Ida Freilinger & Gloria Jaguden: Wednesday Haiku, #104

Photo by Josef Stuefer

falling leaves—
a star that flares
and fades

Ida Freilinger

winter night
my old dog teaches me
silence

Gloria Jaguden

in cold water
sipping the stars...
Milky Way

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

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Garden of Love: Issa's Sunday Service #159

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There is a brand new album by Martha Redbone Roots Project - the Garden of Love: the Songs of William Blake (the entire album is available directly from the artist here). Above is the title selection and, below, Blake's original: 


Garden of Love - William Blake

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires. 


A tip of the hat to Mark Forrester for recommending the Martha Redbone Project be featured on the Sunday Service. As he remarked to me in email, the blending of Blake's composition "with musical influences that lean heavily on Appalachian folk and gospel" works well. This is an album to own for fans of literary sources in unique settings. 

Here's a live version of Garden of Love with lots of great energy. Enjoy.





For those with sharp memories, this is the second time this Blake 'lyric' has been featured (though with a different title) on the Sunday Service: here is the first.


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7 Birds on Quince Tree and Sparrow on Peony by Hiroshige

in the pitiful garden
no pitiful
peonies!

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

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Before Music: Philip Rowland - Small Press Friday

Before Music by Philip Rowland does not give up its secrets easily and that, of course, is not necessarily a bad thing. It might even be thought of as a bit of a mystery wrapped in a conundrum, not unlike one of my favorite poems gathered in this new collection

inside an envelope
inside an envelope:
   funeral money

If you have never witnessed something like this, either at a funeral or a wedding, trust me, it does happen. The poem itself captures Rowland's core approach, an approach shared in spirit with the best classic haiku. Show, don't tell. 

Why?

Because, if poetry is going to do what it needs to do, you, the reader, need to occasionally do some of the heavy lifting. When you start from this premise, the secrets begin to gradually evince themselves (though you might want to sleep in late the next day).

The collection is divided into 5 sections, each taking its name from a poem in that section. A sort of resounding, perhaps? You must make out for yourself what that might mean. I'm still doing some heavy lifting of my own.

One gets the sense of the poet working through some things or, perhaps, some single, overriding thing. The landscape of the work may be thought of as mental, or pre-conscious, or unconscious (I believe it has helped me immensely in reading Rowland that I was simultaneously re-reading Georg Trakl), or, as I'd prefer to think of it, as an attempt to capture with words the prelinguisitc state. 

What state might that be? Well, I can tell you it ain't Jersey.

after
love

prac
ti

sing
speech

less
ness 

This is somewhere we all, hopefully, at one time in our lives or another, have resided.  And, yes, this is modern haiku (if anyone wants to parse definitions, go ahead, I'm listening and I'm also aware) and I like it very much, resonating as it does the state which it describes.

There is much here that has to do with sound, and a lot that touches on music.

Prelude in C -
winter sky 
deep in the piano lid

There is a poem by Mary Oliver that resides somewhere in the neighborhood of Rowland's landscape here, a poem called "Music Lesson." Maybe it is another story altogether, but it surely comes from the same book.  Speaking of which, the poem which follows Prelude:

In the hush before music
the music of who
I am not

Yes, we know this landscape, of Rowland, of Trakl, of Oliver, of other, of not-other.

There is another piece that hits a similar note:

a Bach fugue
hands separately 
trying to make sense of
the rainy season

The landscapes are distinctly interior, but they are most definitely exterior, too. The interiorizing of the exterior, the exterioring of the interior? 

Among the final poems that conclude Before Music, this monostitch fills out the whole lost chord:

what's left of the light the music absorbs 

Much the same could be said of other themes which sound throughout this 50 or so odd poem collection, most notably rain and autumn (even the book's cover, pictured above, is part of the thematic whole). I will illustrate with 2 more, 2 of my favorites, from this fine, provocative collection of new haiku: 

autumn
      leaves . . .
                the
mn    in autumn

Did I mention how very important sound is to Rowland? Yes, I thought so. May I confess, most miserably, how very, very much I wish I'd written this poem ... mmn? I always love "leaves" as both a verb and a noun, especially in a poem of 6 nearly words. And this one, this one:

leaf I leave
on the floor of
my childhood

I would say we need a scholar here to deliver the definitive treatise on time, that is past, present, and future time, in classic haiku, only I'm too busy brushing away the tears.

How about you?

Before Music is published by Red Moon Press, it fits perfectly in the hand, perfectly in the mind. Get it here direct from Red Moon Press.

After all, it is Small Press Friday.


--------------------------- 

Photograph by E. W. Kelley (1908)

deutzia blossoms--
the children play
funeral

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

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Gary Hotham & Angele Ellis: Wednesday Haiku #103

Photograph by Frances Benjamin Johnston

the more things dry off
   the rest of our life
       after the rain

        Gary Hotham

Photograph by Pictoscribe

 


half-ripe tomatoes
lined up on the warm sill--
grandmother

     Angele Ellis

Tramps (photograph) by H. Koppdelaney

the little crow
slips so cleverly...
spring rain

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

 

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Waiting for the Sun: Issa's Sunday Service, #158

Detail from Orvieto Cathedral

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This week's programming is courtesy of the shuffle mode on my mp3 player. "Waiting for the Sun", by the Doors, this week's Sunday selection (note the reference to Eden in the first line) is exactly what we all seem to be doing in February in the Western Hemisphere, particularly those of us who live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. 

So, this song brought a smile to my face as I negotiated the grey enshrouded back alleys of Bloomfield, Pittsburgh's Little Italy, alleys in which some formidable vegetables will be making themselves known a few mere months from now.

Oddly enough, the song segued into a reading of a poem by Gerald Stern, his "(I Would Call It) Derangement." The promise of the sun seems to have come to fruition in this, another lovely poem by one of America's loveliest poets.

Gerald Stern and Jack Gilbert

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Back in the early 70s, the Byrds had one helluva a touring band - I know, I had the honor to see the Clarence White (in full leg cast) version of the Byrds. This popped up right after Mr. Stern and, somehow, it just seemed so right. I remember the Byrds closing their set with this song, captured well in this version recorded in Royal Albert Hall in 1971. An beautiful rendition, especially by a 'rock' band.

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  So, hopefully, there are a couple of hints of spring, along with the couple of bits of crocus heads that I've seen popping up here and there during my perambulations.

----------------------------     

Photo by Denis Collette

   

at the sound of the sunset
bell...
wildflowers

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don
 

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Speaking with Conviction & Homage to the Mineral of Cabbage

Typography video by Ronnie Bruce, poem Speak with Conviction by Taylor Mali  

One of the many faithful followers - I should probably say long suffering - of Issa's Untidy Hut tipped me to the above video as something I'd enjoy.

Did I ever.

It makes me almost not want to speak, ever again. Yet, it addresses so well a modern phenomenon, if not so much to its cause, that it most certainly warrants passing on. The video, called Typography, is housed at wimp.com with lots of other amazing videos. The designer of the video of the poem is Ronnie Bruce; other works by him are parked at his site at vimeo. 

The poet, Taylor Mali, is a very talented lad whom you can find out more about at his own site. 

A tip of the hat to whomever recommended this wonderful piece - if you run across this post, take a bow in the comments section.


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Perhaps, instead of never speaking again, I should take up another language, say a language spoken in a remote corner of Spain. 

Here is a little something that once again merges word and image, this time from the always amazing moving poems website: it is Little Theatre's production of Homage to the Mineral of Cabbage after the fine poem by Erin Moure.  The poem is spoken in Galacian, with text incorporated into the poem in a most un-subtitley way.  The stop motion video, directed and animated by Stephanie Dudley, is stunning. Besides being showcased on moving poems, the film has its own website.  
   
 

Click on the little arrows between the HD and Vimeo text at the bottom of the video to put it in full screen mode. You won't be sorry.


-----------------------

Photo by Chris Downer

 

thin mist--
night after night
vegetable soup

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Peter Newton & Bart Solarczyk: Wednesday Haiku, #102

 Play It By Trust by Yoko Ono

winter afternoon
my father explains
the strength of a pawn

Peter Newton

 

Dali Atomicus by Philippe Halsman

Tune in a bucket
swinging
in the afterglow

Bart Solarczyk

Well Bucket and Bush Warbler

the fish
unaware of the bucket...
a cool evening

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

  

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Gimme Some Truth: Issa's Sunday Service, #157

The Lennonos by Jack Mitchell

The solo career of John Lennon was a marvel. No matter how much one thought in terms of marketing and smoke and mirrors (it is, after all, rock and roll, and John was one of the most savvy of rockers), one got the sense of watching an artist grow in public, personally as well as artistically.

Thank you, Yoko.

This song goes right to the heart of where the personal and communal converge - put succinctly it's stop the bullshit, stop the bullshit.

Thank you, John. 

The literature connection in this one is John's referencing the old English nursery rhyme "Old Mother Hubbard."  Fittingly, the book in which it was published, The Comic Adventures of Old Mother Hubbard and Her Dog, was believed by many to be political satire though of what is still a question for the ages.  

And, finally, just in case the youtube video above disappears into the ether, here is Jakob Dylan and Dhani Harrison in pursuit of the same old truth: 



         

a dog rolling
in the highway...
a long day

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

  

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Silent Flowers 3: Four Poems

Artwork by Nanae Ito

This is the third post on the diminutive little Hallmark haiku collection Silent Flowers. I revisited this book last month, taking a look at 6 poems that I hadn't talked in my first post back in 2010.  Here are 4 more excellent poems from Silent Flowers, translated by R. H. Blyth and astutely selected by Dorothy Price, that haven't appeared in either post.

The first three all appear within a page of each other, and seem to focus on a single image, the smaller the better:

    The kitten
Holds down the leaf,
    For a moment.

            Issa

Here is a fine example of the exception to the rule, the rule being: show, never tell. Well, perhaps the reason it works is that it does a bit of both. 



     You can see the morning breeze 
Blowing the hairs 
     Of the caterpillar.

                          Buson

  
I would say with the layout we can feel the morning breeze though we can't see it, particularly in the fine opening line (which, of course, breaks yet another rule). 

    Grasshopper, —
Do not trample to pieces 
    The pearls of bright dew. 

           Issa

  
The observation in the later two poems is so finely delineated as to be absolutely marvelous.  Each does what a ku should do - captures a perfect little moment; yet in this case all three share another quality. These are not pictures painted, or photos snapped: they are all moments in motion, the movement acutely emphasizing the fleeting quality of a moment, yet capturing it in that movement.

Magicians at work.

A few more pages along comes a 4th ku, and this one captures not just the body and mind, but the soul: 

Yield to the willow
All the loathing, all the desire
Of your heart

              Bashō

 I yi yi yi! We are yielding to the willow, we are yielding to desire, we are yeilding to loathing, we are yielding to our heart ...

Let us yield to Bashō. 

At this rate, I have a feeling there will be a 4th post on Silent Flowers.


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the village child
clutching the willow
sound asleep

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

 

And, of course, yield to the raven.

best,

Don

  

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Susan Constable & Andrea Grillo: Wednesday Haiku #101

Detail of a photo by NASA

shooting star
a mosquito whines
into past tense

Susan Constable

Photo by Roland Zh

starry night
our window reflections
play their own part

Andrea Grillo

Photo by James Gathany

mosquito larvae too
keep the sutra's
rhythm

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

  

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