So: number 26. If I’d been lettering these editions instead of numbering them, I’d be up to Z by now. And Z, as we all know, is the end of the alphabet. This is convenient for me, because circumstances are such in my life right now that I am afraid I must put the Haikuverse on hiatus indefinitely. The blog, too, will probably be seeing far less frequent postings for a while.
I will miss you guys. Spinning around the Haikuverse, taking in the sights, shooting the breeze… it’s been fun. I’m not planning on disappearing completely, but I have things to tend to in other corners of the universe at the moment.
Stay in touch.
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underneath
the ice
of the poem
an imaginary frog
slows its heartbeat
.
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haiku
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the closest
I’ll ever be
to sentimental
a room full of hats
— William Sorlien, Haiku Bandit Society
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spring cleaning . . .
the rhythmic sound of her
sharpening pencils
—Kirsten Cliff, DailyHaiku
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lark’s song –
in an old landscape
I part my hair to the left
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lærkesang –
i et gammelt landskab
laver jeg skilning i venstre side
— Johannes S.H. Bjerg, 2 tongues/2 tunger
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Turning on the light I become someone alone in the house
— Sam Savage, ant ant ant ant ant’s blog
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autumn leaf already i am attached
:
without permission part of me starts to bloom
:
winter day barely one language
:
winter night she knowingly reveals another arm
:
another day of snow my jurassic layer
:
the only sound that’s come out of me all day firefly
:
at this point i just assumed they come alive at night
— Scott Metz, ant ant ant ant ant’s blog
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he thinks again of turning leaves her hands
— Angie Werren, Tinywords
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autumn days straying from the text to marginalia
— Mark Holloway, Beachcombing for the Landlocked
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人ひとに溺れることも水澄めり 保坂リエ
hito hito ni oboreru kotomo mizu sumeri
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a human wallows in
another human…
clear autumn water
— Rie Hosaka, translated by Fay Aoyagi, Blue Willow Haiku World
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swollen rosehips
if you found God
in your body you’d die
— Anonymous (“Jack Dander”), Masks 2
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on 60 televisions the scissors hesitate
— Anonymous (“Bridghost”), Masks 2
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haiga and other art
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dog star
the origin
of poetry
— Aubrie Cox, Yay Words!
.
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two red butterflies
play strange attractor
in the garden
— Kris Lindbeck, haiku etc.
.
— Rick Daddario, 19 Planets
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tanka
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if we had known
this would be
our last winter
when we professed
our love for the bomb
snow swirls
into light at the end
of the tunnel
echoes of the conductor’s
last call
postscript
for the apocalypse
countless years
from now — a cherry tree’s
first blossoms
— Aubrie Cox, Yay Words!
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hand in hand
a teenaged boy and girl pass
a cigarette
back and forth on their way
to being twenty
— David Caruso, DavidHaiku
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haibun
Revisit
I thought I had been sucked into the past. That sort of thing happens from time to time. I sat on the train on the way to the big city – well, as big as they come in Denmark – when a hippie-looking guy boarded with his monstrous Big Dane dog. My thoughts went in two directions. I thought: now, there’s a weirdo, knowing very well that in this part of the country many “off-siders” have found a cheap place to live as it’s rather poor. And I thought: great!!! Nice to see a flash of the past, and my nose replayed all kinds of smells associated with the early -70’s. Patchouli, sandalwood, fenugreek, hashish and wet and dirty “Afghan” fur coats, which was a bit of a turn-off, that last part. After having put his corn-pipe away he sat himself down in a very upright position: straight back, both feet on the floor and looking us, the other travellers, straight in the eyes. I nodded. He nodded. Dog said nowt. Then he padded the seat at his left side (he’d taken the window seat) and the dog, big as half a horse, jumped up and sat perfectly cool beside him, straight as a statue. The dog had a colourful tie as leash. We bumped on while I was listening to Incredible String Band.
straightened stream
a mirrored swan
asks twice
— Johannes S.H. Bjerg, 3ournals and frags
.
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Dead Tree News
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Some gems from the most recent edition of the always stunning Acorn (No. 27):
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enough said…
the moon rises
out of the sea
— Francine Banwarth
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isolated showers —
the genes that matter
the genes that don’t
— Michele L. Harvey
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never touching
his own face
tyrannosaurus
— John Stevenson
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all night love
the candle
reshapes itself
— Jayne Miller
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dad’s shed
a ladder folded
in the shadows
— frances angela
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full moon
from each shell
a different ocean
— Mary Ahearn
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autumn quarry
the feel of a dozer
going deep
— Ron Moss
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starfish…
to feel so much
of what we touch
— Peter Newton
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spring melancholy
I cut my tofu
smaller and smaller
— Fay Aoyagi
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Hey, seriously, I meant that about staying in touch. Drop me a line. Send me a poem. Tell me how your day went and where your life is going. I’m interested.
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away from the window
hearing the rain
trickle down the window
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Red Dragonfly 