life that
began with counting days.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
139
micro haiku: three to nine syllables – George Swede
reviewed by Aubrie Cox
micro haiku: three to nine syllables
by George Swede
Iņšpress, Toronto, Ontario, 2014
108 pages
ISBN 978-0988117907
Print book: 8.4” x 5.3”, perfect bound
Price: $15.00 + s&h
English-language haiku typically fall within 10-14 syllables, but as the title suggests, this newest
collection from George Swede is a compilation of haiku that are only three to nine syllables in
length. These 101 poems are similar to what some would call mijikai haiku, or simply, very short
haiku that are stripped down to bare bones. Swede does not claim to be writing within this vein,
but this collection would certainly appeal to anyone who is interested in this aesthetic.
watch repair shop broken icicle
divorce papers falling leaves
Neither of these include any articles or language that could be argued unnecessary to the
experience. They boil down the moment to make what is already a small poetic form truly micro.
winter morning her cold pyjamas
When first learning to write haiku, I was instructed to take each word out and see what happened
to the poem. If the haiku could maintain its impact, the word could be cut. It’s when the poem
falls apart without the word that the word becomes important. Here, the only word that could
possibly be removed is “her,” but in doing so, it changes the entire meaning of the poem. The
inclusion of a third person pronoun instantly adds an element of distance (appropriate for the
season) and shows that more than one person exists in this space at this moment.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
140
While the minimalism of the collection of a whole is striking, what interests me even more,
however, is the choice of arrangement. I’ve seen plenty of haiku collections where the poems are
divided by season, or organized by the typical lifespan. More and more, collections seem to
divided into movements, where each section has a common theme; micro haiku places each
haiku in the order it was written. The organization of the haiku in this fashion makes this book as
much historical document as it does poetic achievement. It shows Swede’s growth as a poet from
1977 all the way up to 2013. Consequently this does also mean that some haiku do not shine as
brightly as the rest. A handful contain weak juxtaposition and/or the writing feels sentence-like,
but these are not abnormalities in a book of this size or breadth (although at times they can feel a
tad glaring when so many of the poems dazzle in language and/or effectiveness).
By isolating these micro haiku into their own collection, Swede proves how powerful the
economy of language can be:
bridge
at both ends
mist
creek
cricket
creaking
Any number of these poems would stand out if they were in any haiku collection, especially
classics such as:
leaving my loneliness inside her
This is one of the first haiku I remember ever reading by George Swede. In compiling these
micro haiku together, it certainly raises the question of how small we can go. Or even, “how
short can a haiku be and still resonate?” “Less is more” probably looms over most haiku poets’
heads, but oftentimes we want to get one or two more words in for flair, voice, or play. There’s
nothing wrong with this, of course; however, it would be a worthwhile venture for anyone to try
their hand at even less.
snowflakes bricks
AHG 3:4 September 2014
141
Admittedly, the haiku above makes me pause, but I want to explore it. It has a season
(snowflakes = winter), it juxtaposes two images and it has a kire/cut between the two words. Are
these not all facets that most poets would consider essential to haiku, happening between these
two words? I can certainly envision the snow coming down and landing on a walkway, or maybe
against one of the many brick buildings on the campus where I work. The snowflakes settle onto
the rough surface before fading into the crevices, leaving behind a small wet mark. The space
between “snowflakes” and “bricks” feels like the moment before the two make contact. It’s so
brief, just like my experience would be in noticing the moment. The before and after are almost
simultaneous. Any more words would disrupt and only distract the reader from the moment.
They’d tell too much.
This collection also reinforces the argument that experimentation and what we would call gendai
haiku has existed within English-language haiku all along. The collection as a whole is a mix of
traditional and experimental, and I find it interesting that so many of the older poems feel
incredibly contemporary. I would expect to find any of these poems in today’s publications:
autumn wind
cells falling from
my body
fisherman reeling in twilight
town dump
i find a still-
beating heart
trout river
my shadow
has gills
Of course, the argument could be made that good art in general is timeless, but that does not
necessarily mean contemporary. Out of the four, only “trout river” was published within the last
10 years. And then perhaps my favorite from the collection, which made me involuntarily inhale
at only page 10:
spring thaw
wings beating inside my skull
AHG 3:4 September 2014
142
Simply put, this poem could be about the changing of seasons and migration patterns, but the
internalization expands it into any number of possibilities. It collides the biological clock with
the passage of time. Being prone to sinus headaches, especially in the spring, I think of the
throbbing behind my eyes and along my upper jaw. It could just as easily be psychological and
an attempt to capture all the noise inside one's head as one comes to a realization or personal
discovery.
My only major complaint about the book is the presentation. Subscribers of Frogpond will find
the cover and layout incredibly reminiscent of when the publication was under Swede's
editorship. The design is certainly minimalistic and gives the haiku room to breathe, but I would
have preferred to see something put together specially for these poems. Additionally, the front
and back matter is put together somewhat haphazardly, which makes the production feel last
minute and uncaring. As we all know, judging a book by its cover is dangerous business. But in
the publishing business, it's a necessity.
Looking past the design, although these poems are micro on the page, off it they are just as, if not
more, full as any haiku.
canyon
replies from the
afterlife
nightfall
the demons
on time
AHG 3:4 September 2014
143
Beyond the Muted Trees – Glenn G. Coats
reviewed by Matthew Paul
Beyond the Muted Trees
By Glenn G. Coats
Pineola Publishing, 467 North Hardtimes Drive,
Prospect, Virginia 23960, USA
Paperback, 98 pp. US$8 / £4.80 sterling,
from www.amazon.com.
ISBN: 978-0615949864
As one of the two haibun editors at Haibun Today , Glenn G. Coats has a prominent role in
promoting haibun as a fully-fledged English-language genre and proves with this second
collection of his haibun that he has all the credentials to fulfil that role. The book contains 63
haibun, divided into four broadly thematic sections dealing, in the main, with: (presumably
slightly fictionalised or disguised) incidents from his career as a teacher, especially of literacy
programmes for children and adults; scenes from time he has spent in areas close to, and either
side of, the USA/Canada border; other personal or character-based recollections; and, finally,
sketches of friends and family. That division gives the book a neat structure, like four quartets of
roughly the same length, which enables the reader to discern a sense of historical narrative across
the individual pieces.
Coats’s writing style is unadorned, though not to the point of terseness, and is deceptively
simple. His great strength, as will be evident to any reader of this book, is his ability to depict
characters and incidents with just the right amount of detail to give the reader enough
information to complete the picture and fill in the gaps. His subject matter is often people living
in poverty in isolated communities well off the beaten track, sometimes in almost total isolation;
the sort of folks whose lives are rarely recorded and are frequently denigrated:
AHG 3:4 September 2014
144
Light is dim inside. A pot of something cooking in the hearth. Smells I can’t recognize. “Chester
can’t get to school no more—too many seizures. Way behind the others.”
I take out my pens and pencils, open up a notebook, the boy sits frozen behind me on a straight
back chair. “Let’s read a story,” I say.
lantern light
I bend closer
to the words
(from ‘The All of One Room’)
The brevity of the staccato-like sentences somehow echoes the parent’s illiterate language use.
What is left unsaid, though, are Coats’s thoughts on and emotional reaction to those issues; and
so the reader is left to ponder the implicit sadness of the scene and the possibility that the family
are in a generational cycle of low aspirations that no amount of well-meaning intervention and
support is likely to break. The haiku is interesting, because of the phrase ‘I bend closer / to the
words’, which clearly refers both to the words on the page and to those being read out loud by
Chester; but it’s almost too clever and I wonder whether that telling phrase could have simply
been incorporated into the prose and the haiku one that instead shifted slightly away from the
prose.
Rather than consider most or all of the individual haibun within the book, I will now focus on
just one piece, which exemplifies the many qualities of Coats’s haibun:
Fields to Plow
He had just started school when it shut down over worn-out books, unsafe buses, and little heat
in winter. Teachers and students wanted the same books as the whites-only school, same shiny
buses, and same pay for their teachers so they all walked out in hope of something better. Both
schools stayed shut tight when Prince Edward County refused to integrate and Charles lost all the
important years of his education.
migrating geese
the sound of wood
splitting in two
AHG 3:4 September 2014
145
Charles learned other things while the schools were closed like loading potatoes in a truck. He
learned how to feed chickens and call cows in from the field, learned how to replace a broken
board on the gate and work like a man when he should have been playing like a child.
winter sun
a few lines of words
forgotten
Years passed by and when the schools did open up again, it was too late for Charles. He was too
far behind and none of the teachers knew how to catch him up. Charles left soon as he could and
did what he knew how to do—work.
Today Charles is nearly sixty, one grown daughter and one still in school. His wife and youngest
child are outside now waiting in the truck, waiting for Charles to finish his reading lesson. They
will do what it takes to support him. He is going to read and they will wait for him.
winter evening
thick fingers cover
most of a page
I am showing Charles ’s. “The apostrophe is like a little backward c,” I tell him, “shows that
something belongs to someone, like your brother the preacher, he’s good with words, people like
to hear John’s words.” I write down Johns words and Charles picks up a pencil and carefully
marks his first apostrophe. “I am learning something all the time,” he says and I can hardly get
any words out of my mouth.
frozen fields
the words he carries
into the night
The title cleverly nods not just to the agricultural work that Charles has undertaken since before
his adulthood but also, metaphorically, at the new pastures that could be opened to him through
literacy.
The opening paragraph economically conveys so much information that it needs to be re-read
several times. It very quickly addresses, though without explicitly passing judgement on, the
AHG 3:4 September 2014
146
desperate unfairness that underpinned racial Segregation; and how the battle for civil rights
impacted upon individuals caught up in the struggle.
The first haiku neatly links and shifts: the link to the preceding prose is provided by the ‘splitting
in two’ of the wood which mirrors the racial divide of Segregation; and the shift is to the manual
labour in the next paragraph.
The repeated use of ‘learned’ in the second paragraph subtly emphasises the injustice of Charles
having to learn those skills whilst he should have been receiving a formal school education.
Coats closes the paragraph with a rare piece of comment, that Charles was learning to “work like
a man when he should have been playing like a child”: in this instance, it is absolutely
appropriate for Coats to ‘tell’ the reader and reinforce the point. It also prefigures the closing line
of the haibun’s prose, where the reality that Charles, through no fault of his own, was denied the
fundamental right to education as a child, brings Coats’s sadness (and implicit anger) to the
surface.
The second haiku also links and shifts: the link is provided by ‘winter sun’, over the fields where
Charles has worked (winter being, of course, the most sombre and least optimistic of seasons),
and by the ‘few lines of words / forgotten’ from the truncated time he spent at school; and the
shift is to the opportunity that the adult literacy programme is giving him to recall how to read
and write those words and to make the progress that he should have made almost half a century
ago.
The third paragraph efficiently speeds up the narrative towards the present day, and highlights
the direness of the fact that when Charles did manage to have a brief second spell at school, he
couldn’t make up for the lost years, because “none of the teachers knew how to catch him up”.
Coats makes plain the irony of that situation – that even the teachers couldn’t cope with it – but
without hammering the point home.
The fourth paragraph is arguably as much the emotional core of the haibun as the last line of the
haibun’s prose: that Charles’s family is so loving and supportive and proud of his attempts to
gain the education that he was deprived of in his childhood, but which his own children have,
fortunately, been able to receive due to being born after the successful battle to end legally-
enforced racial segregation. Coats again uses a repeated verb (this time ‘waiting’ / ‘wait’)
powerfully to convey that mixture of deep emotions, rather than more obtrusively through
adjectives – that Coats has the skill to do that indicates how fine a writer he is.
AHG 3:4 September 2014
147
The third haiku links back to the second one by starting with ‘winter’ and by showing Charles’s
fingers thickened, we presume, by years of manual toil. It also points towards the positive
conclusion of the haibun, of Charles at last learning how to read and write.
The fifth and final paragraph is simply astonishing and beautiful writing – the stated near-silence
of Coats in the face of Charles’s determination to make up for all his lost years is poignant in the
extreme. That poignancy is evident too in the final, tender haiku.
In all, this haibun sweeps through 50 years in just over 300 words, but does so in a manner that
feels completely natural, and in it Coats isn’t frightened to address big themes which, by
implication, still haven’t been fully resolved, such as the low levels of literacy for particular
racial / ethnic groups and the apparent racial division of communities in many areas of the USA.
In summarising the book as a whole, I would go so far as to say that Coats’s prose is reminiscent
of that of great North American writers like Alice Munro, Sherwood Anderson and the now
unjustly scorned John O’Hara. Coats’s haiku, too, are a cut above those of most haibun writers:
he knows how to write well-crafted haiku which contain intriguing juxtapositions, act as links
and shifts, and which, by and large, aren’t just lines that would be better contained within the
prose. I have read no finer collection of haibun than this and I thoroughly recommend it.
1. www.haibuntoday.com