beyond this room
is world: in every direction
(or so i believe)
pusscat intently
sniffing the rush matting:
rememberance of mice past
blackbird in the dusk sings
dusk in the blackbird:
theme and variations
after chaos: calm.
after calm - no, better not
complete this logic
like an ill-fitting hat:
the green-grey sky; whatever
was gained is lost
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Sunday, 12 February 2012
A Haiku a day...
in January i decided to write one haiku for every day of the Dragon year. here are some of the ones i've written so far, starting with the most recent:
fledgling dragon arrives:
splintered moon
reflected in a dark puddle
on frosted grass: the
Brueghel birds
pecking up every seed, every seed
to and fro: is there
anything else? dark birds feed
in the frozen grass
loss: like stretching out
a hand in the dark,
unable to see its shape
seeing his painting
from a distance:
now suddenly i understand
silently the brush
strokes the painting: one, two,
three thousand times and more
twisted, winter-bare
branches, lichen-green: smudged
tenderly by snowflakes
raw air, white fields; muted
bird calls. too cold
even to write a haiku
the radiators
softly tick; outside
sparrows' voices chip the air
white chrysanthemum petal
hangs in the sky - and now an owl
calls out
the storm bellows
its argument. trees growl at each other
in the dark
pusscat yawns, licks paw,
circles damp paw on face;
suddenly looks at me
dusk settles like an old cat:
spreads its apron of fur;
folds its soft paws
get going: the bus
won't catch itself. the teeth won't
fill themselves, either
moon, you're past your full - so
stop sending these wild
implausible dreams!
i think there are
no words; or none which fit
this reposeful place today
a soft greeting
warbled, as pusscat enters
the room, quiet as sunshine
night before last: vixen barks,
owl screeches - cacophony!
and moonlight
wind scours the branches, yet
sixteen apples still
refuse to be dislodged
on its way: the dragon
we know or the dragon we don't know.
which one?
fledgling dragon arrives:
splintered moon
reflected in a dark puddle
on frosted grass: the
Brueghel birds
pecking up every seed, every seed
to and fro: is there
anything else? dark birds feed
in the frozen grass
loss: like stretching out
a hand in the dark,
unable to see its shape
seeing his painting
from a distance:
now suddenly i understand
silently the brush
strokes the painting: one, two,
three thousand times and more
twisted, winter-bare
branches, lichen-green: smudged
tenderly by snowflakes
raw air, white fields; muted
bird calls. too cold
even to write a haiku
the radiators
softly tick; outside
sparrows' voices chip the air
white chrysanthemum petal
hangs in the sky - and now an owl
calls out
the storm bellows
its argument. trees growl at each other
in the dark
pusscat yawns, licks paw,
circles damp paw on face;
suddenly looks at me
dusk settles like an old cat:
spreads its apron of fur;
folds its soft paws
get going: the bus
won't catch itself. the teeth won't
fill themselves, either
moon, you're past your full - so
stop sending these wild
implausible dreams!
i think there are
no words; or none which fit
this reposeful place today
a soft greeting
warbled, as pusscat enters
the room, quiet as sunshine
night before last: vixen barks,
owl screeches - cacophony!
and moonlight
wind scours the branches, yet
sixteen apples still
refuse to be dislodged
on its way: the dragon
we know or the dragon we don't know.
which one?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)