tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61717416741558497992024-03-06T05:05:38.806+00:00an open fieldLynne Rees on haiku writing - creative and critical Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-81433587452256885322020-01-01T12:03:00.006+00:002022-08-28T11:30:23.854+01:00Consolidation & Simplification<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since January 2020 all my work - haiku writing, poetry, prose, imaginative and non-fiction writing - has been posted on my website<span style="color: #ffa400;"> <a href="http://www.lynnerees.com/" target="_blank">Lynne Rees</a>. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Please feel free to share anything from this archive, or my main site, but I'd be grateful if you could credit me as the writer and link back to the source. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Thank you 🙏</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Lynne </span></p>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-92204761342530534372019-12-29T19:30:00.001+00:002019-12-29T19:32:49.032+00:00haiku commentary<pre style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-family: monospace, serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">deeper shadows
where the walls meet...
autumn rain
<b>– Mark E. Brager, <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">The Heron's Nest, Volume XXI, Number 3</i> (2019)</b></pre>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: monospace , serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I imagine a corner, two walls meeting at right angles. I can see the depth of shadow there. If I reach out, I am sure the surface – rough brick or smooth masonry – will be cooler; perhaps because the autumn rain I now notice has started to fall.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: monospace, serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The places where people meet are more emotionally complex, stepping, as we may have to, from the comfort of the familiar to the challenge of the unfamiliar. Those “deeper shadows” may be rich with empathy and gratitude. Eshadows in corners Photograph by Steven Castledinequally, they may be fraught with conflict and umbrage.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: monospace, serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brager’s haiku shifts me from inanimate objects to human experience. I sense loss through the image of “autumn rain,” or at least an understanding, or acceptance, of inevitable change that results in something being left behind.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: monospace, serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps change, even for the better, always leaves a small echo of sorrow, for what, or who, was once a part of us.</span></div>
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<img alt="Image result for shadows in corners" height="425" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTEPxsl1AE3oRlLADkOE43x4mYvaMOimbG68oHx-zHiFXObRzO_pw&s" width="640" /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"> shadows in corners: photograph by Steven Castledine</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/2019/12/13/revirals-223/" target="_blank">Originally published re:virals 223</a></div>
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Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-39458202467643588332019-07-31T12:12:00.024+01:002021-03-12T12:19:28.279+00:00haiku<p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">early snow whether I am ready or not the silence </span></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIyPdc7aH0Ujy5jaiOVhyEJW4UEFtahbW9qviFmM2TqaDaIbQigvK2iAp7uoiDqAejvzu6InvPrUaCNg4bdNrrXUyvsdStHx7CXNzfFiWkZdrcpoRGyFKJPpqZzuG99glEWpI4Fxdre_c/s2048/grass+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIyPdc7aH0Ujy5jaiOVhyEJW4UEFtahbW9qviFmM2TqaDaIbQigvK2iAp7uoiDqAejvzu6InvPrUaCNg4bdNrrXUyvsdStHx7CXNzfFiWkZdrcpoRGyFKJPpqZzuG99glEWpI4Fxdre_c/w640-h360/grass+snow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Published in <a href="https://www.humankindjournal.org/uploads/1/1/6/7/116792551/hk_issue_1.7_final.pdf" target="_blank">Human/Kind July 2019</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Journal of Topical & Contemporary Japanese Short Forms & Art</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-71360711893829121822019-05-04T09:45:00.000+01:002019-05-04T09:45:14.756+01:00haiku<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO5v1KrR6YiXe1hvG8gm2JNK54FyfYC3dPfnjVKpftIvrB6byTkZh1gM_fgKUwt-PnExMB400PhAncO_XgxwwFICo3tbCAiZSqaaBAUWataGJh9ZNh93KRrTJ3rfK1RB9x5ezjs0pKllBU/s1600/5am+sunrise+on+the+wall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO5v1KrR6YiXe1hvG8gm2JNK54FyfYC3dPfnjVKpftIvrB6byTkZh1gM_fgKUwt-PnExMB400PhAncO_XgxwwFICo3tbCAiZSqaaBAUWataGJh9ZNh93KRrTJ3rfK1RB9x5ezjs0pKllBU/s320/5am+sunrise+on+the+wall.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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sunrise<br />
barred light on the walls<br />
of the deportation centre<br />
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<a href="https://tinywords.com/2019/05/03/29344/" target="_blank">tinywords May 2019</a>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-21147023148677357602019-05-03T10:14:00.001+01:002019-05-03T10:17:19.509+01:00haibun ~ Ritual<i>In memory of …</i><br />
a grasshopper leaps<br />
from stone to stone<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7istsgD6nr1WbYy2Kh-J9q_lSXefRslPJLYdJPMRKGXKjh9Enmq_OVBMXGGJTqHs3gLmNgE4q-FQukr_4gIjG8kF38K6Cor9Exh8i6X9Km5GpnqOi_8rYCJvNrYFSzZwZMO0iMMRxU0Sx/s1600/Ebenezer4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1071" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7istsgD6nr1WbYy2Kh-J9q_lSXefRslPJLYdJPMRKGXKjh9Enmq_OVBMXGGJTqHs3gLmNgE4q-FQukr_4gIjG8kF38K6Cor9Exh8i6X9Km5GpnqOi_8rYCJvNrYFSzZwZMO0iMMRxU0Sx/s640/Ebenezer4.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Sometimes the dead speak to us: this morning Facebook unearthed a seven year old message from a friend who died two years ago. Now here I am, interrupting a run to snap ox-eye daisies from the hedgerow and lay them on a rabbit knocked to the side of the road, as fresh and neat as sleep.</div>
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Flowers for what is lost: the voice of a friend, the beat of a heart. For the shrinking perimeters of my father’s mind. The last time I said goodbye he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Presence 63, March 2019</span><br />
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Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-62194014208121714792019-05-02T15:27:00.000+01:002019-05-02T15:27:01.729+01:00haiku<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvzMfVY84bkSoJIdsn0Q1H1s51NGSBgNSTgMx8JnSvAKlgQtvaukBfOvfG0gnEwcAwUtO4Fw7RF09tToBxQ-JCR4-fp43geK1SsjZk32bFDbk5ETssVzYouZdQzt66yNEeikM-2W4YNkW/s1600/december+chilli.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1347" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvzMfVY84bkSoJIdsn0Q1H1s51NGSBgNSTgMx8JnSvAKlgQtvaukBfOvfG0gnEwcAwUtO4Fw7RF09tToBxQ-JCR4-fp43geK1SsjZk32bFDbk5ETssVzYouZdQzt66yNEeikM-2W4YNkW/s320/december+chilli.JPG" width="269" /></a><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">hitting sixty</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I throw another chilli</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">in the home-made stew</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Runner up in the Anam Cara Haiku Competition May 2019</span></span></div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-28303875687978984542019-05-02T15:21:00.000+01:002019-05-03T10:17:32.403+01:00haibun ~ Playing Lego Minecraft with Morgan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJhK2V-EkVddOrcdkI7xy17ArdmAg6ZjQx2WZf3rAZec2vQ1n04Za7gBLluhDWnPJkArfwVVhG36NF329SreikS34UtImW3Gs_psRFBNsSqiKfVr9-otc8s4yczjUPjbqkcNHa0lICNSH/s1600/morgan+minecraft+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJhK2V-EkVddOrcdkI7xy17ArdmAg6ZjQx2WZf3rAZec2vQ1n04Za7gBLluhDWnPJkArfwVVhG36NF329SreikS34UtImW3Gs_psRFBNsSqiKfVr9-otc8s4yczjUPjbqkcNHa0lICNSH/s400/morgan+minecraft+2.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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There’s only a portal of black obsidian between the zombies and lava in The Dimension of The Nether and The Overworld where Steve is standing and I am counting his sheep, cows and pigs. But we really shouldn’t be hanging around when night is about to fall and mob attacks are imminent: Blazes and Creepers, Spiders from The Cave, all ready to descend on The Farm. </div>
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<i>autism spectrum</i></div>
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<i>my nephew names</i></div>
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<i>all the monsters</i></div>
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It’s time to lock up the animals, he says, time to close doors and windows, so I turn Steve around and notice he’s clutching a tiny baguette, something that fills me with unaccountable joy: that in this world of sharp edges and danger a boy has placed Bread in a man’s hands and they are carrying it home. </div>
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<i>Presence 63, March 2019</i></div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-6943126872298772922019-05-02T15:17:00.000+01:002019-05-03T10:17:46.720+01:00haibun ~ I am running through the wondrous silence of history ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDthNOiXM5oBHpKEDfnRmPTkUM7DYc1BYoj2mkcVyadEkL299_inBv8V9iC_muCAecNkX8wnCUF2g9vFshLXANSsdekG-KfyAicstOD2YXMLxSWgUFavRGDro8W2PV0ilHOlVqQPjprvO/s1600/wrotham+run-4-north+downs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1451" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDthNOiXM5oBHpKEDfnRmPTkUM7DYc1BYoj2mkcVyadEkL299_inBv8V9iC_muCAecNkX8wnCUF2g9vFshLXANSsdekG-KfyAicstOD2YXMLxSWgUFavRGDro8W2PV0ilHOlVqQPjprvO/s320/wrotham+run-4-north+downs.JPG" width="290" /></a></div>
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... past standing stones, invisible tombs, the path Chaucer's pilgrims took across the North Downs, the stone cold dead in churchyards, listening to the sound my feet make on lanes, on mud and stone, sharing my breath, the thump of my heartbeats, with sheep, the sky, fields. Sometimes I wonder how I got here, what propelled me forward to this moment when the snags of fleece along a wire fence shine with glory, when another rise in the track ahead is an inspiration not a defeat. And I think of the words, 'yes', and, 'you can', and the centuries of people before me who said them out loud, or quietly to themselves, believing that something could change. And here I am changing almost nothing in the world and still feeling better for it.</div>
<br />
<i>trail run</i><br />
<i>seeing the wood </i><br />
<i>and the trees</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Blithe Spirit 29.1 - 2019</span><br />
<br />Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-87104295396849492122019-03-14T19:15:00.001+00:002019-03-14T19:15:46.819+00:00photo haiku<div style="text-align: center;">
even amongst all this grey light</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31XjmqbyPNY6hid96Zi9_jlj5yWoXNIhCwYcPjPAOyC6JKUUSmMRXaK10kvJrmSVUJ41xj1-12qYE6qkuRkEqMDjDGNogllgSxsrPjQ4T7_YR96Gl03-z3FY6mCq2hFZeOmThyphenhyphenXn2nAE9/s1600/even+among+all+this+grey+light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="995" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31XjmqbyPNY6hid96Zi9_jlj5yWoXNIhCwYcPjPAOyC6JKUUSmMRXaK10kvJrmSVUJ41xj1-12qYE6qkuRkEqMDjDGNogllgSxsrPjQ4T7_YR96Gl03-z3FY6mCq2hFZeOmThyphenhyphenXn2nAE9/s640/even+among+all+this+grey+light.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-37748958344402525722019-03-07T21:00:00.000+00:002019-05-03T10:18:09.460+01:00haibun ~ Into the Dark<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqS0JcilXMQZt3z0w9UBNX6Yu2jakekts6vZiYNj6uVVi02cuN8oPmHBnQSOnUR5_m6VRLGhjHzCq1OViwODAALQ3moPCQy7MSTvpbVEnN7k4AFZrh0SmWK17j3pkFb6Wk59DAXLjfIm7A/s1600/trees+dusk+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="1280" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqS0JcilXMQZt3z0w9UBNX6Yu2jakekts6vZiYNj6uVVi02cuN8oPmHBnQSOnUR5_m6VRLGhjHzCq1OViwODAALQ3moPCQy7MSTvpbVEnN7k4AFZrh0SmWK17j3pkFb6Wk59DAXLjfIm7A/s640/trees+dusk+crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Into the dark<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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My father cannot name a single
animal for the memory nurse. No farm or wild animal. Not even the simplicity of
dog or cat or any of the fish he used to catch. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I imagine them circling the dark
auditorium of his brain – sheep, lion, tiger, trout – a silent carousel refusing
to yield to the roll of his tongue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Parkinson’s dementia<o:p></o:p></div>
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a blackbird almost invisible <o:p></o:p></div>
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in the winter's dusk<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://haibuntoday.com/ht131/H_Rees_Into.html" target="_blank">First published <i>Haibun Today Vol 13 No 1, March 2019</i></a></span></div>
<br />Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-47566759454638233892019-01-24T15:39:00.001+00:002019-01-24T15:41:34.047+00:00photo haiku<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH7pm_WvsfaJM4cM7lq70YrSXfNSkcjjTMOuG42QirCwMb-f4imVSzeFi6IlUum0cyjJo1SpHVL4WZObBIkGVvufEC9HiMayrp20QLL6s3tqknso7_p2Al9mEngxGbv2XHX1vjPXqZLKns/s1600/moon+in+the+trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH7pm_WvsfaJM4cM7lq70YrSXfNSkcjjTMOuG42QirCwMb-f4imVSzeFi6IlUum0cyjJo1SpHVL4WZObBIkGVvufEC9HiMayrp20QLL6s3tqknso7_p2Al9mEngxGbv2XHX1vjPXqZLKns/s400/moon+in+the+trees.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">moon in the trees</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">me and the blackbird</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">singing</span></span>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-27037849549089223272018-12-02T19:27:00.000+00:002018-12-02T19:27:27.445+00:00photo haiku<br />
my mother cries<br />
on the other end of the phone<br />
hard rain<br />
<br />
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<br />Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-45067843587188353952018-09-08T11:43:00.002+01:002018-09-08T11:43:32.485+01:00Remember. Imagine ~ Reflection on Frances Angela's 'Philip Street'<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Remember. Imagine.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I know the smoke and steam of
industry. Tall chimneys, the cordons of terraced houses. Shift changes: men in
caps and thick jackets leaving or returning home in the dark. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The cover of Frances Angela’s
new chapbook, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Philip Street</i>, evokes these
memories of my hometown in South Wales. I recall the streets named for
landowners, builders and benefactors. Remember the kids we were warned against playing
with …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they didn’t like me playing with patsy
o’malley they said her family were thieves and rogues<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_edn1" name="_ednref1" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[i]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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And there was the library too:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the library just for the smell<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_edn2" name="_ednref2" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[ii]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I know that smell: dust,
polish, paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then my childhood
path diverges from the one that unfolds in the subsequent pages: a children’s
home, a catechism class, whiskey. This is not my story. Yet somehow, it is my
story, the one I imagine, the one I experience through my senses…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pub night the dark heap of mother’s clothes<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_edn3" name="_ednref3" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[iii]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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… and through empathy and compassion for hope forbidden
and lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a girl<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">i wanted to be a librarian a saint or an
actress at school they told me i could apply </i><i>for the mill or if lucky a shop my father
bought me a brown nylon overall from </i><i>the co-op you could wash and dry it
overnight</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dark mornings<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the smell of paraffin<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on my way to work<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_edn4" name="_ednref4" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[iv]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Philip Street </i>is
a compressed and visceral journey from childhood to adulthood that is perfumed
with joy, desire, grief and a concluding idea of acceptance or understanding:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">demolished mill it all grows back<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_edn5" name="_ednref5" style="mso-endnote-id: edn5;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[v]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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‘The past is a foreign country; they do things
differently there.’ The immortal first line of L.P. Hartley’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Go-Between </i>wistfully illustrates our
relationship with memory: what we remember, what we think we remember, what is
known, what can’t be known. But as writers we keep on visiting our foreign
countries and its inhabitants. We keep on telling our stories, sometimes to
make sense of things, other times to simply bear witness. And we tell the
stories of people who, for so many reasons, may not have had a voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">small linoed
kitchen<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my dead grandma’s
nightdress<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on the pulley line<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_edn6" name="_ednref6" style="mso-endnote-id: edn6;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[vi]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Angela, Frances, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Philip Street<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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First published in Great Britain in 2018 by<o:p></o:p></div>
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Snapshot Press, Orchard House, High Lane, Ormskirk L40
7SL<o:p></o:p></div>
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Free to download: <a href="http://www.snapshotpress.co.uk/ebooks.htm" target="_blank">eBooks from Snapshot Press</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_ednref1" name="_edn1" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[i]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
pp.8<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div id="edn2" style="mso-element: endnote;">
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_ednref2" name="_edn2" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[ii]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
pp.10<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_ednref3" name="_edn3" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[iii]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
pp.19<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_ednref4" name="_edn4" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[iv]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
pp.22<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_ednref5" name="_edn5" style="mso-endnote-id: edn5;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[v]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
pp.30<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/User/Documents/HAIKU%20WRITING/Haiku/articles/my%20articles/Remember.%20Imagine.%20Frances%20ANGELA.docx#_ednref6" name="_edn6" style="mso-endnote-id: edn6;" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">[vi]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>
pp.16<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /><br />
<a href="https://www.waleshaikujournal.com/reflections-phillipstreet" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">First published by Wales Haiku Journal September 2018</span></a>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-18446942656487686402018-08-11T17:49:00.000+01:002018-08-11T17:49:32.934+01:00photo haiku<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBl-wVhoerdqnA9wzqd6a4PsP4AvA6wa9O9RbMKNw9G6DarlpMRG1Tbrc1Q_ri9J-3euJqzJumxvR9Ba6C6CRqzq69y0ePvEd_bfGQf1BUuahgEJ5Jr6PEjmmlFaxD5paOs9UR6c36fKf/s1600/light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1243" data-original-width="1600" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBl-wVhoerdqnA9wzqd6a4PsP4AvA6wa9O9RbMKNw9G6DarlpMRG1Tbrc1Q_ri9J-3euJqzJumxvR9Ba6C6CRqzq69y0ePvEd_bfGQf1BUuahgEJ5Jr6PEjmmlFaxD5paOs9UR6c36fKf/s320/light.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
good days<br />
bad days<br />
always the light<br />
at our feetLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-4090925992594891712018-08-11T17:10:00.000+01:002018-08-11T17:10:21.100+01:00photo haiku<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDl-f8QCjTTZehkbh66y81tKQ278p1P4hQtT6EIooBchJWd3iG5BzfrumyJ7BvVVxYo-rgslzrWJdJs8v_HP9istzPJFwP2ORF20Qkj6QCe1GBtsZy2nfmZlTOGvs4PyKq2npmI5TZK2z/s1600/church+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="956" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDl-f8QCjTTZehkbh66y81tKQ278p1P4hQtT6EIooBchJWd3iG5BzfrumyJ7BvVVxYo-rgslzrWJdJs8v_HP9istzPJFwP2ORF20Qkj6QCe1GBtsZy2nfmZlTOGvs4PyKq2npmI5TZK2z/s320/church+window.jpg" width="191" /></a><br />
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sunday morning<br />
the light beyond<br />
the church windowLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-79045245098278028302018-07-28T15:57:00.000+01:002018-09-08T11:45:02.166+01:00WONDER ~ Reflection on Scott Mason’s 'The Wonder Code'<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">
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‘What’s the word for the sky in your house?’ my granddaughter asked as I was putting her to bed. </div>
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‘The sky in my house?’ And I looked up towards the ceiling, imagined the open space above it, between floor joists and the roof’s wooden rafters, and I saw what she was seeing, saw it confined there as if it had forgotten to move before we’d converted the derelict barn to a home. ‘Ah, the attic,’ I said. </div>
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Fifteen years later I live in a house with no attic and sometimes I stare at the sky and wonder about all that time it was living with me and I hadn’t known. </div>
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In his Afterword to The Wonder Code Scott Mason asks, ‘… where does wonder begin?’ And answers, ‘I believe it begins with a sense of discovery.’ </div>
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<i>discover (v.)</i> from the Old French <i>descovrir,</i> which meant, satisfyingly in the above context, to unroof, and also to unveil, to reveal. </div>
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We discover things when we lift the veils of self-importance, fear, indifference, cynicism, intolerance, impatience. We discover things when we do not assume we already know everything. </div>
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<i>swallowtail</i></div>
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<i>maybe I’ll</i></div>
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<i>say yes <span style="font-size: xx-small;">i</span> </i></div>
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The Wonder Code is many things: a guide to writing haiku, a meditation on haiku practice, an anthology and a philosophical manifesto. It is also a tribute to the 285 poets whose work appears here, collated from the pages of the American haiku journal, The Heron’s Nest. The haiku, presented in five separate ‘Galleries’, with a sixth gallery showcasing Mason’s own work, are introduced to us through a series of reflective essays. </div>
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We are shown small things (‘Think Small’):</div>
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<i>afternoon tea</i></div>
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<i>each ant takes away</i></div>
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<i>a granule of light <span style="font-size: xx-small;">ii</span> </i></div>
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The sensory (‘Come to Your Senses’): </div>
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<i>firelight</i></div>
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<i>the hiss and crackle</i></div>
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<i>of an old LP <span style="font-size: xx-small;">iii</span></i></div>
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The seasonal (‘Feel the Moment’): </div>
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<i>summer stars</i></div>
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<i>my children ask me</i></div>
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<i>to name a favourite <span style="font-size: xx-small;">iv</span></i></div>
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Surprising things (‘Prepare for Surprise’):</div>
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<i>winter funeral</i></div>
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<i>we face our mortality</i></div>
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<i>in high heels on ice</i> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">v</span></div>
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And the satisfying (‘Only Connect’): </div>
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<i>setting sun</i></div>
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<i>my mother picks</i></div>
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<i>the last tomato <span style="font-size: xx-small;">vi</span></i></div>
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The Wonder Code is a compact but enjoyably heavy book that opens comfortably in one hand. Its satin boards and yellow endpapers are as charming and cheerful as smiles. The font and text-size are easy on the eyes. And Mason is a writer with his readers’ interests at heart. He is serious without ever being solemn; he is informative and celebratory. And his own haiku illustrate an absolute engagement with the deceptive simplicity of haiku writing: the challenge of creating two parts that ‘ignite’ and produce the startling heat of veracity.</div>
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<i> slave burial ground</i></div>
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<i>a mourning dove</i></div>
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<i> we can only hear <span style="font-size: xx-small;">vii</span></i></div>
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My granddaughter was a city kid, more at ease with London’s squalling traffic and hurly burly streets than the unfamiliar quietness of woodland tracks, the distant horizons of open fields. Each visit to our house in the countryside led to discoveries: the sound of woodpeckers, a camp made with fallen branches, the persistent tingle and itch of nettles, and once, on a trip to a local farm, the petting of a lamb.</div>
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‘It feels like porridge,’ she exclaimed as she ran her palm across its tight woolly coat. </div>
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‘Life awaits … may its wonder be with you.’ <span style="font-size: xx-small;">viii </span></div>
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<i>The Wonder Code</i>, Scott Mason</div>
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<a href="http://thewondercode.com/" style="background: transparent; color: #729c0b; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Girasole Press, Chappaqua, New York 2017</a></div>
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<a href="http://thewondercode.com/" style="background: transparent; color: #729c0b; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">$24.95 to $35.95 inclusive of shipping</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">[i]</span></span></span> Francine Banwarth, pp.202<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">[ii]</span></span></span> Lorin Ford, pp.23<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">[iii]</span></span></span> Ashley Rodman, pp.64<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">[iv]</span></span></span> Tom Painting, pp.159<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">[v]</span></span></span> kate s. godsey, pp.187<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">[vi]</span></span></span> Elizabeth Moura, pp.269<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference">[vii]</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"> Mason, pp.301</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: xx-small;">[viii] Mason, pp.278</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">First published by <a href="https://www.waleshaikujournal.com/relections-thewondercode" style="background: transparent; color: #729c0b; font-style: normal; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Wales Haiku Journal</a>, July 2018</span></i></div>
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Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-79071893186421421082018-05-19T09:53:00.002+01:002018-05-19T10:11:53.490+01:00haiku commentary ~ Annette Makino<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes life and poetry intersect naturally. I had a brutal wardrobe clear-out yesterday, as witnessed by the pile of clothes hangers in the centre of the bed and a bulging large carrier bag destined for the charity shop. And then, through one of those random extended internet excavations, I came across this haiku by <b>Annette Makino</b>, published by <a href="http://tinywords.com/2014/01/01/15412/" target="_blank">tinywords</a> a few years ago which I'd commented on briefly. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">hanging in my closet the person I used to be</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Reading it again still elicited a similar variety of responses: laughter, recognition, resignation and sadness. And this time part of ‘the person I used to be’ was neatly folded at my feet! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgagaIV9tII4bcIK4YWy8e6EFjqxQrNJeZyNU9cO8gfRS9wYJ1xe5Yxb87Y35nWL7a9RRdRwkghqcKQ5yRLNO1vBDsjutWXvbJhhuWlP3_hleSOgRyW1nWao0gPAlXm6PlsukoOwG6KUYSi/s1600/feather+bolero.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgagaIV9tII4bcIK4YWy8e6EFjqxQrNJeZyNU9cO8gfRS9wYJ1xe5Yxb87Y35nWL7a9RRdRwkghqcKQ5yRLNO1vBDsjutWXvbJhhuWlP3_hleSOgRyW1nWao0gPAlXm6PlsukoOwG6KUYSi/s320/feather+bolero.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Most of us keep clothes that no longer fit us, or suit us. I still have an ostentatious, ostrich feather bolero that I bought in the early 1980s and will never wear again but hold onto from a sense of nostalgia. But the haiku also propels me towards imagining clothes that belonged to someone else, a husband, wife or partner who may have left, or died, and that spills me into a different interpretation of 'the person I used to be'. Is there anger? Is there grief? Or acceptance of the space between the then and the now? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This multi-layering of possible meanings is, for me, the mark of a good haiku. I think of it as a journey haiku: not anchored to one place or experience but offering the reader a range of possible destinations. It becomes more than the writer's haiku: it belongs to us all. </span></div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-54667040346169673322018-05-02T13:49:00.003+01:002018-05-02T13:49:45.169+01:00photo haiku<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYQt1msA_Ur-2rz7fpONdeCT8Au2ONIlQgiSF9CsUvGfkbJBi5Eo8Er0RMrZKhgB0rvfC8e4F7rhVRIXHRx_ZMr2X5lLvQj3FXPZduq4kNqCBg-xvsCTdZWgZ__AmkgSt1XJI87WlFOoGx/s1600/haiku+and+photo+-+in+the+long+grass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="791" data-original-width="1600" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYQt1msA_Ur-2rz7fpONdeCT8Au2ONIlQgiSF9CsUvGfkbJBi5Eo8Er0RMrZKhgB0rvfC8e4F7rhVRIXHRx_ZMr2X5lLvQj3FXPZduq4kNqCBg-xvsCTdZWgZ__AmkgSt1XJI87WlFOoGx/s640/haiku+and+photo+-+in+the+long+grass.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Haiku Rebellion Studio, The Poetry School, London, April 2018</span></i></div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-44347946495400321422018-03-19T12:53:00.000+00:002018-05-02T13:44:18.964+01:00haiku commentary ~ Jacob Salzer<b>haiku</b><br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i>how many</i><br />
<i>become one</i><br />
<i>sound of rain</i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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— <b>Jacob Salzer</b>, <i>Frogpond</i> 38.3<br />
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I have a particular fondness for line-break – perhaps because I came to haiku from writing free-verse where line-break is the principal structuring tool. But it’s still something that matters to me in constructing haiku, although I approach it with a lighter touch to avoid any overly dramatic effect that a longer poem might be able to carry and dilute.<br />
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And it was the idea of line-break that immediately hit me when I first read Salzer’s haiku, on the page and out loud… the idea that the haiku would work as well without any:<br />
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<i>how many become one sound of rain</i></div>
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The haiku’s theme of oneness, alongside the option for the reader to pause in multiple places to play with the sense of what Salzer is saying, make it perfect for the monostich form. BUT… that’s not what Salzer chose to do so instead of simply imposing myself on the poem I want to look deeper and appreciate the author’s intention.<br />
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The line-breaks definitely slow the poem down: the slight breath pauses at the end of lines 1 and 2 followed by the white space on the page, before we read over to the next line. It creates a more contemplative mood than the words ‘running’ across the page on a single line.<br />
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Line 1 poses both a question and a statement: how many? or [this is] how many. It reminds me of the powerful opening to a koan.<br />
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Words placed at the beginning or ends of lines tend to carry more weight and line 2 ends on ‘one’ which reinforces the theme of unity<br />
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And the 3rd line isolates ‘the sound of rain’ adding more power or presence to the image.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCtbUFzpgL1nRxKB7U0u5d3mzp_rHbXdd43OBI_p2xVBa9vpfQgKXgm19UQJgUbfeiITFjMdzfwH0Za7frnMUzSo58FEIXocfRADZSZMmTxQiTRqB3NlBEZoeayL3GWe4m-qRtKccNGsL/s1600/rain+and+roses+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="1600" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCtbUFzpgL1nRxKB7U0u5d3mzp_rHbXdd43OBI_p2xVBa9vpfQgKXgm19UQJgUbfeiITFjMdzfwH0Za7frnMUzSo58FEIXocfRADZSZMmTxQiTRqB3NlBEZoeayL3GWe4m-qRtKccNGsL/s640/rain+and+roses+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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So yes, it works for me in three lines too. But in my head I can’t help it taking on the form of single line that loops me back through itself, enjoyably, again and again.<br />
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<a href="https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/2018/03/23/revirals-132/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Published on The Haiku Foundation</span></a><br />
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Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-4509724976412717692018-02-11T15:11:00.000+00:002018-02-11T15:11:09.866+00:00haiku commentary ~ Peter Yovu<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the sky's blue gong an orange in my hand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> — Peter Yovu</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxDkUi0Zy9QAa-v0wCbQ702XAzZhPP7S9dB16chP6HtuB5x2Xhu4UFAHI9EPzVjluMEmC18Fy0RH4J8Nc-HHh6-0JQ6AcNXojMKyV8XRiH1e53tvUlI6xZnqr_RdBGdvLbhDnVGZ5STmq/s1600/orange+blue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1401" data-original-width="1594" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxDkUi0Zy9QAa-v0wCbQ702XAzZhPP7S9dB16chP6HtuB5x2Xhu4UFAHI9EPzVjluMEmC18Fy0RH4J8Nc-HHh6-0JQ6AcNXojMKyV8XRiH1e53tvUlI6xZnqr_RdBGdvLbhDnVGZ5STmq/s320/orange+blue1.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t think Yovu could have packed any more into this haiku. Colour and sound. The human experience and the natural world. Distance and proximity. And the beautiful simplicity of concrete language that injects it with vibrancy and authenticity and communicates an experience we can all recognise and share. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Add to that the use of colour as adjective and noun, the onomatopoeia of ‘gong’ and the almost-eye rhyme with ‘orange’, as well as the monostich form that encourages us to experience this moment in one celebratory hurrah, and this is a haiku that makes me feel good to be alive on this day in the world. A day when that orange could almost be the sun sitting in my own small palm.</span></div>
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Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-81755484480629904942018-02-03T12:56:00.002+00:002018-02-03T13:04:58.400+00:00haiku commentary ~ ai li<i>in a room</i><br />
<i>with no windows</i><br />
<i>drawing stars</i><br />
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— ai li, <i>still two one</i> (1998)<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are two things that immediately strike me about ai li’s haiku:</div>
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<ol>
<li style="text-align: justify;">a strong sense of containment, perhaps even imprisonment, from the image of a room with no windows.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">the concrete images at the end of each line – room, windows, stars – which anchor me to the real world.</li>
</ol>
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The idea of containment/imprisonment is a subjective response; the room could as easily be a cellar where the poet/narrator has chosen to be. But surely there’s a sense of longing, or <i>aware*</i>, in the third line, a longing for the exterior world, the night sky, for beauty and peace and freedom, that reinforces this idea for me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZAVhNf2NyMPvoMeK_I5SlPz8ysf6ebD_XLKw4Td7u2xi-hTD_YbogLMRpcbYrYQweOOgwMRmOs9N2AFcj77UWtKqXvKjK8KtDTG50JDAHoQBtZzF_-DtNqJliqfjE0v6SDyXbroOw51K/s1600/starry+starry+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="463" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZAVhNf2NyMPvoMeK_I5SlPz8ysf6ebD_XLKw4Td7u2xi-hTD_YbogLMRpcbYrYQweOOgwMRmOs9N2AFcj77UWtKqXvKjK8KtDTG50JDAHoQBtZzF_-DtNqJliqfjE0v6SDyXbroOw51K/s320/starry+starry+night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But if this is about imprisonment why don’t I feel any distress or sense of restriction? Perhaps because of those three concrete words at the end of each line. Poets place (or should place) words at the ends of lines for deliberate and conscious reasons. And these do feel consciously placed. Room. Window. Stars. </div>
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I am in a room. </div>
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I look out of a window. </div>
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I see stars. </div>
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The poet, or narrator, in this poem has allowed me to experience the night sky regardless of the limitations of their personal situation. Can there be greater generosity than this? To offer the gift of beauty from a place where beauty has been denied? </div>
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">Japanese, translating roughly as pathos, poignancy, deep feeling, sensitivity, or awareness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">First published on <a href="https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/2018/02/02/revirals-125/" target="_blank">The Haiku Foundation</a> website, 2nd February 2018.</span></div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-56768532424336196702018-01-10T16:44:00.002+00:002018-02-03T13:05:27.978+00:00haiku commentary ~ Kobayashi Issa<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>All the time I pray to Buddha <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> I keep on <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> killing
mosquitoes</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
—
Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>The Essential Haiku:</i> Versions of Basho, Buson and
Issa <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
(ed. R Hass, The Ecco Press, 1994)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZj4kTqHIFKqRPajvk_uHST4EYxBr9ZHBcmEqATr7SzJWBUYs78sFuXD0cpL67X9uOBemenD227vc8gUFyzrMfPSTLzbzsq8AZ5sL24QSefi6_hsGqDTdooDq1axUfRam2Ti_4IDIJNCC/s1600/mosquito+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="660" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZj4kTqHIFKqRPajvk_uHST4EYxBr9ZHBcmEqATr7SzJWBUYs78sFuXD0cpL67X9uOBemenD227vc8gUFyzrMfPSTLzbzsq8AZ5sL24QSefi6_hsGqDTdooDq1axUfRam2Ti_4IDIJNCC/s320/mosquito+sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’ve been told (but have never been able to accurately
source it) that Arthur Koestler* said ‘true understanding involves transcending
the barrier of paradox’. And that idea seems to be the backcloth to this haiku
by Issa, how he subscribed to the non-violence at the heart of Buddhist
thinking and behaviour yet could not live up to the first of the five precepts
that all Buddhists should follow: ‘Avoid killing, or harming any living thing’.
Because there’s no wriggle room to say that mosquitoes, annoying or not, aren’t
living things. How could he call himself a Buddhist but also act in a way that
betrayed his core beliefs? Does that make him a hypocrite? <o:p></o:p></div>
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On the logical surface of the argument, yes. But I
imagine we are all culpable of what could be described as self-betrayals. Are
we Christians whipped into road-rage rather than turning the other cheek? Or
vegetarians who like our leather <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwYoTQXKtcel2-lylk45d06QU0dD8H0u5gaFSUkWcPgEZe4zUX2_PvXAeV_VqCGml_ls4jYjQzUnaLNUgqhT2kTYxMSKMuXs4RUHvExrGEoWheCdqD6wDoJOcX1LxmgmxHzL4edT2l7sj/s1600/buddha+dish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwYoTQXKtcel2-lylk45d06QU0dD8H0u5gaFSUkWcPgEZe4zUX2_PvXAeV_VqCGml_ls4jYjQzUnaLNUgqhT2kTYxMSKMuXs4RUHvExrGEoWheCdqD6wDoJOcX1LxmgmxHzL4edT2l7sj/s320/buddha+dish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
boots? Or writing tutors who convince our
students that daily writing practice is the only way but haven’t followed that
advice ourselves for quite some time? </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
‘Walk the talk’ has become a popular expression, the
antithesis of ‘Don’t do what I do, do what I say’. But is it even remotely
possible for us imperfect, unpredictable, contrary human beings to always do
that? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
Perhaps Issa is saying he is not perfect, that he never
will be. Perhaps he is saying that the only thing he can do is to be aware of
himself, present to the who and what he is and does. Perhaps that act of being
present, of facing up to who we are and what we do, of accepting but not
judging, creates a space for slowly becoming our more authentic selves. Perhaps
that’s how we transcend the paradox.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">First published on <a href="https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/2018/01/12/revirals-122/" target="_blank">The Haiku Foundation website.</a></span><br />
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* I have since discovered that it was Gary Zukav in his book, <i><a href="https://smile.amazon.co.uk/Dancing-Wu-Li-Masters-Overview/dp/B002Q1YCW8/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1516820474&sr=1-4&keywords=zukav" target="_blank">The Dancing Wu Li Masters,</a></i> who wrote “true understanding involves transcending the barrier of paradox”. Many thanks to Hansha Teki. </div>
Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-73525206154996259222018-01-10T16:27:00.002+00:002019-05-03T10:18:45.745+01:00haiku<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">sunset fishing the flood tide catching the light</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavqyfTRPh9j5E2owMaYvlNovXgv94xi7G7vKmTiF6ogqQoXROoJX5XyOJZBq5FQjE2lw_bGDqD9ULTGIeX3QRKN9UshNoGkRqsOeyFCMDAsG2rdqy-ho1uiA9cCdlslDg7gRZIomoZu3b/s1600/Sunday-6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="1600" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavqyfTRPh9j5E2owMaYvlNovXgv94xi7G7vKmTiF6ogqQoXROoJX5XyOJZBq5FQjE2lw_bGDqD9ULTGIeX3QRKN9UshNoGkRqsOeyFCMDAsG2rdqy-ho1uiA9cCdlslDg7gRZIomoZu3b/s640/Sunday-6.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://tinywords.com/2018/01/10/25502/" target="_blank">tinywords 10 January 2018</a>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-47437456070609497502017-12-21T12:59:00.000+00:002019-05-03T10:18:58.331+01:00haiku<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDb8Ce7Xt0zzooNbO2OtZUdOdkbQHcUtfr_rA9sv8Y5NP2SsimY34NV_zJH_Ry1RPweH05LwbIqLUHW1mTlVZhMoqbuWE3lEj3-gH62oYrtVZfcUg5iwvTLa3V9XBL6MATme5bC5ca1O7M/s1600/lasts+of+2016-8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDb8Ce7Xt0zzooNbO2OtZUdOdkbQHcUtfr_rA9sv8Y5NP2SsimY34NV_zJH_Ry1RPweH05LwbIqLUHW1mTlVZhMoqbuWE3lEj3-gH62oYrtVZfcUg5iwvTLa3V9XBL6MATme5bC5ca1O7M/s320/lasts+of+2016-8.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">this slow healing</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">a blackbird almost invisible</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">in the winter dusk</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Twitter 14/12/2017</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Temps Libre</span>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6171741674155849799.post-1119219778829651232017-11-15T13:03:00.000+00:002017-12-21T13:16:00.404+00:00<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">beach sunset</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">a woman kisses the light</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">on her baby's face</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Blithe Spirit 27.4 November 2017</span>Lynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.com0