poetsday

two-minute poetry

2006-11-29T13:43:00.002-08:00

advice on being

a wise man I knew sat to offer advice
he told me, whenever you attempt anything
try to be the best, and if you can't
be the best, then be different.

there are a lot of people in this old world
you can bet if you've thought of it
then someone else has too! so always
think twice about everything you do.

but don't just do nothing
that just won't do at all!
if you can't be the best - or different
just be yourself, be someone at least.

and on that point he rose
and leaving, walked smack into a post
and I cried, that's the best! That's different!
but it was himself he was being the most.

poetsday

2006-11-27T15:28:00.000-08:00

Still Life After Twenty Years

of the initial fifteen minutes
the first is the worst; aware of risk
a void, staring into the abyss. into
white space, no one to hear you scream
suffocating, grasping towards the surface
throw a line, a purchase, anything you can find.

it's tough, and the next fourteen are no better
fear, hesitation, and mind numbing doubt
but around the fifteenth - a glimpse of form
the light falls roughly where it should
and shadows fix tenable foundations on which
three apples orbit, pulled together with gravity

so there's still life in the old dog yet
how quickly I forget: it only takes a day
for confidence to wane and back again
to minute zero and the long climb out
judging myself harshly by every next effort
but if it was too easy, would it be worth doing?

*
this is a poem celebrating my return to drawing and my pleasure at discovering a reasonable likeness of three apples on my paper at the end of my first exercise.

I'd run out of time somewhat and it's left me with a very unsatisfactory finish. I will come back to this but if anyone offers a better alternative, I will consider it. I always feel I have ownership of the sentiment but not necessarily the words. Art should not be selfish in that way.

two-minute poetry

2006-11-22T05:17:00.000-08:00

there is a point to all actions (the pencil sharpener's song)

I sharpen my pencil for a poem
(now why do I do that?!)
there is a point to every action
whether we see it or not
the unconscious mind is still
the mind we possess; though we may
not realise, it functions with
the same IQ nevertheless.

while the duller blades waver
a keen edge cuts cleanly and true
etching sentiments into the new
paper, not in sand but stone
as erasing that first notion
isn't an option to condone
to sharpen the pencil before the first word
knows instinct to be the finest of swords

two-minute poetry

2006-11-13T06:30:00.000-08:00

A Sister for Ian

When I was seven, Mum brought home a sister
to play with after school, she wasn’t
even one yet; really small, so if I sat
still and was good I could hold her gently
and she smelled like milk and biscuits.
If I behaved down the shops, I could push her
in the pram home, she liked to rock, the gurgles
stopped when she sleeps, sometimes a whole day!
Sometimes I was allowed to push her
'round the garden in the summer while
she napped and I liked this best of all.
One day a robber jumped out and hit me
over the head and stole my sister away
so I chased him down the road and shot him.
I told my mum after, and she was pleased.

*
Inspired by Poetry Thursday : Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire!

hmm, as far as I'm aware this is the first documented lie I ever told. It caused gentle consternation for my teacher, Miss Padmore, but an accompanying illustration (wax crayon on paper) was neat enough to award me a blue star!

all lost now, alas. I've tried to capture the wording of the original as best I can without venturing too far into 'curious incident' territory but, you know, memory and the ravages of time play tricks on the mind - it's as faithful as I can get it to be.

poetsday

2006-11-03T05:53:00.000-08:00

Chief Dan George, honest injun (words from atop a mountain)

when is it a good day to die
when you're down or when you're high?
we've all got to go somehow
with a smile or with a frown
to go down up or head up down.

one deep breath

2006-10-31T00:16:00.000-08:00

one deep breath : the unseen.

guardian angels
watching them when I'm not there
faith, trust, hope and love

*
This week's prompt made me think I'm more of an observational guy and I could appreciate the unseen more. I had a bit of difficulty with 'observing' the unseen without being too literal.

poetsday

2006-10-24T05:13:00.000-07:00

the minutiae of Life & the two-minute poem;

the draft

the draft of a suicide note lay
amongst the aftermath of breakfast
a half-consumed body of man
the sacrificial lamb hanging
ominous from the beam
the coffee has become quite cold now
collecting my belongings I turn
taking one last look while
heading for the door

*

right to the top of the tree

no one need stand on the tips of their toes
to see over the intellect of tony mcgee
while tony would prove one and one made three
but a shortage of men made him CEO
and it's not what you know, nor who you know
but how you go - and so tony went
right to the top of the tree.

*

(dedicated to old bosses and their disgruntled employees everywhere)

one deep breath

2006-10-23T04:29:00.000-07:00

one deep breath : mystery (yugen).

1

recognising you
when i glance in the mirror
flowing eternal

2

two figures walking
caught in the passing headlights
as the night claims them

*

Reading the link on one deep breath for Kristin Boryca's study on the four aesthetic terms in haiku - sabi, wabi, yugen and aware, I wondered if they could relate to the four elements - fire, air (wind), water, earth. (whatever they might mean!)

I came up with;

sabi - solitude - air (or wind)

wabi - stability - earth

yugen - mystery - fire

aware - impermanence - water

a pointless exercise but I had a bit of time on my hands.

Poetsday

2006-10-20T02:36:00.000-07:00

Fucking Paul McCartney

Yesterday, I had this dream
That everyone had turned
Fucking Paul McCartney!
And what's wrong with that?
They'd like to know...

avoidance

2006-10-20T01:13:00.000-07:00

eighteen syllables
or fewer than seventeen
and poor enjambment

poetsday

2006-10-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two-minute poem;

things I avoid

I am a product of my time and place
and I avoid that which isn't mine;
the saccharine, maudlin, inner weeping
and wailing, soul-searching, self-pity
tearing of clothes, and angst negativity.
I would take these things and bake them hard
in a cake of concrete: a lifesaver
ring tossed from the bridge to those drowning
and after a hundred years, when the river
has dried parched and the cement crumbled to
nothing, I will have been gone a long time.

*

this one was definitely two minutes, it's like a pop-gun of thought.
but is it true? don't ask me, I'm barely a poet, not a psychologist!
yet each moment of life is a completed work, there are no second drafts. ;o)

one deep breath prompt

2006-10-16T01:37:00.000-07:00

one deep breath : simple pleasures.

1

a day walking without purpose
mentally sketching
poetry
photos
and
words

2

an empty house, everyone's out
enjoying the quiet
and music
playing
real
loud

*

Susan suggests a backwards Fib this week, so this is what I have done. It was fun. Hey, sometimes when you innocently type something out, you look at it and get an inkling it might be incidental poetry? I seem to do this all the time... is it just me? It's only a bit of nonsense. ;o)

Susan suggests a backwards Fib
this is what I've done
my two fibs
backwards
what
fun!

;o)

one deep breath prompt

2006-10-09T02:09:00.000-07:00

one deep breath : countryside.

1

rising brilliance
the fair autumn countenance
of a harvest moon

2

the moonlight farmers
a new satellite guiding
invisible lines

3

fusion of wet leaves
mud and yeasty cattle feed
autumn country smells

*

a late harvest moon this year, october 6th - it was a beauty, just the minimum of cloud cover, wonderfully illuminated. I had to taxi my daughter to a village 20 miles away, so I had a good view all the way. but did I have my camera? no! :o(

also saw a few headlights in the fields that night - tractors doing tractoring stuff. I don't know what they'd be doing right now, possibly harvesting, or fertilizing, or liming, or just ploughing in the stubble. they do it by global satellite positioning now, I'm told - the harvest moon is just coincidental.

I love those autumn smells, it's a season for all the senses. the mud reminds me a little of the rugby season starting at school, those mouldy old boots never got cleaned. I'm really keen on the smell of those cattle cakes; I don't know what goes in them but I could be persuaded to try a bowl for breakfast - full of malty goodness! - though I suspect they might increase my milk yield too. ;o)

poetsday

2006-10-06T04:02:00.000-07:00

not the minutiae of Life but still a two-minute poem

woolgathering

swimming against the nighttide, diving deep
the white sickle pearl of eve time's creep
part the willows, the brush and the keep
woolgathering as we sleep

a hundred score have passed this way
minds cold as the whisperer's call
and leaving before the bitter bell's toll
the blessed thief and the black kaliboer

with the fluid sighs of twilight screams
a falling circle through an hour-glass seam
the shadow wakens the weeping streams
woolgathering as we dream

poem haiku

2006-10-05T06:22:00.000-07:00

1

haiku are puddles
poems draw from deeper wells
water is water

2

a man of few words
finds haiku a natural
saying what you find

3

writing poetry
takes more than a single breath
ties tongue and blanks mind

poetry thursday prompt

2006-10-05T05:08:00.000-07:00

poetry thursday prompt: the body

a two-minute poem

pondering body and mind

at the farthest end of this street, a bird
sings silently within its small cage
opposite an empty apartment block
i stand here much the same, minus those
bits taken, deemed to be useless or rotten
and hanging onto scars to remember
those things i've long ago forgotten, but
you still amaze me, like two old friends;
a mind less keen though i've never been keener
a body less strong though i've not felt fitter
how far we have come, together, yet still
in a race where there's never two winners
i'm already wondering whether it'll end
like the bird or the empty old building.

*
it's seems quite a downer for old me, so i'm sitting here thinking; is this really me? i have to say yes, though it isn't something i dwell on - i just saw the prompt, had a think and scribbled a few lines. it's all practice, you don't improve waiting for the right prompt to come along!

poetsday

2006-10-04T07:34:00.000-07:00

the minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

sweet lady

come sweet lady and scrub my peripheral
bring the bursting holdall with brushes, coarse
and detergents, toxic, polish those pegs
like old rattle-bones, reco-reco samba
rhythm, the bristles scratching to and fro.
watching you work reminds me of my Gran,
tackling the most mundane task as if her
life depended on it - and often it did!
the endless hours of piecemeal and graft,
yet never the slightest hint of boredom
- but pride! minutes later she left me with
my keys fresher and the faint wiff of fairy.

lunar tunes

2006-10-03T06:26:00.000-07:00

1

one small step for man
one giant leap for mankind
lost in transmission

2

down from the heavens
they walked upon the sea
of tranquillity

3

there is a theory
that the vikings got there first
and stole all the cheese

inspired by one small a... what did Neil really say?

poetsday

2006-10-03T06:14:00.000-07:00

the minutiae of Life & the two-minute poem

1

the relative pleasures of walking and art

artwork: is art work?
then is walking work?
so is walking to work work?
and is running hard work?
so why don't you wait for the bus?
is that work too? Yes,
but is it art?

2

things said

you said i was so shallow
that if i was the sea
you could walk across me
and not get your soles wet
and i said you were too sensitive
if you were a seismograph
you would register a
catastrophe every time i sighed.
that night under the covers
we put our theories to the test
knowing that a new sun must never
shine on an old argument.

one deep breath prompt

2006-10-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

one deep breath : sweet serenity (books).

1

the surrounding roar
fades slowly into silence
as i read my book

2

no shortage of works
if you're not enjoying that book
stop! - start another

3

that elusive third
selecting my three for two
from ottakar's books

*

though i buy most of my books on-line from amazon thesedays, i can't resist a good high street offer of 3 for 2. i realise why i buy from amazon when i can't quite decide if i'm entirely happy with that iffy third choice. ;o)

the second haiku is inspired by something i read the author, Nick Hornby, advising in the book section of my weekend paper. ironically, it could very well be one of Hornby's that i would give up reading. :o)

haiku for engineers

2006-09-29T01:26:00.000-07:00

1

crank the blackened wheel
steel and grease and steel and grease
the steam-driven thing

2

under a tall hat
isambard kingdom brunel
smokes a fat cigar

3

open plan office
how did it come to this?
white collar factory

poetsday

2006-09-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

sweet words

to see you stack those sweet words
like sugar lumps arranged on
the table-top at Lyon's
i hold the hot mug to my lips
afraid something might escape
while you offered such sweet words
and me being diabetic.

sci-ku

2006-09-22T07:07:00.000-07:00

1

temporal shifting
pour the hot kettle of time
down nasty wormholes

2

daleks meet the borg
to compliment each other
in perfect english

3

i looked for myself
a parallel universe
but i was not there

haiku for small critters

2006-09-22T01:53:00.000-07:00

1

little captive bird
singing for everyone's joy
not through happiness

2

wing-mirror spider
travelling forty miles and back
too fast for dinner

3

ephemeral fly
where do daddy-long-legs live
outside september

cooking haiku

2006-09-21T06:37:00.000-07:00

1

a curious thing
who ate the second chili
was it for a bet?

2

vegetarians
best give them peas, potatoes
beans, and stuff like that

3

we dined alfresco
walking home with fish and chips
wrapped in newspaper

poetsday

2006-09-20T04:53:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

1

bob and len discuss poetry

leonard said hallelujah!
it took ten years to write
aghast, bob's watchtower-
all along it took, well
barely half an hour.
the two men mused long
and finally, silently
bid each other good day.
so, when you say where
do i see my poetry lie
on the cohen-dylan spectrum
i reply, oh, definitely
in the infra-read.

2

clemency

when you think about it
the only option left is
to learn to love the rain.
is it not like us - mainly water?
but only opposites attract
it's an apposite fact
that we hate the rain because
it reminds us of ourselves:
living wet on the water's
edge, slipping on sopping socks
so, shoes get holes sometimes!
yet you can still walk the
farthest in your oldest pair.

Thanks to Michelle for correcting my original clunk ending. :o)

as a footnote, do you know that nearly all these efforts end up as 13 liners. now i'm not superstitious but i could be suspicious that the number has some unconscious significance or, possibly, a natural rhythm only in-tune with myself. is it wrong? is it okay? these are the questions i need to answer right now.

poetsday

2006-09-19T05:41:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

1

if i come up too fast i'll only get the bends

here i am bottom-feeding
scouring the depths of my soul
no bathysphere to contain me
breathing pure oh-two

2

time travel is entirely possible

from an old photograph
the light in your eyes is
closer to me than any distance
could be from here to reality

if I would reach back now
and step into the frame
I could save you from mortality
and secure you in simplicity

poetry thursday prompt

2006-09-14T07:13:00.000-07:00

also Poetsday: The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

the bleeding apple

the bleeding apple bled
its bleeding juice down my shirt
i bit and it squirted a tiny spurt
down the front and there it pooled
like a weeping nipple, only apple not milk
spreading over my favourite silk shirt
and it hurts. fructose-lactose
it doesn't matter once sticky
turns your dicky to schmatter.

this is a two minute poem for the poetry thursday prompt: to write in the style of someone else. i was literally chewing a crisp apple while reading the prompt and it did end up on my shirt. i'm not worried as its a work shirt - but what if it hadn't have been?

i tried to think what John Hegley would have said but I'm not John Hegley, he's a bleeding poet and I'm a bleeding nobody really - so, two minutes is about all it's worth! enjoy.

poetsday

2006-09-14T04:52:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

mambo for claustrophobe

don't hold so close!, she said
as we turned into vacant space
these ever increasing circles
avoiding others like the plague
i want to dance under a moonlit sky
in an open field so i can feel
my feet chassé along the dew
but not with you, she said. alone,
a mambo for one, so i left her
in the centre of the floor and
before switching off the lights
reminded her emphatically
in 4/4 time: to remember
to put the cat out when she leaves.

poetsday

2006-09-13T05:54:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

mouse

my mouse does not move; i tried coaxing it
revolving its little wheel, tapping
its red bottom gently - then much harder
still. it does not move; not even a twitch.

the IT man explains to me kindly
how mouses have a tendency to die
so, removing the corps, he buries it
in a dog-eared box without ceremony
in a graveyard at the foot of the stairs.

we must hang onto civilization
or what will the future make of us
and our multitude of little mass graves.

it's about time!

2006-09-10T01:06:00.000-07:00

1

sixty minutes drip
the hour pooling at my feet
slipping on wet socks

2

the town hall clock stopped
eleven twenty-seven
late lunch in sheep street

3

pendulum motion
oscillating metronome
perpetual swing

(requested by !AN ROW @ HotCrossHaiku)

poetry thursday prompt

2006-09-07T08:06:00.000-07:00

the Holism of White Light

In the absence of green and red
We get blue. Green like the fallow
Fields sweeping past the window while
I daydream: I shall abandon
This tiresome vehicle, hard-shouldered
Then lose myself in such cool grass.
And Red, the rising blood and anger
Which, one day, will push me to it.

poetsday

2006-09-05T03:20:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

composting

you are organic
i am more bob the builder
can we fix it?

you are organised
while i seem just chaotic
lost amongst the words

inspiration from a poem by becoming amethyst.

continuing the idea of the two-minute poem; words tumble and must be gathered up, like panning for gold - often you just get the dirt but you'll never know this before you gather it up.

poetsday

2006-08-18T07:17:00.000-07:00

The minutiae of Life & the two minute poem

our opinions are blowing away

are cleaners doing a better job?
we're asked. it's been three
months since the last survey.
i place a flamboyant tick in the box
marked YES. (it's not for me to say)
my neighbour, i note, for ease, does likewise
and feeling warmed by these exertions
puts on the oscillating fan and i muse
as our opinions are blowing away

inspired by the haiku but needing a less restricting form, I'm endeavouring to compose, over time, some two minute poems on the minutiae of ordinary life. two minutes refers to the approximate time taken from conception to completion.

artwords prompt

2006-08-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

chequers & smokes (ink on paper/digital colouring)

The chequers players

In blue heat biding time, no place to go
I'm wandering down south serangoon road,
Indian quarter, chromium blue on
turmeric walls, cinnabar sparks of white
shirted crowds, making moves, crouching across
buttons on rude chequered boards, criss-crossing
ivory tokens and saffron pawns
on a confinement of squares, the choking
cigarettes concentrated murmers
and stares, cut the intensity with
a keen cleaving blade. one mishap
and victory is around the corner
losing itself in a fog of grey smoke.

(Artwords prompt: monochrome)

one deep breath prompt

2006-08-14T07:35:00.000-07:00

what do we call this
infusion of words and thought?
issa cuppa tea!

one deep breath prompt: coffee & tea

tom soup prompt

2006-08-11T07:48:00.001-07:00

no belief in the LDR

i do not believe in mr. chin
who lives in the fierce lion city
with his family on the balmy outskirts
of singapore, number ten-sixty-two
jurong road. a palm fringed avenue
among the bananas and mango groves.
i do not believe in the red tricycle
upended in the yard and his slender wife
passing him his briefcase while he tousels
the jet bangs of their issues before
taking the expressway to work where he counts
and reckons, the facts and the tally
i do not believe the cab is yellow.

i do not believe in mr. chin
i do not think i have ever met him
nor him me. we haven't passed unknowingly
in the street. he never turned and smiled
as i apologised; we did not brush shoulders.
nor do i believe i've ever thanked him when
he took my arm and, asking is this yours?
returned my wallet. i do not believe i dropped it.

i do not believe in mr. chin. he is there
but we have never met. he is elsewhere
he is not of my world nor i of his but
if at some time our paths cross again
things may be different. but for now
i do not believe in mr. chin.

i believe in mrs. meacher, as she tends her garden
i see from my window her wonderous place
as she caresses the vibrant heads with gentle
grace, the ginger tom rubbing its face to and fro
without a hint of intolerance, the way she lets him go
i hear her from my garden as she sings, not for me
she doesn't understand favourites, and chooses no one
i believe mrs. meacher lives at number nine
and i believe this: it's next door to mine.

this is no.3 in a trilogy of poems about my personal relationships with god. i wrote these a few days after experiencing an odd feeling while driving home, i could not say it wasn't a damascene moment or enlightenment, but i doubt this very much.

for those not familiar with personals problem pages, LDR is shorthand for long distance relationship

sunday scribbling prompt

2006-08-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

Who else could I be?

i am GOD, yes, well, i could be He
there's time, i'm sure, it's not blasphemy
already i'm aware what's in everybody's
prayers (that one was a no-brainer really)
now if i could just get the handle on
omnipresence i'll be there. and here.
though, i fear, miracles may take a little
longer, the quickness of hand, and the sleight
of eye. oh damn, truth! that anathema.
however, i'll endeavour never to lie.

tom soup prompt

2006-08-11T07:40:00.000-07:00

signs

this morning i had the distinct impression
god was trying to tell me something
as i set off for work, turning to my car
i was startled by a grey, folded bird
low and laborious, banking without grace
dangerously between two blunt gables

and now, as i sit waiting for boot-up
i'm shown a long squadron of canada geese
beating wings in close wedge formation
past my window. it's like he's saying
''look what i can do!'', and i'm thinking, yes,
very clever - now go tidy your room!

most things I try of the creative kind I do so because look like immense fun: photography, sketching, doodles, haiku and haigu, photo montage and writing essays. there are a lot of things that I haven't tried that look fun too, mostly the work I see on other sites kept by creative and expressive people. I hope to get my house in order one day so that I'm free to indulge in these other things.

But I haven't the foggiest notion why I should want to try poetry. It's not like I enjoy it, it's not in my innate nature, it's unfamiliar, alien, inscutable, unecessarily obscure most of the time. However, there are times when I feel I have to give it a go because it's the only way to express the point. I think it has something to do with truth but I can't be sure. The verse above is about two incidents and one reaction which occured this morning.

God hates me because I haven't got a hole, so he's scheming; ''I'll show him up with his puerile verse for the fool he is!'' He does that, you know? Sometimes.

one deep breath prompt

2006-08-07T08:09:00.000-07:00

1

behind bales of straw
rabbits shelter from the sun
buzzards arc overhead

2

a curving grass track
by the meandering stream
still gets me to town

one deep breath prompt: the scenic route

I don't think I'm often accused of not taking the scenic route. There are some who, once you arrive on their doorstep, ask how long it took you and by which roads did you come? I have to tell them I haven't a clue! It's as if there's some competition going on and they're waiting to enter your name onto a league table they've pinned to the back of the kitchen door.

haiku never seem to fail me in their theraputic effect, to me they're sort of sculpting in words, like wood carving or working in stone, whereas most poetry is more like working in clay - does that make any sense?

the above are two recent observations (last month I think) on a roundabout walk into town.

one deep breath prompt

2006-08-01T08:07:00.000-07:00

1

basking on the edge
a frog returns to the pond
the sleepy cat stirs

2

the sounds of mowers
bees gathering sweet nectar
a grasshopper chirps

3

neglected garden
white trumpet flowers invade
nature crossing borders

4

a painted lady
dancing on the cotswold breeze
african beauty

one deep breath prompt: the garden

I love gardens but I can't seem to keep up with the gardening bit. Gardens are places in which to muse not work. I was once employed as a gardener but got sacked on my first day for lying down on the job - my excuse that it enabled me to see the weeds better fell on deaf ears. Okay, it was only a summer job and for a relative so I didn't mind too much.

poetry thursday prompt

2006-07-27T05:07:00.000-07:00

Poetry Thursday's inspirational prompt this week is ''food'' - now, it always happens that I do most of my browsing around lunchtime and so food is invariably never far from my thoughts. Previously I had written about my lunchbox orange - 'twas nothing more than a scribble really.

this time, what with the bad news in the east and the heatwave bringing home the reality of climate change and, if we ignore this, the possible suffering it will bring to the affluent world - on a par to the current crises in many parts of the third world - and how their fragile economies and eco-structures are totally dependant on trade with us, the affluent world, yet still they starve while we get obese - this crazy travelling fruitcase of a world in which we live...

so, from my box this lunchtime I want to compose something about my rosy apple. (as per usual, it's a work in progress but one that I'll probably never revise.)

My African Apple

What can I tell you about my apple?
Its satisfying shape and glossy hue
Firm to touch, crisp, the expectation of bite
A little label that says South Africa!
Seven thousand miles, this fruit travels further
Than I do. Across plains and mountains
Rivers and valleys, villages and towns
And I wonder, as I crunch, whether
It crossed the dry lands of Somalia
Or Sudan and whether a woman there,
I’d seen on an aid poster, looking up,
Seeing my apple’s flight, wondered too
As I do, as she walks to fetch fresh water.
Some evenings we’ll walk the mile to the pub
Leaving the car because I’d like a drink
She walks fifteen miles because she wants to live
And apples fly seven thousand miles because
We can’t wait for fruit to be in season.

one deep breath prompt

2006-07-24T05:09:00.000-07:00

1

thunder and lightning
we search the ominous sky
for a patch of blue

2

biking in the rain
the ford is no obstacle
to those who are wet

one deep breath prompt: perspective

this is how I spent my saturday, with friends up from London eager to try out their mountain bikes in the cotswold hills - needless to say, as soon as they arrived the heavens opened up! after two relentless hours of rain, we went anyway - and eventually the rain went too. great day!

poetry thursday prompt

2006-07-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

poetry thursday: SEX

Is a pop lyric prosody? In the end does it really matter...? this old, old song came to mind;

My SEX

My sex
Waits for me
Like a mongrel waits
Downwind on a tight rope leash

My sex
Is a fragile acrobat
Sometimes I'm a novocaine shot
Sometimes I'm an automat

My sex
Is often solo
Sometimes it short circuits then
Sometimes it's a golden glow

My sex
Is invested in
Suburban photographs
Skyscraper shadows on a carcrash overpass

My sex
Is savage, tender
It wears no future faces
Owns just random gender

My sex
Has a wanting wardrobe
I still explore
Of all the bodies I knew and those I want to know

My sex
Is a spark of electro flesh
Leased from the tick of time
And geared for synchromesh

My sex
Is an image lost in faded films
A neon outline
On a high-rise overspill

My sex
My sex.

(John Foxx)

SEX

Before Midge Ure, before electronic, before punk
before our sex, before real sex, before any kind of sex
was My Sex. Dirty, sweaty, hot and wet, bodies pressed
and moving rythmically, impulsively reciprocating, the beat
overloading my senses, your voice, drowning whispers, and screams
and the sweet-bitter smell of our wasted fluids, spilt and mingling
on the floor. up hard, upfront, rough against the edge, the pedestal
and ivory tower, the stage at the Marquee Club, Wardour Street west one.

I wasn't a fan, my friend was but
in those days I was up for anything.

I'm still learning about poetry appreciation and I know the serious writing will only follow the appreciation. So I didn't intend to write a poem but once I have it on my mind, the urge to form verse from prose is too tempting. However, if anything it's a rough first draft (more likely a bit of whimsical nostalgia that I won't recover the passion to get back to!)

I'm not entirely happy with the metre - I'm suspicious that I'm not going to be a big fan of free verse, ''playing tennis without a net'' sort of game. I'm a beat fiend, probably the same wiring that prevents me being keen on classical music, I don't know.

You can pick up old Ultravox! Best of... CD for less than four quid at Amazon. By old I mean the pre-Midge Ure, original arthouse line up. I don't know what my ears would make of them now - but I'm tempted. Four quid won't even buy a round of drinks - unless maybe you're at the Ultravox! Appreciation Society's annual dinner & dance.

I've to get back to paid employment this minute and have to leave it unfinished for now...
Laters.

illustration friday prompt

2006-07-19T05:03:00.000-07:00

haiga: pencil, ink & highlighter pen

I tried some haiku while on holiday in Zakynthos last week, this one an observation on our way down to the local beach. Since being introduced to the concept of Haiga - basically illustrations with haiku - I am quite taken with them. By turning my holiday haiku into a haiga I have a possible submission for the IF theme this week.

one deep breath prompt

2006-07-18T02:52:00.000-07:00

1

last bus gone, i walk
my shadows waltz around me
down orange lit streets

2

the underground breeze
electric rails sing strangely
next train approaching

one deep breath prompt: urban

as I live almost entirely outside of the urban environment thesedays, I had to draw on a few memories as a youth living in London - always walking home from dates and the mole-like existence of the tube commuter.

one deep breath prompt

2006-07-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

1

slow trickle of water
the rising tang of bitter fruit
one sweetened one not

2

procrastination
the cat in need of its rest
often kneads its bed

one deep breath prompt: ceremony and ritual

one deep breath prompt

2006-07-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

This week's haiku prompt at one deep breath is journey. Though I don't do enough rail journeys, I often associate the idea of a journey with trains - the great age of the train! Why have we abandoned this glorious scheme for so many mean little tin boxes? (Another story). I relish long train journeys. There's nothing like just sitting back, half-mesmerised by the clickety-clack, watching little mayfly worlds come and go, passing by your personal window.

In addition is the optional submission of a Haiga. A haiga is a painting in the spirit of the haiku, and which compliments the haiku. I adore traditional Japanese brushwork; clear, clean and ordered it's as if every stroke is purposeful, economic not wasteful or superfluous, great discipline. Though I've heard it's easier to admire those things in others we don't possess ourselves. ;o)

Anyway, I love the idea of Haiga so I'm having a go.

popeye prosody

2006-07-03T02:07:00.000-07:00

Iamb what Iamb... (Popeye philosophy)

so far so good, the beginning of Stephen Fry's book is very educational.

I'm encouraged to adopt three rules; tools with which to make the journey more meaningful.

Take your time - poems can't be read too slowly, but they can be read too fast!
Do not look for immediate meaning - just enjoy the flow of words, the meaning may come much later...but don't worry about this.
Always carry a notebook and pencil for those moments - flashes - of inspiration.

I'm learning about the basic building blocks of poetry, starting with stress and the iambic pentametre. I find this difficult to be honest because the more I think about it the more I go wrong. It comes easier when I don't try. The problem is hearing all those awful actors reading poetry with exaggerated and often misplaced stress on certain syllables - I'm doing this myself! though when I read like a normal bloke, it's hard to notice the natural stresses on polysyllabic words - but with perseverance it's improving.

So, an iamb is a two syllable element with a rise or stress on the second syllable, like appears, today and iamb (pronounced i-yam).

a pentametre is a measure of five elements, so an iambic pentametre is five iambs (or ten syllables where each even numbered syllable is naturally stressed). It is also known as a heroic line. so, that's what I've learned.

To consolidate, I am instructed to come up with some iambic pentametres of my own, off-the-cuff, very quickly. I hope I got it right. Here's the ten;

the clock is twenty minutes fast today
i run but tiredness trips my aching feet
a bruise appears where none appeared before
my shoe is loose my sock is falling down
erase those foolish marks and draw a line
he's tall because his legs are very thin
money is tight so daddy looks for work
this sugar's sweet and costs an arm and leg
no sense to make a piglet ride a sow
come rain and shine the rainbow arcs my way

Can you feel the rhythm? I was told to concentrate on the metre, not try to make sense! :o)

symbolism rules

2006-06-30T01:04:00.000-07:00

Retirement

Palm trees anticipate the arc
of your body, its return to the earth.
Instead of the ocean, the reflection
of pavement, the mirrors in your apartment
that once focused only on your face.
You cannot discard unwanted limbs
on the beach. You are convinced blood
is the solvent of skin, and your heart
is continually forcing high tide

jason fraley

I have found a few sites which give daily doses of poetry and I am trying to remember to visit them on a daily basis in the hope that at least something might filter through by osmosis. I think it must be true that the more exposure you get to any art form, the more scope for appreciation - you're going to find some stuff you quite like!

The above example was on today's verse daily. I'm not ready to retire yet but I can already connect with the inevitability of physical ageing. I liked the way he wove the vision of a dream retirement by the ocean with the reality of the decrepitude of old age.

Mind you, it's a bit pessimistic. I hope to avoid this condition when my day comes - look after yerself, Jason! I just like the poem.

postscript: I refer to its symbolism. I get confused between the terms: metaphor, allegory, simile etc. .... I hope that symbolism is a more embracing term, though I suspect now that simile is the one I'm after.

tom soup prompt

2006-06-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

school
bell
silent
solitude
the blue embracing
twilight nears, the last child has flown

a tom soup prompt is no real prompt at all, just some spare time contemplating my photoblog for inspiration.

I thought I'd try out another fibonacci sequence as the first one looked a bit lonely in the pile.

unlocking the poet within

2006-06-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

I have at last received the book, The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry. I'm going to attempt to use this to Unlock the Poet Within.

Stephen Fry is an educated and cultured, english comic actor, it may just say actor on his passport as he is probably most famous for playing Oscar Wilde in the biopic Wilde. He appears on telly quite a bit in the UK, either teamed with old mucker Hugh Laurie of USA's House fame, as a main character in the various Blackadder series, and as quiz master in the celebrity game show QI. Basically, he's a big, gay, funny actor bloke who seems to know a fair bit and explains it well, so... here we are.

what's a meta for?

2006-06-27T03:29:00.000-07:00

Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Sylvia Plath

this is an excellent poem! only the second from Sylvia Plath and already I'm intrigued by how she came to take her own life. It doesn't seem to be the writing of a failing person, more a fighter, someone I'd expect to be a survivor! maybe she concluded life was pointless, futile, boring...

obviously I have no first hand experience of her condition but I have been around and heard, and overheard, women tell of the discomforts of carrying child. would they have chosen the same expressions as Plath? there's layers of meaning in those lines.

one deep breath prompt

2006-06-26T05:44:00.000-07:00

the prompt this week at one deep breath is the Fib - not, as I first thought, a falsehood but a variation on the 5-7-5 form. It's a 1-1-2-3-5-8 form instead, which is a mathematical sequence known as fibonacci. I have to confess to being a bit number blind even though I used to do okay in maths. I struggle to remember my own phone number! Certain things have natural appeal - like the thirds rule and certain ratios - but I don't get much from fibonacci, okay I'm looking at it and thinking yeah, and....? I think it's like one of those odd looking babies only a mother could love... anyway, that doesn't mean I can't try a poem. :o)

I was out on my bike this weekend and took this photo. I've chosen to write my Fib around it.

tall
blooms
blood red
upon gold
such bounty can't hide
my brother cut down in anger

I was fascinated and delighted with Susan's post on the above theme and her quest with haiku on designs in nature - the light bulb in my head came on!

Over the past two weeks I have been collating all the haiku I've written for the sole purpose of posting something/anything on this blog. Well, I thought I'd gathered them all in but now I realise there was one that escaped, it hiding away, forgotten, on the photoblog. I'd just started using the camera and was snapping anything that moved and a lot more that didn't.

Anyway, I found myself in the park, staring up into the branches of this big London Plane and seeing fractals - nature's little growing patterns!

twigs sprout from branches
sons in their father's image
grand family tree

gadzooks, thou art a codfish, sir.

2006-06-21T05:40:00.000-07:00

shock! horror! probe! I've noticed the date and it's incredible how time flies in 2006. it calls for some off-the-cuff swamp verse from your very own Deputy Doggerel...

Solstice Schmolstice

how can the nights be drawing in
when summer's just begun?
i haven't got the bike out yet!
i'm missing out on fun

write words writing club prompt

2006-06-21T04:55:00.001-07:00

Jo (Jodi) of the Write Words Writing Club has offered a prompt, the first line of a poem or perhaps a poem title; Life Dwells On The Tip Of A Teardrop.

It's an interesting prompt and, never wanting to miss an opportunity, I've flexed my literary muscles and cracked my poetic knuckles to try and come up with something appropriate.

Life Dwells On The Tip Of A Teardrop

Life dwells on the tip of a teardrop
a crystal world turned upside down
lashed to the mast, the salty ocean
deep, profound yet - emotionally ambigious
life gives you many masters, many lessons learned
your provenance is a mystery, which is it?!
compassion, hurt, laughter, or grief - or the grit
that creates a pearl? a sacrificial seep
suspended in tension, like the hanged man
like an inverted balloon, fighting gravity's pull
procrastination before the inevitable fall
life dwells on the tip of a teardrop
for a moment, then is no more.

sunday scribbling prompt

2006-06-18T07:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure Sunday Scribbling is about poetry though I don't see why not. This is my modus operandi for sunday scribbling:

first reaction is wtf am I going to write about that?
then I take several deep breaths and tell myself it doesn't matter if I don't do one every week...
then I come up with one reasonably viable idea
then the dominoes begin to topple
at this stage I have to fire up word and type in a list of ideas else I will surely forget
(if the prompt is published on thursday or friday and I'm at work, I'll jot them down on a piece of paper. sometimes I think this is a better way to go.)
then I stare at the list a lot looking for the story...

this sunday, with poems on my mind, the list resembled a poem so I stuck my neck on the block and arranged some lines as best I could. I know you can't get away with writing a great poem off the cuff - it needs to be crafted - but I can always return and improve it later.

This week's Sunday Scribbling prompt is Bed.

I've Made My Bed and Now I Must Lie In It

Clean cool sheets and pillow cases
Newly laundered and freshly scented
A snap induced billow, marvelling at the graceful descent
We try to do hospital corners, she is better than me
She calls mine abattoir corners but I tell her
In the dark no one will see

A warm bath before and the window slightly ajar
Sleep nude, naked as the day we were born
Often this is the only opportunity we have
A cool body induces a gentle repose, and in bed
There's no need for silly clothes and as I've said
In the dark no one will see

what about your voice?

2006-06-17T00:59:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking now that poetry is more an oral art - a tradition, if you like. Sure, we write it down and it gets copied out, but for convenience and because that's what literate societies do. I'm thinking that a poem must be written with a voice, preferably the poet's own!

This may seem like a statement of the bleeding obvious but let me tell you I think this is where I've gone wrong!

Firstly, seeing poems laid out can appear as flat as the paper they're written on. Hearing them read out gives them an unexpected liveliness. Is this the music that Clive James was on about?

Secondly, when composing a verse I've been concerned that it appears to look like a poem on the page and not just a paragraph of flowery prose, cut up in pleasing lengths and stacked one upon the other - maybe with a few rhymes and alliteration. I've not paid any attention to my own voice! It's someone else's voice - or no one else's voice, which must be worse.

I have to discover my voice - like Hegley, Zephaniah, and Plath...

...or Neruda. See, even if I was Pablo Neruda's equal, I shouldn't try to speak with his voice. It would be silly, I'd feel self-conscious and it wouldn't sound pretty at all.

The Queen

I have named you queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are purer than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
No one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass,
The nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to me.

Pablo Neruda

poetry thursday prompt #1

2006-06-15T13:58:00.000-07:00

Poetry Thursday is a good place for me to experience poetry. for a poet numpty, like me, the more exposure to poetry, the less alien the stuff seems and, it follows, the more you get to appreciate it as expression.

this week's prompt is a suggestion to share some favourite poetry. this is more difficult than it seems as I'm only setting out on the journey but I did a bit of thinking and googling and, naturally, the BBC came up with an interesting site!

some time back, I remember an interview with writer and broadcaster Clive James on the occasion of his new book of poems. he was asked ''what makes a poem?''

unfortunately, I can't remember his answer.

no, I recall he said the difference between lyrics and poetry was that lyrics required music (duh?) whereas poetry came with its own music. (ah-hhhhha!) so, I'm thinking the reading - and the way it's read - is all important.

Now this BBC site Poetry Out Loud is ideal as it features recordings of some well-known poets reading their own work. How cool is that?!

I've always had a soft spot for comic verse; it's probably the most accessible genre.

I like John Hegley. One of his was included on the site (you need Realplayer which is unfortunately the worst media player on earth - sorry). I hope you can listen to it because I found it useful in understanding the phrasing and emphasis. I mean, I read it first and listened later and found that Hegley read it far better than I did. Well, he would - he wrote it!

On the Booze (listen here)

My dad very rarely drank
but one time when he did
my mother blew her lid rather
and leaving the lather
and the sink
she said you stink
you stink of drink
you've tried to hide it with a peppermint
but I don't think it's done the job
because you blinking stink Bob
it's obnoxious
let some air through
open the windows will you
and the door.
He had had two halves of lager
Three days before.

Copyright: John Hegley.

poetry thursday prompt #2

2006-06-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

Benjamin Zephaniah's Miss World was interesting to hear because I'd read it as a full on rant but listen to Benjamin's reading and there's quite a carribean lilt to it. It reminded me of a skipping song.

Miss World (listen here)

Beauty is about how you behold
more than silver more than gold
if I say I am beautiful
it means beauty is accessible,
beauty is about how you greet
de everyday people dat you meet
you are beautiful so all rejoice
your beauty is a natural choice.

My sister is a beautiful girl
she don't want to be Miss World
her value is not prize money
more value than a pearl
my sister is a beautiful girl
human delight
she could be out of sight but she would rather stay and fight.

Her legs are firm and strong
best for self-defence
my sister kicks like wildfire
so cause her no grievance
she won't walk the platform
to upsex people's lust
and you can't get the number of her height, age or bust,
she don't want to go to the market
to be viewed like a slave
the viewing time is over
put de judge in the grave,
she don't need to go to the market
'cause she's already won
beauty contest no contest
she don't need to run.

I talk 'bout people in society who judge you by your looks, den,
give you a number dat is written in a book, and, lustful eyes
from all around come to look at you, and, day judge your lifetime
by a quick interview.

My sister is a beautiful girl
But she don't want to be Miss World
her personality cannot be rewarded by no judge or earl.

My sister is a beautiful girl
She needs no contest
and you can't put her with another judging who's the best.
And you cannot judge my sister's heart
By looking at her breasts.

Copyright: Benjamin Zephaniah.

Final choice is Sylvia Plath's Lady Lazarus. I'd first read the blurb about how she took her life four months later and I was expecting some whimpering verse - but no! It's punchy, forthright and quite menacing I thought.

Lady Lazarus (listen here)

It's a long poem so please just follow the link and listen - it's powerful stuff!

I've noticed that all three choices use sound rhymes - Hegley for comic effect, Benjamen gives it a song-like beat and Plath, subtler than the other two, kind of traps and wraps you up with them.

what is a poem, exactly?

2006-06-15T05:35:00.000-07:00

...or what it is not?

This is probably the first question on my mind. Like, can you make a cullen skink without knowing what it is or what it's not? Here is a recipe...

Cullen Skink

A pound of plump white fish, smoked
haddock or cod fillet, plain not dyed
placed inside a shallow dish, covered
with whole fresh milk, one pint
the fish, cooked, removed and flaked
an onion, chopped, takes its place
with sliced potatoes, waxy and new
and once all done, the fish in too
and ground black pepper to taste.

someone once told me;

''Art is Everything and Anything; drop an egg and it's an accident, but take a picture of it and it's Art!''

In the end we decided it must not be a case of there being Art and non-Art but good Art and bad Art. then we thought some more and couldn't think who would be so conceited as to judge which was what kind, so we said it must surely be a case of popular Art and unpopular Art, and the people must decide.

so, Art isn't so much about production as perception. how do you see it?

i'm reminded of the saying that a good photographer never exhibits his bad photos... :D

more later.

one deep breath prompt

2006-06-13T02:14:00.000-07:00

One Deep Breath week 2 prompt: ''moonstruck''

1

beneath the limelight
a hundred pepper moths jive
through valerian blooms

2

night cloud sailing
over the grey spectral sea
of tranquillity

i went out to observe - no images, maybe later. i didn't appreciate how poetry can enlighten you to all sorts of things. this week i learned to recognise peppered moths (sometimes called ''salt and pepper'' moths) and the valerian flower. valerian was used in ancient times to induce drowsiness and as a remedy for insomnia. it has a strong odour - this may explain the moths' nocturnal attraction - which can be overpowering when cut and placed in a vase indoors.

poetry thursday prompt

2006-06-09T14:53:00.000-07:00

Poetry Thursday's inspirational prompt this week is ''eavesdropping'' - something that goes hand in glove with people watching, something a lot of us do.

I rarely use the bus thesedays but I used to a lot - this is a fictional memory from long ago.

Wendy is getting wed again.

Ivy and Dorothy, their bobbing heads
this way and that, as they chat
Two little balls of grey-white fluff,
dandelion clocks, the end of time
delicate and perfect
I want to open the window
And watch their seeds blow
to the back of the bus…

Wendy is getting wed again
He is such a nice chap
He’s better than the last one
John has to mend her tap

It is dripping day and night
It keeps them all awake
We have to save the water now
It is such a lovely cake

The recipe was in the mag
It calls for too much egg
It did not need three of them
The doctor’s seen her leg

He is not as nice as Dr Fee
Caused her too much stress
She had to go up on the bus
She has chose a lovely dress...

one deep breath prompt

2006-06-08T14:56:00.000-07:00

more sites, more inspiration...

one deep breath - click on the button above - is a haiku prompt which optionally suggests combining the theme with a bit of walking and photography. haiku, walking and photography! how could I not participate?

this week's prompt is ''Walking in Nature''

''Go for a nature walk, take your camera along (if you like) and a notebook. Find some inspiration, write a haiku, take a photograph... Enjoy the beauty of your surroundings. Take time to notice little details. Soak it all in and relax for a few moments...''

so that's what I do! I've used a few recent Soup pics for the purpose: dorothy & ivy and the dandelion

ivy, verdant spears
piercing forlorn hearts of stone
life and death as one

field of lowly crowns
each upon a dandy’s head
knaves who would be kings

what should a poem be about?

2006-06-02T05:13:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting here eating my lunch and contemplating poetry and it dawns on me that i can't think of a single poem right now which doesn't evoke either a feeling of melancholy or amusement. Surely, I think, you can write a verse about anything at all! It's what I believe about photography; there is a way of taking a photo which doesn't rely on the interestingness of the subject.

I reach inside my lunchbox and take out an orange...

ORANGE

What can I tell you about my orange?
Well
It’s round!
About the size of a cricket ball
And when I playfully toss it
It weighs roughly the same
But its skin is not like that ball!
But subtlety dimpled, like cellulite
Or an aroused scrotum
But when I squeeze it yields
Ever so slightly but firmly
But I am afraid to squeeze it harder
As I am at work right now
And I don’t have a spare shirt.

A poet sighed, nothing rhymes with orange
And I replied, what about blancmange?
And they explain why that’s adsurd and why
Poems are best not seen but heard.

write words writing club prompt

2006-06-01T16:09:00.001-07:00

inspired by the picture prompt #12 at write words writing club

front row vacant seats
centre stage the dawn still plays
to an empty house

and this is photo #9... inspires a bit of a tongue-in-cheek haiku.

finally the light!
but around the bend awaits
another tunnel

2006-06-01T16:02:00.000-07:00

this picture I liked the best, it is photo prompt #11.

Btw, I hear it's ascension day today! I don't know if it's a feast day but have a good day if you're christian - and if you're not, have a good day anyway.

so, it's an old theme but a good one and risking being hypocritical I do try to be more charitable these days. Hey, I'm not hinting about being charitable about my poem neither, but towards a much more worthy cause. ;o) Rightio...

this man is my son!

this man is my son!

so when you see him again
please look him in the eye
and tell him, I love him
because even if it isn't him
it could be!
for every man was once someone's child.

2006-06-01T15:52:00.000-07:00

as I say, poetry is a tougher challenge but I've had a go - the time passed so quickly so I must have had fun. It's sort of on the same theme as the haiku because once you get a notion in your mind it's hard to think of something else and the verse was hard enough.

the dawn still performs to an empty house

she rises soundless in this dark hour
our mother, mindful of her children's needs
as we sleep soundly, unaware
she moves with grace to a timeless decree
set by her own hands
she tends to the fire, turns up the light
she folds away the blanket of night
and when we stir from our protective rest
she's there, with the world, welcoming

will we always cherish our mothers work?
even when we aren't there to see
and she works alone
for her children

haiku what i wrote

2006-05-31T05:18:00.000-07:00

an assemblage of haiku (including some tanka and a few senryu) composed while blogging, inspiration from several different sources.

most of us know haiku, a short poem of three lines normally, though not essentially, comprising five, seven and five slyabubbles respectively, present tense, observational and suggests or depicts something of nature. pick 'n' choose, it doesn't really matter.

senryu is the same form as haiku, though its essence is about personal or human nature, sometimes humorous.

tanka starts off the same as haiku but has an extra two lines of seven sylabubs each which serve to reflect, conclude or merely follow on from the main haiku form.

these definitions are definitely unreliable, so don't shoot me down. it's just poetry, we're not in the business of bottling lemons.

*

since posting this, I have been introduced to a very new variation known as a fib. a fib gets its name and its rules from the mathematical fibonacci series, it being a 6 line poem comprising 1-1-2-3-5-8 syllables. the only other rule is the first and second lines cannot be definite or indefinite articles (a, the, le, la, il etc).

it's an interesting concept though the problem with single word phrase lines is not just to create a 4-3-5-8 or a 7-5-8 poem in which the first phrase is broken down just to comply with fibonacci. As far as the true soul of haiku goes, it's probably a step too far, but it's not for me to make or insist on the rules!

the haiku

10.

jasmine shadows dance
to the silent song of the breeze
between sun and cloud

9.

beneath the limelight
a hundred pepper moths jive
through valerian blooms

8.

night cloud sailing
over the dark spectral sea
of tranquillity

7.

ivy, verdant spears
piercing forlorn hearts of stone
life and death as one

6.

field of lowly crowns
each upon a dandy’s head
knaves who would be kings

5.

front row vacant seats
centre stage the dawn still plays
to an empty house

4.

blue sky winter sun
feeling warm through my dark fleece
cold air burns the hands

3.

grey indolent air
lethargic trees scarcely stir
my life is on hold

2.

in the morning's blue
sits an incongruous moon
odd like a spare part

1.

twigs sprout from branches
sons in their father's image
grand family tree

the senryu

8.

eyes ask when? yes, now
noses like a puzzle solved
your lips strangely soft

7.

finally the light!
but around the bend awaits
another tunnel

6.

a new task today
bespoke yet familiar
working déjà vu

5.

any danger of tea?
that gruesome dense office brew
gets me through the day

4.

ovum’s yellow pearl
treasured orb from juices deep
prairie oyster cure

3.

waiting for new tyres
i walk around watermoor
taking in the light

2.

evening classmates
learning the language of love
one has to start here

1.

soft breeze parts your blouse
enticing valley between
smooth and curving flesh

and the tanka

2.

in the bare lime tree
an excited chaffinch sings
of hot potatoes

the small bird’s love song heralds
this cold grey season’s demise

1.

a curious sun
draws aside the grey curtain
peeks once then is gone

the briefest illuminance
gives the most brilliant light

the fib

2.

school
bell
silent
solitude
the blue embracing
twilight nears, the last child has flown

1.

tall
blooms
blood red
upon gold
such bounty can't hide
my brother cut down in anger

haiga what i drew

2006-05-31T05:05:00.000-07:00

Haiga are abbreviated paintings inspired by haiku... The term haiga literally means "haiku painting": "hai" comes from haiku and "ga" is the word for painting. Haiku poetry was firmly established in the 17th century when its first great master, Basho, made it his goal to elevate the form to a highly artistic, inventive genre. Haiku and haiga emphasize directness of expression and unpretentious observations of everyday things.

In a haiga the poem does not simply explain the painting nor does the painting illustrate the poem. Instead each adds layers of meaning to the other. Works by some of the earliest haiga masters -Buson, Goshun, Shiro, and Issa- show how a few strokes of the brush were all that is needed to convey the suggestion of the subject, the season, or the emotions they arouse.

(from University Art Museum)

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