.
Haiku Sequence from Blithe Spirit Spring 2010
one of those nights
she comes back down blanketed
to view the stars
obscurity wells up
around us immutable
light years made clear
new moon's cusp
cuts free from shreds
white veil
side by side against
failing sight brightness fades
falls a meteorite
.
Hill
there is something in the hill
rising out of the hill into the sky
an echo of the road ahead
swirls into emptiness
the post holding up the rusting wire
hollowed by decay...a temporary home
for ancient lichens skilled in waiting
who placed the wire and bent each nail
who spaced it with such deliberation
against the rough and natural flow
of grasses that somehow rain and sun
have perfectly refined...put straight
the rusting and the rot the bent hinge
that barely holds the fallen gate
there is no tide here on the river
just wind and rain and moon
yet at the edge exposed a line
where things from neither world exist
a leaf floats by a stone half wet half dry
prints out its time...cast in the sand
a moment by the red water
by the curve that holds the course
the place where neither world exists
the edge rising up the bridge between
infinitely thin...infinitely distant
infinitely close
.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Second Prize in the Winter Moon Awards for Haiku 2009
her sixty fifth
she shows us a rare iris
deeply veined
and Carolyn Thomas's commentary...
"Before I looked up the names of the winning poems (they are always chosen blind) I thought a woman had penned this one,and I saw her as the subject. It feels that personal. I was surprised to discover a man had written it. I had to then read it from a different perspective, a strongly poetic one because 'he' sees the beauty, the connection, between the rare iris and the woman who has lived life. Now I have the choice of two options....
I choose to experience this haiku as I originally read it because it evokes the deepest emotion from me. Here is an older woman appreciating who she is, honouring her life's journey; she knows she is the rare iris deeply veined. She says to everyone in her world, "This is who I am."
.
.
Third prize in the Klostar Ivanic 2009 International Haiku Contest
in the market
only the beggar's dog
stares at the eyes
na trznici
samo prosjakov pas
gleda u oci
Commentary, translated by Prof Vida Pust Skrgulja.
An excellent haiku! It is not difficult to imagine a man who had experienced defeat, a man completely broken by his way of life. Our experience lets us know the fact that such people can't look into other people's eyes any more. There are many reasons of that - feeling shame, fear, pain, being hurt, rejected, inferior. Animals (in this case a dog) do not suffer from such negative feelings. They know by instinct that everything that happens in their life is OK. They are direct, sincere, always having the strength to look into the eyes, and search for help. This haiku is excellent just because the beggar is only mentioned, while the accent has been put on the dog (having positive feelings)
.
.
her sixty fifth
she shows us a rare iris
deeply veined
and Carolyn Thomas's commentary...
"Before I looked up the names of the winning poems (they are always chosen blind) I thought a woman had penned this one,and I saw her as the subject. It feels that personal. I was surprised to discover a man had written it. I had to then read it from a different perspective, a strongly poetic one because 'he' sees the beauty, the connection, between the rare iris and the woman who has lived life. Now I have the choice of two options....
I choose to experience this haiku as I originally read it because it evokes the deepest emotion from me. Here is an older woman appreciating who she is, honouring her life's journey; she knows she is the rare iris deeply veined. She says to everyone in her world, "This is who I am."
.
.
Third prize in the Klostar Ivanic 2009 International Haiku Contest
in the market
only the beggar's dog
stares at the eyes
na trznici
samo prosjakov pas
gleda u oci
Commentary, translated by Prof Vida Pust Skrgulja.
An excellent haiku! It is not difficult to imagine a man who had experienced defeat, a man completely broken by his way of life. Our experience lets us know the fact that such people can't look into other people's eyes any more. There are many reasons of that - feeling shame, fear, pain, being hurt, rejected, inferior. Animals (in this case a dog) do not suffer from such negative feelings. They know by instinct that everything that happens in their life is OK. They are direct, sincere, always having the strength to look into the eyes, and search for help. This haiku is excellent just because the beggar is only mentioned, while the accent has been put on the dog (having positive feelings)
.
.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Haiku and drawings from 'On The Journey Home'
'
on the journey home
thunder, sitting in silence
letting dust settle
village graveyard--full
of daisies,dandelion clocks
and dying light
hole for the tree
my hand
stirring her ashes
in goal
his mother dodges
away from the ball
tending the path
to the gate,beyond
ruts heading downhill
sea side graveyard
still enough space
to store a boat
bookshop,filed under
motorbikes a volume
on cycladic art
playground empty
but for wind
playing with sparrows
winter's afternoon
making love
the boiler comes on
an urgent call
to wash my hands
of the garden
waiting for news
with me,on the settee
her drop of blood
to travel silent
as the morning hare
on the gravel road
between each
foxglove,a gap
in buzzing
dawn wind
air jangles
with birds
his funeral suit
in a turn up
the wardrobe key
on fennel
gathering mist,shells
of transparent snails
porch bell silent
its clanger gently
strikes the wind
hospital
white plum blossom feels
the pulse of the moon
.
on the journey home
thunder, sitting in silence
letting dust settle
village graveyard--full
of daisies,dandelion clocks
and dying light
hole for the tree
my hand
stirring her ashes
in goal
his mother dodges
away from the ball
tending the path
to the gate,beyond
ruts heading downhill
sea side graveyard
still enough space
to store a boat
bookshop,filed under
motorbikes a volume
on cycladic art
playground empty
but for wind
playing with sparrows
winter's afternoon
making love
the boiler comes on
an urgent call
to wash my hands
of the garden
waiting for news
with me,on the settee
her drop of blood
to travel silent
as the morning hare
on the gravel road
between each
foxglove,a gap
in buzzing
dawn wind
air jangles
with birds
his funeral suit
in a turn up
the wardrobe key
on fennel
gathering mist,shells
of transparent snails
porch bell silent
its clanger gently
strikes the wind
hospital
white plum blossom feels
the pulse of the moon
.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
From haiku published in BLITHE SPIRIT (British Haiku Society)
'
overhead whistling
quietly the gap
in a rook's wing
until the apple
blossoms the lichen
on next door's roof
in its grave
gently stroking the hare's fur
november winds
city heat
from the grassed reservoir
a twister of hay
paper bark birches
she lets each page
flutter down
dusk freezes
by the old bridge
caught in weeds
the waning moon
overnight snow
circling the house
each pause of the hare
evening mist
gunshots echo
through dead elms
full moon
barn owl's face
every quarter
beach hut washed
away by the cliff
china neatly stacked
snow outside
drifting inside
fragrance of jonquils
back of the drawer
wild barley seeds
in last summer's socks
.
overhead whistling
quietly the gap
in a rook's wing
until the apple
blossoms the lichen
on next door's roof
in its grave
gently stroking the hare's fur
november winds
city heat
from the grassed reservoir
a twister of hay
paper bark birches
she lets each page
flutter down
dusk freezes
by the old bridge
caught in weeds
the waning moon
overnight snow
circling the house
each pause of the hare
evening mist
gunshots echo
through dead elms
full moon
barn owl's face
every quarter
beach hut washed
away by the cliff
china neatly stacked
snow outside
drifting inside
fragrance of jonquils
back of the drawer
wild barley seeds
in last summer's socks
.
Grand Prix Haibun for the First International Kikakuza Haibun Contest. haibun FOR ROSE
'
A small procession winds from the walled garden, past high laurel hedges towards the woodland that she loved. I only knew her for a short while. We usually met at private views, occasionally in the shops of the small coastal town, or, once or twice, as two heads bobbing in the sea.
coppiced woods
filtered sun alive
with bees
After recuperating from a minor breakdown, she’d asked me to help fix up her small studio in the town. We laughed a lot, improvised curtains to cover up junk, sloshed paint about, drank wine. Facets of her hidden personality emerged. A slightly wicked sense of humour, compassion, lightness, a love of colour. Unwanted visitors arrived, slightly drunk, she handled them with kindness and love, gently ushering them on their way.
scattering
her ashes wind
in our direction
Her death was sudden and unexpected. We’d seen her just before on a country lane near our house, and stopped for a chat. A sunny day full of promise, two cars parked side by side, swallows shrilling overhead.
suspended in shade
each pin point of light
a hoverfly
Now, after the funeral, amongst the trees she loved, a few Friends holding hands. We stand silent but for the sound of birds, holding her gently, linking thoughts.
in hazel quivering
a flat web holds
a film of ash
.
A small procession winds from the walled garden, past high laurel hedges towards the woodland that she loved. I only knew her for a short while. We usually met at private views, occasionally in the shops of the small coastal town, or, once or twice, as two heads bobbing in the sea.
coppiced woods
filtered sun alive
with bees
After recuperating from a minor breakdown, she’d asked me to help fix up her small studio in the town. We laughed a lot, improvised curtains to cover up junk, sloshed paint about, drank wine. Facets of her hidden personality emerged. A slightly wicked sense of humour, compassion, lightness, a love of colour. Unwanted visitors arrived, slightly drunk, she handled them with kindness and love, gently ushering them on their way.
scattering
her ashes wind
in our direction
Her death was sudden and unexpected. We’d seen her just before on a country lane near our house, and stopped for a chat. A sunny day full of promise, two cars parked side by side, swallows shrilling overhead.
suspended in shade
each pin point of light
a hoverfly
Now, after the funeral, amongst the trees she loved, a few Friends holding hands. We stand silent but for the sound of birds, holding her gently, linking thoughts.
in hazel quivering
a flat web holds
a film of ash
.
Extracts from first book 'Choosing The Stone'
'
polka dot dress
moire patterns dance
across her breasts
soon as he died
the widow chopped down
all his trees
private view
old friends older
new work scrutinised
cold east wind
pigeons hedge hop
the penetration
solitary horse
his spring erection
patient stare
midwinter
empty seat faces
the leafless lane
deep turquoise light
from a magpie's back
its quetzel flight
front garden privet
all the town's sparrows
having a riot
ripple's centre
a sucking
carp
dawn
blue corydalis slowly
releases the night
post box
new air mail
robin droppings
red cherry leaves
wait for the next wind
her parting words
.
polka dot dress
moire patterns dance
across her breasts
soon as he died
the widow chopped down
all his trees
private view
old friends older
new work scrutinised
cold east wind
pigeons hedge hop
the penetration
solitary horse
his spring erection
patient stare
midwinter
empty seat faces
the leafless lane
deep turquoise light
from a magpie's back
its quetzel flight
front garden privet
all the town's sparrows
having a riot
ripple's centre
a sucking
carp
dawn
blue corydalis slowly
releases the night
post box
new air mail
robin droppings
red cherry leaves
wait for the next wind
her parting words
.
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