Penny Hartera spray of dogwood
in the antique vase—
grandmother’s birthday
[Published in tri-fold brochure,
A Spray of Dogwood, for Haiku Canada conference, 2007.]
in each jar
of peach preserves
family stories
[Published in a little book Terry Ann Carter designed, but can't remember its title or year.]
so sweet, this
unripe plum warmed
by your hand
[Published on-line in NaHaiWriMo for February/March 2013]
The Resonance Around Us As we walk through this field, coarse grasses
vibrate around our ankles. Listen, we are already
in the sky, its rising glissando trembling in the
hollows of our bones—our bones that might be
wind chimes hanging from the trees, clattering
like a hard rain.
Tonight it will snow, each crystal a tuning fork
for the other, each of our upturned faces echoing
the quiet ticking flakes that home on us.
Even those things we deem silent—dead weeds
nodding by the barn, the piles the horses drop
as they drift through the pasture, steam rising
from each before it cools—even these
are singing in their spheres.
Listen, and you might hear the choir of atoms,
those unseen constellations that make flesh,
flickering on and o as they resonate with
the dead who float beside us, their substance
oscillating faster than we apprehend.
Just now some bird that knows the notes
of twilight opened its beak to offer a brief
harmony, and as the dark descends in solemn
chords, a chorus of plum clouds begins to hum
on Earth’s horizon.
___________________________________
Winter Stars My neighbor fills her winter garden with oaktag cut-outs of red and
yellow stars—hangs them from her bird feeder or glues them atop the
planting sticks she’s left in the dirt between withered blooms. Yesterday,
she knocked on my door, and I opened it to find her hands overflowing
with stars—each hole-punched and threaded with yarn—a new constellation
for these days of early dark.
‘
These are for you to hang places,’ she said simply, knowing of my need
for joy this Christmas season. As we smiled and hugged one another, I
received them in my cupped hands. Now stars dangle from my doorknobs
and brighten shadowed corners—an unexpected gift of light.
moon splinters
on the river—the glint
of ice floes
***
Rebecca Lillyblue asters
God grant me
the serenity
Christopher Patchel
Turn, Turn***
Mark HarrisI have two poems to offer you.
The first is by Peter Yovu.
calm sea
teaching my son
the dead man's float
Peter's poem harbors a foreboding, one shared by most parents, and yet it is also about teaching and touching (holding up), about love and letting go, a gift.
As for me, this poem of mine comes first to mind.
deep snow
in a dream, I find
her password in
***
Allan Burnsmy dying gift . . .
the myriad leaves
of summer
John Wills,
mountain (1993)
***
Richard GilbertA second gift is a Ted Talk on sustainability, by Tim Jackson (2010)
Tim Jackson: An economic reality check
http://www.ted.com/talks/tim_jackson_s_economic_reality_check.htmlHere is some background information and his book to match:
“Prosperity Without Growth” by Tim Jackson
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prosperity_Without_Growth"Prosperity Without Growth (2009) is a book by author and economist Tim Jackson. It was originally released as a report by the Sustainable Development Commission (SDC). The study rapidly became the most downloaded report in the Commission's nine-year history when it was launched earlier in 2009. The report was later that year fully revised and published by Earthscan. By arguing that "prosperity – in any meaningful sense of the word - transcends material concerns", the book summarizes the evidence showing that, beyond a certain point, growth does not increase human well being. Prosperity without Growth
analyses the complex relationships between growth, environmental crises and social recession. It proposes a route to a sustainable economy, and argues for a redefinition of "prosperity" in light of the evidence on what really contributes to people’s well being."
The book was described by Le Monde as "one of the most outstanding pieces of environmental economics literature in recent years" [5] and the sociologist Anthony Giddens referred to it as "a must-read for anyone concerned with issues of climate change and sustainability-- bold, original and comprehensive."
Prosperity without Growth has been translated into 14 languages.
What do you think? What does sustainability mean to you? What
definition do you think we should be aiming for?
***
Tom D’Evelynfirst snowfall—
the cat has not moved
from the window sill
A haiku is a gift for me. Literally. I must make room for it, it’s a process of cleaning, emptying, preparing room. In a second sense, the structure of haiku gives form to the metaphysics of gift. The cut creates the transparency by which we see the things of the world as gratuitous, given, unnecessary finitudes, and all the more precious for that.
Michael McClintockWho knows what hurts himself knows what hurts others is a kind of primitive wisdom that can be extracted, I think, from Peter Yovu's observation (above) about a poem: "Like love, it wounds. . . Wounding is its gift." Likewise, the brighter side is equally true: what comforts one comforts another.
each there
for the other ---
moon and pine
I have wondered, especially when depressed by purple elephants and other absurdities, if this poem of mine from about a decade ago may be little more than poetic treacle. And yet it is this poem that, when I re-enter and contemplate its fundamental realization and simple image, brings me out of depression and opens my eyes again to the relationships --- seemingly boundless and infinite --- things have toward other things and to ourselves, in our consciousness and experience of the material universe, through our senses and cognitive faculties. It may not be much of a poem but it is my personal touchstone and seems to re-center me before the open gift of existence each time I might feel the box is closed, the door shut, and nihilism is the only philosophy left that makes a particle of sense.
The loving inter-dependence we witness in things, that "being there for the other," is found in this poem by John Wills:
spring flood . . .
a small toad riding
an oak twig
We share a lot with that toad, in that moment, do we not? Men likewise grasp and ride twigs. And consider, no less, the lowly twig, and the role it plays in the lives of creatures of all kinds everywhere it exists on the planet. Eliminate twigs from the picture of life on earth and you must take away almost everything else, too. Wills was an empath and could sense the toad mind, I think.
And here, again, in this poem by Wills, wherein he names it "beauty" and shows the gift of it for what it is, which we immediately recognize without explanation:
the beauty
of the summer flowers . . .
first day of autumn
The human being likes to over-think the simple and is, I suppose, generally wary of these "gifts" that are in fact all around us --- in plain sight as well as disguised or hidden in some surprising, unexpected context --- as in the poem above, where all those flowers are dying off.
I'll leave the last word in this seam of naturalist philosophy to the poet Issa and his famous translator, David G. Lanoue, found this morning in Issa's Untidy Hut [posted 18 Dec 2013 07:30 AM PST]:
nightingale--
even his shit
gets wrapped in paper
The absurdity in Issa's poem has within it a vision of the world wherein sadness and rage cannot overwhelm us.
***
Angelee DeodharHere are two I feel fit the season.
Both are from
The Scent of Music edited by Marlene Buitelar.
failing eyesight-
we sing only the carols
we know by heart
Beverley George
silent night
the singing hands
of the deaf child
Jerry Kilbride
