Tag Archives: haiku

haiku and haibun etc.

Passports and Friends

More stamps in the passports
More poems to write
I know who my real friends are

NOTE:

Kobayashi Issa was the man who developed the 5-7-5 format but Japanese and English are very different languages – Japanese is syllabary and English uses diphthongs (great word) for starters. So i take the classic intent of haiku to heart in writing “not about the rainstorm, but about a single drop” — in other words, convey emotion briefly and succinctly, rather that dogmatically adhering to the 5-7-5 format which forces one to “shoehorn” in words or pries others out to fit.

so, and/or:

Ink stamps in passport
Friends offer shelter from fear
Poems come after rest

 

Swirling Years – January in Hotsprings

Swirling Years – January in Hotsprings
Swirling Years – January in Hotsprings

Wherein:

Swirling years of bliss

Something in an eye(s)

Tells all the stories

Until the Time – January in Hotsprings

Until The Time – January in Hotsprings
Until The Time – January in Hotsprings

Until the time

If i had a clock i would count

Down the hours and so on

Now: 13,000,000 stars

Snowy Mountain – January in Hotsprings

Snowy Mountain – January in Hotsprings
Snowy Mountain – January in Hotsprings

Over there

Snowy Mountain

Cool burning toes

a haiku can tell 1000 pictures…

Whomever coined the phrase: “a picture it’s worth 1000 words” clearly was not a poetic soul.

I suggest a haiku can tell 1000 pictures.

Annotations: 

Edward Charles BaileyCox Totally!
For the record, from what I understand, the original phrase was “a picture is worth a 1000 words of praise”. It was coined by some famous person who was looking at an amazing painting.
I found this info in the rumpled back pocket of my brain, perhaps someone else can fill in the specific details……..

Kris Krüg dude that’s 1,000,000 words expressed in just 17 syllables or 58,232 words per syllable. bring it! ;)

Dave Olson not sure i understand the math part of this. a poem can equal 1000 pictures. not per word but that’s possible too if ya consider something like “On the first day… Dog created the universe” or whatever that famous book in hotel rooms says.

I put forth these examples of haiku which takes me down a rabbit hole of head movies:

The wandering poet Issa Kobayashi writes:

The grass around my hut also
has suffered
From summer thinness.

Just when I hear
The sundown bell,
The flower of this weed.

Basho the Haiku Master writes:

The grass-
How wonderful it is!
The summer drawing room.
Trees and stones, just as they are

Ah, how glorious!
The young leaves, the green leaves
Glittering in the sunshine!

and one more (author unknown);

When all things are hushed,
suddenly a bird’s song arouses a deep sense of stillness.
When all the flowers are departed, suddenly a single flower is seen,
and we feel the infinity of life.

However, this is not universal and sometimes photos spark something a poem might not. Art is art but do snap a photo is not a universally more poignant way of understanding or appreciating a feeling, incident or emotion. Art is art and art saves lives no matter the medium.

My meaning with the original comment is how folks might take a snapshot without significant intention rather than appreciating the moment in which the emotion occurs. Like taking picture of an ancient ruin rather than riffing about it in a journal. Of course, a photo, in context and artfully created can spark emotions of equal value but neither are mutually exclusive.

January in the Hot Springs ~ Free haiku + paint

January in the Hotspring

Free haiku and paintings on variety of paper. Made in Tottori, Japan, 1993/4. Read publicly at my older brother’s wedding in Okizaki, Japan.

I’d recently rambled Europe and feasted on Van Gogh and Mattisse and combining their bold lines and bright colours with the efficiency and conciseness of Japanese aesthetic, these emerged.

Produced into a very limited run series (maybe 30?) of chapbooks printed on hemp + cereal straw paper and sewn (top binding) with hemp thread in Guam in 1995/6 and mailed to friends. I don’t have one of these bound copies, only the delicate originals in a file.

Still Life of Motion: Haibun in Grey

Room close dark
dark, listening
white noise and windchimes

From my perch, survey the still life before me – a didgeridoo leaning against a worm wood bookcase, 4 thick shelves made from free form curly maple looking like slabs of bacon, books stacked horizontally for easy reading of titles on spines; Ulysses, Siddhartha, Tolstoy, Salinger, Dr. Seuss, a stack about Everest, old Edmund Hillary grinning under shaggy beard and leather edged goggles. BhagavadGita, with dead, bald smiling, reincarnated onto the dust leaf resting, leaning next to Don Quixote, heavy in four volumes with hand-cut pages, raised ink, tissue protects the engravings. A collection (complete) of TinTin the intrepid reporter (Belgian I think), his dog Snowy and ornery ole Cap’n Haddock. More adventure than John McPhee, him traipsing from Alaska to Bangladesh – lonely freighter pulling out of dark harbors, a thousand iron feet long tended by six – maybe eight scattered souls. A Russian Matryoshka doll endless stream of smaller beings, a lighter from Belikin – the state brewery of Belize, a metal Sierra Club cup, engraved with highest peak in Nevada and a date so long ago that I look at a photo to remember me, head in clouds, wearing a sweater I forgot I ever wore. Picture is snowy, the tin cup stained with heat, left holding coins from here and there, a yo-yo, and buttons fallen off of trousers.

Room collecting stories
To tell you
Some other time

St. Jacob’s Soup in Saskatoon: Haibun in Grey

Clear drops
on muddled windows muddled thoughts

Saskatoon, snow drifts over wheat fields, kids skating in toques, playing shiny hockey until mom calls them to eat St. Jacob’s soup and thick heels of sourdough bread. “I got this yeast starter when your pa and I married,” she says to no child in particular.

Driving home, the road straight in snow chasm, walls pushed high by plows. Wipers scrapping, Am radio crackles minor league hockey scores, exclaiming local boys traveling by bus all night to play in Red Deer, Medicine Hat, Fort St. William, John, Albert or James, Moosejaw, 100 Mile House or Moncton, New Brunswick for the Memorial Cup. Acclaimed for dedication, perseverance, valor; intangibles – heart, character – playing in rinks named for politicians, soldiers and towns.

Rolling east
O’er muddled roads
Crunching towards remembrance

Feverish Dreams in Tea Steam: Haibun in Grey

Delicious dreams
I mumble in my sleep
no memory

Fever – coming on stronger now. Gaining now for three days, delirious fits and sleepless tossing, frantic at random hours. Mind you, body never shivers, mind flashes burning pictures of moments. Some I remember might be called a dream but for the anguish. Too real for a nightmare, the pain, the fever, the malaise gains vigor with each grating snapshot. The unfamiliar seeps with fear, I don’t know how it will end. Each episode so far ends with me waking called waking only in that my eyes crack enough to register light or dark.

I twist, fall back into the soaked feather bed drifting, one moment racing a wooden car down bumpy hill, children holler in cub scout knickers, proud with badges, another moment running hard, leaping onto pillars fleeing a unknown enemy or maybe moving towards one, leaping higher columns tumble into oblivion, my feet slip, slide falling, falling next floating in a long abandoned warlord’s damp stronghold dungeon, somewhere atop Teutonic hill slope, the moon shows the shackles through window slits.

Warm and next a campfire warming feet and drinking from a flask as I mumble fading eyes see nothing but white robes walking by from time to time.

Memories sequestered
Releasing now
As tea steam

Evening Awaited: Haibun in Grey

Last one out
close the door
to my heart

The Janitor hums, sweeping the last of the hallway flotsam into a dust pan, tipping into the trash barrel with wheels, apparatus to hold spray bottles holding fading solutions, rags, extra trash bags and brooms. Checks the double glass doors leading outside to the courtyard where people eat lunch and flirt on sunny days. Dark now, crispy leaves skate along benches, colliding with ashtrays and disappearing in to stairwells. Beyond the wooded area, late delivery truck downshifts, aching the sigh of a man lonely for a hundred years. Shuffling the hall, turning off each light in turn, flickering while closing each door. Supplies into closet, change smock for jacket and scarf. Squinting into the tiny mirror attached to the towel rack, he smoothes hair and puts on a driving cap with half ear flaps folded up and walks outside. In the shadow, someone – somewhat familiar – waits for him.

Leaning figure
Gracious in silhouette, leaning
Against grey primer fender