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This is not haiku

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THIS IS NOT HAIKU

I saw a post about a haiku competition, wasn’t particularly interested ( mainly because the example they gave I thought was flaccid and rather cliched). But then all last night……..

For those who don’t recall, haiku is a form of short poem from Japan that has a normal form of three lines of 5, then 7, then 5 syllables. There are many rules and elements, which make haiku much more difficult than they would appear in translation (and why foreigners who try to write ‘haiku’ are treated to rather blank, but polite, stares!).

I have always been very fond of this form of poetry and will be waxing endlessly, but hopefully lyrically, on accompanying PAGES for those with the spare time to peruse….. (see: “This is not haiku- extended version”)

I

Counting syllables –
Not a good way to find sleep.
Haiku for Japan.

II

Haiku for Japan?
Falling onto pristine snow
One drop of red blood.

III

Still they make a sound:
Each tree in the cold forest,
Falling unnoticed.

IV

Faces of the dead
Crying in the deep mountains.
Drifts of white cherry.

V

How long shall they stay –
Footprints in the drying mud,
Now that you are gone?

VI

They are not haiku,
So carefully wrapped with skill –
These are our sorrows.

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How a language is written, how the sounds are turned to shape. What changes, what pathways are found and lost? Here we have English, painfully constructed step by step from left to right, from past to future, letter by separate letter, precise as bricklaying.

Does each language- tongue music- become more or less when it is understood? It stays art when the medium of sounds and the message of symbols somehow dance together. Otherwise it is in danger of becoming a servant to the mundane instruction.
Free of meaning it stays a sussuration of mind, sine wave and pattern in the white noise of the universe.

Arabic script is maybe one of the artistically fluent of language symbols. It reminds me of medieval musical notation, rise and fall of chant, images on a distant horizon, ripples on the surface of a stream……..

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Woke like Coleridge from the opium of sleep:
Flashes of glimmer
scales of colour
Slippery eels sinuous muscular lines of language
Lost in murky depths.

Sitting in dapples of sunlight.
Lost in the tree tops are the
Voices of doves,
Maybe angels
Or djinns
Blown in from the desert
Lonely,
After
So many endless years
Of pious
Rigid-backed denial –
The bitter tongues
Of the righteous.

So many pious years

In the dark cool cave before dawn:

Day by day
The moon is filling up
With tears.

Even with a thousand arms,
Kannon,
How shall you gather up
All the lost?

How encompass
All the bereft?

Things
Are moments
And cannot be prevented
From flying away.
Even the stars….

Even the stars.

This spring
Under the cherry blossom
Will gather the wan smiling ghosts
Once more.

We are dust
Held together by song.

Sing
Sing
Before the song is forgot.

The tongues of the djinn
Fading in daylight.
Muttering
Back to the cerebellum,
To practice cadence
And metre.

Voices in Arabic:
The wind as it dances and whips
Around tent wires and mast heads,
Aeolian harmony
Between knotted spirals
Dust devils
Sand patterns.
Well water
Cold night air
Crescent moon.

In Kuwait,
She said,
Every household
Had a musician,
Every one
A diver
For pearls
Of cool, iridescent
Beauty.
Oud in the shade of night fall……

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