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Posts Tagged ‘Haiku-ish’

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MABINOGION HAIKU

This golden river.
Words bob down the long ages-
Mysterious truths

Moon well, sun cauldron.
Who would not become transfixed?
Their utter beauty.

There is not one thing
That is not another thing.
Pay attention, Pwyll!

Green mound lost in fog.
What dream does the world dream here?
breath weaves life and death.

How could she be true?
Oak and broom and meadowsweet,
Made of season’s change.

Do not take possession
Of what is not yours.
(And nothing is yours).



Sort of a hybrid between haiku form and gnomic verse. Apologies for all those who do not know the allusions, but those who know the Four Branches might take some little pleasure in these fragmentary nods…

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Moon Sutras

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MOON SUTRAS

endless dhrupad
full moon
eyes closed

full moon
empty house
river whisper

this old man
scribbling poems
shadow trees

these tangled thoughts
this moonlit silence:
surely are the same.
silver veins
these hills
golden shadows

full moon
bright as day
little cat singing

mountain shadow
reaches the river
rising moon

The habit of an old man
down by the river
moonlit haiku

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still one field there is
left in sunlight

the storm rolls in,
a line erased, erasing

a wall tumbled
in grey whispers

it lifts at the river.
for a moment
we see the upper slopes
of pine

and then the hiss
and thrum of it.

a world dissolving
diagonally
in sound.

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Sun Set Still

Sun Set

1
One moment –
Poured out,
Completely

un o brid
arllwys allan
bentigiydd

2
drunk on visions
a sunset slurs westwards.
Too mad with poetry,
it splutters and abides
to a more seemly twilight.

3
a friction of moments set ablaze
dowsed sober and silent,
a splintered, imperfect thing.

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Walking further than intended
A river breeze in the tree tops
And below, streams of birdsong.

The grasses are shooting green
But still in forest shade
The violets in full bloom.

A running stream
A cowslip sky.
At the forest’s edge,
The scent of green.

Deep in the woods
Violets bloom where no-one sees.
Perfected in themselves,
Complete within silence.

Allowed to breathe here
By the forest’s edge
This cowlip sky
A river wind in the treetops.

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Early morning frost
Wind beneath the raven’s wings
A nice cup of tea.

The first drops of rain
Three kites skim the valley floor
Their cries long and thin.

In the tall oak
by the chapel door
A gang of jackdaws
telling smutty jokes.
They have no care
for the slow sermons
of crows,
Nor the ponderous theology
of glint-eyed
ravens.

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RED HILL

that open hill crowned with light.
this dark valley lost in winter.
patient oak and purple birch,
and the fast, grey river.

folded and hidden is the road to Troed Rhiw,
between the cliffs of day and the cliffs of night.

a cold wind and a cast of rain on the red hill.
at the rivers’ meeting are round silent pools,
the small sands, the worn, smoothed chambers, in the lee of the flood.

a roar, white as cloud, stretches the skin of green rock,
squeezed between the knees of Craig Clungwyn and Rhuddallt.
a mouth of water it is, a long name, a summons,
a history of welcomings and fare thee wells.

the withered sedge counts the hours and different ways,
dreams on the cliff’s edge of new green days.

and this I wanders between the thin weathers
watching the light stray as slow as sheep,
marking the orange and the gold on this fine day,
and a grace of blue sky hung for a moment
slung between Craig Du and the steeps of Pen Rhiwbie.

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THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT

satin smooth,
the slip of minutes.
a thrum of rain, softly.

tumbled from skies,
dreams like the Towey,
slow, meander seawards.

a wide forest sleep
sighs, a symphony.
owl and fox, conductors.

wandering through.
a trail, footstep words:
small, moonlit puddles.

a dark plateau.
a dusted sequence,
trespasses unforgiven.

even bodiless,
adhering to habit,
cambered causeway.

a bridge suspended.
dark the waters
shimmering cold beneath.

sung by a shape of words.
mountains named,
a throned reciting.

an intimate decay.
a clock of heartbeats,
a lilting, familiar nod.

sideways and down.
subtle the shift,
the weight of dawn.

draped about,
falls discarded.
gathered in, forgotten.

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See how the sharp edge
of the moon
is a whetstone to the wind.
worn down, nail thin,
by heaven’s river.

keen, I suppose,
will be the waters at Pwll Bo.
focused, brown and roaring curses,
squeezed between rocks
in the ringing, whirled pools.

there is only this:
sudden mystery rippling
waves of grass;
a dog barking
as the hills come and go.
the waves of their edge
breaking deep
to the green valley’s bed.

last day of January-
flooded with passion
for things unmade.

and the yews of Aberglasney
will be bowed down
from the weight of stars,
their dark corridors
woven deeply with tingled silence,
a worm’s turn from Spring.

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SGRAFFITO

Eyelids turned translucent,
The walls of flesh dissolved.

In utter darkness a pool of mercury trembles.

He should place the day upon his forehead,
The moon’s taste upon his lips.
The music of crickets he should place
Upon his ears,
And the music of starlight
Upon his breast.

These veins: bright rivers that knit a certain landscape.
Blood red are the hills in sunlight,
Rust, the slopes, in rain.

Falling beyond breath and beyond sleep.

His two eyes should both behold
His best beloved.
In his left hand, his cares.
In his right, his passion.
Upon his feet
Strong wings of lust.

Small, dark, is the day.
Fevered and wan the sun.
The crow’s wing coughs.
Withered is the hill.

Swells the beginnings and endings, bright burning, dreaming names.

Let him be surrounded
By a great host of angels and demons.
Let him observe as they mutually engage,
Rise and lift, conjunct and consummate,
Until they fall apart slaked, becoming satisfied dust.

This scatter of farmsteads
Glistens white as quartz
Washed desolate,
The cold stream
Of winter’s winds.

In utter darkness an impossible music shapes words.

Light from a billion years
Pours from the sky,
Not casting one shadow.
It sinks to a core of iron and gold,
Filling silent caves to feed a petalled tongue.

In utter stillness everything waits and forgets to wait.

He should focus upon his own coming and going,
The last bright moment of his breath.
The sudden possession of valley roads,
The heralding wing-tips of hill hawks.

His wish is fervently to disappear
From the sight of all men,
So he shall contemplate
The paradox of rainbows.

He shall write his name forwards
And backwards
Until it become a single,
Unutterable line.

Diamond backed
The pines at dawn.
A burning roar,
A stormfront clamour.

Rests within these moments of choice, the fall of dust.

This heart a bowl, a harp, a bird.
Weightless, filled with hope,
An open sky is all it lacks
And courage to give it all away.


Sgraffito – a process of scratching through different layers (clay, paint etc.) to reveal what is beneath.

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