NFTG12.pdf 2.4 MB - Gean Tree Press

Notes from the Gean 3:4 

Mission Statement: 

Welcome to Notes from the Gean the journal of 

haiku, tanka, haiga, haibun, linked forms & more. 

Brought to you by Gean Tree Press. 

We seek to encourage excellence, experimentation and education 

within haiku and its related genres. We believe this is best 

accomplished by example and not imitation. Our aim is for authenticity 

above all else. We therefore solicit your finest examples of haiku, tanka, 

haiga, haibun and renga/renku so that we may "hear" your voices 

speak. 

The Editors 

For details on how to submit to Notes from the Gean please check our 

SUBMISSIONS page. 

cover artwork Colin Stewart Jones 

Overall content copyright © 2012 Gean Tree Press. All Rights Reserved. 

Page 2

linked forms 


contents 

Tsunami p.4, Patent Leather Shoe p.10-12, Man Standing in Rain p.21, Sepia Blues p.29, Fairground Animals p.38, 

Moonlight Settles p.60, Stars that know no sadness p.67, The power of light p.68, "rain on the tracks" p.88, 

In The Rain p.96-98, “the short goodbye” p.106-108, Tea at the Tate & Around the Gherkin p.116-117, 

A maggot & Scattered moon p.122 

haiku 

haiku 1 p.5 haiku2 p.6, haiku 3 p.13, haiku 4 p.24, haiku 5 p.25, haiku 6 p.36, haiku 7 p.37, haiku 8 p.42, 

haiku 9 p.43, haiku 10 p.58, haiku 11 p.59, haiku 12 p.70, haiku 13 p.71, haiku 14 p.86, haiku 15 p.87, 

haiku 16 p.99, haiku 17 p.109, haiku 18 p.115, haiku 19 p.126, haiku 20 p.127, haiku 21 p.128 

tanka 

tanka 1 p.7, tanka 2 p.19, tanka 3 p.27 tanka 4 p.40, tanka 5 p.41, tanka 6 p.57, tanka 7 p.72, tanka 8 p.73, 

tanka 9 p.90, tanka 10 p.91, tanka 11 p.95, tanka 12 p.112, tanka 13 p.113, tanka 14 p.119, tanka 15 p.124, 

tanka 16 p.125 

haibun 

In Another Town p.8, How an acceptance happens – Into the Sky p.14-18, a trace of warmth p.26, 

Searching the Size p.39, House and Bird p.56, Guilty Pleasures p.65, After Arrival p.66, ‘The Point p.76, 

“The midnight” p.77, A little from the tip p.89, shadows p.93, THE SEASIDE p.103, Return p.104, 

The Narrow Gate p.105, Mountain in Late Afternoon p.114, One Nation Under Jazz p. 120-121, 

The Summing Ups and Downs p.123 

haiga 

coming home p.9, log fire p.20, day by day p.28 river weir p.35, time p.55, early spring p.64, a break p.69, 

Sunday drizzle p.74, falling leaves p.75, barnacles p.85 wild geese p.92, knotholes p.94 chilly autumn breeze p.110, 

rose cuttings p.111, woodpile p.118, waiting p.129 

The Dreaming Room 

heatwave p.22, wildflowers p.23, on a bare branch p.61-62, snow melting p.63, smell of bile and winter hive p.100-101, 

two months gone p.102 

essays/haiku matters 

Humour in Haiku p.30-34 

special feature 

NaWriHaiMo p.44-53, Old Pond Comics p.54. 

interviews 

Jack Galmitz p. 78-84. 

reviews 

small hours p.130-132, Leptir nad pučinom p.133 

back page 

dog days p.134 

Page 3


Tsunami 

seized 

from the mud 

one lottery ticket 

a shaking of heads 

as the earth 

shakes 

one mother 

cradling 

a piece of rock 

someone else’s mother 

finding 

a missing shoe 

a minute’s silence 

just the rumbling of sea 

children’s voices 

the old man shrugs 

remembering 

Hiroshima 

out of the rubble 

a new road 

bending into sunlight 

Peter Butler U.K. 

Page 4


Wires run through 

the sky. All platforms flooded 

by march. 

Volker Friebel - Germany 

Land of snow— 

the crows wings shimmer 

when turning. 


Waning March light. 

Sheep on the river, their mouths 

washed by water. 


swan 

wrapped in sleep— 

drifting moon 

John McDonald - Scotland 

full moon— 

winter’s stillness 

in a soap bubble 

Ramesh Anand - Malaysia 

Page 5


nearing dusk 

a girl dumps bait worms 

back into the earth 

Ferris Gilli - USA 

the mimosa tree 

has closed its leaves . . . 

vesper bell 

Ferris Gilli - USA 

morning star 

the glimmer of gilt 

from the spire 

Köy Deli - Turkey 

pulling up 

an oak seedling— 

the clinging acorn 

Ruth Holzer - USA 

this blue and white world— 

even if the plane falls 

at home in it 

Ruth Holzer - USA 

Page 6


the abbess 

prays to the icon 

of her groom: 

"my womb is a chasm 

deep as the morning star" 

Köy Deli - USA 

dusk 

takes its time 

to linger 

on the soft blues 

of March snow 

Christina Nguyen - USA 

the establishing shot 

of an old film 

set in New York . . . 

there they both stand 

with the world yet to change 

Jon Baldwin - USA 

Page 7


In Another Town 

As you dream in another town, I stroll to the 

lake at dawn for a swim. At a curve in the path, 

a lily has bloomed as blue as the sky at dusk. I 

kneel. 

I want to bring it to you. Instead, I can only let 

you know it was there. 

endless sky – 

sun shines on the 

spires of pines 

Hortensia Anderson – USA 

Page 8


Cherie Hunter Day - USA 

Page 9


Patent Leather Shoe 

A Kasen Renku 

more light to ponder 

what might grow Michele 

from here 

turning the earth 

with garden tools John 

sticky silk threads 

of a chrysalis Michele 

soon to shed its skin 

knitted doilies 

in the linen closet John 

the moon 

has drawn us Michele 

to a distant shore 

his confidence about 

edible mushrooms John 

- 

alone 

like a ghost Michele 

on a windy corner 

diligent rehearsal 

of the kissing scene John 

I undress 

after dark Michele 

before a flame 

the rent is being 

raised again John 

observance of 

a day no one wants Michele 

to remember 

Page 10


patent leather shoe 

in the refrigerator John 

return to the store 

for more cold beer Michele 

led by the summer moon 

dusk deepened 

by swarming bats John 

chemical injections 

leave her with Michele 

a childlike look 

“Little deuce coupe 

You don’t know what I’ve got” John 

the daffodils would be 

pretty in a color Michele 

other than yellow 

soft edges of a cross 

made of ashes John 

- 

roof leaks 

in the same places John 

as last year 

inaccurate translations 

are causing lots of problems Michele 

the spell check feature 

questions names John 

like Auschwitz 

not too old to pull 

an all-nighter Michele 

the doorman 

at the end of John 

a Christmas list 

my neighbor throws crumbs 

on snow for hungry birds Michele 

Page 11


they say a cactus 

can have all the water John 

you need to survive 

when we’re together 

nothing else matters Michele 

contractions 

coming quickly John 

in the car 

annoyed by an 

empty wallet Michele 

moonlight silvers 

the last window pane John 

left unbroken 

collapsing onto 

a new pile of leaves Michele 

- 

I close the door 

and padlock John 

the boathouse 

passing time 

in a smoker’s cafe Michele 

freshly shaved 

showered John 

and shampooed 

a horseback ride 

along mountain trails Michele 

this very cool spring 

in which the blossoms John 

are snowy white 

our upturned hands tap into 

the pulse of a spring shower Michele 

John Stevenson - USA 

Michele Harvey - USA 

Page 12


warm front 

the romance novel 

opens itself 

John Hawk - USA 

something more 

in the air tonight 

golden moon 


lost summer 

the berries the birds 

left behind 


thriller 

my cat shreds 

the last page 

Pris Campbell - USA 

grey morning dream 

painted on the lake 

is the sun. 

Tatjana Debeljacki - Serbia 

Page 13


How an acceptance happens – Richard Krawiec 

I thought it might be interesting for some to read the process Penny Harter and I went 

through that led to minor changes in her poem which is published in this issue. This is an 

example of my process as an editor, her process as a writer, and the process we both 

engaged in together. I have cut some of the familiar chit-chat out of these exchanges and 

left in the focus on the poem. 

1. Submission by Penny Harter 

Into the Sea 

A night light? I don't blow out my candles before sleep. 

What dreams? A gray ghost whispered, "Mirrors always lie." Not that kind of lie. 

Where do you sleep? In an abandoned steeple. 

Do you get it now? Sure, like a kid wading into the sea. 

stone Buddha— 

in his lap, the glint 

of mica 

2. First response by Richard Krawiec 

Penny, 

Do you see the italicized parts as another voice, or in her mind? Love the haiku. 

I do think "Sure, like a kid wading into the sea." lacks the poetry of the rest of your haibun. Are you 

sure you even need that line and it's question? 

Do you ever play around with your line order? Visually if you began with 'Where do you sleep" 

then followed with 'A night light?' and 'What dreams?' you'd have a nice lengthening flow that 

could represent both stairs and the sea. And I think the progression of questions makes narrative 

sense that way too. 

Page 14

3. Penny’s response 

Hi Richard, 

I've run the line order by a few folks, and when I suggested changing it, one well-respected haiku 

poet said it was better, more natural, the way it was. That it worked better being that random— 

more mysterious. I'd wanted to change it the way you suggested, for the narrative progression. 

I understand your saying "like a child wading into the sea" lacks the same level of poetry (prose 

poetry) as the rest. But the haiku is, in a way, an answer to wading into the sea—in that we never 

"get it" all—and are just treading water. Of course the Buddha would say that there is nothing to 

get. Perhaps I can rephrase that question and answer more elegantly. 

The questions could come from anywhere. I think it's best to leave them vague—could be from 

another speaker, or in the speaker's head. Or from the void :). They are both random and 

narrative, but strange questions, thoughts, not unlike those one has sometimes in that state 

between sleeping and waking. They just came to me that way. 

Let's see: 

If I were to get rid of the "Do you get it now? " question and answer line, I'd want the "abandoned 

steeple" line to stay where it is—leading to the Buddha. . . the steeple representing the use of 

organized religion. . . Of course I wasn't consciously thinking about much, if any, of this while 

writing it. 

Let me think on this a while and get back to you. I welcome any responses you have to my 

thoughts above. 

4. Richard’s reply 

Penny, 

I don't think I'd want you to identify where the questions are coming from, I was just curious what 

you thought. 

I am trying to look at haibun more from a broader poetry perspective not just a haiku poet's 

perspective. 

But as Jane Hirshfield says, I can give you my honest advice but you need to retain the right to 

reject it all because it's your poem, and you need to do what you want with it. 

I am not always right, and people who I have published in gean can tell you that I listen as well as 

suggest. But I am a good editor and I think I’m right about the line order. 

Again, that does not mean I'm right. But I believe I am in this case. 


continued overleaf 

Page 15

5. Penny replies 

Hi Richard, 

You are convincing me to go with my first impulse---and your suggestion---move that line about 

"where do you sleep" to the first line. 

Let me think a little more about the "into the sea" line—to keep or change or omit—and I'll get back 

to you soon. 

6. Penny again 

Hi Richard, 

I want to change that last line totally. The question completes the circle that begins with "Where do 

you sleep?" I pared the answer down to just "The sky", though I was thinking things like "I raise my 

face into the sky," or "I give myself to the sky." It works for me because sea and sky are mirror 

images of each other. 

And as I decided on "The sky" for my answer, I was remembering a haiku I wrote in the late 

eighties when Bill and I were staying in a pilgrim's dormitory on Mount Haguro, Japan. Here is an 

excerpt from my essay "Seeing and Connecting" from The Unswept Path (White Pine Press, 

2005) about that experience and the haiku: 

_______________________________________________ 

During the summer of 1987 my husband and I were fortunate enough to spend the night in a 

pilgrims' dormitory on Mount Haguro in Yamagata Prefecture, Japan. When I entered the room, its 

entire far end open to the sky, I quickly crossed the space to the edge of the tatami-matted floor 

and opened my arms: 

fingertip to fingertip 

and still more sky--- 

Mount Haguro." 

__________________________________________________ 

So, how about the following---and I'm wondering whether the spaces should be maintained 

between questions/answer lines, or not. I think I like the spaces. And maybe "whispered" should 

be in present tense: "whispers". What do you think? 


Page 16

Into the Sea 



What dreams? A gray ghost whispered, "Mirrors always lie." Not that kind of lie. 

And when you wake? The sky. 



of mica 

7. Richard replies 

I love this. 'The sky' is perfect. You're right, we should keep the spaces between questions and 

answers. And I would change whispered to 'whispers'. 

8. Penny responds 

So we'll go with the corrected version, below. Only thing, is maybe we ought to change the title, 

since the "sea" no longer is in the poem. If so, it could be "Into the Sky." OR, we could call it "Night 

Thoughts". What do you think? 

9. Richard responds 

I like 'Into the Sky' because the glint of mica pierces the sky, too. 

I have really enjoyed working with you. I think editors and writers should work together. I don't see 

my job as trying to tell you how to write - but to recognize what it is you're aiming for. I learn a lot 

from hearing what you have to say, and that helps me be a better editor on other pieces. 

So this is the final. 


Please turn the page for the final piece 

Page 17

Into the Sky 




What dreams? A gray ghost whispers, "Mirrors always lie." Not that kind of lie. 

And when you wake? The sky. 



of mica 

Penny Harter – USA 

Page 18


how did it begin 

neither of us made 

the first move— 

you empty your mind 

I empty the bins 


when our eyes 

first touched 

my heart beat 

like church bells 

on Sunday 


the kettle 

begins its cool 

moodswings . . . 

I blame my father 

and he blames his 


Page 19


Maire Morrissey-Cummins - Ireland 

Page 20


Man Standing in the Rain 

willow leaves 

turn away— 

first drops of rain 

rain coat 

one size too big— 

river down my back 

walking in the rain— 

missing one puddle 

but not the next 

listening to rain 

under my umbrella— 

thousands of haiku 

after the rain 

playing a game 

of pick-up sticks 

horizontal rain— 

what wind 

looks like 

Jerry Dreesen - USA 

Page 21

A Favourite Haiku 

heat wave— 

the horse blinks away 

a gnat’s life 

—Carole MacRury 



heatwave by Carole MacRury: a commentary by Michael Dylan Welch 

One supposed rule of haiku is to use concrete objective imagery, yet here is a poem that successfully 

employs abstraction—referring to the concept of the gnat’s “life.” Yet it works because everything else 

in the poem is concrete. We can accept the fact that there’s a heat wave, and enter into what that 

means—lethargy, sweat, and a longing for cool shadows. We can easily see a horse blinking, too, and 

can marvel in the poet’s close observation in seeing a gnat at a horse’s eye. But imagine if the poem’s last 

line were just “a gnat.” That could work, too, and perhaps we could leap to the same realization of the 

contrast in size between these large and small animals. Yet saying simply “a gnat” would lack not just 

the realization that the gnat’s short life has ended, but the larger interplay between the objects of the 

poem and the subjective realization of the poet. This is best done as lightly as possible, however, for too 

much subjectivity or abstraction drowns a haiku. By inserting just this touch of abstraction, the poet 

reveals her engagement with the objects described, and we as readers see that as well as seeing the 

objectively described images. Whether this was achieved consciously or accidentally is of little 

consequence. What matters is that haiku can be larger than a purely objective description, if carefully 

handled. The key detail is to find the necessary balance, as this poem does, between the primarily 

objective depictions and that touch of subjectivity or abstraction. 

Carole MacRury’s “heat wave” is from Haiku Friends Vol. 2., 

Masaharu Hirata, ed., Osaka, Japan: Umeda Printing Factory, 2007, page 68. 

Michael Dylan Welch -USA 

Page 22


wildflowers by George Swede: a commentary by Lynne Rees 

wildflowers 

I cannot name 

most of me 

George Swede 

The opening line, composed of a single word, slows me down with its first two long syllables. And that 

pace is perfect for the contemplation woven through this economical haiku. 

The pivot line is structurally satisfying – it rocks me in (wildflowers/I cannot name) and out (I cannot 

name/most of me) of the haiku – as is the balance of 3/4/3 syllables. But these formal characteristic serve 

the ideas behind the haiku too. 

The first two lines, taken as a couplet, describe a concrete experience that’s probably common to all of 

us: a lack of knowledge or names forgotten as we walk through the countryside. The haiku instantly 

involves me, invites me to share the moment. 

The 2 nd and 3 rd lines present a different kind of couplet: a personal reflection that is both concrete and 

abstract. How many of us could recite the litany of parts that make up our own complex organism? And 

how many of us are convinced that we truly know and understand ourselves: the different identities we 

adopt, the strange imagery that comes to us in dreams, or spontaneous and surprising emotion in 

response to unexpected events? 

Yet all of those things are offered to us in this haiku of seven words. 

Haiku are such light expressions it is easy to overload them with philosophy. The movement from the 

natural world in line 1 to the economy of expression in lines 2 and 3 avoids that through 

understatement and simple declarative phrase. It manages to be both witty and thoughtful. 

It is perhaps no accident that this haiku is the final one in George Swede’s collection. Rather than close 

down the book, it opens it up for me, encourages me to reflect on what I cannot name, what I do not 

know, about myself and the wider world. It sets me on a road of discovery, should I choose to take it. 

George Swede, Joy in Me Still, inkling press, Edmonton, AB T6G 2T5, Canada, p.79 

Eat, Live, Write with Lynne Rees at the hungry writer 

Author of Real Port Talbot due from Seren Books in 2013 

Lynne Rees – UK 

Page 23


the longest night . . . 

every mistake 

I ever made 

Bill Kenney - USA 

hunter's moon 

the old dog sighs 

into sleep 

Bill Kenney - USA 

traveller 

my sister returns 

with two heartbeats 

isadora vibes - UK 

picking my way 

among the broken lives 

low tide 

Jo McInerney - Australia 

café lights 

through the slanting rain 

a slow love song 

Jo McInerney - Australia 

Page 24


an old argument 

untangling 

the christmas lights 

Ben Moeller-Gaa - USA 

late afternoon sun 

walking through 

the shadows of strangers 

Ben Moeller-Gaa - USA 

sunrise 

a champagne cork 

bubbles down the river 

Tiggy Johnson - Australia 

late December rains — the water dragon's first wingflash 

Beverly Acuff Momoi - USA 

waning moon 

a lizard's tail dangling 

from the cat's mouth 

Beverly Acuff Momoi - USA 

Page 25

a trace of warmth 

insomnia all the shadows of things 

when the day opens awkwardly I leave the house and walk through the orchard to the row of 

leylandii and look at the depressions in the dusty ground where I'm sure the wild pheasants nestle 

during the day, even though I only know them from claw marks left in the earth; my hand never 

finds a trace of warmth in the shallow bowls, not even a feather 

some days I catch a glimpse of them – the males barred bright gold and brown, their red wattles, 

the mottled females – skittering between the rows of apple trees, always keeping a distance 

how can they trust us after all this time? 

I startled them once, in the farmyard when I opened the back door, a dozen or more of them taking 

flight at the sound then sight of me: the whirr of wings loud enough to make me step back 

suddenly, alarm mixed with delight, flashes of green and purple returning to me at moments for the 

rest of that day, like a charge to the heart 

Lynne Rees - UK 


Page 26


a crystal dewdrop 

rests on an oak leaf . . . 

immersed 

in the breeze 

I want to see my future 

Marion Clarke - USA 

my father 

sinking 

behind a cloud . . . 

I draw him gently 

with a pencil 

Ken Slaughter - USA 

one more sip 

of my Starbucks latte... 

through the window 

Chairman Mao's stern face 

above the Tiananmen Gate 

Chen-ou Liu – Canada 

Page 27


Irene Szewczyk -Poland 

Page 28


Sepia Blues a "renray" 

abandoned row houses— 

behind them in the field 

a scarecrow grins 

dust on his toes 

mud on his heels 

opened bindle— 

a hobo puffs 

his corncob pipe 

lucky stars 

a possum for the burgoo 

first snowfall 

crowns the highest peaks 

migrations— 

she hums while sorting 

seed from pod 

a waft of pumpkin spice 

in the cold crisp air 

quilt to my neck 

father reads 

of Ichabod Crane 

Penny Harter, Susan Myers Nelson, Curtis Dunlap 

and Terri L. French – USA (verses in that order) 

Page 29


haiku matters 

Humour in Haiku: Colin Stewart Jones 

What may be funny to one person may not be funny to the next. It would be foolish to try to narrowly 

define such a broad subject area with one simple definition, but here goes anyway: it’s funny if it makes 

you laugh! The masthead of Haijinx boldly declares that it is ‘putting the hai back in haiku’—hai, 

meaning humorous or joke—but what is humour in haiku, and has it ever been there? 

The pun is perhaps the simplest form of wordplay and yet also the most disdained. Generally speaking, 

people seem to fall into two categories when it comes to wordplay and either totally embrace it or reject 

it in all of its forms because of the negativity that has come to be associated with punning. Yet, as we 

will see wordplay is a device that has often been adopted in haiku. For an example of brilliant use of 

wordplay let us firstly look at Bashō’s most famous poem: 

At the ancient pond 

a frog plunges into 

the sound of water 1 

Bashō turns everything we think we know on its head with this poem. We know it is the action of the 

frog that disperses the water to make the sound and that an object cannot enter into a sound; yet 

something immediately registers with the reader and they instinctively understand the poem, even 

though Bashō is saying the opposite of what is true. Basho’s quirky take on the natural order has made 

the situation surreal and, therefore, funny. There is a deeper philosophical significance here also 

whereby Bashō cleverly makes the laws of cause and effect, seem absurd. 

Basho’s use of humour is equally effective in the following haiku: 

Summer grasses: 

all that remains of great soldiers’ 

imperial dreams 2 

On first reading one feels the poet’s sadness and there is no denying the pathos. The poem is a rather 

damning indictment on the futility of war. On second reading, one is struck by the inclusion of the 

word ‘great’. Surely, not all soldiers are great in stature or deed. One may ask; how would Bashō know if 

they were ‘great’ now that the grass is covering them? He didn’t. By showing us that something as 

simple as the grass has covered the mighty, Bashō is mocking them and, by extension, their noble ideals. 

Bashō was, of course, not always so subtle and he resorted to plain sarcasm when he described his 

imitators as melons. 

Buson uses similar language to Bashō’s ‘summer grasses’ in the following haiku: 

1 

Trans; Sam Hamill,The Sound of Water: Haiku by Bashō, Buson, Issa and Other Poets, 

(Shambala, Boston 2000) p.6 

One may argue over the precision of some translations but I have chosen the versions that I believe best highlight 

humour of haiku...and I don’t have many books. 

2 

ibid, p.34 

Page 30

Nobly, the great priest 

deposits his daily stool 

in bleak winter fields. 3 

While Bashō seems to be use a mocking tone, Buson is so deadpan in his rendering of the scene that 

even the translator, Sam Hamill, notes that Buson is ‘reminding his audience that nobility has nothing 

whatever to do with palaces and embroidered robes, but true nobility is obtainable in every human 

endeavour.’ 4 This may perhaps seem the case to Hamill. The word nobly, however, in conjunction with 

human toilet actions should immediately alert the reader that there is more going on here than simple 

description of a scene. Nobly, sets this poem up so perfectly and allows one to instantly see the irony 

and impossibility of the situation: try as he might, the great priest cannot be noble while being observed 

doing something as common as his toilet. One can almost hear Buson’s irreverent laughter. The fact that 

it is a bleak winter day just makes the priest’s attempts at being noble all the more ridiculous, but 

completes the poem. No amount of pomp can disguise the fact that even the high and mighty are just 

the same as common people because they must also move their bowels each day. 

Plum blossoms in bloom, 

in a Kitano teahouse, 

the master of sumo 5 

In this poem by Buson we see the delicateness of plum blossoms in bloom, symbolising the freshness of 

youth, juxtaposed with the strength of the old wrestler. The master of a sumo wrestling stable was a 

retired wrestler who would have been a good wrestler in his prime. The image of a presumably large 

man sipping his tea in a teahouse, which was usually very small, is a funny one. The job of the master is, 

of course, to bring blossoming talent into fruition. Though the fruit is never mentioned, the reader’s 

mind is also projected ahead of time to envisage the plum fruit, and by extension the full, purple face of 

the master wrestler. 

If there is one word that best describes Issa, it is probably whimsical. 

my noontime nap 

disrupted by voices singing 

rice-planting songs 6 

The humour in Issa’s haiku is more obvious than either Bashō or Buson. Issa is seemingly more 

concerned with his rest and how dare they, who sing through the necessity of planting, wake him. 

However, one also sees a tongue firmly planted in Issa’s cheek. Part of Issa’s charm is that he seems not 

to care what other people think of him as he wanders along observing or talking to creatures: 

Under the evening moon 

The snail 

Is stripped to the waist. 7 

3 

ibid, p.55 

4 

ibid, translators introduction, p.xii 

5 

ibid, p.66 

6 

ibid p.91 

7 

Peter Washington, ed, Haiku, (Everyman, New York, 2003) p.69 


Page 31

In this haiku, Issa cleverly shows us juxtaposition without ever directly mentioning it. We still see the 

shell juxtaposed with the moon as the snail extends outwards. The image of someone stripped to the 

waist usually implies work or action...maybe love. The humour of this haiku is contained in the absurd 

idea of a snail being stripped to the waist and ready for action...but the ‘action’ is at a snail’s pace. 

The poem below by Kerouac is an excellent example of how several layers of humour can be employed 

in the one haiku: 

In my medicine cabinet, 

The winter fly 

Has died of old age. 8 

Due to an accidental incarceration in Kerouac’s medicine cabinet, a fly has managed to survive into the 

Winter. Flies do not normally survive into the Winter and even though surrounded by medicine the fly 

does eventually die we realise that Kerouac has been in good health because he did not need to visit his 

medicine cabinet through the Winter. Kerouac’s health also ensures a lengthy extension to the fly’s life 

and yet paradoxically also simultaneously causing its death. In the final irony, the dead fly is only 

discovered when Kerouac needs to take some medicine; if only he had been unwell sooner the fly may 

have survived. 

The following haiku, by Nobel Laureate, Seamus Heaney, breaks what may some consider to be “rules”: 

firstly it has a title; and secondly it follows a 575 metre. It is worth mentioning here that there are many 

who still advocate a strict metre; the Scottish poet, Norman McCaig, used to say of poems that did not 

follow the syllabic count “they are not haiku—they’re just wee poems”. 

1.1.87 

Dangerous pavements. 

But I face the ice this year 

With my father’s stick. 9 

To many readers this haiku may not seem funny at all but, in fact, quite the opposite. On first reading 

we notice Heaney now has to face his old age with his father’s stick. One presumes his father has died 

and the stick has been passed on to him. There is a wonderfully slow sense of progression in the poem as 

we go from generation to generation linked through the continuity of the stick being handed down. 

One must be very careful with 575 haiku to avoid padding: notice the “but” at the beginning of line two, 

some may perhaps ask if it is really needed to convey the message of the poem. Forget about the metre 

for a moment and consider the haiku without the “but”: 


I face the ice this year 

With my father’s stick. 

8 ibid p.237 

9 Seamus Heaney, Seeing Things, (Faber and Faber London, 1991) p.20 


Page 32

Is it not just simply a haiku about cycles of death and ageing now, as I have outlined above—with the 

pathos being clearly evident. Heaney, however, is cleverly playing with the casual reader and while he 

is happy if you think this he certainly wants people to look further. Look again at the complete poem 

and ask why then did Heaney include the “but”? Do you hear the unvoiced laugh and the devil-maycare 

tone of Heaney before he has even ventured outside? 

Ha-ha! 


But I face the ice this year 

With my Father’s stick. 

We could add more lines: 

He got through it 

And so will I. 

Though modern writers of haiku seem to mainly look for juxtaposition of concrete images, it could be 

argued that, they should also be trying to be more creative with their word choice and usage to 

highlight any humour in a scene. Whether one likes the idea or not the basis of all poetry is wordplay; 

and a joke also depends on wordplay to deliver its message. Of those who write humorous haiku today 

many seem to take Issa’s questions to creatures as their reference point. I have done this myself: 

empty bottle— 

was it you 

you little worm? 10 

What else can one do when drunk and confronted with the dreaded empty bottle but blame someone 

else. The Mescal worm was promptly eaten and, therefore, lost the argument; but did add much needed 

protein to my diet. 

In the following example Alan D. Taylor also uses the questioning technique to humorous effect: 

wasp in a jar— 

is there a point 

to your anger? 11 

While this is essentially a pun, it is a very good one, and seems like a valid question to ask. 

Likewise Jeff Winke points out the pointless and has keen sense for the absurd with his haiku: 

her training bra 

with nothing to train: 

bra in training 12 

10 Colin Stewart Jones, A Seal Snorts out the Moon, (Cauliay, Aberdeen, 2007) p. 56 

subsequently published in: New Resonance 7, Red Moon Press, (Winchester, USA, 2011) 

11 Alan D Taylor, first published in: Clouds Peak #1, July 2006, online (now defunct) 


Page 33

Is it the bra that is in training for when it will be needed to be a training bra? By using clever wordplay 

and repetition of the same imagery, Winke, poses this unstated question which also ultimately asks; 

“what’s the point?” 

Sometimes the joke is much funnier if it takes a while for you to understand its subtleties. 

outside the pub 

the sailor 

faces the wind 13 

There is the obvious and mildly amusing allusion to being drunk and “three sheets to the wind” in 

Chuck Brickley’s haiku. However, the poem also hints at other funny possibilities. Sailors seldom face 

the wind because it is difficult to make headway. One assumes he is listing badly. There is also a very 

real possibility his bladder is full and he needs to pee; any sober sailor would know of the danger of 

facing the wind in that situation. 

An objective writer would never disregard any device at his disposal which is capable of rendering a 

scene with the most precision to achieve the desired effect. Poets are not meant to be reporters who 

simply ‘tell it like it is’ but, rather by careful observation and inventiveness with words, poets should be 

capable of spotting life’s ironies and elevating the seemingly ordinary into something special. It takes 

great wit to play with words, and laughter is also a special gift which should be cultivated. From the 

sublime to the ridiculous, humour in its many forms has always been, and still is, present in haiku. If the 

moment requires humour, then as writers, should we not keep on putting the hai with the ku. 

Bibliography 

Books: 

A Seal Snorts out the Moon, Colin Stewart Jones (Cauliay, Aberdeen, 2007) 

Haiku, Peter Washington, ed., (Everyman, New York, 2003) 

Seeing Things, Seamus Heaney, (Faber and Faber London, 1991) 

The Haiku Anthology, 3 rd Edition, Cor Van Den Heuval Ed 

(WW Norton & Co, London, 1999) 

The Sound of Water: Haiku by Bashō, Buson, Issa and Other Poets, 

Trans; Sam Hamill (Shambala, Boston 2000) 

Journals: 

clouds peak #1, online journal 2006 (now defunct) 

Frogpond, XXII:i, HSA Publications (USA, 1999) 

12 Jeff Winke, Frogpond 1999, XXII:i, HSA publications, p.47 

13 Chuck Brickley, The Haiku Anthology, 3 rd Edition, Cor Van Den Heuval Ed (WW Norton & Co, London, 1999) 


Page 34


John Byrne - Eire 

Page 35


a tiny snail on 

the long march across the pavement; 

overnight rain 

Timothy Collinson - UK 

paper kites 

above the mall's flat roof, 

strengthening wind 

Timothy Collinson - UK 

low winter sun 

warming up a row 

of chimney pots 

Marion Clarke - Ireland 

morning mirror 

caught staring 

into my own eyes 

Scott Owens - USA 

lost in a blaze 

of maples 

the yellow fire hydrant 

Angela Terry - USA 

Page 36


not long enough 

the bed 

the night 

Graham Nunn - Australia 

redwood forest 

a blue jay disappears 

into sky 

Graham Nunn - Australia 

gathering storm 

crows squabble 

over the wheat field 

Liz Rule - Australia 

weeping willow 

it’s not the wind 

it’s the leaving 

Lucas Stensland - USA 

choosing at random 

birds, wherever 

they land 


Page 37


Fairground Animals - Jūnichō 

in a dark corner 

the glow 

of an apple 

system failure 

the quant grits his teeth 

under an orange sun 

young protesters 

put up tents 

an armed crew 

storms the farm gates 

unaware of their fate 

nearby cows 

moo loudly 

baby’s burp 

the smell of curdled milk 

flowing concrete 

a big footprint 

takes shape 

yeti sightings 

up again this year 

new planet 

the soothsayer 

predicts disaster 

white cloud puffs 

blur the spring moon 

hanging curtains 

a blue-headed moth 

drops from the folds 

fairground animals 

spin into each turn 

Participating poets and verse allocation: 

Annie Bachini - England, 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 12 

Steve Mason – England, 2, 4, 6, 7, 9, 11 

Page 38

Searching the Size 

It is the evening hour of cloudy summer in Doon Valley, Dehradun. The children are busy 

collecting pebbles from the river bank. The rock pebbles record the long journey to reach the 

moon-like shape. Out of joy, I also start picking a few and return home. My tiny daughter, Rupa, 

posts an eager look and smiles. 

cut out of moon 

the child reconfirms 

looking up 

P K Padhy - India 


Page 39


thick, congealed 

blood on the moonlit floor… 

ten years later 

slowly a face 

takes shape in my mind 

Chen-ou Liu - Canada 

meerkats 

in the zoo, tapping 

bewildered 

at glass walls, sniffing 

a blue-painted ceiling 

Amelia Fielden - Australia 

I walk alone 

beside Lake Ontario -- 

an eagle 

circles above me 

on this windless day 


Page 40


Lake Ontario 

cupped in my hands 

a Taiwan moon . . . 

her words linger in my heart 

there's no there there 

Chen-ou Liu- Canada 

the white heron 

lifts up, flies away 

from the lake 

with its reflection 

and my melancholy 

Amelia Fielden - Australia 

clear water 

cascading down my spine 

I shake myself 

out of the blue 

of a kingfisher 

Claire Everett - UK 

Page 41


old friend— 

embracing him 

our bones collide 


lobster fishermen 

arguing— 

a bag of claws 


sleepless— 

his pillow 

full of voices 


—a carcass 

sibling crows gather 

to pick the bones 

Anne Curran - New Zealand 

old gate 

curlicues 

of iron and creeper 

Nick Sherwood - UK 

Page 42


he asks if it’s 

the end of the line 

winter moon 

Cara Holman - USA 

plum blossom rain— 

matching my step 

to his 


frost footprints 

my memory of her 

fading 


end of a love . . . 

honey hardens 

in the jar 

Polona Oblak - Slovenia 

autumn berry 

the tell-tale sign 

of her lipstick 

Tracy Davidson - UK 

Page 43


Special Feature 

NaHaiWriMo 

NaWriHaiMo (National Haiku Writing Month) is an initiative that provides daily prompts on a Facebook 

community page to stimulate its members to compose a haiku. It has just completed its second year and goes 

from strength to strength. 

http://www.facebook.com/pages/NaHaiWriMo/108107262587697?sk=wall 

https://sites.google.com/site/nahaiwrimo/home 

To celebrate its success, Michael Dylan Welch, the organiser of this February event which actually continues 

throughout the year on Facebook, has announced that a book will be published featuring selected haiku from 

NaWriHaiMo 2012. 

Notes from the Gean believes that Michael’s initiative is an important one which fully lines up with our mission to 

promote education, excellence and experimentation within haiku and are, therefore, pleased to run a special 

feature on NaHaiWriMo. 

Notes from the Gean surveyed members of the group with five brief questions and is pleased publish select 

answers to each question: a kind of community interview if you will. 

No 5-7-5 logo and Simpsons graphic by Michael Dylan welch 

Page 44

Q1. 

Colin Stewart Jones How did you first get to hear of NaHaiWriMo and would you actively promote the group to 

other writers of haiku? 

Tawnya Smith I heard about it last year from someone in my writing group. Several of them were participating in 

NaNoWriMo. I told them novels were beyond me at the moment, and one suggested NaHaiWriMo. I'd also 

seen it mentioned on a few blogs I read. 

Anna Yin I found it through Google and thought it very interesting and wanted to challenge myself since I seldom 

wrote with prompts...and it would last a whole month! I kept write one or three every day and had so much 

fun to read others and my own. It just kept popping...with inspiration and joy...(even sometimes we wrote 

haiku implying sad mood) when the last day, the prompt was leap year… see, time flies so I wrote: leap year, 

your rare birthday, the painter add dragon’s eye…. in Chinese legend, as soon as the dragon was added eyes, 

it would fly away…But gladly, we still stay here and keep writing. 

Cameron Mount I recently joined a group of haijin in south Jersey, a new charter of the HSA which had its first 

meeting in early February. In the email list that went around, one of the other poets (Penny Harter, actually) 

mentioned the Facebook group. I jumped right on it. For the last few National Poetry Months I've written a 

haiku a day anyway, and I've been a fan of Basho and Issa for quite a while, but never really had a 

community to share my own with. 

Jayashree Maniyil Answer to Q1 - I learnt about NaHaiWriMo through the poetry blog dVerse Poets Pub. There was 

a post about haiku and its form (from memory) and everybody was encouraged to write one and link it to the 

post. I think, as part of the discussion through the comments section, one of the comments to the post had a 

link to NaHaiWriMo blog. That is how I landed here. Normally I don't trust my memory that much but I am 

most certain that this is how I came to know of NaHaiWriMo. I would certainly recommend this site to 

anybody who is keen on learning haiku. Lot of fantastic writers sharing the same page with beginners like me, 

encouraging and providing constructive feedback, having fun together and learning from each other. And of 

course we have useful tips shared by members and most importantly Michael - lots of reading material on 

Graceguts. Every post that I make is one tiny step closer to understanding it....and of course with every step 

forward, I slip back a few steps again!!! :-). Its all fun and good. I enjoy being here. 

Hannah Gosselin I noticed a writing friend of mine doing a haiku a day challenge on a facebook page (I missed half 

the month looking for it, as I didn't have the right name), but I've really been enjoying it now that I'm here 

and I've posted a link to a friend to help her get back into the poetry practice, too… 

Cara Holman I heard about NaHaiWriMo last year when I noticed several Facebook friends of mine clicking "Like" on 

the page. I am always open to new poem-a-day challenges, so I decided to give it a try. Over a year later, I 

am still writing (though not always posting) haiku daily. I would definitely recommend NaHaiWriMo to anyone 

who wants to improve their haiku, develop a daily writing habit, or just connect with the online haiku 

community. 

Tore Sverredal I found it when I made a Facebook search for haiku groups and sites last autumn. I would definitely 

recommend it to anyone interested in haiku! 

Terry O'Connor First heard about it when I eavesdropped a whispered conversation at a Haiku Anonymous meeting 

last year...tried everything to quit, but when I noticed that even cold turkey was a season word, I resigned 

myself to my fate, and I've been here ever since. 

I don't tell people...don't have to, it's an epidemic 

Carlos Colón Susan Delphine Delaney gave be the scoop. I have spread the word to the NW La. Haiku Society, but 

have not seen any of the members posting yet. 

Alee Imperial Albano A Wikipedia entry! That's very likely and soon from you, Michael! And in answer to your 

question, Colin: I learned about it vaguely at first from Vicki McCullough during one of our meetings, the Vancouver 

Haiku Group. But it was Jessica Tremblay, then a new member, who explained to us what NaHaiWriMo is. I believe I 

also read it on Red Dragonfly, Melissa Allen's blog… 

Pris Campbell I heard about it in one of the FB groups on haiku back before the 2011 Feb challenge and was 

hooked right away. I always recommend it to anyone writing haiku or interested in learning more about it. 

Writing to the same prompt is fun and the links are educational. 


Page 45

Jann Wirtz I gave up at Laundry.. after Jam and Kitchen the domesticity got to me! 

Michele Harvey I'm not sure if I first saw NaHaiWriMo on Facebook,The Haiku Foundation News or one of the many 

blogs I subscribe to, but all at once it was everywhere! I jumped in late last February, found it addicting and 

decided to stay for the ride. Haiku (as many have said) is a way of life, a way of experiencing the world. 

NaHaiWriMo has been like catching a bullet train instead of a donkey cart. 

The interesting aspect of Kukai, is that the smaller the focus, (as if 17 syllables isn't small enough) the more 

creativity is called upon. 

My only quibble is that more of the larger haiku community doesn't join in. There are many admired poets I'd 

love to see tackle some of these kukai. That would be quite a thrill. 

Yes. I'd definitely recommend this to any haijin, beginner or otherwise. It's great to get the juices flowing and 

limber up one's skills 

Otsenre Ogaitnas I first heard of NaHaiWriMo last year while having lunch with some haiku poets @ Haiku Society 

of America National Quarterly Meeting/Bend Haiku Weekend 3-5 June, 2011 in Bend, Oregon where I was a 

haiku presenter and an invited guest by award winning Oregon poet an'ya and PeterB. And @ the meet, one 

day, if I remember well I think I saw MDW wearing his signature t-shirt with a no 575 logo. But only last 

month I committed myself to NaHaiWriMo for its February event to support my fellow HSA friends / haiku 

writers, and of course to challenge myself if I can haiku for a whole month. Oh, do I still need to recommend 

it? NaHaiWriMo is a recommendable thing, and I can recommend it anytime, but honestly I don’t have to 

because haiku writers and haiku enthusiasts as well will come to... 

Barb Westerman McGrory I first heard about this group when I was using a page I had under another persona (a 

writer page I kept separate from my family page). I networked with a lot of other writing enthusiasts and it 

was through some friends participating in NaNoWriMo (oddly enough) in 2010 that I found this page and 

briefly participated last year. This year I decided to really work on the craft and now I seem to be obsessed. I 

think this exercise is helping me a lot with my creative non-fiction writing, though where I used to write long, 

complicated, word-happy poetry, since January I've been able to write nothing but haiku & I'm starting to 

think I have a more compulsive personality than I'd already suspected. lol... I appreciate it when I get 

feedback, I enjoy reading the compositions of others, and I appreciate the challenge of trying to fit the 

incessant dialogue running through my head into as few words as possible.I lean toward offbeat, but I like 

coming here in an attempt to broaden my scope. Thanks! :) 

Susan Shand I first heard about NaHaiWriMo in a message from MDW prior to the launch. Yes I would and do 

promote it to new haiku writers. It is an excellent site and a very welcoming place for people who are learning 

where they can post their early haiku. It is also very interesting to see what other people do with the daily 

prompts, so it is stimulating for seasoned writers too. 

Kathabela Wilson I first heard about NaHaiWrimo by someone mumbling weird sounds under their breath. When I 

asked them to speak up they said the same thing again whatever it was... I asked... what does this mean? 

Their eyes lit up and then they explained it... alright I said so I went and looked and liked the Facebook page. 

I knew MDW had started it, so I thought. Okay... it has to be good. This was about a year ago when I was 

young and innocent. Then it happened. It took over my life... well for a while then I thought... no no I can't 

let it happen. It's a trap, that's what it is, with magic incantations too. "Nahaiwrimo..." say it over and over 

and see what happens to you. Well I dipped in over the last year and tasted it again a little thinking I was a 

free person. But then it happened again... I no longer had any control. You notice they say "Nahaiwrimo" 

mean National Haiku Writing Month" (I still tell people who hear ME mumble it and they look at me 

sideways...!) Well the month never ends... it's an endless feast. You have to think before you recommend it... 

but I do... your life will be full of poems, your head will be full of haiku night and day, you will dream of 

haiku, wake up with haiku in your mind, your husband will be afraid to get out of bed because you will read 

him fifteen new haiku before coffee. You will suddenly know the deep thoughts of hundreds of new friends... 

and one of them may even decide to turn into a nine headed earthworm (really this happened in his haiku) 

and you after thinking about that for 3 days will decide you love it) so... be careful. it's too much fun, and 

how will you get anything else done??? Well the good energy and humor gives a great dynamic to your day... 

and um... you may lose weight -- I haven't even made breakfast yet. 

Annette Makino I learned of NaHaiWriMo via Twitter on the 4th day of last month. Starting then I posted every day 

thru February and also posted my haiku, with links back to the NaHaiWriMo page, on Twitter… 

Jenny Angyal I first learned about NaHaiWriMo from a post on Troutswirl, the Haiku foundation's blog. I would 

recommend it to anyone interested in haiku. Writing to the prompts is very stimulating and results in haiku I 

never would have written otherwise… 


Page 46

Q2. 

Colin Stewart Jones Does the sense of community work better than a closed forum which can sometimes 

intimidate? 

Hansha Teki It has quite a different dynamic, Col. Sometimes the sense of community challenges one to hone one's 

skills more but just as easily the cosiness can make one lazy and settle for lukewarm poems knowing that 

they will be appreciated anyway. 

Violette Rose-Jones I think its much better here and we dont seem to b attracting the troll element which can b 

disheartening. 

James Rodriguez the way it works here is nice, everyone who participates is here to learn and share and there isn't 

the, crusty few i guess, ones with their own personal agendas or axes to grind that are so common 

elsewhere. mdw does a great job keeping things running smooth and providing links to help all of us grow 

and expand in the craft. 

Rosemary Nissen-Wade I have not been in any closed haiku forums. I like the friendliness and supportiveness of 

people here, and feel the beginnings of that warm sense of community which I have experienced so abundantly in 

other open haiku groups on fb and elsewhere. I think the standard here is in general quite high and that my own 

haiku have improved due to my participation this year. 

Jayashree Maniyil Q2: I have not been in any closed forums either. This is my first time in something of this kind 

and that too on facebook. I was quiet first but soon realised that everybody here is serioius and keen to learn. Serious 

meaning not that we don't have fun. We do. But all in good spirit. 

Annie Juhl It was with a pounding heart I wrote my first haiku here a year ago. I was an absolute novice, (still am) 

and my English was very limited. I soon found out that this community was a “safe” place. It’s friendly, including, 

supportive, instructive and fun. 

Susan Shand …They are different. There tends to be much less of the personality challenging stuff in NHWM which 

makes it more relaxed and less confrontational than some other groups. There isn't much critique either, which makes 

for a fairly non-judgemental comfort zone. Everyone needs a comfort zone :). 

Mark E. Brager I think NaHaiWriMo provides a great sense of community but different from other fora which I have 

experienced which are more for workshopping. I would actually appreciate more feedback on my poems on 

NaiHaiWriMo. 

Rosemary Nissen-Wade As a reader, I like the Like option. It saves me from having to try and find intelligent 

criticisms every time, when all I might really want to say is, 'I like this one'. 

NaHaiWriMo I'm hearing several people say they'd like more commentary on their haiku, such as ways to improve 

it, and hopefully explanations of what makes a poem work. If anyone prefers just to click Like, that's always fine, but 

something to consider is that if think through the reasons why you like a poem, and try to articulate them in a short 

note, that act itself can help you improve your own haiku. 

Kathy Bowman I appreciate the questions but find this one to be leading - future questions might be better phrased 

more neutrally - who doesn't want community? who wouldn't prefer not being intimidated? But it could equally be 

phrased - does a closed forum provide a sense of safety compared to an open one where anyone can make 

intimidating comments? This doesn't mean I'm right but it seems like the questions are set up to lead the answers. 

Hey, that may be what is wanted. It may partly be a function of the yes/no question format, which is certainly easier 

to tabulate than a more open ended question such as - "what kind of forum builds community and safety?" Open? 

Private? Closed? Other - and if so, what? 

Has I beated it to death yet? Asking is always good. 

Colin Stewart Jones just a simple Q from experience kathy. closed forums with lots of experienced writers can 

seem intimidating and i just wondered if folks prefer the open community group to such forums. 

Patsy Turner …love the anonimity and internationality of this medium...have done lots of writing with people i know 

so has been great to give and receive feedback unconditionally ,, 


Page 47

Angie Werren yes :) I actually left one 'closed' community because I felt the 'moderater' imposed his own viewpoint 

much too much. this page is much more welcoming, to poets of all experience levels 

Sheila Windsor great question: from me a resounding: YES 

Sandi Pray Absolutely love the diversity and openness! Yes :)) 

Michele Harvey Col & Michael, ie: a closed forum VS. an open (FB) community; both offer very different benefits. I 

have been on both and have been intimidated on some closed forums. But with that intimidation one is also forced to 

submit to elders who have practiced the form longer and have a greater understanding. With this acquiescence, one 

learns at top speed. The key to any successful forum is focus on the art (of haiku) not on the individual. I owe a great 

debt to some of those that bashed me the most. 

I think the choice depends on what your goal is. To learn how to write haiku, a closed forum will offer focus and 

critique. A Facebook forum is a gentler entry which offers overall encouragement, but won't offer the focused 

teaching a good closed forum can. 

Both can create a real feeling of community. 

Terri Hale French I think it depends where you are at in your "haiku voyage." I also belong to a closed forum and 

we do a lot more critiquing, but we have all been published for awhile and have plenty of rejections under our belts 

so I skin is pretty thick! I think NaHaiWriMo is more about sharing with just little nudges of critique. Many things I 

share here I then take to my closed forum for critique, so both places serve a purpose. I liken it to exercise, here I 

warm up and there I get down to muscle defining. One of the nice things about NaHaiWriMo is someone is always 

here; my closed forum is much smaller and sometimes when I visit nobody is home. : ) 

Terri Hale French our skin I meant! 

Andrew McBride I like this open community forum and have found it validating to have fellow Haikuists "Like" my 

poems and make comments and suggestions. It's very supportive and enjoyable. I also belong to a closed forum with 

very little participation and an in-person critiquing group with lots of participation. 

Alee Imperial Albano I plunged into NaHaiWriMo last year not really knowing what to expect. I guess I was more 

curious than serious. But I knew Michael from the fluke of a haiku, which won for me my one and only award in haiku 

writing so far where he was a judge. I’ve read a lot about him and his essays on haiku and had met him. And I 

wanted to belong to one more of his brainchild. I had also thought it would be great to tug along Melissa Allen, 

Margaret Dornaus (both of whom I’ve befriended through our blogs) and Jessica Tremblay I’d later meet. And so I 

approached NaHaiWriMo with the spunk of a newbie, which I think worked for me because it felt informal. Of course, 

I later realized it was more than a community, in some aka group site, one to which I once belonged, where one 

inertly displays one’s daily ware like say I do in my blog and hope some flies would catch a waft of my offering. It was 

soon turning into a dynamic site where one’s haiku (ware) gets a current of eyes that either pass it on or assess and 

even buy it, ‘like it’ to be more precise and even confirm this with a prized comment. 

At first, sheepishly doing, imitating perhaps, what apparently should be done to others’ haiku, I found myself 

becoming more confident with my own appraisals, even enhancing these with comments. I soon realized that when I 

did this, I was really doing it to my own work. Gradually, our daily haiku started to have definite voices, personalities 

even and NaHai is turning out into an actual community shaped by the varied elements of a world we constructed 

daily with our posts. It isn’t at all surprising that the ‘wall’ we completed everyday is a mosaic of differing skills—of 

course, this showed. But there was no stopping us because as in a community, relationships began with some even 

getting firmed up, even established. Along the way too, the more skilled among us started taking the hand of those 

who were limping, fragile. I was one of them; and so, some of us were turning out better ‘details’ for the wall. The 

holding of hands, the fun and the sharing of cross-cultural universes, as well as the baring of one’s self with inevitable 

true-to-life snatches straying into our haiku, the spontaneous caring that we expressed for someone’s pain and bliss 

turned us NWHMo-ers into a real community. 

In a closed forum, one of which I’ve also ‘dared’ to sign up, this spirit of being together, working on the same wall 

closely with each other can’t be possible because a lapse of time often happens where response is delayed. But 

dpending o the members, it can also be a caring community. Yet because the exchange isn’t daily, the energy is not 

sustained. Intimidating? It could be if a participant is self conscious of the players’ degree of craft (multi-awarded, 

multi-published, editor, reviewer, competition judge, etc.) versus a virtual newbie, or a learner who strayed into a 

rarefied field. Critiquing can also be intimidating because serious even scholarly critiques is the ken of the really 

accomplished, and learning through them can be truly helpful, though a simple, sincere and honest expression of why 

a haiku works for a novice could be taken as refreshing but then, it could also be ignored. Yes, I’d prefer a community 

though now that I have as choice, I’d like to stay with the closed forum as well, echoing Terri’s voice on both. 


Page 48

Kathabela Wilson This community is nourishing and inspiring and we touch new hearts in approach to the heart of 

haiku! I tend to prefer openness. But the quiet dynamic of concentrated dialogue in a smaller (not necessarily closed) 

group can be good too. I would not choose one over the other, I would choose both. Plus add one more, personal 

focused conversation and one on one collaboration with those we connect with through this open community, This 

happens, expands and adds more richness and meaning to our open group! 

Q3. 

Colin Stewart Jones Is it possible to write authentically when writing in response to prompt? 

Alison Williams Yes, just as it's possible to write inauthentically without prompts. 

Freddy Ben-Arroyo The prompt is just a triger. The answer is YES! I always write authentically. And it comes to me 

easy. After all, we all have some assosiations with a given word, and we have the present as well! It's simple - just 

look around and VOILA! 

Aubrie Cox I think, like Freddy said, the prompt is/can be a trigger. Something about it resonates within us from the 

prompt (sometimes)... however, I do think it's more difficult to be auhentic if one sticks strictly to the prompt. 

Judith Gorgone A prompt, is just another source of ideas. Why does it matter where the inspiration comes from? 

It's what you do with it. 

Bret Mars Define "authentic." If the prompt is of a nature you have no connection with, an item you are unfamiliar 

with, you have to research it. Read about it, look at it, then construct a response based wholly on your new found 

knowledge. You have no choice 

Eric Fischman It is not possible to write inauthentically. Just because the language you use doesn't resonate with 

me, doesn't mean that it didn't resonate with you. Just because my ear has been trained and boot-camped, doesn't 

mean the active expression of an untrained mind is somehow false! What could be more honest, more actual, more 

authentic, than being a beginner? What does the amateur have to teach the expert? It is still your mind, your mind 

your mind your mind, and whatever comes out of you is true true true. 

Marty Smith ...........yes, 

is "authentic." in the moment or in memory... 

how ever often i just make up a scene for the prompt, also i am inspired by other poets' post and i write my 

response. 

Hi-Young Kim Heart will strip naked. The language is a prompt to the real prompt. Not a question about 

authenticity, just about being trigger-happy. Go ahead. Make My Day. 

Christopher Provost Yes, but sometimes I think prompts make my writing forced. I've written some good haiku in 

response to prompts, but I've also written some crap. 

Edgar W. Hopper Yes, of course. For those of us urban dwellers who don't always have a nature or otherwise 

natural experience that acts as a trigger the prompt can serve as a stimulus that allows for authenticity. I don't 

pretend to know what is meant by authenticity in haiku, I just feel that, for me, crafting an acceptable haiku is 

difficult no matter the source of inspiration. 

Sheila Windsor i agree with hi-young: a prompt to the real prompt. 

B Fay Wiese Something always "prompts" one's writing, whether it is a word that we go to a site to retrieve, or a 

walk outside, or a rainstorm we watch, or a friend or loved one dying, or a massive disaster, or any other experience. 

The quality of our thought determines the authenticity of our writing, not where the idea for the writing came from. 

Cameron Mount I find a way to make the prompts dredge up an organic thought or observation. The authenticity of 

the moment may be in question (as in, did I really see that sunset?) but the image itself can be authentic. As in most 

poetic forms (or indeed in literature in general) fictional details do not necessarily negate authenticity, nor does being 

faithful to life observation make an event ring of truth. 

It is less about authentic being real and more about authentic driving a reaction in the audience. 


Page 49

Angie Werren yes. I try to let the unfamiliar prompt take me to a new way of interpreting what I see/observe. if I 

can't bring my own experience to it somehow, I usually skip it. 

Terry O'Connor Q: 

Is it possible to write authentically when writing in response to prompts? 

Answer + 2 cents: 

Of course, with varying degrees of success, absolutely. 

In much the same way as I can feel a completely real/authentic emotion in response to an actor's portrayal of a 

character or a singer's song of joy/pain etc. I don't require Adele to be dumped by her boyfriend before every 

concert, nor does Disney have to really shoot Bambi's mom ;) for me to "really" feel that emotion of loss. 

I think some (left-brained haiku supremacists who only watch documentaries, hate popular culture and anyone born 

after the Edo period !?!) have a hard time with subjectivity, while others have a better ability, and are more willing, to 

put themselves into the moment and see/believe(suspend disbelief) what(ever) they are shown, told... 

A balance between the two would be ideal, but you can't, and surely shouldn't please all the people all the 

time...hence sub-genres and all the wonderful diversity. 

Otsenre Ogaitnas Basically, yes, it is possible to write authentically when writing in response to prompts, because 

they (the prompts) would, to my understanding, represent authentic writing only when you yourself as a writer would 

like to see your masterpiece written or done, and in it there’s an authentic feeling, felt by the reader, whether it is 

with reference to a personal life experience or not. Sometimes for me the only way to get my aging brain to work 

productively is through the given prompts, just like here @ NaHaiWriMo, but of course I never forced myself, nor let 

my fingers bleed writing to prompts, because I already know the outcome- poor quality and often formulaic. 

Prompted or non-prompted, I think, to get a quality result depends on ones' writing approach. Well, hope you enjoy 

my haiku below, wink! 

my haiku 

not spectacular — 

just this red sunset 

Pat Geyer yup...the same way you respond to the prompts life scripts for you each day...ya do what ya gotta' do... 

Terri Hale French Sure, one can be authentic or inauthentic with or without a prompt. 

Alessandra Gallo 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' 

NaHaiWriMo Something I'll say about "authenticity" is that it's a matter of process and product. Good process can 

help make good product, so writing out of genuine personal experience rather than pure imagination is often reliable, 

although that doesn't mean that imagination can't also come across to the reader authentically. As novelists will tell 

you, fiction is often truer than fact. Also, the point that something "really happened" does not mean the poem is 

authentic -- one can still write inauthetically about authentic experience. What really matters, ultimately, is the 

product -- does the *poem* itself come across to the reader as being believable, regardless of how it came to be 

inspired? If you write about a new moon rising in the sky, that's simply not possible, so such a poem would be 

inauthentic (in this case, factually false). But if you've never seen or experienced the rock formation known as talus 

(one of our prompts last month), it is entirely possible to research and project yourself empathetically into such an 

experience and write a poem that could indeed come across as authentic to readers. Remember that Buson's wife 

was *alive* when he wrote about stepping on his dead wife's comb. 

Tawnya Smith There are many yet connected ideas of authentic arising here. There is authentic viewed from the 

point of inspiration, from the process of creation, from the judgement of quality, and from approval by a reader. I 

don't see them as the same, but I do see them as connected. Rather like the poem itself is parts gathered and woven 

into a whole. I suppose each of these could be measured for authenticity. There is also a factor of time. Given some 

amount of time, there will be a reader, experienced or not, who will appreciate a piece of writing, authentic or not. 

Quite the hornet's nest, this question. ;) 

Rosemary Nissen-Wade Yes. The subconscious is infinitely obliging, and throws up just the right memories, or 

directs the consciousness to the perfect item in the present environment 


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Violette Rose-Jones Yes. Good haiku are not always about having a haiku moment but are always about nailing a 

truth or a true moment. Our memory contains a wealth of such moments, we just have to make connections. 

Paul David Mena The best haiku are authentic responses to external stimuli. That the prompts are not of the poet's 

choosing is - in my opinion, anyway - irrelevant. 

Q4. 

Colin Stewart Jones How do you feel that by participating in NaHaiWriMo your writing skills have improved? 

Mark E. Brager oh yes...the daily practice plus the exposure to such a group of talented haiku writers has sharpened 

my meager skills immeasurably. Seeing how others interpret a prompt and react to others' poems is a rich source of 

feedback... 

Susan Murata I KNOW I would not write without the prompts, one. Two, you MUST write in order for there to be an 

interaction with community members re: (your own) haiku content. Three, the interaction with other haijin on this fb 

site sooooooo encourages your very best output. You quickly see whose haiku hit the mark - whose haiku reverberate 

- and the impetus is there to try harder. It works!! 

Cara Holman Participating in NaHaiWriMo has really made a difference in my comfort level with writing and sharing 

haiku. It made it okay to just write, without worrying about what an editor would think. And the almost instantaneous 

feedback, in the form of comments or "Likes", helps me refine my haiku. Not to mention the benefits of reading 

others' takes on the same prompts. 

Terri Hale French you can't improve if you are not writing, so the discipline of writing every day has helped my 

writing. Plus reading other people's work always greases my wheels! 

Susan Shand I enjoy the challenge of writing every day, even days when I'm busy, or not in the mood for writing. It 

is good practice. Because it is a non-judgmental space to post, I have felt able to experiment with my haiku. I have 

used different forms, or pushed at the edges of 'haikuness'. I have sometimes been surprised when people have 

'liked' a haiku that I didn't think was very good. So it has broadened my writing and given me confidence to show 

work which otherwise I might not have done. 

Raul Sanchez May 1st will one year since I joined the page and have learned a lot from everyone else on the page. 

What I like is the early morning challenge of the prompt. Sometimes it hits me right away, other times not. But letting 

the prompt "incubate" in my head, the haiku or senryu comes out like a spring chicken making a lot of noise. I also 

enjoy all the cyberfriends out there. Good work y'all! 

Lorin Krogh I stay much more in my present moment and I'm more aware of surroundings... besides being a better 

and more joyful writer/ observer 

Bret Mars The random freshness of unexpected subjects moved me beyond my typical bag of tricks. Seeing how 

others approached a subject was instructive too. 

Hannah Gosselin I feel that my haiku writing skill has improved in that I've taken time to read the links provided 

specifically on how to write haiku and that by reading the offerings here I've learned what works and doesn't 

work for people and for myself also. :) 

Cameron Mount I think the participation has increased my ability, as noted by others, because it forces "butt-inchair" 

kind of devotion. I don't know why I respond better to deadlines than internal motivation. I suspect I'm 

not alone in that. But I do know that I do respond better to external stimuli, so just having a dedicated goal 

that isn't self-determined makes it more likely that I will put my butt in the chair and start working on my 

poetry. 

Jayashree Maniyil The more I write, the better it gets.....this is exactly what I am holding on to dearly and trying to 

build slowly. I think my haiku has changed from the time I began even in a short duration. Has it improved? I 

certainly hope so. At the moment all that I am doing is responding to a prompt as best as I can. It is good to 

have something to work towards. And this daily practise sessions helps in building a routine - dedicating some 

time just to do one thing. I love going through the variety of interpretations from everybody. The constant 

encouragement from everyone only pushes me to strive a bit more harder the next time. 


Page 51

Lisa Hills I think it probably does. But it depends on many elements. If my brain is thinking of poignant words and 

thoughts. or is still half asleep. 

Belinda Broughton daily writing always helps me. it has improved my haiga especially and increased output. my 

reading has improved too! 

Kat Creighton As others have stated the daily prompts, the likes or lack of likes and comments on my haiku have all 

helped me to write better. On many occasion those with much more experience than I have given me indepth 

critiques that have helped me dig a little deeper. On the NaHaiWriMo page I read haiku that I love and 

some that I don't love so much...reading may be the best teacher. 

Hansha Teki NaHaiWriMo has been a great motivator in writing haiku as a matter of discipline. Every new haiku is a 

new beginning; whether that necessarily indicates an improvement in haiku writing skills is not something 

that I am objectively able to judge in regard to my own pieces. The warm and supportive atmosphere of 

NaHaiWriMo is clearly a great encouragement to each of us to write haiku but more than this is necessary if 

we wish to write poems that may be remembered weeks, months, years, decades or even centuries from 

now. 

Johnny Baranski To me it's simply a matter of practice makes perfect. 

Ida Freilinger Writing under pressure was good for me. Reading haiku I liked was also fun. I think I understand 

haiku better. By gauging likes I found ways to write haiku others liked better. When I heard the word Kukai, I 

groaned inwardly and tried to escape. It took too long to write one or two. Now, I think I'll enjoy Kukai more 

and have better results. 

Alee Imperial Albano Definitely improved as has been noted by friends who I consider masters of the genre. My 

other gauge would be increased acceptance in my submissions. I find it easier to 'nail' a haiku for here since, 

as well. I've mentioned what in NaHaiWriMo has helped in my long response to Q1 like the discipline of 

writing daily, the interaction with other members, the likes and no likes, comments that uplift or suggest, but 

especially reading what Daphne says 'tons and tons' of haiku and also Michael's random reference notes, 

definitely pulled me up. Still, there's still so much to learn. 

Annie Juhl Being a part of nahaiwrimo, has improved my haiku skils in so many ways. I would probably not have 

experimented with one line haiku, haiga, haiku primer, and all the other challenges we were given here, on 

my own. Wading out on deep water with very skilled people by my side, is a very good way for me to learn. 

And first of all, I feel free here, to experiment, play, be vulnerable, have fun, ask questions and learn. I’m 

only at the very beginning of my haiku path, and I’m very grateful for all the encouragement and help I was 

given here, both on haiku and language. 

Paul David Mena Daily prompts fight complacency by providing a gentle nudge to write - with or without the poet's 

perception of "inspiration." 

Anna Yin Not sure. I hope to have more serious discussion with experienced haijin. Most of my haiku I save 

somewhere and I plan to come back to revise. Meantime, I read some discussions here and some good 

essays as well which help me understand better. So in this sense, I'd like to say I have improved. 

Kathabela Wilson Absolutely. NaHaiWriMo has given me a deeper appreciation, and a deeper penetration into the 

possibilities of haiku. In asking myself for this continuous flow of concentrated expression it has caused me to 

examine the elements and powers of the form and thus... improved my writing, I am sure of it. 

Michele Harvey NaHaWriMo has forced me to give a keener look at subjects that may otherwise go unexplored. 

Nachos for instance...who would consciously set about writing a haiku about nachos? LOL 

Elissa Malcohn Writing a daily haiku has given me a deeper experience of the form, both through practice and 

through reading other posts. It's not unusual for me to think I have something ready to post and then 

discover ways to improve on it. 

Sanjuktaa Asopa Oh yes,the exposure is more, the output is more,without the prompts i'd not have been writing at 

all; improved? i thought so, till 10 mnts ago when i was informed that i've been rejected by Acorn :=( That 

broke my heart, really it did! 


Page 52

Q5. 

Colin Stewart Jones Is there anything else that you wish to say about NaHaiWriMo? 

Lorin Krogh I appreciate the daily prompts as they have shown me the joy of discipline 

Annie Juhl I think I’ve said it all. But I can add, that I really enjoy the "rule" of one post per day. 

Freddy Ben-Arroyo You must be doing something right! Keep going! Thank you so much! 

Sheila Windsor thank you 

Sanjuktaa Asopa Everything is perfect; great site to be in and thanks much for everything. But since i am among 

friends here, i wish if my poem is rubbish, somebody would tell me so frankly. i promise i'd try to take it in my 

stride :-) 

Daphne Purpus May it continue forever! It is wonderful! 

Alee Imperial Albano 

I wonder if Michael expected what NaHaiWriMo has turned into. Perhaps like its precursor, NaNoWriMo, he thought it 

would end in a month or be a one-month event only, as its name says so. I think it's a 'stroke of genius' to use the 

tools of a networking site and make them work to create a learning laboratory. Not sure if I'm using the right terms 

here but I hope I'm giving a sense of what I mean more or less. The synergy among the participants that followed 

after February 2011 has been amazing--it held us up. That most seem to have been committed to keep on adds to 

the wonder because it's so free in every sense; in regular workshops one stays because of a fee and in some, a 

certificate awaits in the end. (Well, there never was a promise of the book!) I stayed because I felt I was gaining 

much more than I was putting in. But beyond my personal gains, I think a better understanding of haiku as well as a 

debunking of a lot misconceptions about it has been achieved in a way by NaHaiWriMo. It should continue to convert 

a lot more because for me, haiku is such a sublime art. 

Cara Holman What I like best about NaHaiWriMo is that it is inclusive-- anyone is welcome to write and post, 

regardless of their experience level. As such, it is a great way to dip one's toes into the practice of writing 

haiku. I feel like I've written a "good" haiku, when it becomes the catalyst for an lively discussion. 

Kathabela Wilson 

I just realized there IS one more thing I have not said about NaHaiWriMo! Every day I learn more about things I 

might not know or think about! Even when a prompt is something familiar, I look carefully at what allusions, 

references, unexpected meanings a word or idea has. Online dictionaries and googling make this easy. I realize 

multiple meanings, add layers to my understanding about things, including words, origins, phrases, history, 

mythology, astronomy... no end to this! I like the unexpected provocation to experience and learn and apply. Even 

when writing about a very familiar event, word, natural object, I am amazed at the richness and beauty of language 

and associations. I love that I have learned so much as a result of NaHaiWriMo, and not just about haiku! 

Alee Imperial Albano 

I'd like to add to Kathabela's thoughts on how much learning seemed to happen everyday from the prompts. For me, 

more than what google had to say, it's the personal notes some of us wrote which added deeper layers to book 

knowledge. This filter of memory or more precisely, of the heart has given some haiku a kind of diamond facet hard 

to find anywhere. I feel so privileged 'traveling' to places without a ticket, having a glimpse of wondrous places I may 

never get to. Or reading a historical angle that google may never wind of. It's been awesome. Thanks to you all! 

Colin Stewart Jones hi guys thanks for all of your input 

I am busy putting the feature together 

It'll take a couple of days but will be worth it 

thanks again 

col 

My thanks to Michael Dylan Welch and all of the NaWriHaiMo group who gave generously of their time to 

answer my questions. The group is an excellent place to learn and develop as a haiku poet. If you are on 

Facebook and want to learn more about haiku I’d thoroughly recommend joining NaWriHaiMo. 


Page 53


Page 54


Alegria Imperial – Canada & Eleanor Angeles - USA 

Page 55

House and Bird 

As the Earth turns - and I'm told it does - a feeble light crawls over the roof of the inn. Still haven't 

slept a wink and it's getting tiresome, I hope. I notice a magpie on the inn's roof and decide that it's 

from there the building came. Why not? Like some sort of egg that'll hatch Christmas and Bingo 

parties, lame C&W parties with pale quaint Danes doing line dance. Not quite satisfied with the 

order of things ”in the World” (said in grimacing way with that expression 54-year-old adolescents 

present when they forget they're … 54), I decide that the bird came before the house. 

Johannes S. Bjerg - Denmark 


November mist the chair is as solid as usual 

Page 56


sand-flats 

splashed with china blue 

turning over 

the spoils of the tide 

this curlew mind 


if I were 

to give up 

my dreams— 

a halo of debris 

around earth 

Luminita Suse - USA 

crowded café 

my iced tea 

inches away 

from your hot 

dark coffee 

Luminita Suse – USA 

Page 57


the leaves 

that never fell 

deep winter 

Ann Schwader - USA 

thin snow 

drifts into afternoon 

tea steam 


the curve 

of my hand 

windfall peaches 


to lie 

or not to lie? 

snow on snow 


Christmas gift— 

smile of 

first snowman 

Gennady Nov - Russia 

Page 58


a dead gull 

on a bed of kelp 

sea fragrant 

Neal Whitman - USA 

a single lamp 

ample for story telling 

winter night 

Neal Whitman - USA 

hospital room 

two lives separated 

by a curtain 

Alan Bridges - USA 

misty light 

of a waning moon . . . 

water dragon 

Hansha Teki - New Zealand 

an old dress 

grows musty 

mother's perfume 

Todd Grant - Canada 

Page 59


Moonlight Settles - Jūnichō 

table for five 

flags billow 

under the changing sky 

starlings come to roost 

on an avenue of lime trees 

jazz night 

at the pub 

dancers spilling out 

feral gangs clash 

blades at the ready 

out of the shadows 

unseen at first 

a fox’s tail 

baring teeth 

caught in headlights 

front page picture 

refugees 

leave the town 

the river trail winds 

to a latticed bridge 

a dropped coin 

ripples 

tranquil waters 

clickety clack 

doors flung open 

cranes hang starkly 

over the city 

- moonlight settles 

the nightshift 

sweeping leaves 

Participating UK poets and verse allocation: 

joint composition, 1; Steve Mason, 2, 7, 12: Annie Bachini, 3, 8: 

Mary Dawon, 4, 9: Deborah Anderson, 5, 10: Lorna Liffen, 6, 11 

Page 60

Transformation by haiku 

on a bare branch 

a crow settled down 

autumn evening 

Basho 

(trans. by Jane Reichhold) 



on a bare branch by Bashō: a commentary by Alegria Imperial 

“How true!” was all I could say of these lines, the first of Basho’s that I have read—my introduction to 

haiku. The spare lines also stunned me yet they opened up spaces akin to meditation. Perhaps, I had 

thought, I should read it slowly as in praying and I did. The passing scenes I’ve seen in drives had 

suddenly turned into an immediate moment and I, in it. I recognized the feeling; it also happens when a 

painting or performance draws me in. Of course, I was reading a poem and I understood it or so I had 

thought. 

I can’t recall from what collection I read ‘on a bare branch’ among the few books I found at the Enoch 

Pratt Library eight years ago in Baltimore, where I was then staying. I had just stumbled on haiku, 

surfing the web for poetry and clicking on the page of Baltimore haiku poet Denis Garrison. Browsing 

through the posted works, I thought how easy to do it and so, with the spunk of an ignoramus, I wrote 

one, responding to his submission call. He sent it back with kind words. It had possibilities, he said, and 

he even rewrote a line. How encouraging! 

I had just ended a long career in media and journalism and on the daring of a friend, had taken up 

fiction writing in New York and later, poetry—dreams that long hovered in my hard working years. I 

thought haiku would come as easily as both, which I tackled the way I had wielded words in thick gray 

slabs. I had studied American, English and continental literature in the Philippines, a country closer to 

Japan, but had not been aware of haiku until then. And so, I wrote a few more of what I thought was 

haiku, imitating how Dennis demonstrated it and sent these again; I received an outright rejection that 

miffed me. Yet his advice (or was it a command?) for me to read up on haiku goaded me up the marble 

steps of the Baltimore library. 

The haiku shelf nestled in an alcove of special collections on a mezzanine. The small table felt almost 

intimate. The few haiku small books felt ancient in my hands, the pages fragile. I could not take them 

home. I had to take scrap paper from the librarian’s desk to write on. Only Basho’s ‘bare branch’ 

remains among bales of my notes and haiku drafts. I’ve read more of Basho and volumes of other haiku 

poets since. I’ve learned that the simplicity and immediacy of the ‘bare branch’ that entranced me had 

also deceived me. Haiku, after all, is a centuries-old art. I realized I might never get to an iota of what 

makes it what it is. But haiku has transformed me since. 

Page 61

Nature and I have turned into lovers, for one, as if I’m seeing clouds, the sun and the moon for the first 

time, or flowers and birds. Yet, as a child, I prowled bamboo groves and shaded streams to catch 

dragonflies and wait for the kingfisher’s shadow. As an adult, I walked on streams of blossoms shredded 

by the wind, relishing fragrances and dreams. I used to throw open our windows for the full moon for 

me to bathe in. I thought I had shed them off when I left home for North America where I finally live 

the four seasons with blossoms like daffodils and cherry blossoms or trees that inflame in the fall like 

the maple that I used to know only as words in poems and songs in a borrowed language from an 

implanted culture I memorized as a child. But haiku has lent me ways to see things simultaneously 

through the past into the present, as well as from a pinhole as in a bee wading in pollen to the vastness 

of a punctured moonless summer sky. I leap from image to thought and feeling simply and exactly 

losing myself in what a moment presents like how I felt reading ‘bare branch’ the first time. 

Some writings on Basho especially in his later haiku identify such a moment as Zen. As a Southeast 

Asian, I know Zen. It’s part of my heritage. But how come I’m ignorant of haiku? It must have been our 

destined Western colonization that encrusted our Eastern beginnings with layers of European and 

American culture, hence, blocking it. In an unfortunate historical accident when Japan occupied the 

Philippines during World War II, my parents could have learned haiku and passed it on to me. Instead, 

those years inflicted so much pain that I grew up with my mother’s family trying to survive a pall of 

sorrow from my grandfather’s execution by the Japanese Imperial Army. Japan, for me, represented the 

horror of cruelty. Then came haiku. I hadn’t thought of that sadness I inherited when I first started 

reading on it, delighting even at Basho’s Oku-no-hosomichi (Back Roads to Far Towns) leading me by 

inroads to Japan. When the Fukushima tragedy struck last year, I plunged into it, writing a haibun 

about families being rescued and some haiku, finding myself in tears. I realized a healing has crept deep 

in me, of which my grandfather must have had a hand. 

From my first imitations of Basho, I kept writing haiku that I later found out from rejections were but 

fragments. Yet two flukes won for me awards in 2007, one from a growing volume of fragments that I 

kept tweaking as a single entry to the Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival, the other, another failed 

haiku I expanded as free verse for the Passager Annual Poetry Award (Baltimore, MD). These fired me 

to keep on. I haunted more sites on the web, picking beds for my haiku. Peggy Willis Lyles, my first 

editor, sent back my submission to The Heron’s Nest, the first journal I dared to submit with kind sweet 

comments yet I pushed more; until she died none of my haiku made it (one later did with Fay Aoyagi 

who took over Peggy’s contributor’s list). Werner Reichhold of LYNX, on the other hand, loved my first 

submission. Still, more rejections from other journals pounded on me to give up. 

But my prose and free verse had started to crackle with a ‘textured richness’ as one editor described it— 

obviously influenced by my practice of writing haiku—and made it to literary journals. I’m writing less 

of both these days, finding in haiku the closer bridge to pure image and thought—more of my haiku, a 

few tanka, haibun and haiga have been published in other journals since. I’m also reading less of 

descriptive texts, dropping the first sentence if lacking the synthesis in a line like haiku. I can’t hope to 

fully know all I must or even write a perfect haiku but I step into its waters every day and steep myself 

in its calmness, its virtue that first drew me in. 

Alegria Imperial - Canada 


Page 62

Issa’s Joy 


snow melting by Issa: a commentary by Michael Dylan Welch 

雪とけて村一ぱいの子ども哉 

yuki tokete mura ippai no kodomo kana 

snow melting 

the village floods . . . 

with children! 

—Issa 

If I had to pick just one Japanese haiku as my favourite above all others, it would have to be this one. 

After a long winter, all the snow finally melts in spring. The poem starts with a simple image to indicate 

an optimistic moment of seasonal change, but then adds tension—water from melting snow is 

threatening a flood. But then we have a twist—the village is not flooding with water, but with children. 

All is right with the world after all. And more than being right, it is joyous—it is ecstatic! 

I do not know to what extent the poem’s wordplay exists in the Japanese, but in English it works very 

well, giving this haiku a surprise ending. With this surprise, Issa emphasizes the joy of childhood. Now 

it is warm enough to play outside, and what fun to splash in the puddles—when the world, as 

Cummings said, is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful. And it’s not just one or two children, but all the 

children of the village, thus celebrating a communal joy. 

Issa shares this joy, too, but what makes the poem even more remarkable is its context, amid all his 

hardships. His mother died when he was three, his stepmother despised him and made him work in the 

fields instead of going to school, and he was forced to leave home at fourteen. That sounds like a recipe 

for an unhappy childhood, yet Issa recalls a happy childhood moment. His glass was always half full, 

and you can see this buoyant spirit in most of Issa’s haiku. He lived a life of much poverty, and though 

he later married and found some literary success as a haiku poet, his children died very young, as did 

one of his wives. And that was not all of his troubles. Yet still he was able to find joy in his life. 

For me, this haiku captures not only the joy of childhood, but also the joy of haiku, because haiku poets 

delight in such moments just as much as children who take delight in spring puddles after a long winter. 

Here’s to Issa’s joy! 

Michael Dylan Welch - USA 

Page 63


Kat Creighton - USA 

Page 64

Guilty Pleasures 

I. 

Never one for affection. A woman of few words. And yet there was something in the way she rolled 

up her sleeves to knead the dough, or how a wisp of silver hair would slip loose from the severe 

bun to catch on the damp blush of her cheek. Now and then, we’d watch her through a gap in the 

scullery door as she stood, elbow-deep in hot soap suds, humming along to some old-fashioned 

melody. When she sensed our presence, she’d wipe her rough, red hands on her apron and bark 

at us to, “mind the floor”. Like her Battenburg cake, she would partake of life’s pleasures, in 

slivers. 

creaking pond ice… 

Grandmother’s best 

poker face 

II. 

We all knew where she kept The Box. Right at the back of the sideboard in the musty front room 

that was only aired on special occasions, like wakes, or baptisms. Through the cellophane, the 

faint, bittersweet smell of rumour and speculation. A gift from whom? How long ago? Would each 

mouthful be unblemished, or would it bear the bloom of age? We’d turn the questions over in our 

minds, give The Box a little shake and, in turn, hold it to our ears, as if the contents would this time 

offer up their secrets. Would they go with her, to the grave? We imagined her in her own dark box, 

with this one cradled in her lap, embalmed in eternal silence. And the worms would turn, unable to 

penetrate the film. 

Sometimes I wonder what happened to The Box, but there’s no one left to ask. 

chocolate violets… 

Grandma’s forbidden love 

still under wraps 



Page 65

After Arrival 


travelers 

opening doors to rooms 

not their own 

You do not know the names of the people who have slept in this bed, or much 

about them, except that they too must have woken to the traffic and voices 

in the street below, made the trek from the cramped bathroom to the bed, 

hung their clothes on these hangers, opened the door with the same knob, 

noted the small economies: dim light bulbs, plastic glasses, small bars of 

soap, shampoo sachets, an old television that gets few channels, thin 

towels. 

A shadow reaches 

from your backpack 

to the still open door 

Maura High - Wales/United States 

Page 66


Stars that know no sadness 

- A winter shisan 

winter night - 

the stars that know no sadness 

are everywhere 

gentle crackling with every step 

on the way home 

a cockroach 

in the hardware store 

how about that? 

all the King's men 

are in disarray 

at dawn they fall 

they fall in silence 

cherry petals 

over the mountain range 

the shining wind 

he's from the North 

she's from the South 

two Korean lovers 

black fishnet stockings 

wrapped around the towel rail 

after the shower 

waters of the brook 

are clear again 

dead or alive? 

uprooted tree across the street 

p.s. and apples 

in this foreign land 

are priced like gold 

missing moon-viewing 

he makes his first step on the Moon 

Vladislav Vassiliev - UK 

and 

Valeria Simonova-Cecon - Italy 

Page 67


The power of light : Jûnichô-Winter 

winter moon 

deep in dream 

the storm calms down /HS 

at the french willows 

the brook breathes frost /RL 

eastern steppe 

training an eagle 

for hawking /HS 

- 

forced marriage: Escaping 

under a fake name /HS 

the hall porter's gaze 

sweaty 

the hands /RL 

soft May rain ... The song 

of a distant flute* /HS 

- 

cattle drive - 

the old farmer 

courting again /RL 

the radiant power of light 

Segantini's last works /HS 

“Cardinal de Richelieu” 

infested by 

the moss gall /RL 

- 

she thumbs through 

her dossier /RL 

wandering fogs 

close to the sky 

cripples the wood /HS 

between Castor and Pollux 

floating the koan's solution /RL 

*The song of a distant flute: Li-Tai-P, The Mysterious Flute 

Helga Stania & Ramona Linke - Germany 

Page 68



Page 69


rainstorm gone 

the dripping stillness 

of green air 

Jan Dobb - Australia 

there on the tree 

a flawless spider-web 

Christmas morning 


burnt-out house 

inside the safety fence 

a blaze of marigolds 


poem removed 

due to previous publication 

in another journal 

a foretaste 

of what's to come— 

the weight of a quince 

Beth McFarland - Germany 

Page 70


bedside vigil . . . 

her firm grip 

softens 

Al Fogel - USA 

alluring web: 

the fly and me 

hovering 

Al Fogel - USA 

After the wedding: 

red ants 

carrying rice. 

H Edgar Hix - USA 

shorter days 

the pastor's sermon 

longer 

Deborah P Kolodji - USA 

smoke bush 

even my dreams 

muted mauve 

Deborah P Kolodji - USA 

Page 71


the snowman 

at my front door 

asks when will he 

get an umbrella 

for rainy days 

Luminita Suse - USA 

the moonlight 

across my sick-bed 

reminds me 

how much of my life 

I live in shadow 

hortensia anderson - USA 

this solitude 

is all that I have 

ever wished for— 

a full moon silvering 

the dew on the roses 


Page 72


her brush sweeps 

across the white canvas 

with black ink... 

a rustle of breeze 

blowing through bamboo 


the small 

of her back 

again in my dreams 

the world rotated 

since I slid away 


kneeling drunk women 

posed as owls 

the texted photo arrives 

with the morning that finds 

me ragged and ruffled 


Page 73


Lavana Kray, Christine-Monica Moldoveanu 

Romania 

Page 74



Page 75

'The Point 

I'm trying to make' (I shout to my old friend over the hubbub in the bar) 'is that I admired him for 

always being determined to get up and get himself to work, which he did (had to do) until the end.' 

We both check our watches. 

In the morning mirror, I think of him again... 

quelling the shakes 

in his straight razor hand... 

splash of whiskey 

Garry Eaton - Canada 


Page 76

"The midnight" 

End of December was looming. A few matters needed to be sorted out, so they wouldn't bar the 

passage into the new year. So many useless emotions had accumulated during those twelve 

month. Tonight was especially long and frosty. 

say no more 

listen: 

snow is falling 

Dorota Pyra - Poland 


Page 77


The Coincidence of Stars, Jack Galmitz 

A Review/Interview by Alan Summers 

Inside Rear Cover 

photo by Alan Summers 

On their home page ant ant ant ant ant state they have been a publisher of contemporary haiku since 

1994. Beginning with issue 9 ant ant ant ant ant has featured haiku by one individual poet. ant ant ant 

ant ant is a limited-edition hand-made journal with an emphasis on design that strives to present the 

finest in traditional and experimental haiku. This is a part review, and part Q&A regarding The 

Coincidence of Stars. Before I ask Jack Galmitz a few questions, here is a brief take on his collection. 

Galmitz has his unique style, as it should be, from the perceived mainstream formulæ. He isn’t 

constrained by what is a perceived ‘form’ within the genre of haiku writing. 

Walking down the stairs 

her bodies stir the sun 

To be aware 

This middle verse, one of three that opens the collection, appears to be a normal stanza at first, when we 

read into the first line. Stairs are a normal almost daily occurrence, and process, in our lives: Be it our 

domestic set of stairs; or simply using stairs at metro stations, or in malls. The middle line appears to be a 

mistake: Should it be her body or her bodie’s? Surely no one has more than one body? This got me 

thinking. As many of us have different personas on display, though only one, presumably at any one 

time, at home; work; and leisure/entertainment activities, where we wear our different faces, alternative 

hats, then surely it carries through to our physical body, beyond the bounds of our mere outward 

appearance. I know from the different jobs I’ve held through my life we all hold different body 

positions depending on what we do, or are about to do. At one time I covered a varying number of 

types of security, from covert to overt situations i.e. surveillance; VIP protection; backstage (rear and 

front) to emergency situations, that we emanate and we transform. But stir the sun? 

We do interact with the sun, both this planet and everyone on it. This may have spiritual aspects too, 

but we also live on a knife edge of a symbiotic relationship with the sun. And this leads me to someone I 

feel has his own knife edge symbiotic relationship with haiku, where the reader benefits. 

So without any further to do I would now like to hand us over to Galmitz, via a few questions I posed to 

him over a period of several weeks. 

Alan: What do you see as haiku, and what or where do you see haiku doing or going, at least outside 

Japan? A big question, but a useful setting up question for all the others. 

Page 78

Jack: Alan, that is a very difficult question to answer given the multiplicity of directions the haiku form 

has taken in the last decade. Many poets still write shasei, which though acceptable and sometimes 

quite successful, is really remote from modern language philosophies (and by modern, I mean for nearly 

a hundred years). 

Shasei is based on a belief in the transparency of language, that is to say, that language refers "naturally" 

to the world, whereas modern theories of language suggest that language is self-contained, each 

word/sign referring to yet another word/sign in infinite play. 

Saying this, let me give you a definition I wrote of haiku some time ago that, admittedly, is still limited 

to the idea of representation: Modern English language haiku, whose antecedents can be traced to the 

Japanese verse forms of hokku and its late 19th century revisionist form of haiku, is a brief verse, 

generally written in one, two, or three lines, that presents the earth - the sensuous reality of the nonhuman 

- and sets it into the world-the historical human context. In its function of naming, it allows the 

non-human, with its quality of strangeness, to be perceived in a way it cannot do of its own accord; the 

haiku process of naming brings beings to words and thereby to openness, to appearance and thus into 

the human world. 

In this dual purpose of haiku, seasonal references (the original Japanese "kigo") are sometimes retained, 

as is juxtaposition of two phrases comprising the form (a facsimile of the original Japanese "kireji), a 

means of opening or knowing the unknown and imposing an order on and meaning to it. In modern 

English-language haiku, bringing beings to words and appearance makes them shine with resplendence 

and sometimes this process may be likened to "epiphany," although an epiphany of the mind, and not of 

a deity. 

I would think, now, that the work of post-modernist haiku poets will become more prominent in the 

future of the form. I think that the hard-won gains of these poets to have innovative muki-haiku 

accepted marks a watershed in the movement of the form and there will be no turning back. I believe 

modern haiku will continue to test the limits of language itself, expression itself, meaning itself. 

If I were writing a definition now of haiku, it would encompass more than the earth, at least the earth 

as the inarticulate, and it would de-emphasize kigo and replace it with something more akin to Ban'ya 

Natsuishi's idea of keywords (although I think the future haiku will not permit strictures on what is or 

isn't a "keyword."). I think the future haiku will resemble post-modernist verse in general, retaining 

brevity as its defining characteristic. 

Alan: In fact, opening the book up right now I'm caught by this: 

Those clouds 

War horses 

at their hour 

I've always had a fascination with war horses through the ages right up to WWI, including the last ever 

cavalry charges. Obviously you are talking about clouds that look like horses, and on a horizontal axis of 

meaning, it's a straightforward reading. What I'd like to know more about is the (vertical axis) 

meanings, other than just gazing up at the sky. Words like "those" and "at their hour" are not as 

simplistic as they appear, and I wonder what the nature of your reverie was, if it was, indeed, reverie? 


Page 79

Jack: The poem you mention 

Those clouds 

war horses 

at their hour 

is a death poem or as close to one as I have ever written or even entertained writing. 

Yes, there is sometimes something about gathering clouds about to meet that is as dramatic as a great 

battle, a great charge of opposing forces about to occur; that is in the poem the first visual clue; there is a 

term "war clouds" that signify signs of impending war, but the terms also suggest, at least to me, storm 

clouds, huge perhaps, cumulonimbus about to meet and break each other apart. 

I relate these to the seething but static alignment of "war horses," cavalry held in check but bristling 

with that moment when the order "CHARGE" is given and all hell breaks loose. 

So, "at their hour," is the moment of truth, when that entire assemblage of two great armies face to face 

across a distance, just prior to joining- which will entail massive loss and destruction- move into each 

other, distinctions blurred, death certainly for some. 

That is the moment of my death as imagined, not beautiful, yet beautiful in its own way, poised yet with 

the purpose of power and destruction. Ominous! Yet, entrancing, too. 

Alan: I found the following verse unutterably beautiful and very moving: 

At the zoo 

I describe to the monkeys 

the sky's many blues 

This is perhaps one of the more recognisable verses as a haiku to the general public, though in fact it's a 

3/5/5 syllable construct. I'm being direct here, and apologies for that, but is this fictive, or faction? I do 

seem to have an unusual amount of empathy with animals, so I wouldn't be at all surprised if you do as a 

poet. But of course there is more to this than just the surface meaning, and perhaps more than just 

talking about freedoms? Could you expand on this verse? 

Jack: It was written at the beginning of my experiments with content particularly in my haiku: as you 

can readily see, it lacks kigo and its pause/kire is subtle. 

Of course, it could be taken as remembrance, but it was in fact fictive, or, perhaps to put it more 

precisely it uses the fictive to portray truth more truly than any factual report/poem can ever do. 

We are closely related to monkeys and they have shown remarkable talents in intelligence, in the 

ability to communicate. as we've learned over the years through scientific research. 

So, here we have these living descendants locked up in cages, or in environments that are simulacrums 

of their natural habitat, inhibiting their exposures to what is natural to them: their relationship to trees 


Page 80

and the sky. I wanted to reach out imaginatively to express that we and monkeys could compare notes, 

that I could share with them what they were badly missing, their full-range of freedom. 

I recall my Japanese friend, Keiji Minato, writing to me about the poem, saying it reminded him of a 

blues song. 

You know, I've seen experiments that revealed that monkeys had a sense of justice, fairness, that was an 

inherent part of their makeup. There was so much pathos in this that I felt it an imperative to give 

them what they were missing out on, pent up as they were: the range of "blues," the range of things. 

To add to what I was saying, I think what's central to this poem is the pathos, hence Keiji's comment to 

me. 

The fact that a man, ordinarily considered less in tune with nature than other animals, has to be a 

surrogate, to expand the horizons of nature to animals that ordinarily would be more keenly aware of 

nature than man would be; this is the stunning fact of zoos; their misfortune. 

Alan: 

Along the shore 

a row of girls 

all in white clothes 

Although almost in a sketching from nature shasei style, this poem strongly feels like an allegory or a 

metaphor. It has a mystical feel to it, almost a reverie. Could you expand? 

Jack: Well, yes, there is a "strangeness" about the poem isn't there? 

It is a reverie, the girls being adorned like the froth of the incoming sea, the girls themselves being the 

freshness of each newly formed wave. 

I think the mystical feelings that the poem releases comes from the fact that while it is seemingly 

realistic, a sketch from life, it has no attributes that contribute to that association; in other words, the 

stasis, the line of girls greeting, at the edge between sand and sea, the waves, their presumed looking 

outwards towards something unnamed, the fact that parentage and purpose are missing, gives an almost 

ritualistic quality to the entire poem. 

The poem is like a dream of life. Originally, I had the row of girls running along the shore, but for 

purposes of sound altered it to the way it "stands" now. 

Further, Alan, there is nothing distinguishing one girl from another and this, I believe, is what gives the 

poem a spiritual or even eerie feeling to it. 

It has some reference to the work of Rene Girard's book Violence and the Sacred, in which the position 

is taken that societies are based on distinction, hierarchy of some sort, and when there is a "doubling," 

that is to say a breakdown of distance and difference, we are faced with terror, the monstrous double, 

because there is the threat of the break-down of society. 


Page 81

Alan: With the one line verse Male parts and female parts am I a flower I've learnt from transgender 

friends, and British documentaries, that we are indeed similar in the sexes to a certain extent. Would 

you expand on what you particularly mean in your poem? 

Jack: Well, Alan, I believe that we are, like flowers (with their male and female parts) compound in our 

sexuality. Sexual identity is less a matter of opposition than degrees on a plane or on a continuum. This 

was the understanding of Freud and Jung. Indeed, Jung made assimilation of a man's feminine side-what 

he called the "anima"-the sine qua non of individuation, the making of a whole person. I don't think it 

is necessary to "name" what may or may not be considered "female" or "male" characteristics, as this 

would only complicate the matter, given that each person has their own interpretation of these 

qualities. 

I will say this: in America you can see the one-sided version of manhood in the movies, in all the 

movies, in general in the action hero of pop culture. It is in my opinion a fatal flaw of my society to 

have such a narrow view of human beings. If I don't go too far, I think American Empire and 

militarism is the result of such portrayals or rather such portrayals signify the essential lop-sidedness of 

thought in America. 

Although it is only partially related, one could say that the entire scandal of the Church regarding abuse 

of children, particularly homosexual abuse, is caused by what in psychoanalysis is called "the return of 

the repressed." In other words, if man denies his own feminine elements, desires, the rules guiding 

repression will call them forth in some form or other. 

Alan: What would you say are the overall themes for your collection? The title of the book is The 

Coincidence of Stars taken from this one line verse: 

We live in the dark the coincidence of stars 

What do you personally mean by stating we live in the dark? I really liked the concluding part of this 

verse: the coincidence of stars, it's magical and mystical to me, and for others over thousands of 

years. What do you take from this part of the poem, what do you mean? 

Jack: Let me put off answering the first question for a moment, Alan, because I'm not sure the book had 

an intention of an overall theme. 

Certainly, the poem from which the book takes its title, deserves some special attention. 

Let me say that the poem works because of its openness, its refusal to submit to a single interpretation. 

However a reader finds the pauses or breaks in the poem will be decisive: if you pause after "we live," 

then you have something of a materialist view of the universe, right? That is to say, "in the dark" there 

is "the coincidence of stars." There is no plan, no creator, except the poet him/her self. 

If the reader finds the pause more strongly at the mid-point, that is, "we live in the dark," the second 

half of the poem becomes something of a mirroring or "explanation" of what it means to live in the dark. 

Again, this could be the coincidence of being and the magnificent and meaningless universe. 


Page 82

Or, it could be read to suggest that we live and see "through a glass darkly," not understanding our place 

in the universe, not really understanding even what "we," the pronoun, means or how each is a "we" in 

some way and the privileged "I" is a delusion, really built on a consensus. We do not know all the 

multiplicity of ideas, forces, inclinations, constructs, purposes that we contain: we think we know, but 

that is a dangerous illusion. 

We may just be the accident of an accident; the "coincidence" of stars (the sun in particular), or, if you 

will, if we favor our existence and sense of being as special, then the universe itself may just be 

coincidental, haphazard, random and not related to us at all, even though we exist in "space," at least as 

a category of the mind. 

When I write, I am usually not certain of the impulse or image or whatever is driving the poem. This is 

one of the general themes of the poems in the book. On the other hand, and this is also an unconscious 

impulse, since words are not "positive," in the sense of having their own identity, but rely on 

"difference," each of the poems has its own origins (which I do not suppose to know) and its own 

trajectory, so the overall theme in that sense is that there is no overall theme at all. 

If I had to give a more definitive answer to what the overall theme of the book was I would say it is a 

call to experiment with writing, to be against closure of any kind, to not imagine that once the "key" to 

any given poem was found the words would fall off and there would stand TRUTH in its glory. No, that 

is not what I believe. The truth is in the thinking process, in the words as a working of thought, on the 

page. 

Alan, to add to what I've said about the overall theme of my book, I would say the word "coincidence" is 

most controlling, most important. 

Coincidence occurs when something happens under certain conditions, but without apparent 

relationship between this occurrence and other things existing simultaneously. 

A coincidence does not prove a causal or any other modal relationship nor require any such. 

So, contrary to the conventional form of haiku, where the author draws a relationship or hopes to 

achieve a likeness or oneness between apparently inapposite elements, I "intend" to reveal the disparity 

or more the accidental, without necessarily tethering things together. 

Alan: Thanks Jack, I think that just about wraps things up. 

Jack: I've thoroughly enjoyed this process. 

Alan: Thank you Jack! 

_____________________________ 

The Coincidence of Stars 

Editor: Chris Gordon 

ant ant ant ant ant, Autumn 2011 

http://antantantantant.wordpress.com/editors-note/ 


Page 83


Jack Galmitz is a poet and short-story writer. 

In 2006, he was awarded the Ginyu Prize (chosen as the most accomplished books of haiku by the 

World Haiku Association) for his first two collections, A New Hand and Driftwood. 

He has written four collections of haiku, the first two of which won the Ginyu Prize for 2006. He edits 

haiku of poets from around the world for the World Haiku Association’s annual collection and finds his 

greatest delight in occasionally coming upon a haiku that revises his world. 

In 2010, he was awarded the Kusamakura Grand Prize in the foreign language category. Galmitz 

received a Runner-up award in the newly-inaugurated Vladimir Devidé Haiku Awards (2011). Two of 

his haiku received a Zatuei (Haiku of Merit) Award in the Vanguard category (World Haiku Review, 

December 2011). Galmitz has also recently been named “contributing editor” at Roadrunner Haiku 

Journal. 

Books Published: 

A New Hand (Wasteland Press, 2006); 

Driftwood (Wasteland Press, 2007); 

For a Sparrow: Haiku [Translations into Macedonian by Igor Isakovski] (Skopje, Macedonia: Blesok, 

2007, in Macedonian and English]; 

Balanced is the Rose (Wasteland Press, 2008); 

The Effects of Light (AHA Online Books, 2002); 

Of All the Things (Ascent Aspirations Publishing); 

Sky Theatre (Ink: Literary E-Zine); 

A Simple Circle & Rockdove (Traveling Forms: Japanese/English Haiku); 

yards & lots (Middle Island Press, 2012). 

Page 84


Cynthia Rowe - Australia 

Page 85


In the yard 

an oil pool 

has a rainbow 

Jack Galmitz - USA 

The salvage yard: 

between crushed chrome and smashed glass 

slivers of sun 


Through the door 

pass a hundred clowns or more 

each with a dagger 


copper sky 

the odor of gasoline 

pervades the car 

Virginie Colline - France 

last train home 

—I just missed 

the mountain and the sea 

Ernesto P. Santiago - Philippines 

Page 86


kindling— 

she feels the brittle truth 

in her bones 

Margaret Dornaus - USA 

heartbreak— 

an ice moon illuminates 

the pock-marked fields 


rain-soaked newspaper 

no mention of our neighbor 

lost to the war 

Elliot Nicely - USA 

eye exam . . . 

morning mist envelopes 

the skyline 

Nu Quang - USA 

a shadow 

follows me around . . . 

our old cat 

Nu Quang - USA 

Page 87


"rain on the tracks" 

leaving 

the house together 

raincoat 

differing views seesaw 

salsa dancing 

people twirl 

from people 

names in sand 

under an orange sky 

the wind takes shape 

rain on the tracks we slip away 

itching 

his tattoo 

ex-wife 

— 


Page 88

A little from the tip 

Wrapped within the barber's cape my eyes fall heavy beneath the soothing stroke of brush and 

fingers. I am immersed in the vibrations of the buzzing clippers, the swift snip and snap of scissors 

tapping against the teeth of comb. The puppetry of hand and head shapes me for the scrape of 

the razor, the intimate trimming of eyebrows, ears and nose. A flick of flame at my ear and smell of 

burning hair rouse me from my stupor. "Tamam?" he asks. "Çok iyi" I reply, "çok iyi". I'm fine. 

clipped peeks 

at the barber's bum 

in the mirror 

"How do you say just a trim in Turkish?" I ask my friend when I join him for a drink at a local bar. 

"Ucundan azıcık." 

"Ucundan azıcık?" 

"That's right, you pronounce it perfectly. It means a little from the tip." 

There are stifled giggles from the table next to us and I suspect my friend is having me on. I am 

interrupted from questioning him by a commotion of car horns, drums and flutes. An open-back 

truck with a young boy in a fancy costume and musicians leads a caravan of cars. "What's that all 

about?" I ask. My friend makes a snipping gesture with his fingers. 

"Ah," I say, with a sudden understanding of the giggles, "ucundan azıcık?" 

"That's right," my friend laughs, "A little from the tip." 

Köy Deli - Turkey 

Notes: 

Ucundan azıcık - At the barber's "just a trim'. lit. 'a little from the tip.' 


Page 89


riding backwards 

on a well-lit train 

through a dark tunnel 

only my window reflection 

and the hum of the rails 


mother's blind mother 

strokes my face, her aged fingers 

sight-reading 

the lines of shaped notes 

I might someday see myself 

Margaret Dornaus USA 

Venus and the moon . . . 

suspended in this long night 

side by side 

we walk without touching 

either star or crescent 


Page 90


as the moon rises 

I see clearly 

at last . . . 

in his absence 

I pack my bags 

Tracy Davidson - USA 

a street woman 

counts a handful of coins 

at dusk 

fingers of wind stealing 

the corners of her smile 

Susan Constable - Canada 

the first day 

in the year of the dragon 

dawns cool and gray . . . 

no wind to fan the flames 

or rain to extinguish them 


Page 91



Page 92

shadows 

how much longer 

As a child, I searched for shadows. Under trees at high noon when the crown of an acacia tree 

from across our balcony covered its root space like a clipped parasol, I’d creep to it and hug the 

ancient roots, basking in its shadow. By the stream where my grandmother scoured the soot off 

the iron rice pot and skillet, I’d haunt the silken strips of shadows under bamboo grooves. I waited 

on the engorged shadow of a kingfisher that never failed to fly by. 

My grandmother had learned from snoops that I sauntered alone at high noon by the stream–even 

took dips. Upbraided, I stopped creeping under the shadowed stream for a while. Instead, I began 

haunting shadows in the wooded orchard of a grandaunt. One afternoon, a buzzing shadow 

chased me. Like a swarming cloud, the bees I had disturbed raced me to the chicken coop. I 

suffered a few stings, which my grandaunt soothed with dabs of burnt molasses syrup. 

These days, I’m hunting for them under ruins and buildings that block the sun off. Why this disdain 

for the sun, a friend once asked. What answer could I give? 

half  

of who we are 

shadows 



Page 93


Cynthia Rowe - Australia 

Page 94


a dream so real 

I stand at the window 

scanning the ocean 

for a carousel of sailboats . . . 

white horses in the wind 


i recall the place 

you promised to take me 

a circus i believe 

it left town many years ago 

and i still wait to hear from you 

Steve Wilkinson - USA 

send me a poem 

a personal one for me to keep 

on scented paper 

the type that lets me know 

that you are never coming back 

Steve Wilkinson - USA 

Page 95


In The Rain 

In the rain: grey gray 

permeates the lights that can 

not penetrate it. 

My feet are wet. My black 

umbrella's beginning to leak. 

A pretty girl runs 

by, her hair clinging to her 

like a lusty lad. 

This is how Autumn should be: 

a soft rain, softer lady. 

A Peterbilt! And 

suddenly she's standing there, 

a ruined woman. 

Once her dress was crisp cotton: 

pristine white, freshly starched. Once. . . 

"Look at what I've learned 

to bake," she bubbles to her 

Mama. "Fresh mud pies!" 

Mom wipes a tear from her eye 

and remembers other rains. 

The daughter's out there, 

somewhere, on this rainy night. 

Then, a lightning bolt. 

"Remember our first date?" Dad 

asks. "You're worried, too," Mom says. 

The rain on the roof 

is little girl feet running 

away in the night. 

She opens her eyes and tries 

to believe it's possible. 

Page 96


The house is a grey 

castle guarded by roaring, 

silver car dragons. 

In her dream her Galahad 

rides through the rain with dry hair. 

Harvey shows up at 

the door like a drenched field mouse 

with a wet corsage. 

The rain's coarse on her satin 

dress. Her hair's become a mop. 

She'll cry all night, fists 

clenched, ignoring the soft rain 

taps on her window. 

This is how nightmare must be: 

a gentle rain and hard hands. 

Once, she believed in 

love. Rain hurts her bruises. She 

has no umbrella. 

In her dream her Galahad 

rode through the rain with dry hair. 

Through the mist: no steel 

shod hoof beat. No mail's clank. Just 

the odd drop of rain. 

Mist needs no more than this: to 

be, and therefore to be all. 

The weatherman's map's 

too large. I understand the 

view from my window. 

A blackbird darts into the 

mist, quicker than a question. 

Kanaka looks out 

the library window, thinking 

of a black-haired girl. 

Page 97


Out of the mist: a black bird, 

species unknown. A phoenix? 

"It's nasty out," he 

tells her. "Maybe we should just 

stay in, where it's warm." 

She makes them hot chocolate with 

whipped cream in handmade clay cups. 

The kids play Old Maid 

and dominoes while freezing 

rain glazes the streets. 

In Central Oklahoma, 

winter rarely learns to snow. 

Raining on Christmas! 

She shakes her red umbrella 

away from the gifts. 

Even these black clouds can't dim 

the lights, bright as children's eyes. 

H. Edgar Hix - USA 

Page 98


a crow’s own color 

and, with less ink, 

the sketch of a pine 

Jeffrey Woodward - USA 

in my hands 

until the tide 

takes it back 


an empty box 

returns a blank stare— 

spring cleaning 


white bird 

in a leafy tree 

my mind wanders 

Dan Brook - USA 

winter night— 

a petal of chrysanthemum 

brightens the well 

Janak Sapkota - Nepal 

Page 99



smell of bile by William J. Higginson and winter hive by Penny Harter 

commentaries by Susan Shand 

I have chosen two related haiku which were published in the Sept 2011 edition of NFTG from the 

Interview with Penny Harter. Both were closing verses to haibun. I have extracted them in order to 

expose a little about revealing emotion in haiku. 

The first is from William J Higginson. 

Haibun - "Well-bucket Nightfall, or New Day?" 

NFTG Sept 2011 

smell of bile . . . 

I waken to October 

after glow 

The smell of bile always indicates illness, the word "bile" is a metaphor for bitterness. Bill hits us with 

that acrid smell and illness. True to his own teaching he doesn't tell us how he feels but that word "bile" 

carries with it a wealth of meaning. All the associations of the word emerge to highlight the emotions of 

anger, regret, resentment, even revulsion. In line 2 we learn that it is the first thing he smells on 

awakening; however, "I awaken" is also loaded with meanings of change and new awareness. October 

sets the season of late Autumn, a time in Japanese haiku characterized by sadness and the closing-down 

of the seasons and the year. Yet it is the "after glow" to which he awakens, the light as it passes and 

fades. Not the sudden darkness of the clichéd extinguished candle or the raging against the dying of the 

light. Not the pity or self-pity which pulls overtly and unsubtly at our hearts. Rather this is the afterglow 

of great lovemaking. That satisfied, fulfilled peace where there is nothing more important than to 

lie still and bask in its glow and its memory. So the bitterness of bile and the sadness of October resolve 

into the awakening to a peaceful acceptance and the joy of a life well lived and well loved. We too are 

left with that after glow, feeling the joyous lift and the settling into acceptance. 

Page 100

The second is from Penny Harter, 

Haibun - "One Bowl" 

NFTG Sept 2011 

winter hive— 

the cluster of bees 

vibrating 

On the surface this is an observational haiku. We look, in order to share alongside the poet her observed 

experience of how bees vibrate inside a closed winter hive. Without the accompanying haibun we may 

not look any deeper for meaning. However even when taken alone, out of the detail of known context, 

this is a remarkable haiku. 

We are in the cold bleakness of winter with the enclosed hive containing its darkness. Within it "the 

cluster of bees" hum and churn ... can you hear that low hum and feel the pitch of the vibration as the 

wings beat, the restless churning of the bees constant movement? Within, there is a sensation of 

contained vibration which sets every nerve alive. The low hum resonates with a grumble of emotional 

complaint; which threatens to emerge in its rising, then falling into futility. By allowing the sound and 

sensation in this haiku to touch us, by living the experience rather than merely looking at it, we can 

stand alongside how she feels. The pitch of that vibration is harmonically and viscerally attuned to the 

poet's own contained emotions in the cold of her world. We can experience with her the empathic 

resonance of the physical sensation of her emotion. 

Susan Shand - UK 


Page 101

Misreading Haiku 


two months gone by Roberta Beary: a commentary by Michael Dylan welch 

two months gone 

her replacement’s shade 

the same ash blond 

—Roberta Beary 

On first reading this poem I confess I was a little puzzled, thinking it might be about a tree. Shade tree? 

Ash tree? Two months since a tree was cut down? That’s where I first went with this poem. And yet 

that interpretation didn’t make sense to me because it didn’t resolve with “her replacement.” Impatience 

would then have had me skip past the poem, feeling simply puzzled. However, patience with the poem 

gave me a different meaning, revealing a human topic: Two months after a spouse or girlfriend has died 

or left, a new relationship has bloomed, yet perhaps it is not new, since the new person’s shade of 

makeup or hair colour is the same ash blond as the previous person’s. Perhaps the new person is 

therefore a surrogate for the departed person, or demonstrates that similar tastes prevail. We cannot 

help but feel skepticism regarding the depth of this new relationship, or the skepticism of the observer 

(the poet) in noticing this unchanged similarity. 

In this case, the name of the poet, which I believe can act as a “fourth line” to many haiku, gave me 

pause to reread the poem. I know Roberta frequently writes about family relationships, so that 

knowledge prompted me to read the poem again more carefully, especially when my initial “tree” 

interpretation very quickly didn’t work. Even if one does not know the gender, biography, or 

geographical location of the poet, it is always worthwhile to read with careful attention. 

That this poem is about people rather than trees might have been obvious to you on first reading, 

but perhaps we all have blind spots—topics or perspectives or interpretations that we might miss on 

reading haiku too quickly. Or that we might apply incorrectly by jumping to pet conclusions. So reading 

patiently is always a useful step when encountering haiku. It certainly helped me in this case. And of 

course, another reason to read a haiku patiently is to find extra layers of meaning. What additional 

layers of meaning can you find in this poem? 

Roberta Beary’s poem is from A Few Stars Away: Towpath Anthology 2010 (Winchester, Virginia: Red 

Moon Press, 2011, p. 22). 

Michael Dylan Welch - USA 

Page 102

THE SEASIDE 

On the foreshore, sheltered by a breakwater from the cold east wind, a man sits huddled in the 

sun. He reads a book. Around him, the cries of gulls, surge of waves. 

Nick Sherwood - UK 


Grand Pier 

in her wheelchair's fastness 

a woman is writing. 

Page 103

Return 

This road I walk between stone walls has no markings just a grass track running through the 

middle, I am back on my Island where I was born it’s fifty three years since I walked down to the 

wee jetty and hired the ferry man to row across almost four miles to the mainland where I caught 

the train to London and my new life. 

Visiting the ruin of my island home of two rooms one of which is now only a pile of stone, the 

memories all flood back of the good but hard times we had here on our island, this small speck of 

land off the coast of Galway which is now a home for gannets and puffins, I’m reminded of the 

three families now scattered to the wind that made a living here rearing their children on the 

potatoes and fish. Leaving from that same wee jetty I make a vow to return soon just as I did all 

those years ago. 

above the island meadow 

the skylarks warning 

high summer 

john byrne - Ireland 


Page 104

The Narrow Gate 

The Lonely Planet Guide to Israel rubs spines with the plain red coat of the Bible. In one, a skinny 

blonde girl with her dreadlocks recently shorn to the scalp fends off men simultaneously amorous 

and hostile. In the other, Jesus draws a map in the sand: Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the 

gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction. 

The territory is narrow in itself: bounded on one side by a river, on the other by the sea. The space 

it occupies, however, expands like a mushroom cloud, altering the atmosphere for leagues and 

eons in every direction. Even the name of water cannot be agreed upon. In the hills, a spring has 

been commandeered: the farmers who march to it repulsed by tear gas. Along a crooked street, 

the seller of sandals tries to entice the girl into the back room of his shop, grasping the pale stem 

of her wrist. She knocks over the display blundering out, the strings of sandals banging her in the 

head, shouts and curses wreath her like a tangled veil. 

dripping water 

fibers twine with smoke 

Jeannette Cabanis-brewin - USA 


Page 105


“the short goodbye” 

waking up 

at night – 

just a silhouette 

someone 

I wish I didn’t owe or know 

street of no return 

24-hour diner 

nameless 

alleycat 

the blackness 

of the hole – 

placing a bet with 

rumor has it 

certain payoff 

knocked 

unconscious 

a big enough sleep 

the boxer’s 

bloody gloves 

broken deal 

at dawn 

anxiety 

sweeping the streets 

...I can’t pay 

the vig 

bookie’s squinting eyes 

other options 

he explains 

approaching her 

backstage – 

diamond-like sequins 

Page 106


she smiles 

and says 

“forever and ever” 

I promise 

to fix it 

making trouble 

the forever 

kind 

the lamppost casts 

its own shadow 

hope I remember to forget 

hiding 

the piece 

riverbed 

getting pulled in – 

bitter 

cop coffee 

the d.a. 

overstates 

my importance 

his cigar 

not lit by match 

thinking 

of our future – 

I play Buster Keaton 

to the chief’s 

Edward G. Robinson 

club act 

never changes – 

my motives do 

cutting a deal 

beggars don’t choose 

right from wrong 

the mirror 

can go to the red house 

pigeon on a stool 

Page 107


explaining 

how we can soon buy 

that little house – 

she straightens 

my straight tie 

sheets of rain 

pound a thin fedora 

betrayal 

her promises 

don’t match 

her actions 

the remains of 

a world of mystery 

money 

for information 

“a girl just getting by” 

steam through 

the grating 

I hear a voice 

and see 

no one 

new suit 

punctured 

by gunshots 

clutching my gut 

and fading to black 


Page 108


fog silhouettes . . . 

the transparency 

of late leaves 

Helga Stania - Switzerland 

snow fields far beyond the sky blue stars 


Way of St. James . . . 

the play 

of mist and light 


a quiet stream— 

my shadow floats with 

the fallen leaves 

P K Padhy - India 

hand in hand 

walking toward the moon 

a long shadow 

Anna Yin - Canada 

Page 109


Heike Gewi - Germany 

Page 110


Maire Morrissey-Cummins - Ireland 

Page 111


every third child 

asthmatic and autistic 

a trail of pills 

as we run through the woods 

with Hansel and Gretel 


walking across 

the Washington Avenue bridge 

after the last class 

we throw our old shoes 

into the wish tree 


A haiku 

at the end 

of the world 

is folded in 

my pocket 

Bruce England – USA 

Page 112


Checklist: 

-just enough gear 

-plenty of maps 

-a small pickup 

-a good road dog 

Bruce England - USA 

I am beyond 

the middle of my game 

and though the numbers 

have diminished as I played 

still—the possibilities! 


casting away 

first emotion 

then unclarity 

leaving the lean, muscular 

being of no waste 

Leslie Ihde - USA 

Page 113

Mountain in Late Afternoon 

From the porch of the mountain house, I cannot see anyone though I hear laughter and the faint 

vibration of music, snatches of song. But here the smooth flagstones are silent, the only sound 

bee drone above wind fallen fruit. 

Smoke-blue fog snags in the branches of the oak. Moving and palpable, soft. Air I can see. 

fireflies spark the field 

ignite the drumming 

of pony hooves 

Jill Gerard - USA 


Page 114


rose garden 

the homeless woman's 

red hair 

Patricia Reid - Australia 

canna lillies 

the red smell 

of bush fires 

Patricia Reid - Australia 

changing names 

the A road 

joins the motorway 

Rachel Sutcliffe - UK 

hard rain 

I try to soften 

my words 

Ernest Wit - Poland 

cemetery dustbin 

the smell 

of rotten flowers 

Ernest Wit - Poland 

Page 115


Two Shisan 

“Tea at the Tate” 

tea at the Tate 

we watch the river flow 

far below 

our tea tower topped 

with strawberry tart 

endless wonders 

of Poetry&Py 

forever hold their peace 

— 

Passepartout gestures 

on an outdoor stage 

a medieval moon 

comes out shining over 

Chaucer's pilgrims 

a yellow plane tree leaf 

between the cobblestones 

— 

the utter loneliness 

of a lost little coot 

in the yacht basin 

a young couple in black 

wave their Union Jacks 

frost fairs: "there you may 

print your name 

tho' cannot write" 

— 

scent of old London 

still in its wood--the Dickens Inn 

I remember 

so well the sturdy wisteria 

that stood just there 

beachcombing on the foreshore 

as the tide begins to turn 

Page 116


“Around the Gherkin” 

late summer rain 

a squall of pigeons 

around the Gherkin 

could it really be turds 

in the turbine room? 

everyone claps 

as the elephant 

puppet sings 

— 

warship, war talks, weary 

weary of war 

sheer lunacy 

my cell phone blinking 

here to there 

it's not always 

easy to turn leaves 

— 

church bells 

and the Ghost of Christmas Past 

in every peal 

side by side, lost 

in an abstract painting 

young lovers ask us 

to take their picture 

in front of the Bridge 

— 

all those shared hours 

lulled by the ebbing tide 

Oh, to be 

in Bloomsbury again 

at blossom time 

as many blue plaques 

as forget-me-nots 

Sprite (Claire Chatelet), UK and Linda Papanicolaou, USA 

begun in parallel walk in Southwark, London, August 2011, completed online 

Page 117


John Byrne - Eire 

Page 118


she turns away 

as the veterinarian 

extinguishes a kitten 

clawing for life 

—an inconvenient miracle 


unable to work again 

with abandoned animals 

she studies ancient paintings 

on the walls of caves 

—wild moving beasts 


sky 

the same color 

as runway 

why don't I ever dream 

about flying 

Melissa Allen - USA 

Page 119

One Nation Under Jazz 

Four clear amber frogs dipped in ego dripped in black where the boysenberry pond watered 

Cherry blossom cluster bombs falling through the candy apple dead vibrance of Basho and 

Basho and Basho all over again triplicating in two a sextet of white orange yellow black blue 

And green polyester dentists with run a muck drills from the old enchanted land of candy 

Corn square dancing at The Healing Waters And Gobbledygook Baptist Church before 

Swimming in the cool blue persona of an authentic celluloid kewpie dolphin from what’s 

Right of left wing Virginia smoked hams hanging out in a meditation hall every monk is 

Exactly nothing in disguise including the firebrick red D cup beach bound 

Bleached 

Blonde 

Caribbean 

Treasure 

Chest 

Everyone hopes to find juggling nine obedient clowns on the back porch drowning in a 

Torrential drizzle of nine words and eight syllables circled by a buzzing halo of grey moths 

Snapped and crackling in the ten – thousand degree heat of her promiscuous king jangling 

Into view clanging and chained to the four muses of gossip disgust dishonesty and deceit 

The Han Blue Nun from none of the above Maryland has practiced quacking her way past 

Compassion Forgiveness Mercy Love Honor Question Mark And The Mysterians two cheese 

Burgers with a supersized side of heavy petting and Chiyo – Ni’s language 

Barking 

Through 

The 

Front 

Door 

Where two pedigreed house flies from Conundrum Connecticut touched down on a blue 

Toadstool melting inside the last Jazz Berry Bee Jack The Whack from Lowell dropped in 

Diamonds behind his missing Issa kissed before he introduced himself as the world’s only 

Mime with lemon meringue spangles dotting his cat eyes savoring the magic mint hooker’s 

Falsetto face posed proudly in front of a White Spot Diner In Denver on the contentious 

Corner of Syllable Street and Subject Matter Boulevard two blocks south of Definition Drive 

With a HI! My Name Is Sue Candy Dee – Dee Jasmine Cookie Carol Carla Jan Molly Taffy 

Beth Sally and Angel Food Layer Cake depending on the time of 

Day 

Weather 

Mood 

Night 

Filling 

The bottle crisp the hose kinked the throat dry and the overall ambience of the alley filled with 

A dead city that runs behind his eyes mumbling lies in the mouth of a toxic poet drowning in 


Page 120

His mind behind a mask that’s cooler than any day in the month of Cucumber refrigerated or 

Not the nuts might be in the pantry hanging on to blind clarity he shed his skin slashing through 

The walls of two drooling billionaire hoodlums and their I Me Mine reflections of silver 

Blades and turquoise noise on an Amish farm churning butter in the fog churning fog 

Into glass churning our reflections into the blind salvation of them dog jammed Marxist 

Gods stoned stumbling and shouting to a wilted bouquet of hammers and sickles pinned 

To an abusive cop selling white black yellow red and white street corner roses who seduce 

Service and sanctify 

Suburban 

Sugar 

Daddys 

Fat 

Rapt 

In 

Egyptian Cotton we’ll sweep clean and keep it under the shag vanity rug covering his mind 

Rejoicing in the miracle of finding Annie Clinton in Hillary Oakley Cher Nixon in Pat 

Bono Aretha Kennedy in Jackie Franklin Lady Roosevelt in Eleanor Ga – Ga Miss Mahalia 

Truman in Bess Jackson Billie Bush in Barbara Holliday Britney Bush in Laura Spears Janis 

Obama in Michelle Joplin Grace Johnson in Lady Bird Slick Wyatt Truman in Harry Earp 

Jesus Holliday in Doc Christ Kareem Abdul Clinton in William Jefferson Jabbar Dwight Aaron 

In Hank Eisenhower Pee Wee Kennedy in John Fitzgerald Herman Bob Nixon in Richard Dylan 

Sponge Bob Bush Junior in George Square Pants Junior Rodney Obama in Barack Dangerfield 

Bonzo Reagan in Ronald The Chimp Charles Milles Johnson in Lyndon Baines Manson and 

Courtney Reagan in Nancy Love eating breakfast together in Winner, South Dakota two moons 

After 

His 

Buffalo 

Walked 

Off 

Both sides of a tarnished nickel they nailed on the midnight sky spilling light on the barren praire 

Behind every eye in Wounded Knee where the dead and the living dead are the lessons we must 

Learn beneath this indivisible ceiling of stars. 

Divorced 

We Shatter a Mirror 

To Rescue Our Reflections 

Ed Markowski - USA 


Page 121


A maggot 

bamboo grove shades 

veiled in allegories 

seven sages /hg 

glass noodles and a maggot ... /wm 

the seeds shoot slowly this spring /hg 

thunder rolls near 

in the baby stroller 

lots of fennel tea /wm 

----------*------------ 

Scattered moon 

at midnight 

grandma's kiln cracks 

... the beams / wm 

sniffing out the scattered moon / hg 

shadows in deep snow a wolf / wm 

calm ... 

counting shards and 

saved quarters / hg 

Renhai by 

wm Walter Mathois –Austria and hg Heike Gewi -Germany 

Page 122

The Summing Ups and Downs 

I open the review of a haibun anthology and see that my work is summarized as “amusing 

personal stories and confessions.” 

Hmmmm. Shouldn’t I feel good about having my work included in the anthology and being one of 

the few mentioned in a positive tone. But, is that all my writing, this conceit that I might have 

something serious to offer, adds up to – amusing confessions? 

birthday party – 

my child's balloon 

d 

e 

f 

l 

a 

t 

e 

d 

I want to write at least one haibun that the reviewer would describe – as he did with others – as 

“wild and woolly servings of word-soup;” as using “lyrical narrative language;” and although I don’t 

understand these terms, even as containing “paradoxical associations” and “surreal disjunctions.” 

bobbing 

amongst the flotsam 

a rusty beer can 

scurrying 

in the jetsam – 

a tiny crab, claws raised 

Ray Rasmussen - Canada 


Page 123


so I start thinking 

about the next thing I'll be . . . 

all day the scent 

of pine sap I can't scrub 

from my fingers 


underneath 

the ice 

of the poem 

an imaginary frog 

slows its heartbeat 


living with 

a never-departing shadow 

thoughts 

of the last few years 

darken my day 

Kala Ramesh - India 

Page 124


closely behind 

an ox, I was once 

the wheel 

. . . now a bird 

with wings to fly 


she buys red roses 

that wither and die 

just look 

at the moon's 

never-ending journey 


Page 125


the nuthatch 

shows its belly . . . 

winter dawn 


razor shell . . . 

again, the raw edge 

of grief 


the outline 

of a sunken tiller 

mussels 

Bill Cooper - USA 

2.5 lead pencils - 

this new box may last 

the rest of my life 


On the beach 

I return along footprints 

I created 


Page 126


his old cane 

in the umbrella stand 

autumn rain 

Mark E. Brager - USA 

waning day 

the slow work 

of each breath 


line by line 

the room drawn 

by winter light 


a week of vertigo: 

one crooked nap 

slides into another 

Julie Bloss Kelsey - USA 

morning walk 

that pebble in my shoe 

finds just the right spot 

Andy Burkhart - USA 

Page 127


long drought . . . 

the slow precipitation 

of a tailpipe 

Don Baird - USA 

grandma's quilt— 

the maple's last 

few leaves 

Don Baird – USA 

New Year’s Eve 

gracefully joining our ping pong match 

a tiny black moth 

Ryan Jessup - USA 

through the paving crack 

forget-me-nots 

back again 

Peter Butler - UK 

bay mouth 

the strangeness 

of first meetings 


Page 128



Page 129


small hours by Yu Yan Chen 

A personal report by Alan Summers 

As the author of this collection is a friend, as well as colleague, and someone I spent twelve months with 

on a Masters Degree in Creative Writing, this cannot be a review. 

Yu Yan Chen is above all, an extraordinary human being, and one I hope you get to know a little if you 

decide to purchase her collection. 

The New York Quarterly, where she worked as an Editorial Assistant says this: 

Yu Yan Chen was born in a fishing village in China but grew up in New York City. Enchanted by the 

traveler's tales her grandfather told, she set sail to seek her own adventures. She is an interpreter and 

literary translator. 

Her poems have been published in the US, UK and China. She lives in Brooklyn. 

Yu Yan Chen is also an honorary citizen of the City of Bath (and Bristol), where she has lived for a 

number of years before going back to Brooklyn. She still visits us. 

If you have never experienced being an immigrant this is a book for you. 

Award-winning poet, and a leading critic, Tim Liardet covers a few facets about this intriguing human, 

and poet: 

Among the four-hundred-and-fifty thousand Chinese New Yorkers Yu Yan Chen's is undeniably a 

unique and memorable voice. The voice is as profoundly American as it is Chinese. It has wit and charm 

and, above all else, subversion. 

—Tim Liardet 

Page 130

I believe Yu Yan first became interested in haiku once I mentioned this genre post-Masters, and perhaps 

a little influence has crept in regards to two places in her collection: Tofu Zodiac; and The Hour Glass 

respectively 

2. 

12. 

75% liquid you wade 

mountains, valleys 

plains, volcanoes 

the way to Li Po of Dynasty Tang 

rice wine circles moonlight 

as it is 

I turned a deaf ear 

to Van Gogh’s moaning flowers 

the song of bullfight 

red-winged blackbird 

sipping moat beer Iowa River 

to the point of tears 

On the other side of the Pacific Ocean, the cicada is asleep… 

Because I turned my head five hundred times before this life sees you… 

Carry my heart and the bullet-proof window down Marcus Garvey Blvd… 

And the story of her friend who lost his life saving others during 911 inspired me to write this haiku is 

called Elegy [see below]: 

ground zero 

a new friend's story 

about her friend 

Alan Summers 

(Due to come out in a haiku anthology on war and human rights later this year.) 


Page 131

Elegy 

for Zheng Zhe 

All elevators suspended. Racing down 

flights of stairs you never looked back, 

headed south to the Twin Towers 

with the first aid kit you learned to use 

as a volunteer medic, into the smoke, debris 

and the howls of the emergency vehicles. 

The last images of you were captured 

on Fox 5 News, tending to an injured woman 

on a stretcher, in a white shirt and rubber gloves. 

Walking in Chinatown five years later, I stood 

in the street named after you, wondered whether 

you would still be strolling among the lunch crowd 

had you stayed in bed a little longer that morning. 

In Columbus Park the old men gathered 

to play chess, while the fortune tellers sat on the stools 

outside its rim, ogling the passers-by. 

_____________________________ 

small hours 

Yu Yan Chen 

NYQ Books (2011) 

(Publishing quality books of poetry by poets who have appeared in The New York Quarterly Magazine.) 

www.nyqbooks.org/title/smallhours 


Page 132


Leptir nad pučinom (Butterfly over the Open Sea) 

Tomislav Maretić 

Reviewed by Alan Summers 

Tomislav Maretić works in Zagreb as a physician at the Mihaljevic University Hospital for Infectious 

Diseases. He has been writing haiku for 30 years and in 1988, together with Vladimir Devidé and 

Zvonko Petrovic, he wrote the first renga in Croatian language and in 1995 the book Renge (Sipar, 

Zagreb) was published. This is his first solo haiku collection: It contains over 500 haiku and one nijuin 

renga. The book is divided into eight groups of haiku ranging from haiku as sublime as: 

melting snow, 

the first blackbird’s song 

is still brief 

mountain path- 

a wood grouse in love 

won’t let us pass 

frogs at twilight- 

biking with my daughter 

to hear them 

how many ways 

to become a butterfly- 

a mime on the stage 

village cat 

entering a barley field 

by secret paths 

This book has many secret paths revealed by its author, and I can highly recommend it for those who 

like to travel these same paths. 

_____________________________ 

Leptir nad pučinom (Butterfly over the Open Sea) – Tomislav Maretić 

Published by the Croatian Catholic Medical Society (2011) 

Page 133


Colin Stewart Jones - Scotland 

Page 134

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