Showing posts with label David Serjeant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label David Serjeant. Show all posts

Friday, January 21, 2011

Fifty-Seven Damn Good Haiku


One must start from the beginning and simply say: the anthology Fifty-Seven Damn Good Haiku (by a Bunch of Our Friends) contains no poems about parsnips.

It's important to be clear from the first.

That being said Fifty-Seven, edited by Michael Dylan Welch and Alan Summers, does contain many a damn fine haiku.  Published by Press Here, out of Sammamish, Washington, there are many strong voices here and lots to ponder.

Here's a haiku that slips past you as fast as time itself:


a cloud across the sun
and suddenly
I am old
Helen Russell


A poem about child-rearing, poignant, that manages to be large enough to simultaneously contain a big lie and the biggest truth of all:

and so I agree
not to die before she does—
the sound of crickets
Susan Antolin

Two nifty ku by David Serjeant:


art gallery:
a toddler stoops
to watch a spider
David Serjeant


As truthful as this one is, the next is deeply touching:

autumn sunset
the baby scar
my mother loved
David Serjeant


From this brief selection, a poem that captures the essence of last things:

cottonwood rattle—
the wordlessness
of his final days
Deborah P. Kolodji


Fifty-Seven Damn Good Haiku contains 53 more modern haiku to roll about in the palm of the mind, looking for questions, wondering about answers, and contemplating that ultimate subject of subjects.

Here's my contribution, just in case next time the editors are looking for parsnips ...


A few random hairs
on his bulbous nose -
boiling parsnips


Fifty-Seven Damn Good Haiku (by a Bunch of Our Friends) may be purchased here for $7.00, £6.00, or 7.00 €.

(In his generous extensive comment to this post, co-editor Alan Summers shared some more of his favorite haiku from this collection and appended order info.  Thanks, Alan)

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This week's featured poem comes from Lilliput Review #133, an issue which has popped up in blog posts here and here.





walking home
after his death touching
anything
Bruce Roxburgh







the village child
clutching the willow
sound asleep
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue







best,
Don


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