200 islands
and you are not on
any one of them
my boat
from island to island
a leaf on the water
Published online at http://wkdhaikutopics.blogspot.com/2008/03/matsushima.html . It's been a busy five weeks, with five more to go before my three-week break. Gabi's sites like this one often give me unexpected ideas and offer me priceless moments of relaxation. A few minutes from now, I'll be returning to work -- Sunday overtime, filling in evaluation forms for my police cadets (students).
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Mount Utsu
Mount Utsu
even the old men
had lovers
steep mountain
on the road a cart
loses a wheel
late autumn
a cold wind pushes me
up the mountain
mountain wind
my clothes and my skin
become one
steep mountain
at the top perhaps
two stars
Published today at one of Gabi Greve's blogspots -http://wkdhaikutopics.blogspot.com/2008/02/mount-utsu.html . Mountains, temples and tea count as favourite haiku topics of mine, perhaps because all three have something to do with the act (art?) of contemplation.
even the old men
had lovers
steep mountain
on the road a cart
loses a wheel
late autumn
a cold wind pushes me
up the mountain
mountain wind
my clothes and my skin
become one
steep mountain
at the top perhaps
two stars
Published today at one of Gabi Greve's blogspots -http://wkdhaikutopics.blogspot.com/2008/02/mount-utsu.html . Mountains, temples and tea count as favourite haiku topics of mine, perhaps because all three have something to do with the act (art?) of contemplation.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Cuttings - 1
We hear that he still goes to work
with his jeep, his shoes
and all of his eighty-odd years.
I stopped writing him years ago,
his last card still in its envelop.
This is how I want it – no creases,
no liana vines or loose shoelaces.
Nagtatampo siya, they’ve told me,
a remark I’ve since tried to ignore.
If we meet at a party I’ll sit
at another table with five strangers.
No one will ask if we’re related,
or if I knew his wife, who managed
her own private stock exchange.
Afterwards we’ll stroll in Mabini,
I’ll play the bargirl he called me,
and ask my husband for money.
The first of several parts.
with his jeep, his shoes
and all of his eighty-odd years.
I stopped writing him years ago,
his last card still in its envelop.
This is how I want it – no creases,
no liana vines or loose shoelaces.
Nagtatampo siya, they’ve told me,
a remark I’ve since tried to ignore.
If we meet at a party I’ll sit
at another table with five strangers.
No one will ask if we’re related,
or if I knew his wife, who managed
her own private stock exchange.
Afterwards we’ll stroll in Mabini,
I’ll play the bargirl he called me,
and ask my husband for money.
The first of several parts.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Post-Valentine's Day
soft music
as you stand near the door
dreamily
I pour us some drinks and
wonder what lies you'll tell me
The 14th of February has become so commercial, everyone celebrating it has become almost predictable; and to think this had never been part of original Dutch culture. On the other hand, how else to call a day of customized romance ... Ella the Cynic
as you stand near the door
dreamily
I pour us some drinks and
wonder what lies you'll tell me
The 14th of February has become so commercial, everyone celebrating it has become almost predictable; and to think this had never been part of original Dutch culture. On the other hand, how else to call a day of customized romance ... Ella the Cynic
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Finally
behind the wheel
north towards the woods
... out of the way
the long familiar road
to where you once lived
A break of 3 years is quite long, and there have been reasons -- a friendship thrown away, the rediscovery of our marriage, and 45-hour-long work weeks. In between all that, two permanent employment contracts, a Master's Degree, and my first poetry collection Sorrows of the Chameleon, which I wrote more to express myself than to sell (although a little profit on the side won't hurt at all...). Enough said, except perhaps the hope that I can maintain this site a tad more faithfully.
north towards the woods
... out of the way
the long familiar road
to where you once lived
A break of 3 years is quite long, and there have been reasons -- a friendship thrown away, the rediscovery of our marriage, and 45-hour-long work weeks. In between all that, two permanent employment contracts, a Master's Degree, and my first poetry collection Sorrows of the Chameleon, which I wrote more to express myself than to sell (although a little profit on the side won't hurt at all...). Enough said, except perhaps the hope that I can maintain this site a tad more faithfully.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Santoka - a response
climbing
all my mountains
tireless wind
empty
as I walk to the sea
I fill with water
on the path
only the autumn moon
and my sandals
no hope
of finding my mother
a lie I like to tell
the house
that knew my childhood
I have burned it
on the road
talking to myself
a poplar tree listens
my bed
at the edge of moonlight
no dreams come
These were written on 01 February in response to haiku written by poet Santoka Taneda, which I read in his collection 'For All My Walking' (translations by Burton Watson). They have been published online at http://haikutopics.blogspot.com/2006/09/santoka-and-sake.html . Santoka's sake poems may be well-known, but his poems on loneliness reflect a sincerity and openness of feeling that is not easy to find. He wrote of his life and lived it like a poem.
all my mountains
tireless wind
empty
as I walk to the sea
I fill with water
on the path
only the autumn moon
and my sandals
no hope
of finding my mother
a lie I like to tell
the house
that knew my childhood
I have burned it
on the road
talking to myself
a poplar tree listens
my bed
at the edge of moonlight
no dreams come
These were written on 01 February in response to haiku written by poet Santoka Taneda, which I read in his collection 'For All My Walking' (translations by Burton Watson). They have been published online at http://haikutopics.blogspot.com/2006/09/santoka-and-sake.html . Santoka's sake poems may be well-known, but his poems on loneliness reflect a sincerity and openness of feeling that is not easy to find. He wrote of his life and lived it like a poem.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Manila ... and me
thoughts of Manila ...
heavy cloud shadows
on the paper
gray cogon ...
the desolate fields where
once my heart dwelt
balut shells
in the dark - the movie
was not that good
sundown -
a stray dog barks
at strangers
bay sunset -
the stench of garbage
darkening
nightlife -
Mabini's red lights
delay the morning
sun long dead -
the homeland darkens
in the distance
Reminiscing darkly about the Philippine capital. Strange, perhaps, but every time the plane lands, it is evening. My soul experiences a black-out when my feet touch ground.
These haiku were written within the past 3 months.
heavy cloud shadows
on the paper
gray cogon ...
the desolate fields where
once my heart dwelt
balut shells
in the dark - the movie
was not that good
sundown -
a stray dog barks
at strangers
bay sunset -
the stench of garbage
darkening
nightlife -
Mabini's red lights
delay the morning
sun long dead -
the homeland darkens
in the distance
Reminiscing darkly about the Philippine capital. Strange, perhaps, but every time the plane lands, it is evening. My soul experiences a black-out when my feet touch ground.
These haiku were written within the past 3 months.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Tulip Tanka
deep pink
tulips adorn my garden
the colour
of the crayons I used up
to make them real
tulpen
bloeien ongeremd
in de tuin
waar eens opa's as
werd gestrooid
tulips
bloom uninhibited
in the garden
were once grandpa's ashes
were scattered
Even at pre-kindergarten age, I dreamed of tulips in the garden, and spent box after box of crayola drawing them in all sizes and colours. A brick house, tiles on the roof, curtains at the window, a fruit tree of some kind somewhere ... and tulips. And guess where I live now!
tulips adorn my garden
the colour
of the crayons I used up
to make them real
tulpen
bloeien ongeremd
in de tuin
waar eens opa's as
werd gestrooid
tulips
bloom uninhibited
in the garden
were once grandpa's ashes
were scattered
Even at pre-kindergarten age, I dreamed of tulips in the garden, and spent box after box of crayola drawing them in all sizes and colours. A brick house, tiles on the roof, curtains at the window, a fruit tree of some kind somewhere ... and tulips. And guess where I live now!
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Animal Planet
dry savannah
watchful eyes follow
the zebra crossing
savannah sun
cheetah spots swipe at
an antelope's leg
wildebeest
hooves echo the drumming
of heavy rain
buffalo carcass
vultures jockey
into position
jungle foliage -
tiger stripes mingle
with the tall grass
only thin air
between the condor
and its prey
elephants in a
mangrove swamp - trunks
and roots in water
a lioness falls upon
a gazelle - the laughter
of waiting hyenas
table music -
a fly tugs at a
spider's harp strings
This series of linked haiku was, and still is, inspired by the various television wildlife programs on Animal Planet, a division of Discovery Channel, but also by programs on the National Geographic channel. There were originally 12.
watchful eyes follow
the zebra crossing
savannah sun
cheetah spots swipe at
an antelope's leg
wildebeest
hooves echo the drumming
of heavy rain
buffalo carcass
vultures jockey
into position
jungle foliage -
tiger stripes mingle
with the tall grass
only thin air
between the condor
and its prey
elephants in a
mangrove swamp - trunks
and roots in water
a lioness falls upon
a gazelle - the laughter
of waiting hyenas
table music -
a fly tugs at a
spider's harp strings
This series of linked haiku was, and still is, inspired by the various television wildlife programs on Animal Planet, a division of Discovery Channel, but also by programs on the National Geographic channel. There were originally 12.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Outpost
The turning cradle was a tin can with
a bell to summon the holy
to fetch unholy flesh concealed within,
a lump of clay in unwashed rags,
its head a ball, its shoulders shapeless,
the heart beating without sticks.
The holy women, diapers on their heads,
first crossed themselves, then
cleaned the offering with holy water,
put it in a bed with bars, gave it food.
A medicine man counted its fingers and
toes, a holy man chanted over it.
Later, a couple entered the room, and
called it a whore.
Written on 06 April 2004. One of my first poems about my abrupt "coming of age".
a bell to summon the holy
to fetch unholy flesh concealed within,
a lump of clay in unwashed rags,
its head a ball, its shoulders shapeless,
the heart beating without sticks.
The holy women, diapers on their heads,
first crossed themselves, then
cleaned the offering with holy water,
put it in a bed with bars, gave it food.
A medicine man counted its fingers and
toes, a holy man chanted over it.
Later, a couple entered the room, and
called it a whore.
Written on 06 April 2004. One of my first poems about my abrupt "coming of age".
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wild Flowers
Original Version:
Running through the fields of wild grass,
we pluck each other, gazing, laughing,
wild flowers unpetalling, seeds drifting,
strangled in each other’s scented hair.
Your hands stroke my willing shoulders,
my nose your open neck, we face the sun
together, visions of fresh juicy plums
watering our open, insatiable mouths.
Then we take each other’s hand and walk,
flowing from shady mid-afternoon to silver
evening, the fruit-laden, fragrant earth
tasting the honeyed breath of our skin.
Linked Haiku Version:
dotting
fields of wild grass
cornflowers
early spring
the honeyed scent
of wild herbs
veiled and deep
the fragrance
of petals unfolding
summer day
in the buttercup field
a cow and its moo
scented
my hair and the grass
entangled
paradise -
an earthworm shimmies up
the plum tree
poker-faced
sunflowers - why
do I smile back?
For rather obvious "flowery" reasons, I have never submitted the original version, written in 2002, for publishing. The linked haiku version I have posted online at the Brownsong forum. You don't have to wonder which one I prefer!
Running through the fields of wild grass,
we pluck each other, gazing, laughing,
wild flowers unpetalling, seeds drifting,
strangled in each other’s scented hair.
Your hands stroke my willing shoulders,
my nose your open neck, we face the sun
together, visions of fresh juicy plums
watering our open, insatiable mouths.
Then we take each other’s hand and walk,
flowing from shady mid-afternoon to silver
evening, the fruit-laden, fragrant earth
tasting the honeyed breath of our skin.
Linked Haiku Version:
dotting
fields of wild grass
cornflowers
early spring
the honeyed scent
of wild herbs
veiled and deep
the fragrance
of petals unfolding
summer day
in the buttercup field
a cow and its moo
scented
my hair and the grass
entangled
paradise -
an earthworm shimmies up
the plum tree
poker-faced
sunflowers - why
do I smile back?
For rather obvious "flowery" reasons, I have never submitted the original version, written in 2002, for publishing. The linked haiku version I have posted online at the Brownsong forum. You don't have to wonder which one I prefer!
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Moon Haiku
sharing
the hunter's burden -
full moon
hunted deer
its eyes search the moon
one last time
moon
when you see my face
what do you see?
first quarter -
half a coffee ring on
my newspaper
November moon -
the last ball of cheese
in the fridge
eve of the storm
black clouds stain
the full moon
under
a poker-faced moon,
three lovers
rising moon -
which basket will you
fall into?
Eight of a growing number of moon haiku. "Moon" is an autumn kigo.
Except for one, these were written within the last four weeks. "November moon" was published online at http://www.tempslibres.org, 01-15 November 2004.
the hunter's burden -
full moon
hunted deer
its eyes search the moon
one last time
moon
when you see my face
what do you see?
first quarter -
half a coffee ring on
my newspaper
November moon -
the last ball of cheese
in the fridge
eve of the storm
black clouds stain
the full moon
under
a poker-faced moon,
three lovers
rising moon -
which basket will you
fall into?
Eight of a growing number of moon haiku. "Moon" is an autumn kigo.
Except for one, these were written within the last four weeks. "November moon" was published online at http://www.tempslibres.org, 01-15 November 2004.
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