Carol Montgomery: Small Press Friday

I have haunted bookstores, I work in a library, I edit a small press magazine - lots of stuff enters my field of vision. A while back, I ran across a sort of generic looking, slim volume of haiku poetry by someone named Carol Montgomery. The title was Starting Something. It's pictured above.

As I'm wont to do with items like this, however they come my way, I opened it up at random and read:

Up Smallman St.
the pizza truck 
following a funeral  

Not a poem that's going to win any awards, but that's not what caught my eye - that was "Smallman St.," which is a main drag in Pittsburgh's Strip Distict near downtown.

So I checked the publisher, Los Hombres Press in San Diego, no bells ringing there.

I flipped it over and in a little mini-bio I read: "Carol Montgomery is the recipient of two fellowships in literature from the Pennsylvania Council of the Arts." Ah, a second geographic connection. 

Time to settle down and see what the book had to offer.

And what it had to offer was quite amazing. 

summer night—
describing a grasshopper
grandma hops   

Corny, you think? Maybe, but there is a little something here that is quite special.

     brooms at the Crafts Fair
no one tests them 
     but grandfather . . .  

Another little something-something, eh?

In the wine cellar
all the pieces 
of the azalea vase

Ah, bingo, another other, this time not so little but all of a piece with the two previous.

It seems to me that Montgomery is starting something, indeed.

grandfather's room:
the puzzle's lake
never completed

Family looms large here, fortunately in a very good way. In all these ku there is ennui, a  touch of humor, a sense of larger purpose (nostalgia would be, I believe, the wrong word) - a series of perfectly captured moments with a fine resonance.

That's poetry.  

What at first appeared to me to be a separate title to a second section of the book, I think just might be a "found" monostitch:

Grand View Cemetery 

Maybe not - but I'd like to think so, since what follows doesn't (follow the idea that 'Grand View Cemetery is a section title). 

I love this little senryu:

twilight, young boss
practicing
his signature—

What perfect placement of the em dash — twilight time, the perfect time, this seems almost a black and white photo, the only light coming from a desk lamp, the young boss, his hands, paper and pen in harsh, full electric light, the face, featureless, in shadow.

As far as I can ascertain, Montgomery has published two collections in total (the other is called Outlines, which along with Starting Something, can be found virtually nowhere, though 6 libraries in the country own Starting), has had her poems analyzed (and analyzed), received accolades (1986 & 1987), has written articles/reviews for Modern Haiku, has been mentioned in interviews, had at least 11 poems translated into Russian, and, most importantly, has been regularly published. 

Intrigued and digging around a bit, I found that not much seems to have been heard of Carol Montgomery recently. Since I'm a relatively recent arrival to the haiku community (though I've been writing for 30 plus years), I'm sure someone out there knows much more about her than I could scrap up with a few searches. 

Chime in, folks, if you know her. I'd love to hear more.

I'm going to close this post with a few more poems that, one way or the other, make me very glad I ran across Starting Something.

bottom of the window-seat
wrapped in a sweater
mother's book on cancer

There is poignancy here that is perfectly captured in a single moment, a perfect haiku (or senryu, if you're parsing). 

first doubts:
each peony stem
the same length

 
Of  all her poems that I have read, this is the one I wish I wrote. It is stunning, it is timeless, with an unstated sadness, and acceptance of that sadness.

old woman
wrapping her cat's gifts
—centering the bows

I close my eyes after reading this little piece and can visualize it being written in 18th or 19th century Japan just as soon as late 20th, or early 21st, century America. 
  

      his new wife
pap trying to argue
      with the old rhythms 

Here again is the humor that is never really far from sadness in Montgomery's work, albeit sadness usually taking precedence. And, on the same page in Starting Something, this companion piece - one can almost imagine that the argument was about the color of the paint:

second husband
painting the fence
the same green

 In terms of point of view,  this seems a perfect pair, the first from the wife's and the second from the (second) husband's. 

Small press writers come and go, usually with little or no notice outside their intimate circle of friends and fellow poets. It seems to me Ms. Montgomery touched a lot more people than the average small press poet. Even if the memory is fading, it's not entirely gone. And if one of these poems kindles a spark in the heart of a new reader, what then?

Why, a new memory is made.  

Carol Montgomery, circa 1990

 
---------------------------------

plum blossom scent--
a hazy memory
of my nanny's house

 Issa

 translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

   

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Modern Haiku, Autumn, 2010

Learning about oneself through reading may certainly be a way, a Way to transcendence that is.  Obviously, this is a function of how we read as much as what we read.  I want to suggest that the act of reading itself can be every bit as important and every bit as creative as the acts of writing, painting, and playing.


What I'm dancing around here is I've continued to learn a lot about myself through the conversation of reading, the conversation between the writer and the reader. Admittedly, at first one might think it a bit one sided.  Still, in many ways, all discussions we have with others are really a way to talk to ourselves.

The conversation we have with a writer/poet via their work can very much serve this function.  You will never change their opinion, but you may come to a deeper understanding of it and your own. Focusing  particularly on haiku challenges the reader to simultaneously view the vastness of the outer world and the equal vastness of the inner one.

Hence, these Friday reviews.


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Modern Haiku is one of the finest haiku journals available today, whether we are talking about traditional or experimental (or a combo thereof) outlets for haiku.  Whenever I settle in to read a new issue, I find it an never-ending source of wisdom, humor, and inspiration.  This week I thought I'd take a look at a recent issue.

In the Autumn 2010 issue, comprehensively edited by Charles Trumbull,  I noted 70 (!) haiku, of an astounding 400 in this issue, to return to for review.  In my experience, that percentage of good haiku is almost unprecedented, in either book, journal or online resource form.

heartsick
my dad beneath the old tree
leaving

Michele Root-Bernstein

This is a beautiful poem in its ambiguity; one could make a case for it being about a living father walking away, or about a dead father being buried beneath the old tree, leaving in an only slightly more figurative sense.  A third possibility, predicated on the word heartsick, is that the father is being observed visiting a lost love one and is heartsick with grief.

In the case of the dead father, I get the very moving feeling of a continual present in the verb leaving; though he is gone permanently in death, he is also always leaving, at least in an organic way, and most definitely in emotional and psychological ways.  If one is dead and buried beneath the tree, one will become part of the "old" tree itself and there is something heart-full about that reading.

The essential question, no matter what the reading, is what is the observer/narrator seeing and feeling.

Poppy field
Forever
Men at war

Daniel Py

Ever since World War I, the poppy has become a memorial for those who died in service.  This poem is subtle in its possible meanings.   The word forever acts as a hinged door that swings both ways: the poppy field is forever, men at war are forever.  There is an irony in the essential truth, underscored in their linking, impling that men and poppies are forever what they are.

Here is the four line poem that Moina Michael, who conceived of the idea of the poppy as a memorial, wrote about her idea of the poppy and humans at war:

We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.

dew evaporates
on the stone, which also
will pass

Umberto Senegal

Many traditional haiku compare incongruous elements, usually the very large and the very small (seeing the entire Milky Way through a torn shade, for instance).  Here Senegal extends the notion to time itself, the dew evaporating instantly, the stone over decades or centuries or longer.   All things pass, even the rock, even the mountain, even the earth.

No prayer necessary
just listen
to the rain

Umberto Senegal

A brilliant poem by Senegal, this one beautiful to the point of tears.  Nothing is left out of this poem, everything that is needed is included: all of life and the whole universe.

my logical mind
of no value
among the red leaves

Michael Fessler

For the persona here, the logical mind won't do.  Though s/he may use the logical mind to measure, catalog, and analyze the red leaves, for the true value none of this is necessary.  The poem turns on that value and the red leaves are in every sense as the rain is in Senegal's previous poem.

the swan's wake
touches both banks—
choices I have to make

Michael Ketchek

On one level, this seems to me to be a very complex haiku, indeed.  In some traditional haiku, there is a 2 line image/event and a 1 line resolution or comment; in this haiku, it is the image which brings the wonderful complexity.  The reader sees that there are perhaps two choices that emanate from one source, there are two banks touched.  Are the two banks really different?

The waves of the swan's wake, emanating as they do from one source, do they not suggest that either or perhaps both choices are correct?  The image is so beautiful I would argue for it to be implying the harmony of all things, the harmony of opposites: the non-duality of life itself.

But I'll wager I could be very wrong.  Sometimes reading good haiku is like viewing a Jackson Pollack; I'm sure of what I "see" in it, but are you sure of what I see in it?

the pianist's
page-turners
slightly parted
lips

Eve Luckring

This poem reminds me, in its precise, beautiful image, of Bashō's haiku of the woman wrapping dumplings, brushing back a stray hair with a finger.   Such gorgeous music here, one can almost hear it.

a sin of omission bright autumn leaves

Peggy Willis Lyles

What has the speaker forgotten or left undone that the consequences might be at once dire and brilliant?  You tell me.

evening bell
swallows fly through
the deep tone

John Martone

I imagine a swallows path changing when they encounter the sonic wave of the bell.  The patterns of sound and the waves are united in such a way that one can hardly imagine mere words would even be capable of.  Martone is one of our important poets and this is a truly fine poem.   Here is another by John:

measured
by these dim eyes
the distance
between stars

John Martone

As alluded to above, many fine haiku deal with apparent incongruities, large contrasts that at first seem irreconcilable.  The poet here shows us how it's done.  Caught between the diminutive space between two human eyes is the distance between two far off stars, two worlds.  Not only that, be the viewer's eyes are dim, emphasizing strongly their diminutive nature (via a neat pun) and the extra difficulty which is overcome all the same.

All is one, all is one.

he says a word
I say a word
autumn deepens

Takahama Kyoshi

This is another fine and full poem.    It is at once literal and figurative, practical in its observation and philosophical in its resonance.  Like Martone's haiku, their is a sense of unity and timelessness, a poem that transcends any age or interpretation.

And one final poem, I'll let speak for itself:

gnats swarming—
   the setting sun
      finding each one

Carl Mayfield

When it comes to haiku, I am certainly no expert.  Part of the practice of haiku is reading long and deep, both the classic poets and contemporaries.  It is a way of talking to ourselves, talking to each other, talking to the world. Besides simply stepping outdoors (or looking very carefully within), I can think of few better ways of experiencing haiku than a subscription to Modern Haiku. 

You won't be disappointed. 


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This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review, #132, July 2003.  Enjoy.

Hinges creak.
Dung beetles work.
The prayer wheel turns.

Mark Jaworski

mountain mist--
the beautiful voice
of the dung-hauler

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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April ...

April is turning out to be one of the busiest months of the year. I find, due to a variety of circumstances, that I've fallen behind in a number of areas and need to play catchup.

I've a review due at Modern Haiku I need to polish off. Later this month, in close proximity of each other I will be leading a discussion on Elizabeth Bishop for the 3 Poems By ... discussion group, helping to judge a county-wide teen poetry contest in conjunction with a One Book, One Community book initiative, conducting another introduction to poetry session for Oasis lifelong learners, and doing a followup reading of my own work for the New Yinzer at Modern Formations. In addition, I've fallen woefully behind with the print magazine, Lilliput Review, and have a new chapbook in the "Modest Proposal" series which needs to go to press.

The "bad" news is that, for the month of April, I need to gear down a bit with the blog to catch up with all these things. The good news is, as hinted at before, I have a plan.

Besides cutting back on the blog for a bit, I've decided to put out a double run of Lilliputs, 4 issues instead of the customary 2, to be mailed together. I know this seems like more work but, trust me, in the long run, this will help me get the ship righted in very solid fashion. Though, of course, in the short run it will take a little longer to get all those issues together, printed, cut, collated, stapled, and shipped.

So posting will be intermittent. I'm thinking of April at Issa's Untidy Hut as being scattershot - a sort guerrilla blogging approach, if posting at all. I will forgo the daily Twitter Lilliput poems for the foreseeable future. Issa's Sunday Service, too, will be on hiatus for a bit.

I'll be putting my nose to the grindstone for the next couple of weeks. Wish me luck!

the silver dew
becoming round, this too
takes work!

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

The Butterfly and the Moth Redux: Buson and Billy Collins

Following on the discussion of Buson and Billy Collins from this Wednesday's post, I received a very informative email from Charles Trumbull, editor of Modern Haiku. His email contained some salient information, plus variant translations of the temple bell / butterfly haiku, so I asked and received his kind permission to reprint it in full. For those who didn't read the original post, here are the two poems that were discussed:

----Butterfly
sleeping
----on the temple bell

Buson

Japan

Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.

It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.

I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.

I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.

I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.

And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.

It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,

and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.

When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.

When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.

And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,

and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.

Billy Collins

The gist of my musings was why Collins chose to go with "moth" rather than "butterfly," which is how most translations have it. Here's what Charlie has to say:

I read with interest your bit about the Buson haiku and Billy Collins. Here’s some background that may be of use to you.

The haiku by Buson (note, no macron over the O)

釣鐘に止りてねむる胡蝶 かな
tsurigane ni tomarite nemuru kochô kana


is indeed one of his most famous and most often translated. Harold Henderson, in his Introduction to Haiku, renders it literally as follows:

Temple-bell-on settling sleep butterfly kana


where “kana” is a kireji, a word in Japanese that governs the relationship between two parts of a sentence and here is a sort of unvoiced sigh or sotto voce “that’s so.”

Collins apparently saw the translation that was published in X.J. Kennedy’s Introduction to Poetry:

On the one-ton temple bell

On the one-ton temple bell
a moon moth, folded into sleep,
sits still


I haven’t checked my copy, but Kennedy probably got the version from someplace else. This translation is typical of early English translations of haiku, adding words and notions for their poetic values as well as unnecessary titles.

Neither my Japanese nor my Japanese dictionary are good enough for me to know the exact meaning of “kochô,” the name used by Buson for the insect. “Butterfly” is more commonly “chôcho,” while “moth” is “ga.”

Here is a handful of other translations, with translator and published source:


Silence

A frail white butterfly, beneath the spell
Of noon, is sleeping on the huge bronze bell

Harold Stewart
Stewart, Net of Fireflies, 52

Asleep in the sun
on the temple’s silent bronze
bell, a butterfly

Behn, Harry
Behn, Cricket Songs


Butterfly
sleeping
on the temple bell.

Robert Hass
Hass, Essential Haiku (1994), 108


Butterfly asleep
Folded soft on temple bell …
Then bronze gong rang!

Beilenson, Peter
Japanese Haiku (1955); Haiku Garland (1968); Little Treasury (1980)


Clinging to the bell
he dozes so peacefully
this new butterfly

Sam Hamill
Hamill, trans, Sound of Water; Hamill, trans, Little Book of Haiku, 61

on a temple bell
alighted and sleeping
this butterfly

William J. Higginson
Modern Haiku 35:2 (summer 2004), 52 (a)


On the great temple bell
stopped from flight and sleeping
the small butterfly

Miner, Earl
Miner, Japanese Linked Poetry; Bowers, Classic Tradition


On the hanging bell,
staying while he sleeps,
a butterfly!

Sawa Yuki and Edith Marcombe Shiffert
Haiku Master Buson


On the temple bell
has settled, and is fast asleep,
a butterfly.

Harold G. Henderson
Henderson, Introduction; Modern Haiku 4:3 (1973), 51 (a); Frogpond 14:2 (summer 1991), 31 (a)


On the temple bell
Something rests in quiet sleep.
Look, a butterfly!

Buchanan, Daniel C.
Buchanan, One Hundred Famous Haiku (1973), 65


On the temple bell,
Settled down and fast asleep
A butterfly.

Harold G. Henderson
Henderson, Introduction; Modern Haiku 3:2 (1972), 26 (a)


On the temple’s great
Bronze bell, a butterfly sleeps
In the noon sun

Beilenson, Peter, and Harry Behn
Haiku Harvest


Perched upon the temple-bell, the butterfly sleeps!
Hearn, Lafcadio
Hearn, Kwaidan


The buttefly
Resting upon the temple bell,
Asleep.

R.H. Blyth
Blyth, Haiku II—Spring, 258



Best,

Charlie

I checked my copy of Introduction to Poetry by Kennedy and, coincidentally, Buson and Collins are listed next to each other alphabetically in the "Lives of the Poets" section. The translation is Kennedy's own, though he has another poem by Buson translated by Robert Hass. In two romanized Japanese/English dictionaries I checked at the library, kochô was listed as butterfly, but I'll defer to Charlie since I also found chôcho listed as butterfly in a third.

So, though the mystery still remains, we've ended up with a wealth of useful information and a wonderful selection of different ways Buson's poem has been translated. I was particularly thrilled to see a beautiful version by Lafcadio Hearn, the subject of a post here recently, and a typically taciturn, precise version by R. H. Blyth.

Many, many thanks to Charles Trumbull for all the great information and the various translations. Only one question remains:

Will we wake up before the big bell rings?


best,
Don