Monday, September 14, 2015

September 14: On the trail

That feeling of freedom
and ferns for toilet paper--
peeing in the woods.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

September 13: Translation

I spent this rainy afternoon working through a book I bought in Quebec City: a French translation of Japanese haiku by contemporary poet Mayuzumi Madoka. The book is arranged in four seasonal sections, with each haiku and its explication by the author on facing pages. I read through Spring and into Summer, fascinated by the nexus of several languages: the original Japanese, the French translation, my attempt to piece it together in English, and the universal poetic sensibility, which renders a good poem timeless in any language. It feels like a good exercise to play with words, image, and feelings in this way; I found myself longing for a retreat to submerge myself in this world for several days to see what might come out of it for my own poetry.
 
Here is my halting translation of one of her spring haiku:
 
Amplified
by the toll of the temple bell--
this spring twilight.
__
 
Rainy afternoon--
I can almost hear the fog horn
or a temple bell.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

September 12: The world is new

I awake to crows
telling loud eagle stories--
first light on the ash.

Friday, September 11, 2015

September 11: Night light

This is a small town, but even here, living as we do across from a street light, we rarely get to fully appreciate the night sky in all its starry glory. So after dinner with friends who live on a farm out in the country, it was such a thrill to look up on the way to the car and enjoy such a wide, clear view of the night's stars.
 
Night sky above a dirt road--
we pick out Polaris,
now it all makes sense.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

September 10: Skunk hour

In the redolent dark
soccer ball on the lawn becomes
so easily a skunk

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

September 9: River nocturne

Dusk on the river--
goldfinches finish chatting
--was that a peeper?

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

September 8: Wren

We hear the wren
after a summer's absence--
voice of an old friend.