alter-world: old pajamas

What is it we ask of the modern short-form poet, the modern haiku poet? What do we want, what is necessary in a short poem?

What do we need?

To get close to an answer to any, or all, of these questions perhaps we should be asking most importantly: what do we ask of ourselves when it comes to poetry as readers and, for some, as poets?

Old Pajamas (aka Alan Segal) is an excellent poet working in short forms for whom form itself is mercurial, form is protean, form is content's shadow. Like contemporary masters Cid Corman, John Martone, and Charlie Mehrhoff, he knows where the lines are and chooses to dance over and amongst them.

For my two cents, Old Pajamas would be a candidate for inclusion in a second edition of Haiku in English, as would Ed Baker, another fine purveyor of 'shorties' as he is wont to call them on any given day, work don't fit any strict definition but is all heart and spirit and soul.

Is the pen name 'Old Pajamas' off-putting? Just think about the various pen-names of so many Japanese poets. Even the masters - Bashō's name means banana leaf or tree, Issa's cup-of-tea, Buson's midnight studio, and Shiki's cuckoo. 

As far as English goes, Old Pajamas sounds just fine to me. 

The new collection he sent along is a limited hardcover edition, 1 of 25 printed.The book is entitled alter-world and here are four of my favorites from it:

Photo by Hadi Fooladi

ah
the butterfly
not an actor

Photo by Amour Perdu

that you're in black
flower and scaly
while I'm paleness
blinking in the dark
is enough enough for us

Photo by flugflugfunmangel

in one cricket
the sound is weary

Photo by Seth Anderson

BLOWER MOTOR #4

mad with rust  / /  camellias in bloom




Regular readers of this blog will recognize this last poem (and photo) as having appeared previously on Wednesday Haiku. 

Looking at these four pieces superficially they seem to be all over the place, form-wise. Yet, there is a unifying element among them, one of the major components of traditional haiku.

All four are firmly ground in nature.

Now, arguments could certainly be had, one way or the other, as to which, if any, are haiku, and which are not. I have my opinions and I'll keep them (mostly) to myself. 

One thing I will say is that they are all haiku-like or, even more generally, fine brief poems.   

alter-world is not available to purchase, so there is no pitch here. However, you can find more of Alan's work, from alter-world and and other places, at old pajamas: from the dirt hut. It is definitely worth your while. There is also a more extensive review of an earlier collection, Drenched Through at Old Age, here.


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

Photo by Mo

when will it become
a cricket's nest?
my white hair

Issa
trans. by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS  Click to learn how to contribute to Wednesday Haiku

Bob Carlton & Charlie Mehrhoff: Wednesday Haiku, #128

 Photo by yellow bird woodstock

 

fire
 
....

fly

Bob Carlton

 

Photo by NASA/SDO

the fireflies
here and there
an echo
of the sun

Charlie Mehrhoff

Photo by OuchCharlie

flitting firefly--
uncaught by the hand
uncaught again!

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

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Charlie Mehrhoff & Rehn Kovacic: Wednesday Haiku, #118

 Photo by Ajnagraphy

freezing rain
born again
in the headlights

Charlie Mehrhoff

 Photo by Average Jane Crafter

My poetry—
    each word
  stolen from the moon.

    Rehn Kovacic

Photo by Kevin Ambrose (Washington Post)

big rain
big moon
cicada in the pine

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don   

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Charlie Mehrhoff: Monday Twitter Poem

Going nowhere.

Always packed and ready.

   Charlie Mehrhoff  in Lilliput Review #171

nowhere, nowhere
can a young scarecrow
be found

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Subscribe to Lilliput Review

Wednesday Haiku, Week #1: Charlie Mehrhoff

 Wednesday Haiku, Week #1

The door to the forest slams shut,
wild man
coming home.

Charlie Mehrhoff

 




 Send a single poem for Wednesday Haiku @ Issa's Untidy Hut to:

wednesday haiku AT gmail DOT com

the woods are dark
but out and about...
the year's first crow

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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Hear 'em all at once on the the LitRock Jukebox

Subscribe to Lilliput Review

Sharkey's Night: Issa's Sunday Service, #54

Laurie Anderson & Husband

Saturday June 5th was the birthday of avant-garde performance artist Laurie Anderson. There is a lot by Anderson that might find its way onto Issa's Sunday Service, but I've always been particularly fond of this little number, which was one of Mr. Burroughs's, Mr. William Burroughs that is, first forays into "mass media."

Paging Mr. Sharkey, white courtesy telephone please ...

And here is a special little treat:

As good as that performance is, it just is missing something without the big guy's voice. See here is another little oddity by Big Bill, called "Ah Pook."

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This week's poem comes from the broadside spectacles of poverty, by scarecrow (Charlie Mehrhoff), published as Lilliput Review, #80, in June 1996. Additional poems from this broadside may be found in this earlier post.

words
each word a letter,
a mirror
held up to the soul.

or better: writing is the scratching
of ancient dust from mirrors.

(even the words of others
(sometimes
(part of your face.

scarecrow

Mister Monkey too
wears a funny face...
plum blossoms

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Ryokan, translated by Dennis Maloney

Bob and Susan Arnold of Longhouse Publishers have been issuing a delightful series of accordion-style fold out mini-booklets for quite sometime now, some of which I've taken a look at here at The Hut. Dennis Maloney, of White Pine Press fame, is a longtime Lilliput contributor, whose 4th chapbook in the Modest Proposal Chapbook series, a volume of Yosano Akiko translations, will be coming out sometime in June (along with 4 delayed issues of Lilliput Review). Previous chapbooks were Dusk Lingers: Haiku of Issa, The Unending Night: Japanese Love Poems, and The Turning Year: Japanese Nature Poems, the later two of which come from the famed 100 Poems by 100 Poets classic volume of Japanese poetry.

So it is with some delight that Dennis's volume of Ryōkan poems has arrived from Longhouse. And who was Ryōkan you might ask? According to the "New World Encyclopedia" site:

Ryōkan (良寛) (1758-1831) was a Zen Buddhist monk of the Edo period (Tokugawa shogunate 1603-1864), who lived in Niigata, Japan. He was renowned as a poet and calligrapher. He soon left the monastery, where the practice of Buddhism was frequently lax, and lived as a hermit until he was very old and had to move into the house of one of his supporters. His poetry is often very simple and inspired by nature. He was a lover of children, and sometimes forgot to go on his alms rounds to get food because he was playing with the children of the nearby village. Ryōkan was extremely humble and refused to accept any official position as a priest or even as a "poet." In the tradition of Zen, his quotes and poems show that he had a good sense of humor and didn't take himself too seriously. His poetry gives illuminating insights into the practice of Zen. He is one of the most popular Zen Buddhists today.

Over at Wikipedia, there is a bit of a dust up over the Buddhist monk part, but no doubt it isn't anything the poet himself would be much concerned about. There are, after all, poems to write, sake to drink, and life to be lived.

The Longhouse booklet, consisting of 2 minutely folded sheets contains an astounding 47 tankas, is divided into the four seasons. Ryōkan's simple message shines through poem after poem in translations with a direct clarity that mirror that basic philosophy. Here is a couple of samples to tempt you over to the Longhouse site for this tasty little booklet and lots more besides:

In the garden – just us
a plum tree
in full blossom
and this old man
long in years.

I'm sure there is more but what I think of first is how the old man's years seem so very like the plum tree's blossoms.

What shall remain
as my legacy?
The spring flowers,
the cuckoo in summer
the autumn leaves.

At once in this beautiful tanka, there is the Buddhist sense of oneness and perhaps a touch of the fact that we are all reincarnated a bit in what's is all about us. At least that's what I'm hoping when some of my ashes end up in the garden, some more in the river, and most of the last bit in the bay back home.

Ryōkan too
will fade like
the morning glories.
But his heart
will remain behind.

See previous comment ...

Deep snow outside
bundled up
in my solitary hut
I even feel my soul
slip away as dusk gathers.

The quiet beauty of these verses pervades one's spirit as the experiencing nature does. Not much exegesis, though perhaps there could be some, but let it rest: let me take in the rose rather than pluck its petals.

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

This week's feature Lilliput Review broadside is #80, from June 1996, entitled spectacles of poverty by scarecrow.

what is meant to be seen and heard
will be seen and heard
the blue of the sky
through a fly's wing
walking on my window
into a cloud.
in the shape of constant sorrow

how much the poem cannot carry
when you're the only one
there
to witness the pine cone falling.

the camera composed of metal taken from the ore
taken from the stone
beneath the grass
in the meadow
where the lion once slept
in the picture.

scarecrow

now begins
the Future Buddha's reign...
spring pines

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS Ed Baker has tipped us to an interview with Dennis Maloney which is a delight so I'll append it after the fact. All thanks to the bard of Takoma Park.

Spell (Footnote to Howl): Issa's Sunday Service, #36

This week was the birthday of one of the premiere rock poets of all time, Patti Smith. In celebration (and to shelve all those Lawrence Welk and doo-wop shows for at least a week), public TV has been airing the documentary film Patti Smith: Dream of Life on POV. Appropriately, this week's litrock selection at Issa's Sunday Service is her rendition of the final part (or addendum, for purists) of Allen Ginsberg's masterpiece, Howl: that section, entitled "Footnote to Howl," Smith recorded as "Spell: (Footnote to Howl)."

Happy birthday, Patti. The two shows I had the privilege to attend here in Pittsburgh that she gave were two of the best rock shows I've ever seen and I've been going to concerts since 1968. The outdoor show with just a couple of hundred people in a light, cold rain was every bit as intense as the one she gave for a couple of thousand. Her connection to the audience is remarkable.

As a footnote to Howl and Footnote to Howl, here is a 2 part video made by Karen Lillis as part of her internship at the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh. In it, she highlights all the resources on the poem Howl and Allen Ginsberg at the library. In addition, she interviewed three folks at the library intimately engaged in poetry as to what the poem means to them: Barry Chad, Renée Alberts, and myself. The video is static, the information dynamic. If you have interest in the poem and/or Ginsberg, I think you'll enjoy it.









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


Public television is also going to be airing, at least in Minnesota, a show entitled The Poetry and Life of Cold Mountain, about the master Chinese poet, Han Shan. You can read more about it here.

There is small animated segment in the show. Perhaps these wonderful poems, whimsically rendered, will entice you to watch:






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


Finally, a poem from Lilliput #56, April 1994, six poems of which were featured in a previous post. This little gem, by Charlie Mehrhoff, gives "flash fiction" a run for its money:

¶ nothing heals.

the doctor bends low
to kiss a whisper into the corpse's ear:
it was i who needed you
it was i who needed you

Charlie Mehrhoff

playing doctor
for the silkworms...
little girl

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Among the Flowering Reeds

With Among the Flowering Reeds: Classic Korean Poems Written in Chinese, Kim Jong-Gil has performed an astounding acrobatic-like feat of translation, bringing to modern English speaking audiences a genre of poetry as lyrical, philosophical, and important as any in world poetry. These translations are exquisite in the sense that they are at once precise, evocative, poetic, and faithful to English, the language into which they are translated. Part of White Pine Press's "Korean Voices" series, which in turn is part an overall catalogue of some of the most outstanding poetry titles offered anywhere, Among the Flowering Reeds is a must read for those who love Asian poetry in its many glorious manifestations.

Why Korean poems written in Chinese, you may ask? The reason is that Korean as a written language (hangul) is relatively recent, dating back to the 15th century. Previous to that, classical Chinese, wen yen, was used in Korean literature, as it was for most East Asian literatures. Since there were significant differences in the two languages, the development of hangul became necessary. However, hangul as the written language took some time to catch on and writers and poets continued to use Chinese characters well into the 20th century. As a result, much of Korean literature was originally written in Chinese.

Jong-Gil's selection of 100 poems in Among the Flowering Reeds covers more than 1000 years, from the late 9th century into the early 20th. Jong-Gil notes in his introduction that, because of the nature of classical Chinese, he has had to take liberties with the literal sense of the words in order to capture the poetic and rhythmic quality of the original. How this has all been translated into not just competent, but lyrical, near flawless English is an accomplishment to be held in deep admiration.

Of the 100 poems I marked 27 as outstanding, to be returned to for further review. Many are written out as basic quatrains, whatever there original forms may have been. There is a quiet subtly to these works, delicate yet strongly resonant of life experience. Here is a small taste:

At My Study on Mount Kaya

The frenzied rush through the rocks roars at the peaks
and drowns out the human voices close by.
Because I always fear disputes between right and wrong
I have arranged the waters to cage in these mountains.

Ch'oe Ch'i Wǒn

Night Rain on the River Hsio-hsiang

A stretch of blue water between the shores of autumn;
wind sweeps light rain over a returning boat.
As the boat is moored at night near the bamboo,
each leaf rustles coldly, awakening sorrow.

Yi Il-lp

At a Station House

Through nearly fifty years in the lifespan of a man,
I have had little luck with my ill-fated career.
What have I achieved these years away from home?
I have returned empty-handed from so far away.
Still the forest birds warble kindly to me;
the wildflowers, wordless, smile to make me stay.
But the devil poetry always nags at me;
together with poverty, it it the root of all my grief.

Kim Kŭk-ki

Now Shine, Now Rain

Now shine, now rain, and rain becomes shine:
that is the sky's way, as well as man's.
My glory may well lead to my ruin;
your escape from fame will bring you a name.
Flowers may open or fall, but spring doesn't care;
clouds will come and go, but mountains do not argue.
Men of the world, you must remember
you won't find happiness where you crave joy.

Kim Shi-sŭp

A Fisherman

Mountains rise over mountains and smoke from valleys;
the dust of the world can never touch the white gulls.
The old fisherman is by no means disinterested;
he owns, in his boat, the moon over the west river.

Sǒng Kan

On a Journey

At an edge of the sky, I grieve for my youth;
I long for home, but home is still far away.
As spring lets loose the wayward east wind,
no one owns the wild peach, but it bursts into bloom.

Kim An-guk

Slow Chrysanthemums

The chrysanthemums are slow to bloom this year,
I have found no autumn joy by the eastern hedge.
Heartless, indeed, is the west wind: it blows
into my greying hair, not yellow chrysanthemums.

Sǒ Kǒ-jǒng

These translations are so smooth, so seemingly effortless, they seem to not be translations at all. Get it at the library, get it at your favorite independent bookshop, or, best of all, get it directly from White Pine. Support the small press.

It supports you .



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


This week's featured issue of Lilliput Review is #170 from July of this year. With this issue, I will have featured highlights from regular issues over the last 20 years on this blog. It's really hard to imagine that there have been over 360 posts here since Issa's Untidy Hut started back in November of 2007. Many poems were also featured at the previous short-lived blog, Beneath Cherry Blossoms, before it. I'm still weighing how to proceed. Meanwhile, here's some highlights from #170. Enjoy.

It's our task
we must take on
so much
discard so much
until finally
carrying just a little home
and on the way
losing that too

John Ajac

How to make a poem...
----------Freeze-frame one moment of
your life
----------add a dim reference to
your father
----------throw in the name of a local plant for effect
--------------------------------:jimsonweed

J. Bruce Fuller

Poems hanging among the weeds, some :: so easy to read

Grant Hackett

Being mindful of the breath
until the breath
conquers the mind.

The current green.
The lily of water.

Charlie Mehrhoff

And Master Issa:







touching the princess lily's
heart...
pure water

Issa
David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

What Keeps Mankind Alive: Issa's Sunday Service, #32

This week's Issa's Sunday Service features two repeat offenders: Tom Waits (as musician) performing the work of Bertolt Brecht (as inspiration), in this case "What Keeps Mankind Alive," a devastating little ditty if ever there was one. Monday, December 7th is the birthday of Mr. Waits, hence this week's selection. The song comes from The Threepenny Opera, with lyrics by Brecht and music by Kurt Weill. Here's the words:

What Keeps Mankind Alive

You gentlemen who think you have a mission
To purge us of the seven deadly sins
Should first sort out the basic food position
Then start your preaching, that’s where it begins

You lot who preach restraint and watch your waist as well
Should learn, for once, the way the world is run
However much you twist or whatever lies that you tell
Food is the first thing, morals follow on

So first make sure that those who are now starving
Get proper helpings when we all start carving
What keeps mankind alive?

What keeps mankind alive?
The fact that millions are daily tortured
Stifled, punished, silenced and oppressed
Mankind can keep alive thanks to its brilliance
In keeping its humanity repressed
And for once you must try not to shriek the facts
Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts

Happy birthday, Mr. Waits. And, as a little present, here is ol' Uncle Bill, of Naked Lunch fame, to give his rendition of same:

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This week's feature poem comes from issue #48, a broadside entitled Tibetan Gun Flower by the poet Charlie Mehrhoff. Back in August, I read one of the poems from this broadside, "springtime in a city park,"(page down a bit to see) at the Six Gallery Press reading. Recently, I posted another, entitled "fact:", at the daily Twitter feed (which cross-posts to Facebook). For those of you who don't lean in those directions, here it is:

fact:

to think that god had to become me
in order to throw his cigarette out the window,
write these words.

Charlie Mehrhoff

And here's another from that same broadside, previously unposted:

leaf, green leaf
her shadow
upon the silence of an empty road
that is poetry.

Charlie Mehrhoff

And, of course, the last word goes to the master:

a wood fire--
her shadow in the window
pulling thread

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Six Gallery Press Reading

Photo by Jessica Fenlon

Last Saturday's Six Gallery Press reading at Modern Formations went very well. As with last August's reading, I read a mix of past Lilliput poems and some of my own work. Here are the poems from Lillie:

National Poetry Day

This being that fine occasion
to honor appreciative friends
with a wisdomy verse
pulled from one's hip
I am telling myself to first
keep straight my pockets
so as not to go
blow my nose into
William Carlos Williams

Richard Swanson

only one flower
is needed to answer
your question

Stanford Forrester

winter haiku
here, we have five or six
words for snow
and they all start with fuck

Mark DeCarteret

Because

You are tired, because I thirst for
salt, we turn to each other.
You are barefoot. It is winter.
This is going to be a difficult story.

Gayle Elen Harvey

an echo

The grassy grassy grassy
--plain
reaches out across across the road
--the road
cutting man's lifeline in two two
trying trying to reclaim for mother
--nature nature
what is by all rights
hers and hers and hers

Michael Estabrook

How Frightening to be the Male

a pair of cardinals on my neighbor's
fence: the male--so bright, so eye-
catching, so out-there, so
dispensable

Kelley Jean White

Cannibal

When you've rent the flesh and sinew
from my supple skeleton and you've
sucked the last sweet drop of marrow
leaving lonely, brittle bones
will you save the jagged splinters
to adorn your chieftain's chest
or scatter them like toothpicks
over yesterday's dung.

Sue De Kelver

Each step into simplicity :: undoes the weave

Grant Hackett

We forget we're mostly water
till the rain falls
and every atom
in our body
starts to go home

Albert Huffstickler

¶blue thorn gallop rose
why does language have to be so perfect?

Charlie Mehrhoff

TAOUBT

Ray Skjelbred

In addition to the Lilliput poems, I opened with a quote from Jim Carroll, and a dedication to his memory. The quote:

"It's too late
-to fall in love with Sharon Tate.
-And it's too soon
-to trace the path of the bullet
-in the brain of Reverend Moon."

Jim Carroll

I followed the Lilliput reading with 7 poems of my own, with only one that I'd read in August. Though I practiced "an echo" by Michael Estabrook, it was difficult to get the right aural effect and I'm afraid I didn't do it justice. Otherwise, I think it went over pretty well. Not too shabby for an old man decidedly out of practice. Overall, it was a solid reading by all. Che Elias from Six Gallery did a great job picking readers and so my personal thanks to him. I was particularly taken with the work of M. Callen, Scott Silsbe, Karen Lillis and Bill Hughes but, again, all the readers impressed.



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


Since this is a week folks are likely on the road for the holiday, I'll keep it brief. I'm in the process of combing through all the poems for the Bashô Haiku Challenge again. Though I've made a large preliminary selection, I'm going through every poem once more to make sure I didn't miss anything and that what I previously set aside is actually up to snuff. Editing the mag all these years has taught me to space out multiple readings of particular items since mood, attention, and physical condition can actually effect how one approaches work. I read most work first thing in the morning while I'm fresh and rested and save the mundane stuff of replying, printing, collating etc. for later in the day. I'm hoping to make an announcement of the winners by December 2nd, December 9th at the latest.



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This week's featured issue is #150, a broadside of 11 poems by powerful tanka poet, Pamela Miller Ness. Enjoy.

Autumn again
in the Japanese garden;
leaves
of last year's euonymus
burn still in my journal.

A bud
of the red anemone
ready to burst . . .
the child
she never bore.

Years
after her passing
on the path
I greet my neighbor
in Mother's voice.

Pamela Miller Ness

a wind-blown boat
a skylark
crossing paths

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

And thanks to Jessica Fenlon for sending along the photo of me cawing "Crow" from the reading.




best,
Don

Jim Carroll on Reading Raymond Chandler: Issa's Sunday Service, #21

Sadly, today's edition of Issa's Sunday Service caps off a week of tribute posts for Jim Carroll. Happily, we still have his work, as long as we're alive, to turn to for solace, instruction, and enjoyment. This week's LitRock song is by the Jim Carroll Band: "Three Sisters:"

But she just wants to lay in bed all night
Reading Raymond Chandler.

I've been thinking about another of the song's featured on the blog this week, "It's Too Late." I remember Jim and the band appearing live on one of the nationally syndicated late night television shows, possibly Saturday Night Live, and performing it. He performed an alternative version of these opening lines:

It's too late
To fall in love with Sharon Tate
But it's too soon
To ask me for the words I want carved on my tomb

It's probably hard to imagine today that the reference to Sharon Tate, one the victims slaughtered by the Manson family, was powerful and shocking, but, indeed, it was, particularly in a "pop" song, one being performed before millions of people on television. Here is the alternate opening as I remember it:

It's too late
To fall in love with Sharon Tate
But it's too soon
To trace the path of the bullet in the brain of Reverend Moon

I say "as I remember it" because I can't find any reference to it anywhere. There are some live performance videos of the song from a show called Fridays, but it doesn't have the alternate reading. I wonder if anybody out there remembers that performance because those alternate lines about Reverend Moon dealt in poetic prophecy, not realized, and were every bit as shocking, if not more so, in the context of the place and time than the Tate lines.

This week's featured poem is from Lilliput Review #29, February 1992. As elegy's go, it's a fit way to close:

last will and testament

make a wind chime
from my bones,

hang it
where the poets speak.

let me be a part
of the conversation,
life.

Charlie Mehrhoff

Sumiyoshi's lamps
die out again...
autumn wind

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS: ✔ out 21 weeks of LitRock songs @ LitRock From Issa's Sunday Service.

About Last Saturday's Reading

Last Saturday's reading at Modern Formations Gallery went well and any trepidation I had about reading for the first time in over 20 years rapidly evaporated as the poems took over. Because there were so many readers (14), we were limited to 8 minutes apiece, which made things even easier. I had decided early on that I would do a combination of poems from Lilliput, in recognition of this 20th anniversary year, with a few of my own to finish up. This is another instance that working in the short form really paid off.

I thought I'd share the Lilliput poems I read with you in today's post. Selecting the poems for reading really highlighted some differences between the long and short forms. Most poems of 10 lines or less really don't have public presentation as a primary goal; it's no stretch to say the short poem is generally not designed for public readings. There really isn't enough time to pick up a rhythm, get up some steam, and deliver the goods. The poem is over before you know it.

That doesn't mean that poets don't bring considerable talents in matters such as rhythm, meter, word sound, rhyme and more to the short poem to make them amenable to reading aloud. In fact, if a short poem doesn't bring some poetic device(s), it is in real danger of appearing to be an aphorism or even just a wise (or wise ass) remark. So, in going through the Lillie archives I went in search of certain types of short poems and, happily, found them in reasonable abundance. As a result, the poems I selected actually are not representative of the magazine as a whole, just a certain aspect of that magazine.

It didn't make much sense to get up and read work that wasn't designed in a way for reading and wouldn't connect in that type of setting. As a result, what follows was specifically chosen for the reading and, from the response, seemed to go over fairly well. It was a real challenge to present the work of other poets and to do the work justice.





springtime in a city park

look at them all
carrying weight and shoes
and pants,
briefcases and glasses.
a cigarette slowly lifted
to the lips.
sunlight on a youthful book
open.
hope.
look at them all
they're so fucking beautiful.

Charlie Mehrhoff, LR #48

business as usual

money says have a nice day

money says bark like a dog

money says bark like a dog
and roll over

money says blame each other

money says have another biscuit

Don Wleklinski, LR #153

The Arrival

We have arrived without luggage
in a country we don't recognize
among people who distrust us
where the walls have no windows
and the doors open only
for the chosen. Welcome home.

David Chorlton, LR #145

Apple

Sometimes when eating an apple
I bite too far
and open the little room
the lovers have prepared,
and the seeds fall
onto the kitchen floor
and I see
they are tear-shaped.

Jay Leeming, LR #72

I RIP OFF YOU, YOU RIP OFF ME, WE RIP OFF THEM
THAY RIP OFF US, THAY RIP ME OFF, I RIP OFF THEM
YOU RIP OFF THEM, THAY RIP OFF YOU, HE RIPS OFF
ME, I RIP OFF HIM, HE RIPS OFF YOU, YOU RIP OFF
HIM, WE RIP OFF HIM, HE RIPS OFF US, I RIP OFF
HER, SHE RIPS OFF ME, SHE RIPS OFF YOU, YOU RIP
OFF HER, I RIP OFF ME, YOU RIP OFF YOU, THAY RIP
OFF THEMSELVES, I FOLLOW YOU, YOU FOLLOW ME AND
SO ON DOWN THE LINE, THAY HYPNOTIZE US, THAY
HYPNOTIZE US, I HYPNOTIZE YOU

John Harter, LR #106

THE LIBRARIAN ASKED
CAN YOU WAIT
FOR THAT BOOK
ON
FIFTH CENTURY
BUDDHIST STATUARY

John Harter, LR #110

Lost in the Translation

I'm impotent today she
said, closed the book
capped her pen. You can't
be impotent or potent, they
laughed. You have no penis.
She listened, and for a long
time, she believed them

Celeste Bowman, LR #89

He crept in
like mildew.

Suzanne Bowers, #59

We forget
we're mostly water
till the rain falls
and every atom
in our body
starts to go home

Albert Huffstickler, LR #116

Yawn Series of Younger Poets

annual politician of
a first book of
plums by ailing
writer under 40.
Marmosets may be
sulimated only
during February
and must be
accompanied by
a stamped, self
addressed moose

Lyn Lifshin, LR #6

your body

each piece a shining eye
examining
the rest of the explosion

scarecrow, LR #71

2003

Just before spring
--the war begins
-but - ignorant -
the pink blossoms
--keep opening
--their tiny fists

Judith Toler, LR #135

Disaster

Last night the past broke
and there was history
all over the cellar.
You should have seen it -
Rome was here, Greece was there,
Egypt floated near the ceiling -
finally I had to
call an historian:
and you know what they charge
for emergencies.

Gail White, LR #22

One Small Poem

can take you
a long way

think how far
you've come

to find
this one.

Bart Solarcyzk, LR #123

I chose not to use any haiku per se for this particular reading simply because the ones I was considering didn't make the final cut, though I did feature a number among my own poems (since it is the form I most exclusively write in these days). There were a number of great readers that evening, particularly Renée Alberts, Nikki Allen, and Jerome Crooks. I felt very fortunate to be sharing the stage with so many talented artists.

I guess I'm good for another 20 years.

the preacher's
hand gestures too...
summer trees

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don