Peggy Heinrich & Arvinder Kaur: Wednesday Haiku, #87

 Photo by Houfton

multicolored leaf pile
lately I’ve been missing
the sister I never had

           Peggy Heinrich

Photo by Roger Rössing

games at twilight-
I am given away
by my shadow

Arvinder Kaur

Photo by Earl53

taking turns
down the little waterfall...
red leaves

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don 

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Ginsberg and Bashō: Times Square and Kyoto

I've begun some background work for one of the fall sessions of  the 3 Poems Discussion Group, this one on Allen Ginsberg.  I have been reading all manner of poems, trying to see what would connect beyond the obvious, what might emphasize aspects of Allen's work sometimes overlooked, and it has been a real joy to immerse again in the work of one of the 20th century's great poets.

I ran across the poem Back on Times Square, Dreaming of Times Square and was immediately struck by its similarity in concept and title, to Bashō's poem, "Even in Kyoto ...," my favorite Bashō haiku, perhaps my fav haiku, period.   It's not really something for my purpose with the discussion group, but I thought regular readers of this blog would appreciate it.  First, let's start with Allen, then Bashō  :

'Back on Times Square,
Dreaming of Times Square'

Let some sad trumpeter stand
               on the empty streets at dawn
and blow a silver chorus to the
               the buildings of Times Square
memorial of ten years, at 5 A.M., with
               the thin white moon just
                          visible
          above the green & grooking McGraw
              Hill offices
a cop walks by, but he's invisible
              with his music

The Globe Hotel, Garver lay in
      gray beds there and hunched his
      back and cleaned his needles―
where I lay many nights on the nod
      from his leftover bloody cottons
      and dreamed of Blake's voice talking―
                  I was lonely,
          hotel's vanished into a parking lot
And I'm back here―sitting on the streets 
again―
      The movies took our language, the 
                great red signs
      A DOUBLE BILL OF GASSERS
                Teen Age Nightmare
          Hooligans of the Moon 
    
But we were never nightmare
      hooligans but seekers of
                the blond nose for Truth

Some old men are still alive, but
                 the old Junkies are gone―

We are a legend, invisible but
                 legendary, as prophesied

                                 Allen Ginsberg     

                                                                                           

    Even  in Kyoto—
hearing the cuckoo's cry—
    I long for Kyoto.

                    Bashō
                    translated by Robert Hass

Of course, Ginsberg's lament, way back in July of 1958, was just a first salvo of the attack which was to come on that the historic section of mid-town Manhattan.    The preeminent speculative fiction and Gay Studies scholar, Samuel Delany, documented the next phase and even that account was  pre the Disney-fication which would hose the whole place down and drive everyone away.

The link here is memory and Bashō somehow managed to transcend nostalgia by firmly grounding his poem in the moment.  Both poets are lamenting a previous life, but neither stoops to the maudlin or the overly sentimental.  Ginsberg, too, stays in the moment and there can really be no doubt that he wasn't nodding, in his inimitable way, to the classic haiku master.

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This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review, #161, in March 2008.   Peggy Heinrich is one of the poets whose contributions over the years I value very much.   Her wisdom, as in this little tanka, always brings a little light to a dark corner of mystery.

as a child
I wondered
what kept the moon in the sky
now that I know
I am no happier

Peggy Heinrich

Mount Asa--
even when cloth-pounding stops
sweet nostalgia

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Wayne Hogan: Master Artist, Lilliput Review Division

I can't speak for the world of big publishers, but as a small (well, ok, micro) press publisher in the business for over 20 years, I get amazing things in the mail with a fair amount of regularity.  The book pictured above may, however, take the cake for all-time surprises.

The incomparable Wayne Hogan, artist and poet extraordinaire, put together a book of his own artwork that has graced the covers and interiors of Lilliput Review for a good part of those 20 years.

And it is amazing.  I am not going to waste your time trying to describe what he has done - I'm going to show you (for maximum enjoyability, click each image to enlarge):

What we have here is 32 pages jam-packed with the kind of joy only Wayne Hogan can communicate with the tip of pen and a whole bundle of talent.  His work, while often levitating, nonetheless has kept this mag grounded for all these years and I am eternally grateful for that. I asked Wayne if this was a limited run and he said no, but at the moment there are a handful of copies available. Here's the details:

The chap sells for $11.56, which includes postage, and I'm nothing if not prompt in sending things out when I get a request---within no more than 2 days, barring drastically unforeseen circumstances.

So there you have it - fantastic art at a very reasonable rate.  Mail payment to "Wayne Hogan", little books press, PO Box 842, Cookeville, TN  38503.

One final note on the chap; it comes complete with a bevy of blurbs, which were quite a delightful surprise to me.  Here's the back cover:

click to enlarge

The quotes are all genuine, coming from various issues his work has appeared in.  Perhaps, I need to reel in my effusiveness.

It could become ubiquitous.

Then again, perhaps not.


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This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review, #145.  This morning, I'm particularly struck by this poem as I've been preparing for a poetry discussion session next month on Walt Whitman: Father Walt.  One of the poems I'm considering covering is "As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life," a poem that captures him during one of his infrequent downside moments.    The tone of this week's poem, "Ebb and Flow" by Robbie Gamble, is distantly related to Whitman's and called it to mind immediately.

There is something about the pensiveness, the taking stock, we humans seem to do on returning to the ocean, that is captured in these works, as well as E. E. Cummings "maggie and millie and mollie and may."  I will follow Robbie's poem with one of my favorite modern haiku that I use when doing introductory classes, a poem by Peggy Heinrich.

Ebb and Flow

my beloved strides the water's edge
trailing her pain in a wake


I sit on the lip of the boardwalk
walking up with the turning tide,
trying to imagine what she passes through


each of us
is pulling toward something new
as water pushes on the skin of the earth


how miraculous, to both be warmed
by the same sun-soft air

Robbie Gamble

Peggy's poem is so brief and so simple that it contains the world entire:







ebb tide
turning to look back
at my footprints

Peggy Heinrich

And, finally, we continue to think very often of our friends in that land of the sea, Japan.  Here is Issa, touching a deep, deep chord:

mother I never knew,
every time I see the ocean,
every time.

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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"The scissors hesitate:" Buson by Hass

Buson, known as the artistic or painterly poet among the haiku masters, is a master of precision.  Reading through Robert Hass's renderings of Buson, I've been most impressed by two things: the concision Hass manages to use with Buson, to great effect, and Buson's own intense concentration on the moment.

The later point connects Buson to the verse in a spiritual way  that is often marginalized when considering his work.  Of course, we all share the moment, atheist and believer alike, which is a simple truth.  However, we don't all necessarily live in it or celebrate it and, though the present moment is one of the tenets of fine haiku, in I didn't expect it to manifest itself to quite the degree it does in  Buson's work.

Some of what I've selected from Hass's translation are frequently anthologized pieces and I won't apologize for that; they are selected by many an editor for good reasons.  Yet, still, there a number of poems perhaps not quite as familiar.  That was certainly the case with me.

       I go
you stay;
       two autumns.

 While reading up on critical approaches to haiku, one tenet proffered the question: "Where does the poem resolve, in the mind of the poet, on the page, or in the mind of the reader?"  Certainly this haiku isn't spiritual in the Buddhist sense but there is deep emotion here.   There will be two different autumns because the two people of the poem will be in two different places.  The idea that even the season itself will be different accentuates the distance between the two friends or lovers.  6 words, one large parcel of loneliness.

      The cherry blossoms fallen-
through the branches
      a temple.

This is the painterly Buson who is so often mentioned.  With the blossoms gone, the temple appears.  There is a spiritual quality to this, ennui or sabi, if you will.  The season passes, impermanence is heightened, yet, even at that, something is offered by way of a solution.  Is there an acceptance here of the need to move away from attachment to attain the end of suffering?  Or is it just another pretty picture?

      Autumn evening-
there's joy also
      in loneliness.

I've highlighted this particular haiku because, though one may sketch in all manner of naturalistic details to fill out a picture, the main argument here to me is philosophical.  Autumn has come, winter is coming, the season of death, yet still there might be joy.  What is the joy in loneliness?  It is something most of us have felt and, though elusive, that joy, it is of great import.  

       Butterfly
sleeping
       on the temple bell

Perhaps Buson's most famous poem (here's a post on it from way back - actually, there were two), the image is powerful, because, I believe, of the implication and not the allure.  Again, the word temple conjures a spiritual mood.  The sleeping butterfly recalls Lao Tzu's dreaming butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of Lao Tzu?  Here the moment is captured a little bit more effectually than, for instance, in "Cherry blossoms fallen."   The problem with the later may be the tense of the rendering.

      Flowers offered to the Buddha
come floating
      down the winter river.

This is painterly, indeed, and the image may overwhelm the message, yet still there is a message.  It is the passage of time and seasons, as the flowers of spring and summer flow down in winter into the river that, in a way, reminds me of Issa's wonderful insects on a branch, floating down river, singing.

      Not a leaf stirring;
frightening,
      the summer grove.

This is, as rendered, is a potent piece. The minimalist approach puts all the weight on the swing or gate word, frightening, which modifies both the opening and closing line, and, standing alone, as one imagines the speaker in the forest, becomes very powerful, indeed.   Fear is not often the subject of classical haiku and rightly so.  Normally, the exact same scene is sketched quite differently, a quiet, serene country scene.  Here, though one's attention is riveted because it is too quiet, and the narrator's animal instincts take over.  Negative as it is, still, it is one of my favorite Buson haiku.

   

      Escaped the ropes,
escaped the nets-
      moon on the water.

This is, perhaps, too imagistic but, having  lived a long time by the sea, it does have a certain romantic appeal.  Dipping a little beneath the surface, one discerns a classic theme of human being versus nature and, per usual, human loses again, as the moon escapes.  Yet, the poet captures the moon, among other things, and all is not lost.  Or not.

      Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
      a moment.

This may be my favorite of Buson.   The pause is physical and intellectual and emotional - a beautiful picture, if conjured properly in the mind, about to become un-beautiful in the next moment.  Still, the lesson of death is repeated, and beauty, too.  Desire is the cause of all longing, all suffering.  Yet, we repeat the cycle no matter how many times we learn the lesson.
 

      People visiting all day-
in between
      the quiet of the peony.

Once again, philosophy and art meet each other halfway.  The poem, perfectly balanced on the fulcrum of its second line, eventually tilts toward the silence that is its resolution.  Without noise, there is no silence, so we are truly "in between."  What tilts it for me, you ask?  Well, the poem might be rendered "The quiet of the peony - / in between / people visiting all day."  In meditation, it is silence which informs the sounds of life and all its complications.  Truly, it is the balance we need; there is no yang without ying.  Pretty as one might find the poem, its message is every bit as potent as its beauty. 

The poet, like everyone else, needs no church or temple to be religious.  The way which may be walked is not the eternal way. 

      A tethered horse,
snow
      in both stirrups.

This is, indeed, too, painterly, yet it is exactly that quality that appeals to me.  There seems to be only image, evocative as it is, without underlying spiritual or philosophic motive.  What I like here is exactly what I like when seeing a great painting or reading a piece of flash fiction.  I imagine the ride through nasty weather, in any emergency or an important meeting or a lover's tryst, the long discussion in a warm lodging while the horse patiently waits and all the color is gradually removed from the scene.  This is at once what Buson is most criticized for and what he is very best at.  Does it have the appeal of the layered, probing work of Bashō or emotive, resonant poems of Issa?  Surely not.  Does it have it's place in the world of poetry in general and haiku specifically?

Most definitely so.


                              Early spring ...

      In the white plum blossoms
night to next day
      just turning.  

The last Hass rendering I'll pass on, this is another coupling of stunning image with a perfectly conjured moment.   This very specific light, caught in this very specific moment, in the texture particular to white plum blossoms, is perfection itself.  As to the moment: what is better, to live the moment and the moment only or simply to talk about it?  As far as spirituality goes, there is no Zen.  There is no plum blossom.  There is no light.  First, there is no mountain.

Then there is.

Buson, I have been seduced.  Mister Hass is to blame.


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This week's featured poem from the Lilliput Review archive comes from #135,  published in January 2004.  Let's make that this week's two featured poems: enjoy.


The Zen Review

seeks poems that focus clearly
on nothing.  Avoid references
to nonexistent past and future.
Present tense only, please.
We value poetry that depicts truth
about time, captures the essence of breath.
Overstocked with poems about sore knees,
monkey minds and one-hands clapping.

Peggy Heinrich

Landing Road

Old pine trees
line the road

so many tongues
for the wind 

Michael Kriesel

when the nightingale
moves into the pine...
voice of the pine

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

Blues & Haiku: Big Mama Thornton & Peggy Heinrich

Over the years, Peggy Heinrich has published a number of outstanding haiku in the pages of Lilliput Review. 10 of her works were recently featured at santacruz.com. Of the featured haiku, I was particularly touched by:

holding my breath
until the cormorant
resurfaces

Peggy Heinrich

This, of course, reminds me of Bashō's cormorant poem, featured and discussed in a previous post. Here's Bashō, as translated by Lucien Stryk:

Cormorant fishing
how stirring
how saddening.

Bashō
translated by Lucien Styrk

For those unfamiliar with cormorant "fishing," the following explanation comes from that earlier post:

The verse about the cormorant fishing perhaps needs a gloss. Fisherman commonly used the cormorant to fish by tying a string around its neck so when the bird snared a fish it couldn't swallow and the "fisherman" would simply remove the fish and put the bird back in the water. Not quite fishing with hand grenades, but certainly in the same mode. What really captures the true Basho spirit here is that he is both stirred and saddened, he still sees the miracle of nature despite the appalling behavior of nature's "highest creation", man.

Peggy manages to capture the idea of being stirred, as in Styrk's version of Bashō, with a suggestion of sadness or, perhaps, horror.

Another poem that resonates from this selection seems so basic, so simple in image and execution, to approach cliché, and yet, and yet (as Issa said of the dewdrop world):

ebb tide
turning to look back
at my footprints

Peggy Heinrich

In some ways, this is a perfect modern haiku: precise, concise, a literal image capturing a specific moment that resonates mightily. There is not one wrong word here and each carries its weight. Three words are at this poems core: ebb, turning, and back. What each one of those words means individually and collectively makes the poem come together. It is something anyone whose been to a shoreline has experienced. Mixed in that experience is the cosmic feel of place, a sense of self as self, a sense of self as part of the whole, a sort of returning, a vague bit of romantic nostalgia ...

But, ah, I'm projecting and that's the point of great haiku, the interaction of reader and poem, bringing one's own experience to bear. The poem has a feeling of ending, but it could just as well be about beginning, or both.

A genuine haiku moment, so simple it might easily be overlooked, as we overlook things, ordinary things, each and every day. Haiku moments. Moments.

The now.


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On to the then, to risk a trite segue. Here is a moment, courtesy of Miss Late July (who also recently posted this), that is just too good for words. Big Mama Thornton. A very young Buddy Guy.

And, because once you get something like this started you can't stop, see if this one doesn't blow you out of the water:

Ok, so three's a charm: this one's for Janis (there is a reason this link has over 6 million hits), who was a huge fan of Big Mama (turn it UP):

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Featured this week are two poems from the archive, from Lilliput Review #143 (June 1993), to mull over:

when you say 'bird'
do you feel
your wings unfurl?

Jean Michel Guilliaumond

A Melody by Haydn

wild plums --- just --- out -of ---reach

James Magorian

And one from the master:

not giving a damn
that plum blossoms fall...
his stern face

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

On The Acorn Book of Contemporary Haiku

In perusing my poetry shelves to see what was what, it occurred to me that, as a semi-regular feature, I could delve into the items found there and share a thought or two. So, the first couple of shelves consists of anthologies of Eastern or Eastern influenced verse, haiku, tanka, and traditional Chinese, Japanese, and Indian verse. In addition there are some modern anthologies of English and American verse in traditional forms, which brings us to the first item on the shelf, The Acorn Book of Contemporary Haiku, edited by Lucien Stryk and Kevin Bailey.

The first thing I realized about this book is that I must have purchased it on a London trip because it is going for ridiculous sums via amazon and has evidently never been published in the States. I bought it for 4.5 pounds, probably as a remainder at the Ulysses Bookshop near the British Museum.

I'm over halfway through the volume (so it goes for perusing part of this "project") and I have to say it is as fine a collection of contemporary haiku as I've run across. The hint of regret (have to say) I believe betrays the fact that I'm recommending something that is costly and difficult to get a hold of.

The volume's selection and tone bears all the earmarks of Stryk: poems stark, precise, and imagistic in nature. Stripped to the bone, the bones boiled, and placed out on large leaves, gleaming as they dry in the sun. Imagine my surprise when I ran smack into three poems that have graced past issues of Lilliput Review. Here they are:

Spring

The earth bears
everything,
even your sadness.

David Lindley

ancient headstones
the name and numbers
worn to murmurs.

William Hart

Summer

When the page was blank
no one thought, suddenly
a flower would appear.

David Lindley

One of the things that surprised me a bit was the lack of acknowledgment, a pet peeve of mine. Don't get me wrong; I don't think it is something a press or poet is obligated to do, it's just a courtesy. I explain to folks that it is akin to being accepted for publication for a poet/writer. It is a great lift and, most importantly, recognition of quality in the editorial process. This is not a gripe with this particular press or either poet, just me talking out loud. In my estimation, these are great examples of the finest work in haiku form and I'm proud to have helped them see the light of day. As far as I'm concerned, it is the poet who owns the work, from inception through publication and in any further incarnations, unless they explicitly sign that right away. And they'll never do that here at Lillie.

So, no harm, no foul ... just a little boy griping.

But I digress (and feel the better for it). Here's a selection of a few items that grabbed my attention and held it.

in the corpse's
half-closed eyes
the flame of a candle

Vasile Spinei

one word
but so many varieties
of rain

David Findley

Another robin in my mousetrap:
few of us fail to give
humanity a bad name.

Anthony Weir

The old barn
--looks more like a tree
----each year.

Hannah Mitte

late afternoon sun
the shadow of the gravestone
slants towards my feet

Brian Tasker

Works Gloves

On the garden gate
left here with me --
Shape of her hands

Bob Arnold

The white kitten
playing and playing
with the faded cherry petal

Vincent Tripi

Still in my garden
--------I bend to pluck a weed but
----------------see its smiling face.

Harold Morland

In the garden of Saleh
The silence is soothed
By the whispered lisp of leaves.

David Gascoyne

sunrise
the fisherman's shadow stretches
across the river

George Swede

A moorhen dives
Ripples spread
To the ends of the earth

Aasha Hanley

I hear the magpies
and you you have give me
this sense of longing.

Paul Finn

I was equally delighted to see a number of poets whose work has appeared in Lilliput featured in Acorn. From this selection alone are the fine poets George Swede, Vincent Tripi, and Bob Arnold. What is most amazing, really, is I've just dug through to the first layer of this exemplary volume. If I have the time and space, perhaps I'll highlight a few more poems from the 2nd half of this work sometime soon.

For an additional insightful, theoretical review (with a large selection of poems) of The Acorn Book of Contemporary Haiku, see Lynx Book Reviews (last review toward the bottom of the page - and from this review which I read after completing this post, I discovered another Lillie poem in the volume, from the 2nd half I haven't gotten to, this one by Gary Hotham).

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In the Bashô Haiku Challenge update, I can say that I've narrowed down the nearly 500 haiku received to somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 to 70 poems after two complete read-throughs. Lots of decisions still to made, one big one being exactly how long will this year's chapbook be. I believe I'll let content dictate form in this instance, so living with the poems for another two weeks or so should help answer that question very well.

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This week's featured issue is #152, from November 2006. Hope something grabs you here:

After Basho

Chrysanthemums bloom
in a gap between the silence
of the stonecutter's yard.

Michael Wurster

trumpet vine
still waiting
for you

David Gross

in the park
--struck
by a falling leaf

Peggy Heinrich

Four ancient rocks rose from the earth:
Grief, Rope, Axe, and Sparrow

Gail Ivy Berlin

And, before I flit off, one more:

baby sparrow--
even when people come
opening its mouth

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Random Notes: James Wright, Kerouac, Jane Campion's Keats

In preparation for a session of the 3 Poems By ... discussion group, I've been reading all things James Wright. Could I have a better job, getting to research one my favorite poets in preparation for a work project? And the things I've learned.

I mostly detest reading about poetry. That's not a hard admission, though it is a bit of a damning one. In any case, I am beginning to realize how wrongheaded that is. Here is a quote I ran across in a Paris Review interview with Wright (a .pdf) from 1972:

"Tolstoy was asked in a letter by a pacifist group if he could give them a definition of religion and, if he could do that, to explain to them the relation between religion, that is, what a person believes, and morality, that is, the way he acts in accord with some notion of how he ought to act. Tolstoy worried about this letter, and as I recall it, he said: 'I can only go back to myself. I look around myself and I see every year that, no matter what people do to themselves and to one another, the spring constantly renews itself. This is a physical fact, not a metaphysical theory. I look at every spring and I respond to it very strongly. But I also notice that every year the spring is the same new spring and every year I am one year older. I have to ask the question: What is the relation between my brief and tragic life and this force in the universe that perpetually renews itself? I further believe that every human being asks this question. He cannot avoid asking it-it is forced upon him. And his answer to that question is his religion. If he says the relation between me and this thing is nothing, then his religion is nihilism. As for morality, what ought I to do? I wish I knew.' That was a great letter."

The understatement of that last line, though it doesn't quite have the sheer power of "I have wasted my life", packs a considerable wallop. Interestingly, the quote was in part in reply to a question asking Wright's opinion of the poet John Berryman, whom he greatly admired.

Though one might be tempted to write it off to the interviewer's observation that a jug of wine, which needed to be refilled, sat between them during the interview, really it is the poet's natural inclination to inform her/his topic obliquely, metaphorically, if you will. James Wright considered himself a teacher first and one mustn't argue with a writer's opinion of himself. Perhaps he was a teacher first, but his instincts are purely lyrical.

I highly recommend this interview to anyone with the least attraction to his work. PC, it ain't, but insightful it is.




*********************



Today is the anniversary of the death of Jack Kerouac, variously attributed to alcohol, ulcers, or the swallowing of a piece of tin from a tuna top; a subtle combination of all three probably did the deed. At least that was my understanding. Gerald Nicosia succinctly summarizes: Jack Kerouac died on October 21, 1969 “of hemorrhaging esophageal varices, the classic drunkard’s death."

As is the case when remembering him, I like to pull his Book of Haikus off the shelf and randomly open it. Typically, the facing pages contain a total of 6 to 8 poems and I always find at least one that grabs me.

Bluejay drinking at my
---saucer of milk
throwing his head back

Missing a kick
---at the icebox door
it closed anyway

Lonesome blubbers
---grinding out the decades
with wet lips

Ah, the birds
---at dawn,
my mother and father

A current pimple
---In the mind's
Old man

Here's a online selection of his haiku for those craving more. Jack's work in the form is better than I ever imagined it might be. The relationship between the direct pointing of haiku/zen philosophy and first thought, best thought, is as natural as might be.



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The new Jane Campion movie on John Keats, is getting high grades from folks I talk to. Ron Silliman has a fine tuned take this week over at his blog. Here's the trailer:






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As of this writing, entries for the 2nd Annual Bashô Haiku Challenge (scroll down here for prize update) have already handily surpassed last year in number. Keep 'em coming, folks: there is still 10 full days before the deadline.



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From this week's featured issue, Lilliput #156, a sequence of poems from the middle section. Hope you enjoy them.





far
from the hurricane's path
farther from myself

Robbie Gamble

upturned shells
cup the receding tide...
still not over you

Jeffrey Stillman

Love Song #22

Your absence
lengthens like a shadow
in the afternoon sun

Martha J. Eshelman

a seagull
atop each post
their different looks

Peggy Heinrich

And a final note from Issa:

even for winter's withering
an indifferent face...
sea gull

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

best,
Don