Sunday, December 30, 2012

Contentment (2001)


Contentment

Contentment curls up on the rug by the fire.
Wind doesn't chill,
Rain doesn't soak, and
Worries don't dance with the shadows on the wall.

The unread book lies open on page one;
Leaves are uncreased,
Buds are un-pressed, and
The words of tomorrow are waiting to be told.


(4/19/2001)


I wish all cold winter evenings could fit the positive and optimistic image of this poem. This is an older one of mine as you can tell by the date. I started writing the dates on my poems at some point because, even if they are not published, I am curious about the sequence and the time of year. What was going on in my life when I wrote this? So the date is mainly for my own sense of personal history.

Not too long ago I submitted a small set of haiku to a local literary art journal but it was not accepted. I felt disappointed and a little surprised, but then felt amused when I saw the publication in print. I decided my work didn't really fit with what they'd printed. I suppose the meaning for me in this kind of experience – putting myself and my work out there for others to see and judge – is that I write poetry, music, etc. as I like it to be. I write to please my own sense of artistry. I then put my work out there because I don't want to be selfish and alone, because I genuinely want to share what I create with others, and because you just have to do work out in the public view to be an artist. But if someone doesn't like what I write, or it doesn't fit what someone is looking for, that should not be a problem. I will just keep on writing because it works for me. Even if someone were paying me to write or create something for them, I would still want that work to come from my voice and reflect my sense of what is good. I know when I've done a good job, and it's not when someone else says. This can create a sense of conflict, and I tend to feel timid and cautious about putting myself out in the world, but I know the real reason I create is not to please others but because creating pleases me and I need to be doing it.

In hindsight about this one case, I feel like maybe I could have "sold" my work better, too. But I'm still fine with it not making the "cut" because I know it wasn't because the work I'd done was not worthwhile.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Haiku


Haiku

in the green, wet grass
silent blackbirds pick the ground
by blue hydrangeas


(10/26/2012)

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Haiku


Haiku

brown plastic leaf bins
the life of the maple tree
makes work for the rake


(10/24/2012)

Friday, October 12, 2012

October haiku


Haiku


dreams of such meaning
gone. a terrible feeling
to have to wake up


the first rain of fall
blank white sky above the trees
wets the bird droppings


(10/12/2012)

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Halku: Summer's Dust


Haiku


vacuuming heat vents
burn off all the summer's dust
smells of early fall


(10/9/2012)

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Morning haiku


Morning haiku


dreams of coming day
foggy October morning
stretch, stretch, wake slowly


(10/9/2012)

Thursday, October 4, 2012

More autumn haiku

Autumn Haiku


step over brown leaves
pull on the extra blanket
I can feel them fall


leaves have been changing
slipping into longer sleeves
now I feel the change


(10/2/12–10/4/12)

Trying to capture that "haiku moment," an instant impression of the here and now of experience and embodied perspective, is not as easy as 17 syllables. These are two haiku I wrote recently trying to express the same idea with, I feel, varying success.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Autumn haiku

Haiku

dew on the car top
brace against the morning chill
summer is over


(9/26/12)

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Late summer / early fall Haiku


Bracing hand-in-hand,
    leaning into the strong wind,
old fence posts hold strong.


(9/12/12)


This is a revision of a haiku I wrote years ago while traveling through Montana with my family. Sorry it's been quiet here for a while. Soon classes will be starting up again for me.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Gentle Wind (2009) and Reflecting


Gentle Wind

Tiny spider, your bones appear so slight
that my barest breath near you comes
over you as a hurricane of terror.
The silk-taut line you tug and twist upon
is invisible to my eyes, merely a
suggestion of gossamer scaffold.

You may now cling so tightly, and I fear
you will fall instantly and be lost, or
my breath draws you so close and
you will grab my hair, burrow
down my skin, down my back, and be lost.
So we joust the air, my breath and you.

Your silent twitching music of a
one-cord harp bewitches my thoughts
in this momentary song of emotion:
I am suddenly in your place. I am
this little fellow, pendulous to life.
Dry tears touch my eyelids. I reflect.

The artist
blows upon the zephyr breeze of Being,
and hopes the coming rain
may not dissolve all.


(6/18/2009)


I wrote and first shared this poem in June of 2009. I remember somewhat the particular image I was exploring, an actual tiny spider perhaps two millimeters tall hanging from its silken line in front of me: so tiny and yet just "out there" in an immense and dangerous universe. I was sitting on the bus at the time I wrote it, playing with the words and ideas, but reflecting really on what it's like to be an artist, and what it's like for me to be a person who feels super vulnerable much of the time. Feeling sensitive, like my skin isn't even there, I sometimes feel like total raw nerve endings and viscera exposed to the world. All I can do, times like those, is hold on tight to something and hope some cruel reality doesn't all come crashing in.

And paradoxically, I really want to be "out there" in the immense universe, like the tiny spider. (Even though spiders creep many people out with their too many arms and legs and how they do tend to do weird things like bite you or try to get in your hair or crawl around your skin. I don't think I'm really like that, but I think ideas can feel that way, too! They also bite and make you feel uncomfortable.)

I appreciate the incredible blessing of knowing – and being reminded, when needed – there are other people in my life who understand at least some of what it can be like to be sensitive and/or artistic.


Thursday, May 3, 2012

Colors


Colors

Some beauties, sweet and fleet,
like the happy bird on the branch by the window,
you cannot catch them.
To cage is to kill them.
Some beauties you have to let go.

The colors of a song are so bright
and soft, my dazzled eyes cannot see what
only my heart can feel.
The muse of the poet is kindly cool.
Her visits are passing.

Some lovers, warm and dear,
like the singing bird on the tree by the fence,
you cannot keep them.
To catch is to hurt them.
Some lovers you need to let go.

The years of a life are so bright
and swift, my thoughts cannot catch what
barely memories can hold.
The love of a friend is a godly grace.
His visits are treasure.


(5/3/2012)

Friday, March 30, 2012

Spring haiku


Water fills the sky:
the most active element
dumping on our heads.


(3/30/12)