September & October 2019
Vol IV No V
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
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Published bi-monthly
Haiku
with Kevin McLaughlin
This issue seems like an appropriate time to review some haiku basics. Your editor is a devout classicist. Nevertheless, after years of writing this column, I have come to enjoy and appreciate the many forms and evolutions of these three-line diamonds. Painting art did not stop with representational work; it evolved into the impressionists, modern art, and many subsequent variants such as Jackson Pollock’s beautiful canvasses. May it be the same with haiku.
Haiku forms a natural land bridge over the deep gorge separating the everyday and absolute realms. A haiku conveys those moments when nirvana is glimpsed within samsaric existence, when the pilgrim glimpses the Holy Grail. This is not a poetry of the imagination; this is a poetry taken from direct experience.
Originating in Japan, the poem consists of three lines, or segments, and 17 syllables, structured syllabically 5-7-5. Traditionally, there is a seasonal referent, either direct or indirect. The best verse contain a kireji, a cutting word that enables the quality of juxtaposition. There are ten thousand opportunities every day to write a haiku.
Swells in the shallows:
Viewed through refracting waves,
Coral changing shape.
The brief squall passes:
One drop of water glistens,
On each pine needle.
Kevin McLaughlin
Armando Quiros enables the reader to appreciate the beauty and uniqueness of a dilapidated rocking chair. And most any reader will smile wistfully along with the first haiku in the set.
sakura blossoms
an ephemeral delight
the trees toasting foam
an old rocking chair
without its proper padding
dilapidated
the branches expand
withholding all but your touch
a new stem blossoms
Armando Quiros
Robinson Terry lives in Northeast Iowa where he enjoys pausing during hikes for the views.
There is something sweet
About someone all alone
In this scary world.
The stars shine above us
The ground stares up at us
But the trees watch over us.
Cold storms stop coming
Warm breezes replace snowflakes:
The sun starts to shine.
Robinson Terry
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Diana Frybarger resides in Knoxville, Tennessee. Oh, to see flowers through her eyes, and to delight in their scent as she does! I remind the reader to let the poem linger in their mind.
tulips flirting
perfume scattering
Holland bursting at the seams!
(This first poem sets the tone for the set.)
daffodils, dip, dip, dip
to the babbling spring brook
church bells ringing
(These three lines create a harmonious interplay.)
change in wind speed
Japanese pink Sakura
Mikimoto pearls
(Another sakura reference! The sakura is a type of cherry blossom.)
pink daffodils
adorning kitchen windowsill
dishes in sink
picnic on the farm
dandelions sweeten up
three leaf clovers
Diana Frybarger
Yet once more I encourage all haiku writers to share their work, their insights into the nature of all things, with fellow poets and BTS readers.
For those interested in haiku, I recommend you cast back into the BTS archives and reference the September 2016 column. It provides a pretty thorough explanation of the basic format.
- Kevin Mclaughlin
Manoj Sharma is a public accountant who lives in Kathmandu, Nepal. He has been published in various publications, including The Bonsai Journal.
flying
a pair of white doves—
gusty wind
late evening—
the full moon
shortens my walk
street children
around a burning tyre—
winter wind
misty morning—
a boy whistles
giggling girls
watching . . .
a pile of books
beside my bed
wheat biscuit
and tasteless soup—
another overcast day
Manoj Sharma
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Featured Haiku
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Jacob Butlett holds an A.A. in General Studies and a B.A. in Creative Writing. Some of his work has been published in Panoply, Cacti Fur, Rabid Oak, and plain china.
cold black skillet
congealed islands of fat . . .
summer sunshine
sunlit maple trees—
riverbed tasting moss
soaked in deer blood
rehearsing their elegy
white robes fluttering tonight . . .
a congregation of swans
(The congregation of swans, fluttering whitely, is a unique image.)
summer morning—
dark ferns fan
fallen infant robins
potted plant in the park—
pink tulip blooms
in a dead robin’s skull
her shiny little stove
her spongy lemon cake
her empty kitchen chair
Jacob Butlett
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John Hawkhead writes haiku with a steady voice, one that must signify practicing mindfulness and awareness during each day. We are fortunate that he has become a frequent contributor. John lives in Bradford on Avon where he writes and illustrates books. His book, Small Shadows, is available from Alba publishing.
deeper in the copse
the old path reappears
bluebell twilight
legerdemain
she conceals her hand
in mine
summer showers
a rainbow curves
in the child’s bubble
winter on time
meeting at the station
I breathe in her breath
walking on water
the power and the glory
of water spiders
John Hawkhead
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Angela Davidson celebrates the Universe and all things interstellar. The eye of Mars is, for Mrs. Davidson, both an auspicious omen and a subtle symbol of the compassion with which we should treat all beings (including ourselves).
Blood shot eye of Mars,
Watching over the cosmos,
Lights up Universe.
Moonshine through window
Reflects thousand specks of light:
Looks like fireflies.
Tingling fingers,
Sending shivers up arms:
Overcast skywards.
(Effective juxtaposition in this piece.)
Angela Davidson
Joseph Davidson practices mindfulness throughout the day in a way that would bring fulfillment in any religious or philosophical tradition. I can only surmise that in any set of circumstances
Mr. Davidson maintains his equipoise.
Lonely setting moon
Pale blue light paints predawn sky:
Day’s embers kindle.
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Suspended in air,
Ever falling groundless flight:
Oak leaf caught in web.
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Silent stars of morn,
Arcing across Mother Earth:
Universe hums Om.
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Joseph Davidson
Billy Antonio was born in San Carlos City, Pangasinan, Philippines. He has been published in a wide variety of journals. Mr. Antonio is a public-school teacher. The first haiku displays the insight and joyfulness of the acknowledged masters . . . and it is written against the backdrop of a power outage!
power outage
my daughter chases
a firefly
(The entire world in a firefly.)
power failure
a black cat and i
stare at each other
(Two pieces linked, yet completely separate in spirit.)
coin toss
the hollow sound
of a beggar’s bowl
(The sound of compassion.)
Billy Antonio
A.R. Crow has contributed four haiku of impeccable grace and insight. Each of these poems could give rise to significant appreciative commentary. And Mr. Crow has accomplished this natural flow of words and images while staying within the 5-7-5 format.
Morning melody
Crickets chirp in unison
Nature’s song of praise
The soft leaves of grass
Break the fall of Autumn’s leaves
Peaceful resting place
The sunlight through glass
Coloured words on mote stained air
Poetry in light
Sandpipers peck grains
Searching for tiny shellfish
Sand sprouts nourishment
A.R. Crow
J.R. Heatherton lives in middle Michigan. His work has appeared in Aphotic Realm, Micro-Fiction Monday, and will soon appear in the Flash Fiction Anthology. His second haiku illustrates the life force that flows through all living beings.
cold chair fully draped
smell lingering scent of grounds
The fox lies at rest.
blue field over head
thirteen folds are presented
Soon poppies will bloom.
J.R. Heatherton
Peter Schneider is a poet and psychotherapist who lives in Brooklyn, New York, and in Rochester, Vermont. He holds an MFA from Columbia University and a PhD in clinical psychology from New York University. Mr. Schneider writes effortlessly in the classical 5-7-5 tradition while using a modern, almost experimental, style that is layered with meaning. Unique, indeed.
to separate out
one part to start anywhere
is arbitrary
permanent scarecrow
a dying backwards of soon’s
quiescent at dusk
the body’s thickness
a collection of spaces
Eleatic bytes
(Eleatic pertains to a school of ancient Greek philosophers.)
panes of sidewalk sheets
gingko leaves isotopic
traverse distinctions
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mutual silence
alights in our fused glances
this monadic net
(Monadic refers, among other meanings, a chemical valence.)
light held in the black
branches’ watery dusk more
mere sub-division
a stubborn glass of
water on a table at dusk
of no color
last fire winter sun
readdresses the dumb bricks
turns on a pivot
Peter Schneider
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Given this month’s stylistic diversity, it seemed appropriate to close the column with a haiku by one of the acknowledged Japanese masters. Poems from other languages seldom translate 5-7-5.
The god is absent;
His dead leaves are oiling
And all is deserted.
(The shrine is lonely and neglected. Translation by R.H. Blyth.)
Basho
Kevin McLaughlin