Gary LeBel & Walt Mehring: Wednesday Haiku, #180

Photo by Melanie Davies

After a train whistle blows
   the town even stranger
           than before

               Gary LeBel

Letter with corrections & comments of WW

 
open school book
in old farm house
Oh Captain!  My Captain!

Walter Mehring

Woodblock by Hiroshige

catching the spirit
of the nightingale's song...
samurai

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Click to learn how to contribute to Wednesday Haiku.

Nickel Street: Issa's Sunday Service, #188

 
This week's selection is by one of those groups I've spent time avoiding on the Sunday Service - another is Van Wassisname - due to a less than open approach to social media (I hesitate to even use the c word). In any case, here you are, complete with lyrics.

In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he's had the pleasure to know
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello

On the corner is a banker with a motorcar
The little children laugh at him behind his back
And the banker never wears a mack
In the pouring rain, very strange

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back

In Penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass
And in his pocket is a portrait of the queen
He likes to keep his fire engine clean
It's a clean machine

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
A four of fish and finger pies
In summer, meanwhile back

Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout
The pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway

In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer
We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim
And then the fireman rushes in
From the pouring rain, very strange

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
Penny Lane

Beautiful as it is, the "four of fish and finger pies" line has all the fame, or should I say infamy, of Hamlet's Act 3 Scene 2 lines to Ophelia "Do you think I meant country matters?"

On the other side of the aisle, the reason the song ends up on the Sunday Service is the little postmodern touch of "And though she feels as if she's in a play / She is anyway."

What follows here is as fine and moving a rendition of a song I would have thought totally uncoverable as I've ever heard: 


Finally, Macca Himself ... certainly not nearly my favorite of the fabs, yet one of the most talented songsmith's of the last 50 years. That either says a lot about my lack of taste or even more about how talented and self-aware his mates really were/are.

   

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

Issa Self-Caricature

single file on the road--
one horsefly
one me

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Click to learn how to contribute to Wednesday Haiku.

 

Pranav Kodial & Ken Sawitri: Wednesday Haiku, #159

Photo by The Browniris

snow-clad Kanchenjunga
in its shadow
a tiny temple

Pranav Kodial

\

Photo by James Jordan
 

 
last load
my son spreads his hand
to weigh the moon

Ken Sawitri

Woodblock by Kawase Hasui

mountain temple--
deep under snow
a bell

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Click to learn how to contribute to Wednesday Haiku.

Kabir: The Inner Lover (Sunday Serenade)

18

I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such rush?
We sense that there is some sort of spirit that loves
   birds and animals and the ants--
perhaps the same one who gave a radiance to you in
   your mother’s womb.
Is it logical you would be walking around entirely
   orphaned now?
The truth is you turned away yourself,
and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others, and have forgotten
   what you once knew,
and that’s why everything you do has some weird
   failure in it. 

    Kabir
    Version by Robert Bly

I've spent the last couple of months reading mystic poets - Hafiz, Kabir, Mirabai, and Rumi, among others - and have been overtaken by the form known as the ghazal, specifically a variant of Robert Bly's conjuring, 6 stanzas of 3 lines each.

Yes, I know that a lot that is being translated or written in English isn't the ghazal of Middle Eastern origin, but a modern English variant whose roots, one hopes, are sunk deep in the tradition of another culture.

Many would disagree.

But, there you are. This is some of what I've been up to. In fact, there will most probably be a collection forthcoming, after Yield to the Willow finally sees the light of day later this month. Never knew I had it in me.

It would seem, however, that Kabir knew.

Photo by Ted Kropiewnicki

just coming out
the earthworm dragged off
by ants

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Click to learn how to contribute to Wednesday Haiku.

For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her: Issa's Sunday Service, #187

Perhaps one of the finest American pop tunes of the post WWII era, "For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her" is most certainly one of the great showcases for Art Garfunkel's awesome instrument. The arrangement also contains some of Paul Simon's best guitar work, as evinced here in this live performance. 

The song has often been said to reference Emily Dickinson but, though there is a good chance that that claim is spurious, I am including it on the Sunday Service because it is just too damn beautiful not to. Plus, it's not like Mr. Simon is above referencing the Bard of Amherst (yeah, that's right - Bard).

Listen on Grooveshark 

FOR EMILY, WHENEVER I MAY FIND HER

    What a dream I had
    Pressed in organdy
    Clothed in crinoline
    of smoky burgundy
    Softer than the rain
    I wandered empty streets
    Down past the shop displays
    I heard cathedral bells
    Tripping down the alley ways
    As I walked on
    And when you ran to me
    Your cheeks flushed with the night
    We walked on frosted fields
    Of juniper and lamplight
    I held your hand
    And when I awoke
    and felt you warm and near
    I kissed your honey hair
    with my grateful tears
    Oh, I love you, girl
    Oh, I love you

Paul Simon

back-alley house--
thrust out, swaying
plum in bloom

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Click to learn how to contribute to Wednesday Haiku.