Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Adelaide B. Shaw: JANUARY

The Christmas holidays packed up and stored in the garage and on film. Pine needles swept away; leftovers eaten. Time again to ramble through the day. Time again to enjoy doing nothing.

bargain books–
all the long nights
yet to come


by Adelaide B. Shaw
Millbrook, New York

Adelaide B. Shaw: OASIS

An early spring day extending its promises. We drive along a twisting road through a nature preserve and park by a small pond. Not much greening up or growth yet. More to hear than to see. A croaking bullfrog, the shooshing of pines, sloshing water. We follow that sound along a narrow, rough path in the woods. Through thick trees a glimpse of something glittering, like sequins falling. The sun on water. A rain-filled creek, burbling over rocks. Along the bank a wooden deck with two Adirondack chairs.

breathing deeply–
past, present and future
tumble away

by Adelaide B. Shaw
Millbrook, New York

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Sharon Dean: FIRE ENGINE RED

[i]

I'm sitting on the back porch with my nine year old, Henry, enjoying the late afternoon sun. I squint a bit as I paint my toenails. For months I've been drawn to brown or bronze, but today ... Fire Engine Red.

Henry is fascinated by the process. He's always enjoyed art, dressing up, drama. When he was four and his best friend had a 'Crazy' birthday party, Henry kitted himself out in a pink and white polka dot dress, a lipstick-smeared face and the piece de résistance: a pair of orange underpants on his head.

"Mum?" Henry says, breaking my reverie.

"Mmmm," I reply.

Vincent, our neighbour's bull, lets out a sustained bellow from the paddock across the valley. Henry waits for the animal to quit hollering. "Would people think I was silly if I painted my nails?"

"Maybe," I say. "But who cares what people think. They're not the kind of people you'd be friends with, anyway. I pass Henry the glittery red shoebox containing my dozen or so bottles of nail polish. He chooses Iced Lilac.

We're almost done when the back door opens and my eldest brother steps outside. "Henry, what do you think you are? A girl?" He makes a light snorting noise and heads back inside the house, shutting the screen door behind him. Opens it again to frown directly at me. "And you, you should know better."

Although my brother has been supportive since my husband died, he often questions my ability to raise my children without their father.

Vincent the bull lets out another almighty holler but I don't wait for him to finish. "Your uncle's reaction represents just one opinion," I offer. "You know he loves you, Henry, but you don't have to see the world exactly the way he does."

Henry, however, has already grabbed a fistful of tissues. He takes sharp, stabbing breaths as he swipes at the polish on his nails.

evening haze
settling on the hills –
first mozzie

[ii]

A week later my home is the venue for a charity art auction. I've hired a gender illusionist to play the role of auctioneer, and the accomplished performer turns up two hours before the gig – the time it takes to don the costume, wig and make-up that help transform the affable and athletic 'Tobin Saunders' into his ultra-feminine alter-ego: 'Vanessa Wagner'.

"I'm just dying for a cuppa," Tobin says, plonking himself on the couch, smiling at my brother and several friends who are fussing over sushi in the kitchen. As I hand around mugs of tea, Tobin is already removing flecks of black varnish from his nails, deep in conversation with my seven-year-old niece.

"That's right, Arabella," he's saying. "I'm a man who'll be dressing up as a woman, but I don't try to hide the fact that I'm a man. I leave my sideburns intact, for instance, and I don't wear fake boobs or shave my legs."

Kids crowd around.

"But you've already got nail polish on, even before you dress up as a woman," Arabella observes. "Men don't wear nail polish."

Tobin takes a sip of tea and regards my niece with an expression of exaggerated horror.

"Oooh, Arabella – and by the way, that's a lovely name, Arabella! – how much have we evolved as a species when we can't even let each other dress, paint or accessorise as we please without suspicion, fear, ridicule or at worst, violence?"

I catch Henry's eye and he beams me a smile. Tobin is winding up his monologue. "What I say to people who dichotomise gender into purely 'male' and 'female' is, 'Loosen up, people! Loosen up!'"

the blue sheen
of a peacock's plumage
all those eyes

[iii]

Later that afternoon, resplendent in a pink polyester pantsuit and enough plastic 'bling' to sink a prawn trawler, Vanessa negotiates her way through two hours of bidding wars that results in the sale of more than forty paintings, prints and sculptures. Interspersing the serious business of selling art with astute social commentary and sharp-witted banter, our heavily hirsute hostess exceeds my expectations; the auction raises three times the anticipated amount. Also happy to mingle, Vanessa wins the hearts of everyone present – whether talking with a celebrated sculptor, the local vet or a young woman living with a traumatic brain injury.

That night as he prepares to leave, my brother explains that if Tobin were running for Prime Minster, he'd have his vote for sure. I think back to Tobin's comments about nail varnish and wonder if my brother had heard. Perhaps, sometime soon, I'll tell him about nail polish-wearing celebrities like Antonio Banderas, Lenny Kravitz and David Beckham.

red eyes
and a red bum …
an otherwise black beetle




by Sharon Dean
Alstonville, New South Wales, Australia
first published in Contemporary Haibun Online, V3, N2, June 2007

Collin Barber: BARFLY

It seems so long ago this morning, since I purchased a book by her favorite poet, the late Charles Bukowski. Over the distance of at least three states, I've carried it's title with me in my head: What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through The Fire. Even after all these years, I am amazed at how four months with someone can feel like an eternity. Her name was Julia, and we met at a bar quite like the one I have entered tonight. Most of the surrounding counties are dry, but life on the road has cultivated my ability to find places where patrons imbibe deep into the night. Tomorrow is the third day of my current journey, and I have no idea where it will end. I don't even know the name of this town, but I feel as if I've been here many times before.



summer night —
the jukebox plays
what she always played



by Collin Barber
Memphis TN
first published in Frogpond XXIX:3, Autumn 2006

Monday, December 10, 2007

Stanley Pelter: FIRSTS

our First bomb
marsh sands manouevre
into feet of clay

There are many Firsts. First breath. First nose burial close to the milk trough. So many! First Events and First Realisations compost earth. Take the First bomb that flattens a shop The Charity sorted out to get Mum and Dad back on their feet after The Pains. Definitely a First! None of us were there. How hit and miss it all is! One moment you run a backwater sweet shop. Then you don’t. A first friend with whom you shared everything, disappears. You are or are not in the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time. Pot luck! How hit and miss it all is.

“Gimme the flannel. yer ears an’ eyes are really mucky. An’ when’s the last time yer nek saw soap?” “Notsir’ard.” “An’ yer carn’t wear that shirt.” “& Y kNOT?” “’Cause it’s dirty, that’s why not. And look at yer shoes They ain’t been cleaned for weeks.” “I don’ wannergo. Leave me alone” “Your’regowintergo, and goin’ clean an’ don’t go ov on yer own an’ make sure you say ‘fankyou’ an … njoy yerself!”

special day
dirty clouds
now clean

We are poor. So is every family for miles around. Par for the course. Nothing to worry about. Being different, they notice. Decide the poor children of the poor need a treat. A day to remember. A First. They give the dosh. Who understands? Same as the war. It starts; we are there. Don’t understand. Maybe too many marriages and even more children. Like thick-crusty bread ladled with beef-spotted dripping, it is accepted. So we tumble and bundle and shout and laugh our way into more than a 100 London Taxis, a First of an unpredictable day.

endless cavalcade
a twist and hill turn of roads
to new firmaments

At the last outpost of land, we stop. ‘Littlehampton-on-Sea-el-Magnifico.’ The Drive, Fields, Cows, Funfair, Seaside, Sea. Firsts! But that Sea! Poleaxes senses. Suddenly. There. And a new wind holds into my breath. Feet numb, I fix to improbable First pebbles. But such is the haze of trance it transports me beyond the weight of a small body. i fly. What a First! Inside glide swoops of harsh seagulls, above the length, across the breadth of this diving dimension, I fly through close-up wave movements that stop somewhere there, where skin startles, green fills, sand absorbs.

distant seascape ... the First fishing boat ... a sway of greys

When the shore moves, I stumble. Another First. Water attracts. Here, thin. There, beyond deep, beyond imagining. Inside this reflected sky is Uncertainty, an Unease of attraction. I may be able to sleep here, under its covers take refuge from formless nocturnal apparitions. Holding tightly to a sudden big hand, shoes and socks somewhere else, I small-step into sloppy waves that come and go. As balance skews and perspective contracts, this First connection fits; not as an equal partnership, but one I survive and, later, slot into the pattern. Moved to a First rock pool, for the First time I see a solid liquid transparency. Not blinking, without movement, I inspect the clue – a fish, gliding round, eyes large, translucent, able.

Every bit of this day of Firsts startles. Here, for the First time, i am bumping against a latter-day Serpentine-Eve-Avec-Her-Ripe-Appley-Adam moment, a Love Affair so Intense, so Integrated a process, so Confused, it can be none other than mutually damaging for as long as my Evermore lasts.

Later, during the exhausting journey into the dark, a First peacock, a First dead bump. Someplace else, another important First. How hit and miss it all is!

“Hello, luv. How was it?”

“Great!”

Instant sleep pours into the thin metal bed discarded by the local hospital, and mine for longer than I can remember.

crescendo yellow
a first wave of daffodils
sweeps onto the path




by Stanley Pelter
Claypole, Lincolnshire, England
first published in & Y Not?, 2006

Stanley Pelter: LIQUORICE ALLSORTS

he shuts one eye
more than half the moon
disappears

Did you know I get her single and married names confused? Sometimes they just mix a little. On other occasions they completely merge. Once they were a curious mix of undecidability and mosaic that immediately unraveled into clean-cut alternate layers, like those cubic liquorice allsorts. Mostly it is the names themselves. Which name refers to which situation? It is there that the muddle exists, like this night blackbird. I think it is seen, but maybe not. It happens and, now, I accept it.

her outline
in an old mirror
a finger touch




by Stanley Pelter
Claypole, Lincolnshire, England
first published in past imperfect, 2004

Review of Stanley Pelter's & Y NOT?

&YNOT by Stanley Pelter. George Mann Publications, UK, 2006. 144 pp. ISBN O954629973. The third in his gift book series, it is available from: 5 School Lane, Claypole, Newark NG23 5BQ, UK. Please send request with a large SAS and 2 IRCs.

Reviewed by Patricia Prime

&YNOT is Stanley Pelter’s latest collection of illustrated haibun. The lengthy introduction (twelve pages) introduces the reader to some of Pelter’s views of the place haibun should take in our writing lives. As he says,

At this early stage in the life cycle of haibun there is greater potential if, whatever the reason, limiting parameters remain low key and undemanding. Transcribing more complex content means that at least language and style need to be the most appropriate, however puzzling may be the initial results. Form, content, haiku “spirit” and characteristics are at closure when an integrated totality.

He explicates what haibun means to most of its practitioners in the following passage:

Most haibuneers accept as read that haibun is a marriage of prose and haiku. This 1 line perspective works on how the different haiku genre is appropriately incorporated. No relevant “story” can be so imbued with haiku qualities and particularities that it may be self-sufficient without their physical presence.

And he explains how his own haibun differ from conventional haibun:

Some haibun in this book are conformist in content and form structure. As with the first book, past imperfect, others are not, leading to a charge of being “difficult”, not even haibun. With some oral tradition helps. Hearing language can change fog to mist, sometimes clear the sky of clouds entirely. Some, which I call “Impact Haibun”, are the synthesis of a poem usually integrated with visually disjunctive language, qualitatively different from the more lineal layout of haiga. Although at an early stage of development, for me these elicit equivalence to some intrinsic haiku qualities.

The experience of reading Pelter’s haibun is, then, extraordinarily powerful. His writing puts me in mind of that of Gertrude Stein or James Joyce with its extraordinary and uneven assemblage of brilliant language and wavering ruminations, constantly breaking out of the mould of orderly composition. The tension between references to recognisable experiences and the techniques of his writing keeps us on our toes as we try to come to terms with his fracturing of language. Here, as an illustration, are some lines from the opening haibun “Firsts”:

Gimme the flannel, yer ears an’ eyes are really mucky. An’ when’s the las’ time yer nek saw soap?” “Notsir’ard.” “An’ yer carn’t wear that shirt.” “& Y kNOT?” “Cause it’s dirty, that’s why not . . . And look at yer shoes. They ain’t been cleaned for weeks.” “I don’wannergo. Leavemealone.” “Yourgowintergo, and goin’ clean an’ don’t go ov on yer own an’ make sure you say ‘fankyou’ an . . . njoy yerself!”

These lines put the narrator in the midst of a domestic scene where we see a poor British family, where the mother is preparing her son for his first trip to the seaside. Pelter’s musings developing into two sets of opposing terms, identity, which has to do with history, memory and self-interest in time, and entity, which has to do with pure being, insight beyond personality, creation beyond time. Related to these is his distinction between human nature, which refers to identity in time and place, and the human mind, which refers to existing and creating.

“We are poor. So if every family for miles around. Par for the course. Nothing to worry about. Being different, they notice. Decide the poor children of the poor need a treat.” The persona is highly aware of the “firsts” in his life: the “first” treat of a visit to the seaside, the “first” sight of the sea”, “the “first” fishing boat, the wonderful promise of “Here for the First time, I am bumping against a latter-day Serpentine-Eve-Avec-Her-Ripe-Appley-Adam moment, a Love Affair so intense, so integrated a process, so Confused, it can be none other than, mutually damaging for as long as my Evermore lasts.” The flow of one phrase into another, the minimal use of pronouns and prepositions, the run-on words help to create a strong notational effect as if the environment is being mapped out by the young man.

“first love at first sight just what is going on?” is a kind of Babel myth – the difficulties of communication. Speaking past each other, not listening to the other’s point of view, but chiming in with our own opinions – that is what Pelter is communicating in this haibun. Pelter brings into this love affair with words as many different accents and languages as possible. Based on a “real” event, the sub-text is the important part. It’s a particularly difficult piece from which to quote, but here are a few lines:

“I am a Virgin” reverberates. Brake! Care permeates. This IS IT! Ready! NO Yes YES I am. To HIM Hurl HearT.hear SurFACE Heart. Vill ay up insides. Hand-On-Heart. Close to tearing. Stop postures.

his painterly smile
hers an enigma
beyond code breakers

Ease into unitary event. Pattern of backlash recipe. In mounds of valleys does nakedness wait. Yu so ung Slow. Make memorable.


“the great secret” is a little easier to understand. In this poem an old man – a loner, walks through his village . . . is the man the poet’s doppelganger I ask myself.

You may imagine my surprise when, with an unnerving closeness, we are face to face. I had not realised just how craggy, lined and indented he is. I really do hear the sound of my heart, feel an increase in the speed of its beat. Even more surprising is that he talked; talked as if it were an everyday, social event. No one else is present. Proving he did, and what it was he said, is not easy. I suggest you believe.

What these poems demonstrate is how Pelter’s writing stimulates experience, whilst reminding the reader of the textuality of the presentation, through the shifting syntax and avoidance of strict boundaries of grammar. Take the poem “is as is it” (Section 3) which doesn’t contain a period in its two pages:

journeys end at last the door close two eyes two lips is as is it, imagine nothing else to mix up the order natural plays about me and she with private confessional, sweat on his back U and I too can read language specials with mutual humiliation

“masks” is a haibun of which I’m particularly fond, as I enjoy seeing the masks that Pelter assumes from child, brother, son, narrator, raconteur, clown, lover, working man, adult to decline. He shows curiosity, fantasy, flirting – learning about women and how to relate to them, all in a matter of a few lines:

her mascara mask
now she wears the new seasons
castaway model

After disconnecting her nipples (feelings being verboten) she sits on a swivel chair at a dressing table, curious, masked, but secure and calm.

The light sound patterning and links within the text (e.g. the repetition of “eyes” and “lips” remind us that language is a background of conflicting spaces, boundaries and parameters of meaning. These elements link Pelter’s approach to performance and the emphasis on the “collage-like” composition of his haibun.

Print, however complete and accurate the words, flattens and strips language of the touch of human beings, talking and responding to each other. Pelter seeks to show minds groping for notions rather than completing them. Often contexts of exchanges are assumed rather than spelled out. The innovative nature of Pelter’s haibun, the collapsing of phrase, loose syntax, omission of punctuation, use of portmanteau words, capital letters, layout of poems, use of foreign phrases serves to defamiliarise the normative appearance and functions of a poem – suggesting new ways of composing and transmitting one’s message.

Section 4 with its lively layout and typography and its visual effects is another instance of Pelter’s idiosyncratic style. By virtue of its collaged means of composition – layering, gathering fragments and juxtaposing them – the result gives the feeling of endless inventiveness. Seeing new possibilities and perspectives in format, Pelter gives his readers several samples of his art.

The haibun in &YNOT display a remarkable talent for creativity. The introduction clarifies the intensity of Pelter’s vision for the future of haibun and of his development as a writer of this genre.




reviewed by Patricia Prime
Auckland, New Zealand
first published in Stylus Poetry Journal, June 2006

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Ray Rasmussen: CHARACTERISTICS OF CONTEMPORARY ENGLISH-LANGUAGE HAIBUN

There are three primary sources to consider in looking for guidelines for writing contemporary English language haibun: 1) Basho's famous travel journals which are said to be the origin of contemporary haibun; 2) the definitions proffered by prominent writers in the haiku/haibun genre; and, 3) an examination of what is being published in the haiku journals edited by well-respected editors. With the number of good print and online journals publishing haibun and the ever increasing number of writers in the genre, the question of "what is a haibun" is ripe for examination. While an examination of Basho's style and of definitions offered by prominent writers are of interest, these have been addressed elsewhere. (For definitions see: "Haibun Definitions" at Contemporary Haibun Online).


When I read haibun in journals like Frogpond, Contemporary Haibun Online, Modern Haiku, Bottle Rockets, Blithe Spirit, Lynx and Simply Haiku, I see some characteristics that can serve as guidelines for aspiring writers.

1. The Presence of the Writer

The first of these is that the writer is usually, but not always, present in the piece. That is, haibun tend to be accounts of personal experiences in the present or past that the writers have had, that somehow stand out in their lives, that are deemed worthy of writing about (call them 'haibun moments') and that might be of interest to others. This doesn't mean that the writers use a plethora of self-referential pronouns, but instead that even when such words aren't present, the identity of the writer is felt to be known and the reported experience is felt to be authentic.

While much fiction is said or guessed to be autobiographical, most published haibun pieces don't read like fiction. For one thing, the characters seem real, the writer and his or her family, friends, or people he or she is observing; they don't seem made up. This isn't to say that haibun adhere religiously to reporting the who, what, when, why and where of an experience. My own writing embellishes the facts in an attempt to recreate the feelings and milieu I've experienced and in order to make the piece interesting and relevant to a reader. I assume that other writers do the same. In short, haibun is a mix of story telling and reporting. Some writers stick closely to the reporting end of the continuum; some stray in the far regions of storytelling. Still, in most cases it's clear that the writer is present in the piece.

Being present in a piece doesn't mean that all haibun focus on events that are current in the writer's life. Many haibun relate memories of childhood, parents and past relationships, and some even report dreams or fantasy. Even most fantasy haibun make it clear that the writer is the source or is part of the fantasy.

2. Fictional Accounts

A related issue is whether writers present fictional or inauthentic 'stories'. Of course, it isn't possible to tell whether a piece is reality based and it's dangerous to think that one could tell. In recently commenting to a friend that a piece about her father had 'touched me', she wrote back "I'm going to let you into a secret – the one with 'my mother' is fictional," and she asked, "Does that make you feel less attached to it?"

In a recent article, Ken Jones called for future haibun to involve more of what he calls "imagined reality." He states that "It may be argued that such a departure into the fiction of “imagined reality” is a betrayal of tradition, whether it be in the “desk haiku” (as opposed to those springing from “lived experience”) or the invented prose narrative. And yet experience may be lived no less vividly, and be no less “real”, in a dream, in the reading of a striking piece of literature, or through our own imaginative creations." (Ken Jones, "Writing Reality: Fictional Haibun Stories," in Contemporary Haibun Online, V3, N3, September 2007.

While Jones presents a strong case, so far as I can tell by reading them, most contemporary haibun are based on real events in the writer's lives. Jones himself states that in the current issue of Contemporary Haibun, "... there appear to be no fictional (haibun)."

3. Present or Past Tense

Occasionally someone suggests that haibun should be written in the present tense, as if the event is taking place now, even if the event is a memory. The argument is that writing in the present tense brings a haibun more to life, as if it's unfolding now for the reader. Of course, everything written is about the past, either recent or distant. My guess, prior to examining current practice was that I would find a mix of present and past and even some use of the future tense. An examination of the current contents of Contemporary Haibun Online reveals just that. Slightly more than half of the haibun, whether present or past events, are written at least in part in the present tense. Fewer are written in the past tense and only a few are written in the future tense. It is worth noting that regardless of tense and related to the first characteristic mentioned above, presence of self is evident in all but one of these haibun.

4. A Mix of Prose and Haiku

At present, almost all published haibun are accompanied by one or more haiku. The haiku serve either to intensify the feeling of the account conveyed in the prose or take the reader another step beyond what is expressed in the prose. Further, I think that the space between the prose and the haiku is a kind of long pause, one where the reader shifts mental states from reading a story to entering the sparsely styled world of the haiku – the word's shortest form of poem. In the prose part, many writers use poetic devices like metaphors to make the piece sing a little more than it might were only simple descriptive reportage utilized. However, some well published writers utilize very straightforward descriptive prose and it's the pairing of that prose with an evocative haiku that makes these haibun something different than just a journal entry.

However, the idea that a haibun must be a mix of prose and haiku poetry is being challenged. Two essays in Haibun Today explore some of the issues related to haibun without haiku (Charles Hansmann, "Haibun Poem: A Definition," Sat., Nov. 17, 2007, and Jeffrey Woodward, "Haibun Minus Haiku," Fri., Nov. 30, 2007). Woodward asks rhetorically whether any prose, e.g., an obituary accompanied by a haiku, would be considered to be a haibun. In answer to his own question, he provides this definition, "Haibun is haiku-like prose with or without one or more haiku." But given, as he points, out that 'haiku-like' is very subjective, I would suggest that a more precise definition rests in these characteristics of haibun found in contemporary publications. That is, a haibun is a combination of all or many of the characteristics addressed in this essay and that's what differentiates it from an obituary or an essay or a news story.

Hansmann's definition presents a challenge to the 'prose plus haiku' formula. He suggests that a "line break may take the place of haiku and serve a similar purpose (as the haiku)." While I am unaware of a single haibun without haiku in current journals, it is interesting to examine Hansmann's haibun published recently in Haibun Today, none of which has a discernible haiku, but each of which uses what Paul Conneally defines as haibunic prose: "Prose that has many of the characteristics associated with haiku—present tense (and shifts of tense though predominant voice 'present'), imagistic, shortened or interesting syntax, joining words such as 'and' limited maybe, a sense of 'being there', descriptions of places people met and above all 'brevity'" (from "Haibun Definitions," in Contemporary Haibun Online).

My impression is that while adhering to Conneally's definition of haibun prose, Hansmann's pieces lack that quality of a very long pause and shift in the reader's mental state in preparation for a haiku associated with the prose. I would argue that it's the going from one kind of writing (prose) to another kind of writing (haiku) that makes the difference. Indeed, as I read Hansmann's pieces, which I very much admire, I think that they could be restructured as free verse poetry, that is, poetry without haiku, but with haiku-like syntax.

In making this point, I would like to state that I'm a reader of, but not a student of free verse poetry. I'm aware that there is a large literature devoted to examining the characteristics of free verse poetry, likely including the use of line breaks. I suspect that someone will write an article in the future discussing how the haibun's prose plus haiku fits into this discourse.

5. Plain Spoken versus Literary Haibun

In terms of style or wordsmithing, I see a great variation in the level of prose craft in published haibun. Some pieces are highly poetic while others are involved with succinct descriptive reportage without poetic embellishment. One can readily imagine the more poetic pieces being rewritten as free verse poems minus the haiku or with the haiku folded into the prose. Indeed, one well-published free verse poet that I know has turned a number of his poems into haibun by eliminating the line breaks characteristic of free verse and utilizing the paragraph style more associated with haibun and by adding a haiku. He has had no problem in seeing them published in the top haiku-genre journals. For a second example, I've changed the free verse structure of a different friend's poems to correspond to the haibun form by using paragraphs and adding a haiku. He too had no problem finding publication for these modified pieces in current journals.

I believe that poetic expression will figure prominently in the future of haibun writing and publication and, to some degree, it does so now. In the same recent essay cited above, Ken Jones sees the future of haibun as leaning toward the literary end of the scale. He states: "It is increasingly appreciated that mere reportage of experience is not enough if we are truly in the business of literature. Even the humblest haiku moment is not usually just picked up from the ground but needs some polishing before being put into print. How much more so is this true of a complex thing like a haibun. Not only is well-burnished imagery required, but also some thematic shaping to a purpose (unless it is very short)" (Ken Jones, "Writing Reality: Fictional Haibun Stories").

Still, a significant number of haibun published currently utilize fairly straightforward reportage and it's mainly the haiku that makes them something different than other genres.

6. Must the Haiku Stand Alone?

An issue related to the prose plus haiku aspect of a haibun is whether the haiku must stand alone, viz., whether the haiku makes sense without the context supplied by the prose. When I started writing haibun, I did my best to compose haiku that would stand alone (and almost always failed). When I review my own published haibun pieces, I would say that most of the haiku don't stand alone. In fact, I haven't dared to submit them to haiku journals because I sense that they'd not be accepted. When I read haibun by other writers, I often sense the same, that the haiku usually depends heavily on the context supplied in the prose.

Is this a good or a bad thing? Is a haiku that doesn't stand alone really a haiku? These are questions that I'll leave for someone else to address. What I can state from my own writing and reading is that many published haibun contain haiku that rely heavily on the context supplied in the prose.

7. Telling vs Showing

Another aspect of most of the published haibun that there is an emphasis on showing rather than telling. This is an old distinction in other poetic genres. In short, most haibun refrain from telling the reader how to think, feel about or interpret the piece. Indeed, many pieces rely on understatement rather than overstatement in order to provide the reader with room for his or her own imagination. Here's how Jones puts it: "Noteworthy also is the concern of haibun, like haiku, to show rather than to tell. This means, for example, that emotions must be expressed metaphorically, through the imagery. And this, again, contributes to an open-ended effect which leaves a lot of space for the reader’s imagination."


Conclusion

I've described what I see as practiced in currently published haibun. Jones, Hansmann and Woodward are calling for more literate writing and even haikuless haibun and, as we have the opportunity to read pieces that are published in the future, it's likely that contemporary haibun will do some important shape shifting. After all, English language haiku has and continues to evolve from its Japanese originators. Consider for example the demise of the 5-7-5 syllable line count to today's "17 syllables or less." Why should we not expect the same of haibun which hasn't been practiced for nearly as long nor by nearly as many writers as haiku?

At the least it can be said that current success in publishing one's haibun rests with having ones piece meet most of the following characteristics:

* the self is present

* the context may be a present event, something from the past, a dream, or even a fantasized episode.

* the tense is somewhat irrelevant, ranging from present to past to future and sometimes a mix.

* the haibun reads as if it is reality-based as opposed to fiction.

* the prose style varies from those with a focus on description and succinctness to those that are poetically embellished, akin to free verse poetry, or what Jones calls 'literary.'

* there is a focus on showing rather than telling.

* there is one or more haiku that may or may not stand alone, that deepens or summarizes the prose or that takes the prose storyline a step further and that serves as a long pause calling for a mental shift.




by Ray Rasmussen
Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Patricia Prime: BOMB CRATERS

Any day finds the children gingerly climbing the bombsites looking up at broken masonry and tangled metal, searching the rubble for treasure – a broken doll, comics, a Dinky car.

FORBIDDEN. Our parents warn us about playing in the craters where we find a child’s shoe still laced and shiny red.

Weeds sink their roots between the crumbling bricks. Rain water drips from broken architraves and spouting.

Winter: snow covers the improbable disarray of houses bombed and shattered, fronts of houses missing, wallpaper hanging in strips, ceilings fallen. This is the still life of empty rooms. A stage set. On a dresser a complete set of cups hung by their hooks. Six whole eggs in a bowl. An old person’s false teeth in a glass of water. A bicycle leaning against an inside wall.

We scratch our names and the date on walls of derelict houses once lived in by our friends, children like ourselves.

the creak
of wooden stairs
to the attic


by Patricia Prime
Auckland, New Zealand

Review of W.F. Owen's SMALL EVENTS

small events by W.F. Owen. Red Moon Press: Winchester, VA, 2007. ISBN: 978-1-893959-62-0. Perfect Bound, 5 x 8 inches, 64 pp., $12.00 US.

Reviewed by Jeffrey Woodward
.
This collection of fifty haibun exhibits a predominately retrospective point-of-view and nostalgic tone while the book’s title, small events, accurately highlights W.F. Owen’s fascination with the mysteries of the quotidian.

Owen employs varied prose styles but two predominate: first, a matter-of-fact anecdotal narrative which is relaxed and freely admits the demotic speech of a familial storyteller or neighborhood raconteur; second, an expressionistic paragraph of elevated diction and rhythm which largely eschews punctuation and heightens tension by running, breathlessly, from beginning to end. The first has deep roots in American oral folklore and literature (Anderson, Hemingway, Steinbeck and Saroyan); the second is reminiscent in places of Kerouac, in others of Faulkner.

To indicate, within the limits of a review, the power of which Owen is capable in either style, let me cite one sterling example of each. In the haibun, “dog tags” (p. 45), the casual and understated relation of an anecdote intensifies the tragic and serious subject under discussion with startling economy:

A friend tells me that his brother’s dog tags were among hundreds found on a recent trip to Vietnam by two Florida businessmen. His brother was listed MIA after his helicopter was shot down during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Stamped into the metal tags are his name, serial number and blood type. The businessmen bought over 600 of the tags in the back alley shops of Ho Chi Minh City. Some cost just a few pennies.

his brother’s dog tags
found after thirty years
washing off foreign soil

An exemplar of Owen’s expressionistic run-on style with the subtle complexities and fluid undertones of which it is capable when deftly used would be the haibun entitled “clothesline” (p. 38):

In the backyard strung like half-cooked spaghetti between rusted poles I return semi stiff and bleached white holding and being held the connective tissue of family and neighbors born from the despair of rolling blackouts baking in longer days casting broken shadows on a wilted lawn like Mercator lines on an antique globe artificially carving the land ― joining it ― these towels are my flags of white and stripes faded and new raised and pinned by early light to a reveille of sparrows lowered at dusk by mourning doves I am a throwback to decades before homeowner associations archaic like five-cent Coke in hourglass bottles ten cent movies with all-day suckers real buttered popcorn and giant dill pickles a time when newspapers were only black and white.

summer wind
a dragonfly grips
the clothespin

Owen here takes full advantage of his associational method, often employing a clause in his prose with the purposeful ambiguity commonly reserved for a “pivot word” in haiku. The relation of prose to haiku as well is neither too close nor too distant, adding resonance and depth to the work as a whole.

Owen’s obsession with the revelatory properties of the commonplace, whether of an immediate present or distant past, betrays its limits in the exclusively autobiographical character of this volume. Even where the author apparently departs from his own life and experiences, the haibun in question, upon closer examination, can be read within the first person context. Such is the case with what might be called two ‘found haibun’ ― entries respectively upon the death of a condor (“adult condor no. 8,” p. 32) and the unidentified body of a Native American in a morgue (“02-827,” p. 51) ― apparently based upon local news events. The flat journalistic reportage, in each case, is shadowed by an intimately personal haiku. The dead condor, for example, receives this ironic colophon:

clear skies
watching the salmon spawn
with my adopted son

Owen’s most imaginative and radical venture away from his own person does not demonstrate his talent at its best. The haibun at issue, “quake” (p. 37), finds a personified city of San Francisco addressing the reader: “1906, I am burning. Children running, crying, pushed together like cordwood around Lotta’s Fountain …. Stay away from my buildings! The liquefied ground eats some, but others are shedding bricks …..” Happily, the haiku that serves as postscript sheds this ill-conceived and verbose preface:

aftershock
the picture on the wall
straightens

While the author, whether upon a determined aesthetic or personal affinity, restricts his haibun largely to the realm of autobiography, limits can constitute not only weaknesses but strengths. Owen, within the narrow compass he has chosen, writes crisply and evocatively, thus instilling in his reader his own sense of the marvelous within the everyday.

Haibun in English, even more so than haiku, renku or haiga, has few, if any, hard and fast rules. That Basho did not devote himself to haibun seriously until late in his life and never sought to formulate rules for its composition is an historical fact that may account for the questionable status of haibun in English. This same circumstance also accounts for a similar lack of strict aesthetic definition of the genre in Japanese literature. No better proof of this might be cited than to point to the dearth of accomplished haibun practice among the immediate disciples of Basho, to say nothing of succeeding generations of Japanese haijin.

Reading Owen’s collection, one is granted a kaleidoscopic view of his childhood in Texas, his military service and stint as a scuba instructor in Hawaii, his later career as an educator in California as well as being introduced, albeit briefly, to his intimate friends and family members. The reader, in short, leaves this book with a close acquaintance with its author.

The book is tastefully designed, like every Red Moon publication I have examined, with an attractive cover and nicely balanced typography that makes for both a legible and attractive text. Such production values honor the good work of the author and make small events a bargain for any reader interested in the future of English-language haibun.


reviewed by Jeffrey Woodward
Detroit, Michigan
first published in Lynx XXII:3, October 2007

Charles Hansmann: THE WHOLE WEST

We play cowboy so long our canteens go dry and when our mother gives us root beer we call it sarsaparilla. We wear matching six-shooters but when we play frontiersman we take them from their holsters and pretend they are flintlocks. We have a steer’s sawn horn and when they are flintlocks we say it’s for powder. But when we play cavalry and need reinforcements we raise it to our lips and blow it like a bugle. Then my sister snags

onto that holiday word and calls it Cornucopia like naming a doll. We’ve had hats and vests all along but now I get chaps and she a fringed skirt. Girls sometimes pretend they are boys, she says, but boys never pretend they are girls.


by Charles Hansmann
Sea Cliff, New York
text first published in bottle rockets #17, V9, N1, Summer 2007 in different form

Sharon Dean: IN A PICKLE

Pickles. Bathing in brine. Singing "oh hurrah hurrah" to the hum of distant traffic. For pickles can't help imagining how truly cool they'd look tearing down the road on the latest Italian motorbike–the wind in their pickle-bristles, dark sunnies on their cactus-shaped heads. Their fantasy destination? Irrelevant! When you spend your days in a jar in someone's fridge, slowing down isn't high on your list of priorities.


midnight kitchen
nothing to eat
but gherkins


by Sharon Dean
Alstonville, New South Wales, Australia
first published in Contemporary Haibun Online, V3, N1, March 2007

Friday, December 7, 2007

Kala Ramesh: NAME GAME

owl's eyes
on the moth
winks as she flies

A class of 63 pre-nursery toddlers, all present. Each child with pet names such as Bubblu, Twinkle, Kitta, Chinnu, Sweety, and so on . . . I get a stiff back bending down to read their school names pinned onto their shirts. Names, which they themselves are not aware of . . .

Is there no better way?

just divorced
my new sense
of obscurity



by Kala Ramesh
Pune, India
first published in Frogpond, Feb. 2006



Thursday, December 6, 2007

Lynne Rees: TOUCHING STONE AT TRYFAN

We watch Terry climb the outcrop solo and rig up the belay station and safety ropes for the rest of us. When the call goes out for the first one, I step forward to be strapped into the harness before I lose my nerve. ‘Take your time and look for places for your hands and feet,’ he calls down. ‘You have to climb it your way, not mine.’ The first section is surprisingly easy – plenty of places in the smooth rock for my boots to get purchase, to push myself up with my legs, not pull myself up with my arms. ‘Women make better rock climbers,’ he’d said. ‘They can’t rely on their upper body strength so are more inventive with their routes.’ The sun warms the back of my neck, my head, the rock face that is only inches from my face. I can smell it: something like rain, the dark of my grand-father’s tool-shed. I pause – gorse and brambles in my way – look right, then left, to the space above me. And I see it – a tiny overhang just above that I can grip with my fingers then traverse, stretching out a foot and jamming it in the small crack to my right. I keep going, a slow measured ascent, finding my balance between rock and sky, the weight of one and the weightlessness of the other urging me on.

each moment
moves into the next
slow breath


by Lynne Rees
Kent, England, UK
first published in Blithe Spirit, V16, N3, September 2006

Lynne Rees: IN THE AIR

In memory of Lillian Crosse 1921-1998

sprinkling her ashes
on the rocks at low tide
the long walk back

Chairs are stubbornly empty of her – the wooden bench in the garden, the pine carver at the kitchen table, the small upholstered armchair that fitted her exactly, the curve of its sides mirroring the slope of her shoulders as she sat knitting, fingers tugging and twisting a length of wool.

But she’s in the air every time I smell smoke from menthol cigarettes that she tried to convince me would only smell of mint, in the whispers of her hand lotion that refuses to run out, the breath of wax in a tube of Rimmel lipstick I’ve worn to a raspberry stump. And this bar of nameless amber soap I keep beside the kitchen sink, torn between wanting to save it and loving the woody lather flowering in my hands.

break in the clouds
a shadow runs
across the lawn


by Lynne Rees
Kent, England, UK
first published in Planet, February 2007

Patricia Prime: LIVE FROM DOWNUNDER

Correspondent: Patricia Prime

It is very exciting to have the new online outlet Haibun Today where poets can showcase their haibun, contribute reviews, articles and commentaries.

I’ve been asked by Jeffrey to be the correspondent for haibun happenings in New Zealand and Australia. I am co-editor of the New Zealand magazine Kokako and reviews editor of the online magazine Stylus.

We have a very limited haibun scene in New Zealand and there is only one publication, Kokako, which publishes haibun. I’ve been instrumental in getting some of the Japanese short forms of verse: haiku, tanka and haibun published in mainstream New Zealand poetry magazines. There have only been two New Zealand haibun publications: Shadow-Patches and listening to the rain, each of which was produced by a group of haiku poets.

There’s something about reading a haibun that lodges itself into the minds of readers, demanding understanding on the reader’s terms, and sometimes leading to the writing of one’s own poems. Good haibun live in a state of permanence: the poem dies when it has nowhere to go. The transformations that take shape when a haibun is published may cause it to become indelibly printed on the mind. Some live long in the readers’ memories, and others don’t survive a quick read. The haibun should not be something of a mopping-up operation, minor bits and bobs of writing brought together for the writer’s satisfaction, but should be formed of strands of prose and poetry braided together to form a coherent whole.

These are New Zealand and Australian publications which publish the occasional haibun:

Famous Reporter, editor Ralph Wessman. Walleah Press, P O Box 368, North Hobart, Tasmania 7002.
*
FreeXpresSion, editor Peter Pike. P O Box 4, West Hoxton, NSW, Australia 2171. Monthly. Subscription: $AUS 12.50 for 3 months. Email: frexprsn@tpg.com.au
*
paper wasp, editor Katherine Samuelowicz. 14 Fig Tree Pocket Road, Chapel Hill, Queensland, Australia 4069. 4 issues. Subscription $AUS24.00. Email: ksamuelowicz@optusnet.com.au
*
Stylus Poetry Journal, editor for haibun, Janice M. Bostok. Email: janbos@dodo.com.au
*
Kokako, editors Patricia Prime & Owen Bullock. 2 issues $NZ20.00 (April/Sept). Email: pprime@ihug.co.nz

by Patricia Prime
Auckland, New Zealand

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Julie Beveridge: COLD HANDS TOUCH MY FACE

I consider leaving this place, pushing my thumb into the oncoming traffic and rolling through. There is always less to leave behind than waits ahead, you just have to know what cars to get into and which to wave on. I walk backwards down the motorway the wind egging me on. The first thing I see is an indicator … a family sedan, dusty mud flaps, empty baby seat slows and pulls over. His gentle bearded face smiles me into the passenger seat and I tell him that I’m going to the city, my car broke down and I have contacts there. He is safe, he fiddles with the radio whistling along to every new tune. The heat of the day lets me drift into sleep. I feel him driving next to me. I will wake up fresh, a whole new road ahead.

cold hands
touch my face
they are not mine


II.

I poke my tongue through my lips and taste the glue that keeps the tape across my mouth. My skirt damp and hot, I can smell myself in my hair, pungent and scared. The pulse between my tightly bound wrists beats its way through my body. I thud along in time with the sounds of Dusty Springfield that are being filtered through from somewhere.

blood stained sleeves
still I think
of you


III.

Sweat congeals my eyelids closed as I squint against the light. Rope burns form on the inside of my wrists, I cease my struggle. Hot breath moves around my skin merging the space between me and him. His face, tiny pixels bleeding into one another. His unkempt mustache tickles my neck. My thoughts leave my body, heavy as stone. There is something familiar about his face, something I cannot identify … sunlight glints off his mirrored glasses.

behind the shades
a murder
of crows feet


by Julie Beveridge
Brisbane, Queensland, Australia
first published in Home is where the Heartache is, 2007

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Bob Lucky: ANTS

I squat to observe the ants. They form a contrary trickle, two currents shaking legs in opposite directions, ants veering off, bumping into one another, eddies of ants.

A winged insect wobbles in circles, then tries to scale a wall of peeling sun-bleached paint but falls back into a clamor of ants, pops out and falls back again and again. Other ants ignore this and go about their business, antennae waving like wisps of hair on balding sailors, though there is no breeze.

first hot day –
office workers scramble
for a shady spot



by Bob Lucky
Hangzhou, China

Bob Lucky: SNAKE

Bahrain

Late afternoons I like to walk near what must have been an oasis once. Some Tamils have created a patchwork of vegetable plots beneath towering palms. They grow mostly greens, bitter greens with names I never get right in any language. Today I stop at the sound of conflict overhead. Two mynas and a sparrow, their wings beating in agitation, charge towards a date palm, back off and then hover briefly before charging again. Another movement, an undulation… The mynas attack and for a moment my view of the sky is filled with twisting snake. It lands on a pile of dried palm fronds and quickly disappears.

sunset
the shadows sway
along the path



by Bob Lucky
Hangzhou, China

Bob Lucky: GROWING UP

When I was my son’s age I was watching Tarzan and wishing Jane would fall out of a tree. It seems only last week he was watching Dumbo, yesterday Godzilla, last night Blackadder. I miss Dumbo. This evening he has two questions: What was behind the civil war in Angola? How exactly do you put on a condom?

first date –
giving advice
to the mirror




by Bob Lucky
Hangzhou, China

Joanna Preston: SHOULDER RECONSTRUCTION

She is home from the hospital – right arm strapped to her side across her chest, immovable. The empty right sleeve of her shirt sways like a metronome, setting the tempo as she walks gingerly across the muddy lawn and up the steps to the house.

home at last –
greeting the dog
wrong handed

Three times a day I have to undo the straps and carefully straighten her arm, easing it against the spasms of muscle cramp. Lurid paisley bruises cover her chest, and a tiny line of stitches march millipede fashion across her collarbone. For ten minutes, three times a day, she has to remain motionless:

the third time
today –
that same cryptic crossword

Neither of us is ready for this role reversal. Not knowing where to look as I give her a sponge bath, trying to remain impersonal and unembarrassed as I soap her breasts, her nipples becoming erect in the cross draft from the door as I pat her dry . . . silly. I am the age she was when she gave birth to me.

washing
my mother’s breasts –
we both giggle




by Joanna Preston
Christchurch, New Zealand
first published in listening to the rain, 2002

Review of LISTENING TO THE RAIN

listening to the rain, edited by Cyril Childs and Joanna Preston. The Small White Teapot Haiku Group, Christchurch, New Zealand. 2002. 72 pp. ISBN: 0-473-08339-6. No price given.

Reviewed by Patricia Prime

This anthology celebrates the poetry of thirteen Christchurch writers. The Small White Teapot Haiku Group meets regularly to discuss, present and in other ways further the practice of haiku and related forms. This book is their first publication.

The first haibun “Buried treasure” is by Eric Mould. Eric’s work has been noted for its high degree of New Zealand flavour. He is renowned for the clarity, humour and poignancy of his poetry and its use of simple, everyday situations. In “Buried treasure” one can see many of the unpretentious, yet highly skilled qualities for which his work is known. This particular haibun does not have a New Zealand theme, but relies for its essence on a copy of the National Geographic, from which Mould unfolds a map of sunken Spanish ships in the Caribbean Sea, stone churches in Ethiopia and a civil war. Here is the last paragraph of the haibun:

The habits of centuries could not be stopped by the brief tenure of the communist leader Mengistu, or the secession of Eritrea. To reach the church of Abuna Yemata, pilgrims ascend the steep mountainside, cross the rickety bridge or tree branches. The stone citadel is pockmarked with hand hewn holes, leering like empty eye sockets. Bow to enter the low roofed tunnel. Follow the priest in ornately embroidered vestments.

worn stone –
the guide leans back,
watched by unblinking saints

Joanna Preston’s haibun “Shoulder reconstruction,” is a presentation of the bond between a mother and her daughter. The incidental details of the poem take the seriousness of the situation and tweak it into something verging on humour:

Neither of us is ready for this role reversal. Not knowing where to look I give her a sponge bath, trying to remain impersonal and unembarrassed as I soap her breasts, her nipples become erect in the cross draft from the door as I pat her dry . . . silly. I am the age she was when she gave birth to me.

washing
my mother’s breasts . . .
we both giggle

The unobtrusive and delicate way in which the role reversal is handled creates a rounded perfect picture of the relationship.

The second haibun by Eric Mould “Finegand chain three” takes as its theme shepherds herding sheep into a pen ready for slaughter:

Shepherds’ dogs bark, steel tubed gates rise and swing, and fingers stab tallies into the air. Lambs leap imagined chasms. Blue raddled between their ears, the mob streams, huddled in the pen’s rear third. Ewes squat and gush urine, handfuls of Hooker’s Green beads roll through gaps in steel meshed grating.

Two different strands, the slaughter of sheep and the slaughter of men, are woven seamlessly in the haibun. The wonderfully precise opening line “Four hundred horsepower of Mack Ultraliner reverses among half a dozen clones, queued to dock at the Works”, and the action of shepherds and the action of soldiers, make as atmospheric a haibun as one could wish to read.

“Postcard from D.C.” is the first of Jeffrey Harpeng’s haibun in this anthology. The haibun quietly focuses on imperfect detail – the white obelisk of the Washington Monument, a postcard, a deaf brother “raised in another language”. The brother’s English on the postcard evinces first a humorous then a different, in this case emotional, reaction from the reader. The poet’s affection for his brother at this moment is rendered both implicitly and explicitly:

A postcard from James who has always been Jay. My brother who was raised in another language. Hand talk, face talk, kinetic grammar. He writes,

lot of people is black
of poor outside on park and
seats is bed to many

Harpeng’s second haibun “Kaikoura” portrays another view of his brother, whom he hasn’t seen for six years:

I make him thumb winged plane, palm down, further and further out there. In reply he zig-zags a tutorial pointer across a map in the air. A map on which I see him already gone, barely arrived. Six years since last we met.

This time the fluid movement of the haibun takes us from the sea’s edge to the rocky coastline, to seeing a couple wading ashore. All these moments are captured on video and watched again later:

He zooms in with his video camera, points his diary. I see the rerun on television that night:

no seals in sight
the back of a black rock
raises its head

Months later I receive his video of the world: takeoffs, landings, train rides, bus rides, the sights captured by a memory truer than mine.

A section of haiku completes the anthology. A haiku is a moment of heightened awareness. It concentrates on the five senses (or some of them) and little more. John O’Connor’s haiku have been widely published in New Zealand and overseas and he presents a worthwhile essay “Afterword: The Haiku Moment” at the close of the anthology, which will be useful to those seeking to improve their understanding and practice of haiku. Here are examples of haiku from the volume:

stained glass
light fills
the collection plate

Jeffrey Harpeng

waiting for the splash –
an oncoming car
crosses the mirage

Helen Bascand

Monday . . .
pegging the wind
into our sheets

Greebe Brydges-Jones

upteenth cleanup
still his photo
remains

Elise Mei



reviewed by Patricia Prime
Auckland, New Zealand

Monday, December 3, 2007

Richard Straw: SUNDAY DRIVE

Our parents take my sister and me to a relative's farm near Sunbury. The barnyard's full of running headless chickens and a crazed dog. The farmer uses a tree stump as a chopping block. Much later, his son dies James Dean style on graduation night.

empty space
where flower pots were
a wasp returns

by Richard Straw
Cary, North Carolina

Richard Straw: RIPENESS

Autumn's a slow process, like rust. Cars abandoned last longer than their drivers. I feel "immortal" as nature decays.

Dad's father has died. My parents and I find the funeral home, and I go in first. As I approach his open casket, grandpa jumps out and dances a jig.

turn of the year
sunlight cuts deeper
into the trees


by Richard Straw
Cary, North Carolina

Richard Straw: FLEDGLING

Cool, clear morning. As I lock the car, a fledgling robin tumbles out of a small bush between two parking lots. Its mother keeps herself between us as it stumbles across the pebbly asphalt. She has a bit of worm in her beak. When I move away, the mother closes in, pushes the worm into
its wide-open mouth.

Sitting at my desk, I see my car, the otherwise empty lots, the bush. Two dark little shapes (even the chick!) hop over the low curb into the pine straw.

And I remember last night's dream of my hometown: sidewalks full of people, the soda fountain where my parents met, and the clean street shining in sunlight.

cold evening rain
my toddler daughter dances
flashlight in hand


by Richard Straw
Cary, North Carolina