One Vine

i.

        A hundred different gourds
From the mind
Of one vine.

            --RH Blyth, History of Haiku, Volume One

        Autumn's bright moon

However far I walked, still afar off

        In an unknown sky.

            --RH Blyth, Haiku III:  Summer/Autumn

ii.

My hunter of butterflies

how far
has he wandered today

“Cuckoo!”
“Cuckoo!”
While I meditated
on that theme
day dawned

See! The gleam 
of my fishing line 
of the summer moon

I forgot that my lips 
were rouged, 
drinking 
of the clear spring water

            --Kenneth Rexroth and Ikuko Atsumi,

              Women Poets of Japan

iii.

skylark in the heavens . . .
what do you think
of the boundless sky?

whatever I pick up
is alive --
ebbing tide

without a voice
     the heron would disappear --
          morning snow

            --Gabriel Rosenstock, Poetry Chaikhana: 

               Sacred Poetry from Around the World


iv.

A green willow's quiet, wherever you plant it

Mistaking birds for leaves—lonely, a winter’s moon
           

             --Hirokai Sato

                From the Country of Eight Islands

            

v.

 

All round the rope a morning-glory clings
How can I break its beauty’s dainty spell?
I beg for water from a neighbor’s well.
            

            --Clara M. Walsh  

No autumn colors hint that side of the mountain:  

a one-sided love
            

            --Janice Brown

With no flowers
You are free as a willow
            

            --Faubion Bowers

The butterfly—
What are the dreams that make him
Flutter his wings?
            

            --Donald Keene

I sleep . . . I wake . . .
         How wide
The bed with none beside
            

            --Curtis Hidden Page  
                

                --Faubian Bowers

                  The Classic Tradition of Haiku

Wild Geese

The wild geese, too
regret their late morning start


Be serious
about your sake
or all but


Rain-washed:
the cool rattle
of pine cicadas


By two,
by fours the crows in the snow
at Koromogawa


As if we were deaf...
the flowers arrange their faces
in the morning fog

            --Lenore Mayhew and William McNaughton  

ii.

long winter
sharing nothing with each other
we bump bearing blossoms


parents older than I
are now my children
the same cicadas


not yet spring
ice is still upon the rocks
yet kisses are bitter

            --Jane Reichold

iii.

To listen,
fine not to listen, fine too...
nightingale


Morning snow
where can I throw away
the tea leaves? 


Made lightly that promise;
she is alone,
Winter peony


Rice paddies
wild fields again
in winter rain


In spring rain
much better looking
...everything
            

            --Lenore Mayhew
               Reichold, Jane, Those Women Writing Haiku

Clear Water

in clear water
there is no back
no front

coolness—
strangers on a bridge
deep in night

unveiled
mountain meeting mountain;
first mists

plum-blossom scent—
whither has the snow
woman been blown?

the sound of the waterfall

narrows; in the peaks
cicada voices

first wild geese—
a lengthening line
of long nights

on moor and mountain
nothing moves—
snowy morning

the moon’s shadow,
too, pauses—cherry
blossom dawn

winter drizzle—
in a room yesterday
today ends

whatever we wear;
we look beautiful
viewing the moon

             --Michael Haldane  
                Basho and the Haikuists

Wild Violets

 

moonflowers—
when a woman’s skin 
is revealed

woman’s desire
deeply rooted—
the wild violets

at the crescent moon
the silence
enters the heart

no more waiting
for the evening or the dawn—
touching the old clothes

autumn field—
some grasses flower 
some grasses don’t

green leaves or fallen leaves
become one—
in the flowering snow 

            --Patricia Donegan and Yoshie Ishibashi

           Love Haiku:  Japanese Poems of Yearning, 

               Passion and Remembrance               

 

                

A Woman on the Road

 
the butterfly
behind, before, behind
a woman on the road

a white chrysanthemum--

how strange to see it

bloom in the sun

does it sense

anything that steals by?

snow on the bamboo

the first winter shower--

a gust passes

without getting wet

do they flower

dreaming of a spring night?

blossoms out of season

the harvest moon--

there too is a bird

that seeks the dark

a door left open

yet nobody is home--

peach blossoms in bloom

                                    --Makota Ueda

                                       Far Beyond the Field

Airing Out Kimonos

flying of cranes

as high as the clouds--

first sunrise

to be in a world

eating white rice

amid plum fragrance

to tangle or untangle

the willow--

it's up to the wind

among a field

of horsetail weeds--

temple ruins

airing out kimonos

as well as her heart

is never enough

moonflowers--

the beauty 

of hidden things

again the women

come to the fields

with unkempt hair

moonlit night--

a cricket sings

out on a stone

on her day off

the prostitute wakes up alone--

the night's chill

the autumn wind

resounds in the mountains--

voice of the bell

full moon--

stepping through the snow

the sound of the stones

snowy night--

only the well bucket's

falling sound

            --Patricia Donegan and Yoshie Ishibashi 
               Chiyo-ni Woman Haiku Master  

A Thousand Years

This morning there was a beautiful spider’s web blocking my path to the flower garden.

I had to break it to pass.

Preparing the garden for planting, I felt badly as I pulled out each of the weeds.  I wondered why we are so intent on destroying them.  They are more beautiful than some of the flowers I intend to plant, and some are even good to eat.

Who decides these things for us, these things that we are expected to believe?

I think that next year I will only have rocks in my garden.

        while the bells ring
        the morning glories
        simply open

Many people believe that running away is simple, but it is not.  Much as we try, we cannot easily escape the past.  We carry it around with us constantly.

It is not like a knapsack, however, that we can lay down temporarily when it has become too heavy, or if the road is too steep.  It is more like a turtle's shell.  It is our home, our security, but also our prison.

At one and the same time, we are both the jailer and the prisoner of our past.

autumn wind

the sound of things

dropping from trees

I’m sure you believe, even after all this time, that I still dream about you every night.  I don’t know.  You may be right.

Usually, I can only remember the smallest pieces of my dreams.  They are like broken eggshells that are left behind in the nest, after the young birds have flown away.  In the mornings, it’s so difficult for me to remember what my dreams were about, but very often I do awake with a lost and unsettled feeling.

So, you may be right.

I must have been dreaming about you.

        solitary and silent
        a willow 
        in the moonlight

                                                        --Marco Fraticelli

                                                           A Thousand Years