IRISH HAIKUSelected by Anatoly KudryavitsKy

Michael Andrew

leaves falling —old mantunes his mandolin

spring dawnmistle thrush’s songmuffled by diesel engine

stirred from my slumber —pine martenstealing apples

Natalie Arkins

frosty tips of grasscrows’ tailslifted to the sky

golden afternoonawaitingblackthorns’ adornment

Tony Bailie

rain on the windowan unfurling snail pluckedfrom its thrush-cracked shell

cloud streaksscarring the skyhounded wind howls

frogspawnin a sun-dried pond —speckled mud

Pat Boran

nowhere left to hidea lone crab scuttles betweenislands of stillness

the first drops of rainstriking the limestone sheltercolour again

evening approachingcurlews stilt-walk on their reflections

Buachallán Buí

seasann faoileáin ar bharr an tséipéil fholamhag breathnú ar an lá

(a gullatop the empty churchwatching the day go by)

thíos anseocanaid don doircheachtna míolta móra

(down belowsinging to the darkness,great whales)

ar dhromchla na mara,eitlíonn ealaíos cionn scamall

(on the sea surface,swans flyingabove the clouds) (Translated from the Irish by the author)

Patrick Gerard Burke

child by a treeall the bellson one branch

pre-dawnlight windshushes through trees

autumn windin the lee of the oakits shadow in leaves

Jim Burke

kingfishergathering the mid-day sunon its wet feathers

David Burleigh

trapped inside a potat the bottom of the seathe octopus dreams

the door flung back —snow falling on the gardenin soft gray light

a thousand-page book I will surely never read –the first narcissus

Sharon Burrell

lichen a thousand linesin the rock face

cemetery —after rain, honeyed smell of upturned earth

summer breeze —the load ofheavy-limbed poplars

Paddy Bushe

St. Patrick‘s Day —not knowing any better,lambs dance a set

the low autumn sun crimsoning the mountain —rutting stags roar

gainéid ag tumadh ó ghoirme go goirme chun bualadh leo féin

(gannetsdiving from blue to blueto meet themselves) (English translation: Gabriel Rosenstock)

Juanita Casey

Burning leaves . . .the face once againfeels summer The pickershave left one plum . . .Hey, wind Four crows on four postsacross a field of mustard —a chord for summoning foxes

Patrick Chapman

cherry blossom firekissing the gardento sleep

debutante flowers —red and white skirts hitched up,waiting for a bee

summer flowers die —distilled into a droplet,aphrodisiac

Marion Clarke

turning tide . . .a barnacle waitson a limpet

first raysbuds and mist unfurling

low winter sunwarming up a rowof chimney pots

Michael Coady

ravens from the heightsthrow shapes* above the belfry —deep-croak rituals (Throw shapes: dance (Hiberno-Engl.))

Marie Coveney

crows on a bare branch —ink-ladenbrushstrokes

Kara Craig

All Souls Day —night sky alive withwhite flares

an old spadewashed to the shorepicked up again

descending snowflakesthe battlefieldwhite again

Tony Curtis

under the old boatshoals of silent fish passing —silver in the night

the Liffey’s old songsinging softly below mein a muddy voice

a blackbird’s sweet songlost in the wilderness of hills —prayer for the dead

Norman Darlington

neighbour’s fieldnewborn lambs playingin their last spring

grasses rustling —a mountain windreaches for the sea

after the rain:the riverits weight

Patrick Deeley

heron holds stilla beard of minnows swaysunder his chin

dead thrush on the doorstepthe cat’s wayto my heart

leather-winged bat spinning darknesson darkness

Noel Duffy

autumn daythe toaster humming to nothing

honeycombhoney and darkness storedfor the long winter

Ann Egan

wild iris flowersyellow stars fill a black ditch

pale seedlings curlbeneath the oak’s spread —mother and child play

Gilles Fabre

always first to bloom —this cherry treein the graveyard

everywhere,even in my pocket,this morning’s spring wind

pub’s round toilet windowjust big enough —summer full moon

Gabriel Fitzmaurice

a rotting tree stumpin the middle of the woodsmushrooms with new life

Michael Gallagher

rainy daynot even the postman temptsthe dog outdoors

sudden showerthe bog stitched with silver lamé

gentle June breezemaple leavesclatter

Michael Hartnett

In a green spring fielda brown pony stands asleepshod with daffodils

Francis Harvey

sleeping, I think ofErrigal and Mount Fuji . . .the shape of my dreams

snow, and the old manlistens to the rafters creak —the weight of winter

the best of the day:sweet nothing exchanged betweena blackbird and me

Seamus Heaney

Dangerous pavements . . .But this year I face the icewith my father’s stick

Patrick Kavanagh

Corn-crakea cry in the wildernessof meadow

Peter Keane

in the morning lightthe mesembryanthemumopens to the sun

dispossessed swallowsrebuilding their little livesin another barn

Rita Kelly

bowed heads heavyafter daffodilsspelling the spring

curtains partmain actmoon in the window

dead wintersmooth sanded curvesbefore laburnum

Noel King

derelict convent —black and white little birdon the windowsill

house deserted —rhubarb stumpsin the back garden

between the rain clouds,yellow furzeatop the hill

Matt Kirkham

hard to make out . . .lambsagainst frosted fields

Anatoly Kudryavitsky

ventilator off —the sound of dragonfly wing beats

inside the empty shell, snail’s dreams

mosquito in Baltic amber —its frozen flight

Stuart Lane

trees bare against sky —the old boar in his pensnuffs the fresh snow

ancient earthworks —a raven echoes vanishedwar cries

Leo Lavery

sewing cobwebsin its corner —the old Singer

I shut the history bookand the shootingstops

the cuckoosavouringits one blue note

Jessie Lendennie

late August stillnesslong I gaze at the pear treeone hand on the gate

Mark Lonergan

late Autumna lone elm leafhanging on

dark wintry skygeese wedge their wayinto the wind

torrential rainumbrellas mushroomin the park

Sean Lysaght

Main Streetthe bright water dancesin a wheelbarrow

Aine MacAodha

out of nowherea beehungry for summer

cracks in the pavement ants pullinga fly

spiders’ patternson conifers . . .wearing a fine shawl

Séan Mac Mathúna

spring lake —a lone birdwhistles for the dawn

writing tableI watch a spoongather the dawn

after the stormfog off the seacurling into snail shells

Clare McCotter

stooping on the edgeof autumnpurple river grass

May meadow at dusk —red fox spancelled to a frolicking shadow

enfoldingthe fallen foxglovea slug’s soft dream

Clare McDonnell

bandaged in ivy,last winter’sbroken tree

dandelion sunsturned moons —the wind halves and quarters them

cotoneasterwhere an orchestra of beestunes up for summer

Joe McFadden

“Over mountainsmountains” –first snow

east wind —over silent fieldsOctober moon

Beth McFarland

I rememberwhat I thought I’d forgotten —the plum tree blossoms

songbirds returning . . .the tunes my father would whistle

finallythe old man’s applesleft for the birds

Walter Daniel McGuire

autumn breezespider’s webconvex . . . concave . . .

mid-summer skyeven the jet trailsbloom

Sean McWilliams

at twilightdaffodils colourthe blackbird’s song in springthe cry of a cuckoo —someone else’s dream

outgoing tide —every pebblein its place

Giovanni Malito

lone horsecontemplating the sky —the still pond

after the raina sudden burst of sunand crows

low tidethe driftwoodrests

Michael Massey

scattered sheepin an early morning field —boulders in the mist

talking it outagainwith my absent wife

Maire Morrisey-Cummins

dark Novembereven the gorse bushhas the lights on

icy morning —on the doormat a snail leavesa gift of silver

winter noon —under fallen tree twigsa mist uncurls

Joan Newmann

dead pheasantspread for flight —maggots celebrate

song in the heatherrising wind in the ribs ofan old piano

Kate Newmann

damp meadowsweet —horses in mistup to their oxters

caught in the branchesof a dead oak tree,autumn

Colette Nic Aodha

puffs of black smokewaft to the left and right —fog engraves winter

James Norton

the window open —moonlight fills the roomwith moths’ shadows

behind the north wallthe frost lies all day:dogwoods redden

light almost gone:through a swarm of midgesfirst star

Seán O’Connor

hot sun after rainwet statue of the Virginslightly steams

through my socksand his old socks —the feel of borrowed boots

steamingafter a bathsnow in the back yard

Terry O’Connor

autumn mist in the beggar’s hand —his empty stare

the calm before . . .this old fishing boatanchored to the moon

spring snow . . .through the broken windowsof her childhood

Vincent O’Connor

a flash of moonher long hair almost grey

on the lapping shorefour moonsrising

cloudburst —swiftly scatteringstarlings

Hugh O’Donnell

dawnsix starlings on the roofpreparing to jump

rainbow —seven flavours of rain

rainstorm —roof leakswater music

Siofra O’Donovan

water rushingthrough the paddy fieldsmorning soup

picking blackberriesI catch the pale sunin my silver bowl

moon in the skyover the thick forest —cry of a pipal bird

Dennis O’Driscoll

the blackness ofthe cemetery blackbird,its song an octave lower

crab-apple windfallsat the cemetery wallno one collects for jelly

between pre-nataland mortuarythe research unit

Padraig Ó Horgain

through leafless treesthe crescent moon —a blackbird shatters silence

bunch of weedsin a famine graveyard —evening mist settles

occluded moonin the northern skyowl hoots

Mary O’Keeffe

autumn odyssey a ladybird enters the swallows’ nest

November sunseta galaxy of crowsquench the twilight

distant lamp-posta star descends ontothe tallest tree

Tom O’Malley

after rain: on mycabbage leaves’ dry stream beds,drops of quicksilver

October’s breath —a powder blue mist on sloestakes my fingerprint

the windy creakingof this ivy-hooded sceach —winter’s key-note (Sceach: a whitethorn bush (Hiberno-Engl.))

Cathal Ó Searcaigh

my grandfather’s scytherusting in the barnharvest twilight

an ember or two glowin the old man’s ash bucketwinter morning sun

the invalid boy —he stares at his brotherplucking a rose

Kate O’Shea

Easter parade —friend from Ukrainewears a black beret

low summer sky —in the gooseberry bushcats’ eyes

lighted candles fade —beyond the window,flowers and people

Maeve O’Sullivan

September sunriseseagulls strollingacross the empty pitch

summer hailstormon the window-ledgean earwig escapes

winter fogover the rivermoving with it

Ciarán Parkes

high cry of cygnetsfloating backwardson fast water

after rain the sound of birds tuning in blackbird holding the winter sun in its beak

Thomas Powell

above the contourof ebbing snowtwo red kites

cool of the moona snail’s shapecrosses the patio

sun-touched gully . . . the wool and bonesof a passing winter

Isabelle Prondzynski

fog in the city —now I cannot seethose I do not know

starlit sky —light clouds drifting fromthis year . . . to this . . .

grey day again —the blue grape hyacinthgrows grey too

Maureen Purcell

bush trees in bloomflying fox sucksthe nectar

cicadassinging for a matesoon to die

Justin Quinn

cotoneasters in winter: unleaved they showskeletons of sole

Mark Roper

a squashed crow’s winglifts and wavesin the wake of a passing car

at my front doornothing between meand the full moon

Gabriel Rosenstock

foiche lá fearthainne a glóirínmúcht

(a wasp on a wet dayher little voicesmothered)

barr a dhá chluasin airde: cadhóitag éisteacht lena shinsir

(ears cockedcoyote listeningto his ancestors)

there must be lightwhere they came from —chestnut blossoms

Adam Rudden

queue outside the book shop —footprints line upsnow’s typography

John W. Sexton

morning sunfield too smallfor the horse’s shadow

daffodils rotin the vasetheir shadows bloom

first snowthe garden Buddhadeeper

John Sheahan

fingernail clippingson a black marble worktop —the New Moon

reflected in windy waterman in the moonwrinkled with age

bare branches —balanced on a spider’s web,the fallen leaf

Eileen Sheehan

home village nowhere to visit but the graveyard

pauper’s graveyardonly the long grasseshave names

hard frost —on the maple branchmoon sits it out

Breid Sibley

woodlandchorus ascendsto greet sunrise

patchwork sunrisethrough the leafless trees —red cardinals

swan songthe lake holdsthe sound

Bee Smith

striated stone a footpath fossil recordwalking on ocean floor

teasing elderberriesfrom their heavy headsjelly pan babies

spider lace windowof the holiday hut . . .end of season

Martin Vaughan

too wet for birdsong —canary yellow beet leavesglisten in the rain

mountain fog —bleached sheep skullon snow

abandoned harbour —an old fishing netstill catching rubbish

Aisling White

twilight hour —an amber glow ofcrickets’ calls

fishing boat at dusk —gulls’ criesswirling the mast

bog grasses in the evening —a seagullabsorbs the light