learning to live
with the dark
I’m continuing what has apparently become my Thanksgiving week tradition of saving myself the work of writing a whole new haiku every day by stealing from myself. Specifically, by stealing the haiku I have dribbled around in other places across the Interwebs, like Facebook and Twitter and other people’s blogs. (I did change the line breaks here a little from the original. Does that make me less pitiful?)
I might do this for a few more days, at least until I finish my stupid novel, or the 50,000 words of it I’m supposed to have written by the end of the month anyhow.
(In case you were suspecting me of violating my sacred vow to write haiku every day, I am still scribbling the things down, but I would not be so cruel as to force you to read anything I’ve written lately.)
spitting watermelon seeds the dark spits back
the grasshopper rises so slowly — I think I must be dreaming
the Buddha hides behind the fence where the chickens peck feed
In the last ten days I’ve seen five performances of “Macbeth” with four different casts. So many lines of the play have become earworms for me, especially those (and there are so many in this play) that use either sound or imagery (or both) to gorgeous effect. For instance (in no particular order):
• If the assassination could trammel up the consequence, and catch, with its surcease, success …
• Weary sennights nine times nine shall he dwindle, peak, and pine …
• Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir …
• Stars, hold your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires …
• There’s husbandry in heaven; their candles are all out.
• It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move and trees to speak …
• By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, whoever knocks.
• Safe in a ditch he lies, with twenty trenched gashes in his head.
Some of the lines echoed in my head in the same way that some haiku does, which made me wonder if you could pummel iambic pentameter into haiku. I’m not sure how well these meet the technical definition of haiku (whatever that is), but they do seem to have something of the haiku spirit in them. And Shakespeare and Basho were (rough) contemporaries … so that must mean something.
the earth hath bubbles as the water has
the moon is down
I have not heard
the obscure bird
the livelong night
the shard-borne beetle
with his drowsy hums …
night’s yawning peal
light thickens …
the crow makes wing
to th’ rooky wood
untie the winds
and let them fight
against the churches
I have words that would be howl’d out in the desert air
I can’t remember where I got this scar, or that one, or that one.
streetlights switch on the child runs away from his mother
Cassiopeia she refuses to stand next to her lover
There are links to several other discussions of the subject, and several enlightening comments. Among other interesting points:
I keep finding more and more that if I am having a great deal of trouble with a ku, transforming it to one line frequently instantly solves my problem. This is when I say that the ku “wanted” to be one line.
Also, I think I am still treating American sentences and one-line haiku as more or less interchangeable, though they’re not, really. I mean, number 1 above seems clearly to be an American sentence to me; the other 2 one-line haiku. Must think more about this …
Happy Independence Day, to all the Americans out there. And to all the rest of you … enjoy your freedoms too.
In that vein …
“fireflies are indeed a fascinating topic. of course, they allow total freedom.”
— Scott Metz
on the same wind
as if you weren’t there
spending the night
for the first time
waxing and waning
never to know
a thousand fireflies
the consolation of
imagining the afterlives
spitting out the seeds
at the breakfast table
last night’s fireflies
a hand cupped
around a firefly
the light from
the moon not yet set
the long dim corridors
of the hospital