More misty rain today. The cloud seems to be seeping into the house. The earths atmosphere seems gray all over. We seem locked in that in-between season between winter and spring. Which is really kind of a default setting for southeastern Alaska; a kind of perpetual autumn, with the only difference now being that the trees are bare and there are tight little nubs on the ends of the spindly new shoots, and there are always puddles but you don’t recall it raining.
I’ve been wondering about your haiku practice. You know you can group haiku into a series if you want to capture a year, one for each season. We did that for a Christmas Card one year that tried to capture all our various travels. We were accused of being way to “hip” and not seasonal enough. Meaning we didn’t have any Santa’s or Angels or religious stuff on the card just crappy little poems and a weird photograph. I will admit it did look like it came from a family all wearing pegged pants and short brimmed hats. Pretty hip. That card will definitely be the Neru jacket in our closet of Christmas cards BUT it was a good effort.
Regardless. Short little poems that evoke a moment can really be a fun pursuit particularly on a gray day. More fun than doing puzzles. I called my friend Ernie today and he was doing his Crypt a quote and he had sacked it out in record time and this had made him grumpy…. but almost everything makes him grumpy these days. Today he started right in on me, “John what is it with these new milk cartons? It used to be you just opened them up by folding out the end paper tab and folding them back up. You were good to go. NOW you got to have these God Damn screw caps right in the middle of the damn things that you have to wiggle the thing around to get the last of the milk or the juice out of the thing! Plus you got all the waste of that damn plastic. WHAT FOR?!! I had to admit, I had no idea why. I had not considered the question. I was just calling to see if he wanted to bring his dog down to the University parking lot so I could run Dot and get her tired out, as long as we stayed at least six feet apart. “OH ALL RIGHT!” He said and we did that and now Dot is sleeping peacefully with her head in a pile of cotton after she tore up some stuffed doll someone gave me from Arizona.
Arranging a play date for Dot was the big event for the day.
Here are some haiku poems I wrote as a series. That is each one was done to be related to the other. See if this is something you might like to try:
FOUR HAIKU FROM THE YEAR THEY LOGGED THE OLD GROWTH TIMBER
Spruce and hemlock, old
as culture, marked for sale
with plastic ribbon.
Earplugs out,
dragonfly on his gas cap:
he swats it away.
Ferns tip their heads
above muddy tire-tracks
in falling rain.
Snow falling,
for the first time
on a fallen log.
Four Haiku From The Year I Gave Myself Over To Antidepressants
I placed a red bowl
on a bench in falling snow,
soon… it holds nothing.
Pale sun, on melting snow
just the rim of a red bowl
filled with melting ice.
Doors open, cleaning house
blue and red sweet peas blooming
on the bench outside.
Autumn storm blowing
and I remember the bowl
just as it shatters.
FOUR HAIKU FROM THE YEAR MY PARENTS DIED
Rain falling on snow.
Your dog has peed on the floor
waiting for his walk.
Wet cherry blossoms
fall on the parked cars all night,
in the morning...gone.
Sister cut lilacs
so we could smell them all day
cleaning out your house.
After last night’s storm,
lonely on the great green lawn:
one bright red poppy.
Mostly I took these little poems from my journals, I spruced them up and either put them into a book or put them in a collection like these. I did publish four books of haiku poems. One Hundred poems of each season. There are still some of this books left at Old Harbor Books in Sitka. (907) 747-8808, or Google their web page on line if you would like to order some. I think Fall is all gone, but there are some of the other three seasons left..
Again, if you want to try your hand at these, try to stay away from fancy words. The poets ego should never You should never come away from reading one thinking “Wow, that person is clever!” You should only think “Wow!” Haiku poets in particular don’t write for fame but write for freedom of thought.
Keep thinking about what that means in practice.
Here is another reading from What Is Time To A Pig? Here I introduce Lester Plays With His Face and I explain the day in San Francisco when I was sitting next to a Crow Indian scholar and we were both being mobbed by fans of Susan Faludi when I learned of the significance of White Man Runs Him as well as Plays With His Face. Also Dot finds a packet of oatmeal and also pees on the floor.
