Michael Dylan Welch
DJ (Dennis) Garvey
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| Artwork by Ruth Yarrow |
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| Photo by Johnny Baranski |
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| Photo by Sarah Myers |
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| Photo by Johnny Baranski |
All of This, and Being Too
Flowering now of now, splayed flat
by winds of specificity,
what comes forth in this blossomed
gust is not regret, not sorrow.
What comes forth when the battered
leaves of nakedness curl downward,
flowering now of now, is you,
is your steady, petalled comingness.
Diane O'Leary
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
a cloud across the sun
and suddenly
I am old
Helen Russell
and so I agree
not to die before she does—
the sound of crickets
Susan Antolin
art gallery:
a toddler stoops
to watch a spider
David Serjeant
autumn sunset
the baby scar
my mother loved
David Serjeant
cottonwood rattle—
the wordlessness
of his final days
Deborah P. Kolodji
A few random hairs
on his bulbous nose -
boiling parsnips
walking home
after his death touching
anything
Bruce Roxburgh
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
Karma Tenzing Wangchuk is a poet of the short form whom I admire very much. A new collection of his poems, Shelter | Street, pictured above, has been published by Minotaur Press (P.O Box 272, Port Townsend, WA 98368, $10) and found its way into my mail box. It is quite fine, indeed.
The volume opens with one of his best poems and its placement indicates the themes of struggle and homelessness that appear in its opening pages:
March winds-
a butterfly and I
struggle on
The poem is timeless and might just as well been written by one of the 4 haiku masters. So few words are used to capture a life, all of life really. Sorrow and pain permeate these powerful small poems:
Food Bank-
the wall we lean against
worn smooth
The detail is damning here, such a powerful image that passes unnoticed in more fortunate lives. In the following poem, the first two lines quickly state something many of us see each and everyday, yet the observation in the third line I would venture to say hardly anyone thinks:
the beggar
holding out his hand-
this too is work
In reading this first section of haiku and senryu, one is tempted to impose a narrative character to the whole. With these poems, I think of the persona as a true modern Everyman:
Palm Sunday-
the sign says FREE FOOD
but you have to kneel for it
I found the following poem, which I would characterize as a senryu rather than a haiku, though no person appears, devastating:
greasy spoon-
a fly emerges
from the plastic flower
first crocus-
the stone buddha's
gentle smile
The common quality here is that both of these are simply true. For me, the second resonates in such a profound way as to make it nearly perfect. Both have an enduring Zen quality, while remaining true to the "is." Another poem that captures a quality beyond its basic image is:
summer heat-
a fly relaxes
on the frog's back
There are a number of precepts in this collection reminiscent of the Four Nobles Truths and the Eightfold Way, all in less words than it takes to describe them. Least we confuse the moon with the finger pointing at it, the poet summarizes nicely:
Farmer's Market-
the fruit flies point out
the ripe ones
On one hand, what is being emphasized is the obvious; yet are we, poetry's audience, always attentive and aware, attentive and unaware, unattentive and unaware? Who better to point to the moon than the poet?
growing old
with the rest of me
...-my skeleton
Yes, obvious, but not often stated and, when stated, not often thought about in any extended way, such as:
my shadow ephemeral too
Sorrow and pain are never far from truth; a finger pointing at the path of paths:
no parents
left to shame now
...-winter rain
An almost traditional senryu, complete with seasonal allusion, and a near bottomless feeling, this poem, too, is timeless.
Sometimes, too, the magic and wonder and mystery of life can be encompassed in 9 brief words, 3 short lines:
it's the worm
inside the bird
sings the song
Is the finger pointing at the bird, or the worm, or the song, or something beyond? Oh, but the finger is mine not the poet's, you say. Really?
Bet you can read my mind.
One can go deep, deep into many of these poems and this is what gives them their close kinship to traditional haiku. Some are basic observations which, though they might not reward endless revisiting, still they grab hold when they bite, and they itch for sometime afterward.
Photo by Michael Dylan WelchRhododendron in a Time of WarRed petals clot on
its glossy exterior
then drop to stained ground.Corey Cook
Tree sheds red petals.
Out of respect,
I forget my name,
tooMat Favre
.赤い花頬ばって鳴きりぎりす
cheeks stuffed
with a red flower
the katydid singsIssa
translated by David G. Lanoue
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Ichigyoshi is a web-based journal designed to foster a
discourse that is both academic and colloquial in nature.In addition to essays, manifestos, and the general writer'sstatement, Ichigyoshi will pursue this goal through thepublication of three types of literature: 1. experimentalliterature, 2. translation, and 3. [very] short poetry.
To see what we're all about and to find out how to submityour work, please make your way to the Ichigyoshi website:
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