Category: Poetry

Oct
13
2016

Over the summer, I had a conversation with a friend who has 3 sons all under the age of eight. I told him about a type of poetry which actually can be fun to write – haiku. I asked him to have his sons to try it out and write a few. Since then I have been addicted to writing haiku (I haven’t written hardly any since I was in my twenties).

What is haiku?

  • The essence of haiku is “cutting” (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images in the poetry.
  • Traditional haiku consists of at total of 17 syllables using only three lines of poetry – strictly using 5, 7, and 5 syllables on each line.
  • It often incorporates a nature motif or a kigo (a seasonal reference).

I don’t always use nature themes, but I keep to the syllable restriction. Here is one of my favorites from this summer. It is a triad haiku – incorporating one poem from three haiku. It is called The Sea is Mine.

 

dark pages, its dark

pages turning leisurely

invoking powers

 

4000 miles long

beyond the end which begins

turning and withdrawn

 

the language silent

wind, wonder –  I can’t describe

this grief and mercy

 


In: Poetry
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Sep
03
2014

 

it is this
this morning
misunderstood
somewhere beneath sudden
with first words
outstretched
like stealth
strung by its
smooth-stilled legs

venet­ian silence
abreast
a blink
and undressed open
beside over under
fur­rowed whis­per
choir cer­tain
a vest­ment kiss
piece by piece

uprooted
savor of coral
of autumn reach
and another
gath­ered or beheld
imper­fect
side­step into twist
arisen touch
woven and
kept


In: Poetry
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Mar
20
2014

I assume every atom invites our soul. It knows things we do not.

I lean observing a spear of the same grass blade and now hoping to cease from inadequate creeds and nature. Houses and rooms, the shelves honor and unaware—the atmosphere is wooden and naked.

The full noon rising from bed, so proud that it knows the meaning of its origin.

We shall no longer take things nor always look through books.

We shall not look to ourselves.

I have heard of the beginning and there was never any youth or perfection, out of the dimness always increase and identity, always distinction, always elaborate.

Here we are lacking not a thing, proven with each turn.

We think we are satisfied.

People we meet, we live with them—authors who invite us to dinner—these nights bend certain rest, come backward through the fog and spread limitless like a child laying outstretched in the grass.

Now it seems to us, here we are uttering in faint tongues that we wish we could with ease translate. How could we answer, I do not know.

I guess it means we give the same—understanding that somewhere, the moment life appeared we knew it, but somehow have much of it forgotten.


In: Poetry
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Mar
11
2014

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The sky seems so uncertain

and on paper, the mountain is flat

or often when walking

I wonder how cities are named or why.

 

And I walk miles like circles or clusters

and applause goes everywhere

–drawings in the dust–

nearby music is playing,

it is the skin sane click of cars hobbling by,

the recusant water rinsing a basin

and a breath, a learning breath.

 

The Pharisees had come down from Jerusalem

the sweet kill and a pick-pocket

and I walk miles or I am leaning against this music

that is playing in the next room.

 

I have a forwarding address

the sky seems so uncertain

and on paper, the mountain is flat

or often when walking

I wonder how cities are named or why


In: Poetry
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Jul
17
2013

For my Dad

I’ve said my say, yet I could never say enough or you say as much either:

Silence, this is what always began our talk.

The features of his face are like a ritual and resolution.

I am so glad you are here.

No, No. He does not say such things, but I know they are there.

It is all done in clean linen

as if with Norwegian phrases with quiet approval.

Both, a language we do not know.

Going beneath the covers,

I read it, turning and turning pages

full of words

which after a while sort of make sense.

 

It is now a time.

In a long time, doubtless

I was angry with my unfamiliarity

evening was low, I drive home

and you have just again caused me to retreat

just like the days I turn the corner

and look down our street, seeing your car waiting in the drive waiting for me

waiting for you to leave, and hiding in the field two houses down.

 

You probably don’t remember this— so easily the boat shouldering into the rushes

on that great big lake called Crystal

Kelly! Kelly ! We need to be over there!

You point away from where we are headed

as your line gets caught on the bottom catching only weeds

as the storm comes in overhead.

 

Each of these days functioned

as we say it, in approximation, in distance.

Incidentally meaning of course, the pertinent details that go on

and went by and are turned away.

 

A growing strong

a cleaning of the table

a sitting with my father and speaking

or at least like falling in November snow

and looking up and waiting for it to fall.


In: Poetry
Apr
29
2013

The streets are paved now.
Monday morning, the noise of rubber and asphalt.
Monday morning, the quiet balanced between two people walking down an alley way.
We waked up hearing the sound.
It was not singing.
It was curled.
It was like singing and it wasn’t singing.
And then it stopped and we heard the sound as if nobody had made it.


In: Poetry
Tags: ,
Apr
27
2013

it is this
this morning
misunderstood
somewhere beneath sudden
with first words
outstretched
like stealth
strung by its
smooth-stilled legs

venetian silence
abreast
a blink
and undressed open
beside over under
furrowed whisper
choir certain
a vestment kiss
piece by piece

uprooted
savor of coral
of autumn reach
and another
gathered or beheld
imperfect
sidestep into twist
arisen touch
woven and
kept


In: Poetry
Tags: ,
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