Much less than a nest, these few snatches of twig and grass, yet the pigeon settles and resettles herself on the high ledge under the arcade, a ledge so narrow she has to sit with her tail feathers flattened to the wall behind her. And when her mate arrives and perches on the tiniest lip of stone before resting his head across the back of her neck, so for a moment I can't see where his grey feathers end and hers begin, I am reminded of love, love that shows itself in kindness, and I am pleased to be, even if it is an invention of my own making.
Saturday
Friday
Tuesday
a river of stones July 2011
In February of this year Fiona Robyn introduced NaSmaStoMo to the world and I managed to write a small stone every day for a month. So did hundreds and hundreds of other people and we all felt better for it, for a moment of stillness and reflection on the wonderful ordinariness of our lives.
I recently read back over my month of daily stones and was surprised by some of them, couldn't remember writing others, and re-felt the contentment of being part of the project. I shouldn't have been quite as surprised; I'm forever encouraging writing students to 'free write', to be spontaneous. 'You'll surprise yourselves,' I say. Sometimes I need to remind myself of my own advice.
So, I've decided to take part in the July river. I know that somedays I'll struggle to write anything. I might even miss a day and catch up. Other days I'll feel pleased with the few words and images I capture. But what happens on a day to day basis is a small shadow in comparison to taking part in something bigger than me.
I'm looking forward to the river, with meeting up with old friends and rediscovering new ones.
3 days to go. If you haven't already joined the river and you'd like to, check out this post.
I recently read back over my month of daily stones and was surprised by some of them, couldn't remember writing others, and re-felt the contentment of being part of the project. I shouldn't have been quite as surprised; I'm forever encouraging writing students to 'free write', to be spontaneous. 'You'll surprise yourselves,' I say. Sometimes I need to remind myself of my own advice.
So, I've decided to take part in the July river. I know that somedays I'll struggle to write anything. I might even miss a day and catch up. Other days I'll feel pleased with the few words and images I capture. But what happens on a day to day basis is a small shadow in comparison to taking part in something bigger than me.I'm looking forward to the river, with meeting up with old friends and rediscovering new ones.
3 days to go. If you haven't already joined the river and you'd like to, check out this post.
Friday
another country, haiku poetry from Wales
This is the first ever Welsh national anthology of haiku poetry. Concise, precise and evocative, and taking us on a journey through and around the ordinary and extraordinary aspects of everyday life, these poems have been selected and edited by three highly respected pioneers of the haiku in Wales - Nigel Jenkins, Ken Jones and Lynne Rees.
another country was launched in Wales in March 2011 at the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea and at the Aberystwyth Arts Centre.
Monday
Thursday
dusk
a fresh baguette
crackles in my palm
three sneezes
all that’s left
of the snowman
Both published in Presence 43
a fresh baguette
crackles in my palm
three sneezes
all that’s left
of the snowman
Both published in Presence 43
Monday
Water-Ways: A Haiku Journey in Ghent
International Haiku Festival in Ghent, Belgium
13th to 19th September 2010
Zilvervisje glimt
Langs ’t onzeekre watervlak
En hapt er een ster
August Vermeylen (1927)
silver fry flicker
along the shifting waters
and snaffle a star
Trans. David Cobb (2010)
The festival haiku by Vermeylen is one of the oldest haiku written in Dutch but also a natural choice given that Ghent is a city of rivers and waterways that weave through and around its gothic buildings and cobbled streets.
And the theme of water was more intimately introduced to the delegation of assembled haiku poets after dinner on Monday and Tuesday evenings with candle-lit ‘ginko’ in hand-made and man powered, long-oared, wooden boats. With blankets over our knees and notebooks in hand we were steered silently along the dark water, under low stone bridges, with the lights and stepped gable roofs of the city above us.
someone singing
from an open window
the boat drifts
Lynne Rees
The boat trips were repeated by day to allow us the maximum amount of exposure to the city that would be the inspiration for our haiku. Haiku by over 30 poets from more than 20 countries that would, within the space of five days, not only be translated into four languages and published in a perfect bound anthology, but also be printed in more than 15 languages on banners fixed to the stone walls of houses and bridges along the city’s rivers.
It was an astonishing accomplishment by the festival’s organisers, Ip Man of Viadagio vsw (Chairman) and Diederik de Beir (Programme Director) and their team of volunteers. Viadagio literally means ‘slow way’ and the organisation is dedicated to sustainable living and a lifestyle that respects the environment. Its flagship restaurant, Panda, in the historic centre, was a welcoming and nurturing base for the poets each evening where we were served delicious vegetarian suppers and organic wine by Ip Man’s wife, Denise, and her team of cooks, before returning to our host families around the city.
far from home
an extra squeeze
of honey in my tea
Lynne Rees
 |
| David Cobb |
David Cobb’s hosts owned a pet turtle which had the freedom of their living room and kitchen, a splendid exemplar of ‘Viadagio’! Asked to compose a souvenir of his visit, David created a haiga of this haiku:
Take your time, Turtle —
there’s plenty of it yet
in timeless Ghent!
David Cobb
 |
| The Poetry Centre in Ghent (photo by George Swede) |
On Tuesday afternoon everyone gathered at the Poëziecentrum, for a tour of the four-storey converted guild building in the centre of Ghent, which since 1980 has been a dynamic, independent and democratic supporter of Dutch and Flemish poets. The centre boasts a publishing house, organises educational activities, offers a ‘search for/identify a poem’ service to the general public, as well as housing an extensive collection of poetry books, pamphlets and anthologies in Dutch, Flemish and Afrikaans from all around the world.
Wednesday was the principal day set aside for writing, editing and translating our haiku and while certain poets and editors had been appointed as official translators there was also a lot of informal and friendly discussion between the 7 native English speakers (Sharon Burrell, David Cobb, Jim Kacian, Anita Krumins, Anthony Kudryanvitsky, Lynne Rees and George Swede) and their European counterparts.
Thursday was designated ‘International Haiku Day’ and saw us back at the Poetry Centre, in the Het Toreken (Little Tower), for a full day’s programme of seminars, workshops and readings, wonderfully punctuated by the classical guitar virtuoso, Alexander Makay.
Jim Kacian (USA, founder of the Haiku Foundation and owner of Red Moon Press) gave the keynote lecture on ‘Haiku Mastery’, identifying the need for form, content and style to work together. This was followed by a history of haiku in Flanders by Diederik de Beir, Ion Codrescu’s (Romania) ‘The Art of Juxtaposition of Image & Text in Haiga Painting’, an insightful demonstration of the different ways to read haiku by Pietro Tartamella (Italy), ‘Humour in Haiku’ by Zinovy Vayman (Russia), ‘The Use of Iconic Place Names (uta-makura) in Western Haiku’ by David Cobb (UK), and ‘Haiku Transcription of Chinese Poetry’ by Paul Mercken (Belgium/The Netherlands). The day was brought to a close with haiku readings by Jean Antonini (France), Serge Tomé (Belgium) and local haiku poets.
 |
| Ghent's streets and stepped gable roofs |
On Friday, after an official reception at City Hall hosted by Alderman Lieven Decaluwé, we strolled through the streets of Ghent with Luc, our formidable tour guide, unravelling the city’s past for us: its architecture and achievements, its people and punishments, the squares and churches and halls where people’s lives were written into history.
at her window box
Rapunzel in a garret
dead-heading flowers
David Cobb
Before the festival began there had been rumours that Herman van Rompuy, President of the European Council and haiku poet in his own right, might possibly attend one of our events, but, as the week progressed, the rumours subsided. The level of security surrounding our entrance to the Stedelijke Openbare Bibliotheek Gent, Ghent’s Public City Library, on Saturday morning should, perhaps, have alerted us that something was afoot. But it was not until several burly men in dark suits positioned themselves at the windows and doors of the conference room, and a slight but elegant man made his entrance, that we realised what was happening.
 |
| Mr. Herman von Rompuy |
Mr van Rompuy walked around the room shaking hands with each of the haiku poets before speaking to the assembled public audience, with humility and humour, about his outing by the Press as ‘Haiku Herman’ and we were all delighted to hear that his own haiku would appear alongside ours in the festival anthology. A subsequent musical interlude by local musicians, Trio Guaraja, led to panel discussions hosted by the well-known journalist, John Vervoort, (De Standaard and Poëziekrant) who quizzed selected participants, including David Cobb and Max Verhart (The Netherlands), about haiku and why it appealed to them.
The end of the week had arrived and was celebrated in style on Saturday night with a Gala dinner at Panda Restaurant for poets, their hosts, and invited guests. A champagne reception was followed by dinner and wine, a stunning performance of Chopin by four talented young musicians, an announcement of the winners in the Flemish/Dutch haiku competition, ‘Along the Water’, and a reading of the anthology haiku in Flemish, French, English, German and some Japanese.
The end of the week had arrived and was celebrated in style on Saturday night with a Gala dinner at Panda Restaurant for poets, their hosts, and invited guests. A champagne reception was followed by dinner and wine, a stunning performance of Chopin by four talented young musicians, an announcement of the winners in the Flemish/Dutch haiku competition, ‘Along the Water’, and a reading of the anthology haiku in Flemish, French, English, German and some Japanese.
It was after midnight when we left the restaurant, our footsteps echoing along the quiet streets, with our silver gilt-decorated anthologies in our hands, the week’s activities still bubbling through our minds. The next day we would be even more excited and proud to see our words printed on banners and strung along the river, being read and photographed by inquisitive and surprised audiences as they motored past in the tourist boats. day moon
the river and I
don’t say a word
Lynne Rees
First published in Blithe Spirit, Journal of the British Haiku Society, December 2010
Also published in Haiku Novine, Haiku Reality and on the Viadagio website.
Tuesday
A River of Stones: National Small Stone Month January 2011
 |
| Fiona Robyn |
What is a small stone?
A small stone is a polished moment of paying proper attention. You can see many fine examples at our sister blogzine, a handful of stones.
Why would you want to join in?
Because choosing something to write about every day will help you to connect with yourselves, with others, and with the world. It will help you to love everything you see - the light and the dark, the happy and the sad, the beautiful and the ugly.
You don't have to be a 'writer' to get involved. The PROCESS of paying attention is what's important. I'd especially like 'writers' and 'non-writers' to get involved. If you'd rather not publish your small stones on a blog, you can write them in a note-book. It could change your entire year...
For more information about joining the project, and getting a badge for your blog or website, visit a river of stones. I can't think of a better way to start the year so I'll be taking part and posting my own small stones right here.
Monday
Tuesday
Friday
Wherever We Go, There We Are
moonlight the shadow of a tree masks the crack in the path
It is 3am on Florida’s Atlantic coast. Already 9am in France. My body says it’s time to start the day yet the darkness outside says, ‘middle of the night, go back to bed’.
Recently there has been too much impatience between us. Kinks and ruts in the road we cannot avoid or fill, that see us blaming each other. Even the smallest roads since we arrived: filling in our immigration forms, a luggage trolley, the small trunk in the rental car.
Things in their right place at the right time. This is what I try to do too often. Like pinning butterflies to boards.
The clock is too loud. It keeps time too stringently and that is what we need to be away from: days marked by so many jobs to be done, what must be completed in the hours between waking and falling asleep.
Then I hear it. A background hum, a soft engine shifting gears. A sound present at the moment I was born: the sea.
high tide in a dream you write the word ‘reef’
First published in Frogpond vol 33:3, Fall 2010
It is 3am on Florida’s Atlantic coast. Already 9am in France. My body says it’s time to start the day yet the darkness outside says, ‘middle of the night, go back to bed’.
Recently there has been too much impatience between us. Kinks and ruts in the road we cannot avoid or fill, that see us blaming each other. Even the smallest roads since we arrived: filling in our immigration forms, a luggage trolley, the small trunk in the rental car.
Things in their right place at the right time. This is what I try to do too often. Like pinning butterflies to boards.
The clock is too loud. It keeps time too stringently and that is what we need to be away from: days marked by so many jobs to be done, what must be completed in the hours between waking and falling asleep.
Then I hear it. A background hum, a soft engine shifting gears. A sound present at the moment I was born: the sea.
high tide in a dream you write the word ‘reef’
First published in Frogpond vol 33:3, Fall 2010
Drawing
18” by 16”, felt tip pen on coloured paper by Ffion, age 4
There is a red house with orange windows and a pink door. There is a black cat whose feet have slipped off the bottom of the page. There is a tree sprouting flowers, petals pushing against the paper’s edge, a lavender sky with a sun and a crescent moon. And floating above the roof of the house, two stick people, holding hands, unwilling to come down to earth and decide whether the sun is about to set, or if the moon will make way for dawn, or whether the cat is trying to escape or climb into the picture and run towards a door that could be closed, or might be on the point of opening.
all the times
I have been wrong
fresh paint
First published in Frogpond vol 33:3, Fall 2010
There is a red house with orange windows and a pink door. There is a black cat whose feet have slipped off the bottom of the page. There is a tree sprouting flowers, petals pushing against the paper’s edge, a lavender sky with a sun and a crescent moon. And floating above the roof of the house, two stick people, holding hands, unwilling to come down to earth and decide whether the sun is about to set, or if the moon will make way for dawn, or whether the cat is trying to escape or climb into the picture and run towards a door that could be closed, or might be on the point of opening.
all the times
I have been wrong
fresh paint
First published in Frogpond vol 33:3, Fall 2010
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