I’d like to share a tanka that is currently appearing in Ribbons, Tanka Cafe, Winter 2015
Junco, photo by Kathy Adams Clark
winter light
shadows linger low
behind us—
dark-eyed juncos
scurry past our feet
Juncos, photo by Brian Cunningham
This poem appeared in Ribbons, Tanka Cafe, Winter 2015
This is the publication of the American Tanka Society,
Haiga by Mary Kendall
This was written for a prompt on the spring equinox for a favorite small poem poetry group I belong to called “seize the poem.” I’m enjoying creating this mix of haiku and photography, and I think I finally got the words correctly balanced on the picture, so I’m sharing it here as well. The photo is my own taken in the sculpture garden of the Rodin Museum in Paris this month.
The following poem of mine, “Meditation on the Moment” was originally published in a book called, True Belonging: Mindful Practices to Help You Overcome Loneliness, Connect with Others, and Cultivate Happiness (c) 2011 by Jeffrey Brantley, MC, DFAPA and Wendy Millstine.
Dr. Jeffrey Brantley was my first meditation teacher in the Duke Integrative Medicine MBSR program. His wife, Mary Brantley, introduced me to the practice of Metta (Loving Kindness). Through both of these teachers my life was forever changed in a most beautiful way. I wrote this poem for Dr. Brantley and he first used it in meditation classes and later asked to publish it in his book. This was an honor I will always hold very close to my heart.
Meditation on the Moment
When I am ready,
I close my eyes
and focus on the breathing;
awareness of air
passing through the nose
down through the body;
the belly rises, falls,
rises again ~
its slow rhythm
setting the tone.
Next, focus on the body,
accepting it for once
as it is right now,
here in this moment,
for the moment
is all we have.
Breathing in,
breathing out,
shoulders soft,
no striving
to get somewhere
for there is no place
to be but here.
No judging of self,
simply letting it be
in the moment
for the moment.
Rain pounds against the glass
this February evening.
The image begins with sound
transforming into a thought.
Raindrops falling,
each one perfectly formed
but then releasing,
allowing itself to lose
what it was alone,
becoming instead
part of something more.
Poem by Mary Kendall, 2007
~ ~
I’m still very new as a haiku poet, so it is with caution that I’ve ventured out to try an actual haiga. A haiga combines art and a haiku. Since I lack all painterly skills, I’m combining my haiku with a photo that I love. I’ve done this in a slightly similar way on my blog with tanka and some autumn haiku. However, I consider this to be my very first true haiga.
~~
“Haiga is a Japanese concept for simple pictures combined with poetry, usually meaning haiku. In Basho’s time, haiga meant a brushed ink drawing combined with one of his single poems handwritten as part of the picture. In our day and age, haiga can be watercolor paintings, photographs or collages with a poem of any genre that is integrated into the composition. Sometimes the poem is handwritten or it can be computer generated, depending on the artist’s taste.” (This definition of haiga is by the poet, Jane Reichhold on her website, Ah Ha! Poetry.)
~~
Note on Photograph:
This beautiful photograph is by an Icelandic photographer known to me only as KariK on Flickr. It was posted and thus copyrighted in (c) 2011. It has been posted thousands of times online and almost never with an attribution to him. By doing a ‘backward’ image search I was able to find him on flickr. His photographs, most of nature, are magnificent. This is what he wrote for this particular picture (translated from Icelandic):
Reykjanestá: This location is unique for the fact that there can see the ocean ridge walk on 1 and, Mid-Atlantic Ridge, which separates the prefabricated North America and Europe.
KariK, (c) 2011
Snowfall by Debbie Nemer Suggs
Swiftly falling snow
Our footprints disappear ~
Were we ever there?
I would like to thank my dear friend, Debbie Suggs, for the use of her beautiful snowfall photograph (c) 2015. Debbie and I wrote and published a book, A Giving Garden, in 2009. Her beautiful photographs have always inspired me.
I’m working on a series of poems based on dreams. The draft is tentatively titled, Dream Time.
For years I didn’t dream. Oh, I know I did. Science can prove we dream. I just didn’t remember them at all. When my doctor put me on a new medication, a surprising side effect was very vivid dreams. Colorful dreams, strange dreams, confusing dreams, and beautiful dreams. I loved this unexpected gift, and so I have been working on cultivating how to recall dreams. We all know that dreams are quickly lost upon awakening. If they aren’t written down or recalled consciously, they float back to where they came from.
I’d like to share one of these dream poems today. This poem is loosely based on a very strange dream I had about chasing a bus. It was very disorienting to say the least. Of course, I checked dream meanings online, and I read that to dream of missing a bus is a very common dream. It tells of someone not sure of the path in which they are headed or if they missed an opportunity by hesitating, or even perhaps that they are faltering in a relationship. But none of these fits my dream of being lost in a city I know but looking totally different. A city in which no one can tell me its name or the direction in which they are heading. Please remember the poem is not a literal retelling of the dream as a journal would do. It is a poem and thus a product of the imagination.
Dream Time 1 ~ The Missed Bus
The missed bus
pulls away
from the curb,
picking up speed
faster than I can run.
In my sleep I am able
not only to run fast
but shout loudly enough
in a stranger’s voice
that might be heard
if only the driver
would catch
a glimpse of me
in the mirror
as I chase
the departing bus
on a street
I don’t know,
in a direction
of which
I am unaware.
Running so fast,
shouting
until my voice
gravels to a rasp,
my legs and arms
feather darkly
and suddenly lift up.
I am flying
above the bus
waiting for it
to stop or even slow,
but it speeds on
its course.
Sailing down
I see it is empty,
hurtling fast
somewhere,
nowhere,
unguided, and
with lowering wings
I fly into the open
side window,
my fingers emerging
from dusky feathers
I grasp the wheel
in desperation,
my foot able
to hit the break.
The stop is sudden,
my head rolls
forward fast
into the glass.
Only silence,
and absolute
stillness
now,
the wind
speaks of
something
I can’t
quite hear.
I awake
in my bed, heart
pounding,
head throbbing,
dizzy,
relieved.
Outside,
in the tall tree
the crow
watches
from his branch.
Even he is silent
for once.
Morning starts
to erase the night,
and the mist
begins to thin
in parts.
A new day
is waiting.
The Crow by Oana Stoian, (c) 2010
A Poet in Time 