AHG 3:4 September 2014 - thehaikufoundation.org

AHG 3:4 September 2014


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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


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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


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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.


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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…


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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’.


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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


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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


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- 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.

http://www.wingbeats.co.uk/

http://www.snapshotpress.co.uk/books/where_the_river_goes.htm

http://www.snapshotpress.co.uk/books/the_new_haiku.htm

http://www.snapshotpress.co.uk/books/stepping_stones.htm

http://haiku-presence.50webs.com/essays/lucasessay2.html


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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


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sunshine chasing clouds

across the reeds

a bunting's song


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


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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


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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


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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


rook

rising

separating light from shadow



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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


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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


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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


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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


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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


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


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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


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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


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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


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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


the ride home

the silent film

of my father's hands

Chad Lee Robinson - USA

denim sky

a saddle resting

on the top rail



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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


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



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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


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


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


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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


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traffic jam

watching the clouds

pile up


slow day

the old topics

circled

Ramesh Anand - India

centuries later

the buzz

of Basho's cicadas


battlefield

the grass overrun

by sheep

Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy - UK

summer solstice –

the sheep pass into darkness

one by one

Sandra Simpson - New Zealand


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



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


37


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



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


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


twilight

the sound of cowbells

growing louder

Raj K. Bose - USA


41


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


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


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


45

nightfall ...

coming home

cricket by cricket

Leanne Mumford - Australia

shrinking

in the rearview

mountains we climbed


September woods –

whispering to a fawn

in my mother tongue


wild quince …

I entangle myself

in trailing brambles

Samantha Sirimanne Hyde - Australia

the fence sags

under morning glories

autumn equinox

Leanne Mumford - Australia


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



47

nightfishing …

the river's stars

outstare me

Richard Tindall - UK

Sonoran stars –

adding to the symphony

coyote voices


without a sound

the coyote

and I

Jeff Hoagland - USA

Indian summer

an inmate’s

commuted sentence


indian summer

nana writes her name

with a sparkler

Joe McKeon - USA


48


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


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


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


52


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


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


fall drizzle

the pileated woodpecker

drills the willow's base

Nola Obee - Canada


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


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


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


58

headlights

through the wintry fog,

a flash of kangaroo


clear winter sky

Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”

on the radio


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


59

store window

my mother returns

my smile

Margaret Conley - Australia

first light

snowflakes treading

the silence


as if i cared or not the boolean nature of snow


snow cover –

a pheasant finds refuge

in the color of rust


frozen valley

the echoing echoes of

a dinner bell

George Swede – Canada


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


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


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


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


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


65


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.


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


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


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


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'.

http://www.theforbiddencorner.co.uk/


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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. . .


79

no preferences


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


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


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


82

Sword of Honour


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.


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.


84


85

rays of moonlight

through a gap in the clouds

summon your image

but it’s only a shadow

on the white garden wall


a winter gust

riding the old swing

in the backyard ...

my childhood sweetheart

in and out of my thoughts


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


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?


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


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


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


rocky bluff –

an old boot

stuck in a crevice …

did he too

have a blistered heel?


My two sons

share too many of

my bad habits –

the dandelion reveals

a crack in the cement



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


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



91


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



93

after the heat of the day

this cool touch

of autumn

the way she turns over

when we’ve made love


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


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


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


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


a heron

takes its long shadow inland

at sunset

the search for a drowned man

ends


a rose

dipped in liquid nitrogen

how fragile

the heart that suddenly fails

the wife suddenly widowed

Maxianne Berger - Canada


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



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


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


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


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?



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


vacation detour –

a truckload of green tomatoes

spilled on the road

fantasies

of being sun-ripened

Jari Thymian - USA


100

no longer

a look back when we part

color drains

from the pin oak leaves

with each touch of frost


sky lit with debris

from stars

dead long ago

a summer romance

flames & dies


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?



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?



102


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


drenched

in the sounds of traffic ...

she offers

a string of wilted jasmine

and her toothless smile



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


the cries of geese

vast and already lost

in the skies

the timber of your voice

I vowed never to forget


an egret follows me

as he searches the shore

my own hunger

filled by the roar and hiss

of the morning tide



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


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


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


gunmetal sky

and chain link stars

this love

is the grinding of bones

beneath flesh



107


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



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



110

tell me

how long is long enough …

raindrops fall

from the canopy of leaves

long after the sky is clear


I start packing

before she’s ready

to move –

our son’s baby photo

back on the mantel


best not to know

just how many days

are left –

how quickly the breeze

strips leaves from the beech


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


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


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


113


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)


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


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


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


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


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


120


121

Anne Tourney


122

Debbie Strange


123

Ramesh Anand, haiku & Ranjana Pai, photograph


124

Wahyu W. Basjir


125

Shloka Shankar, haiku & Dwarakanathan Ravi, photograph


126

Shloka Shankar


127

Shloka Shankar, tanka & Steve Wilkinson, photograph


128

Cynthia Rowe


129

Katerina Eroshina


130

Pris Campbell


131

Terri L. French, haiku & Anne Barnes, photo


132

Steve Hodge


133

Violette Rose-Jones


134

Lavana Kray


135

Lavana Kray


136


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.

http://haibuntoday.com/ht82/h_Rasmussen_Counting.html


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.


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.


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


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


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


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:

http://www.amazon.com/


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


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


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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.


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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

http://www.haibuntoday.com/

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AHG 3:4 September 2014 - thehaikufoundation.org