The name – of it – is “Autumn” – / The hue – of it – is Blood –

Again, in the spirit of the “Ayame Society,” formed in England more than a century ago to encourage exchange between poets West and East, I offer the following poem on autumn, by the American poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). Dickinson neither titled nor published her poems while she was alive (with some very few exceptions). And her punctuation is highly eccentric (a point I hope will provide no serious obstacles to readers unfamiliar with her work). In the first comment below, I’ll provide a few remarks about the language of the poem that Hailstoners new to Dickinson may find of use. But for now, simply the poem itself, in the hope that it will inspire responses in haiku for preservation here in the Icebox.

The name – of it – is “Autumn” -
The hue – of it – is Blood –
An Artery – upon the Hill -
A Vein – along the Road -

Great Globules – in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain –
When Winds – upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -

It sprinkles Bonnets – far below -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then – eddies like a Rose – away -
Upon Vermilion Wheels -

ca. 1862

Now, get to work & send in some autumnal haiku!

Nagaoka-kyo ‘Vestiges’ Ginko-Kukai

Robin Beshers ginko-ing

At work on the Nagaoka-kyo site

On 27 September in Muko City, Kyoto, some of us took part in a linked event with the Haiku Bandit Society based in St. Paul, Minnesota, USA. That day, Muko was bustling with bicycle racing fans, not to mention a band of six Hailstone poets. They were betting and we were composing.

Toshi leads the imagination tour

In the lingering heat, we spent a few hours visiting the ruins of the ‘phantom’ capital of ancient Japan. There are almost no structural remains to look at: only a few plots of preserved ground and mounds covered with summer grass. This was going to be an imagination exercise!

Willie, knees muddied with vestiges

After strolling around the site composing, and having eaten a soba lunch, we used a room in the Community Hall for a workshop, where we discussed which of our poems to send the Bandits. Some poets’ pens streamed smoothly, others sluggishly.

Kneeless Tito and persimmon

Meanwhile, the Bandit poets were going on their own ginkos – in Minnesota, Tennessee, Canada, and California – and focusing on ‘vestiges’ of their own. For more details, see the link to the H.B.S. site (in Blogroll). The poems were collated by Hailstone Stephen and Bandit William and sent across for reading by the other group. Prizes were also bought and sent. Over the next fortnight, using email, Bandits and Hailstones voted and supplied comments (kukai style) to arrive at a favourite selection from the partner group’s pieces. These were then duly collected and relayed to the other side for their mutual benefit, as both groups try to grow in their understanding of the expression and spirit of haiku.

Hisashi unwraps his prize at the YBC

The comments received on each of our poems from people far across the ocean whom we have never met are indeed treasured goods. So, here are the results:

AMERICAN SELECTION OF JAPANESE HAIKU

1. the emperor’s governance:

… a dragonfly patrols it

… in the breeze

…… (Hisashi Miyazaki, Osaka)

2. Nothing to mark

… The cursed capital –

… Loosestrife flowers

…… (John Dougill, Kyoto)

3. The Court is gone –

… Still the ginkgo tree yields

… Its golden nuts

…… (Toshi Ida, Kameoka)

JAPANESE SELECTION OF AMERICAN HAIKU

1. first kiss

… the statue of a prime minister

… holding his lapel

…… (K.A. Martin, Ottawa)

2. a thousand voices

… and then…

… autumn sparrows

…… (William Sorlien, St. Paul)

3. indian summer

… jerusalem artichokes

… mark the camp

…… (Eric V, San Francisco)

From the Icebox moonbox 9

The huge October moon has cast its spell.

Here are some recent submissions inspired by the harvest moon and by the last flickers of summer.

harvest moon
halcyon days
in river town

…. Willie

Takeshi’s tuna -
Its skin, burnt on the roof
Makes a ring
Around the moon

…. Tito

harvest moon
the cupboard space surrounding
a tin of deviled ham

…. Ed Markowski

his death wish
a moth plunges
into the flame

…. Vic Gendrano

Midnight nears
memories of distant Japan
and poet friends…

…. Jane Wieman

Moon over Daikakuji

The harvest moon, over Daikakuji; in lieu of a haiku, & in the hope that the photo will flush some of the latter out of the woodwork and into the Icebox.

words

not knowing what to do

about this anger

the moon drifts among the clouds

Reparations

On Easter Sunday last year, I heard an American soldier speak in the Catholic church on Kawaramachi street. He was uneasy, only twenty-four, and by avocation a photographer. The translator hobbled him somewhat, but he had presence, and he told his story––a story of how, south of Baghdad, his unit killed three goats and one child, in error; and of how, in reparation, the Army paid out $200 U.S. for the girl, and $1,200 more for her father’s livestock. The soldier had made his stop in Kyoto, on a long walk from Hiroshima to Tokyo, with a group of Buddhist monks––a walk undertaken for whatever it might accomplish in the name of peace.

After the meeting, the soldier stepped outside for a smoke, and took a seat beside me on the steps. A young Japanese woman approached him. She said she spoke no English––a fact for which she apologized in English. She extended her hand to touch his. “You have beautiful eyes,” she said.

No desert mirage,
in this sorry botch of a war––
three goats dead, one child.

Waterside Birds, Part I: The Heron

by Nobuyuki Yuasa …

.. When I go river fishing with a long pole on my shoulder, I often see different waterside birds.  My most frequent encounter, perhaps, is with white herons. From spring to autumn, they are quite independent, each bird taking its own position in a shallow, waiting for a fish to come. Young herons are a bit clumsy, chasing fish but failing to catch them. As they grow older, they become more patient, and do not move until a good opportunity arises, although their eyes move keenly from time to time. Mature birds usually stand on a rock motionless, like philosophers. When the wind comes, however, their crown-feathers are shaken. In winter, herons form a flock. I can see them from my veranda as it looks down on the River Tamagawa. Their flight is quite graceful, white feathers reflecting on the blue water. The least appealing aspect of herons, however, is the way they nest in a forest.  The trees are suffocated by their white droppings, which have an obnoxious smell. During the years of war evacuation, I worked with woodcutters and charcoal-makers in the mountains, but I tried my best to avoid heronries. In Hiroshima, where the River Ota forks into the River Enko, one of its delta branches, there is a small island where herons nest. When I saw it five years ago, its trees were almost dead.

.. Apart from the usual white herons, I sometimes see bigger herons with grayish feathers and black heads crowned with a few plumes of white. According to a history book called Okagami, Emperor Daigo granted the fifth rank of Imperial Courtier to this bird when it obeyed the emperor’s order to return to his seat. Be that as it may, the bird certainly has courtly gentleness and dignity, especially when it spreads its wings to fly.

……. Neath the willow tree

……. Of the royal palace moat,

……. A big gray heron.

A young heron’s dance, ……

With a small fish glittering ..

In its pointed beak. …………..

“Memories of the Sea Shore”

It happened at the very last moment. I didn’t expect a week off of work this summer, but fortunately I wangled it. I spent five nights and six days in America with my husband and his friends––five nights and six days, a typical Japanese holiday. Three of those nights we spent on the sea shore, at the Isle of Palms, just north of Charleston, South Carolina. The weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too humid; it welcomed me, and I relaxed.

Up to my balcony
A sea breeze carries
The sound of slow waves––
Summer afternoon

The long, white beach spread out before our holiday condominium. The waves were calm; the tide ebbed. We walked down the sandy beach toward the north end of the peninsula, the green of a golf course to one side, the green of the Atlantic ocean to the other.

On a lingering bubble
A rainbow boomerang forms––
Receding wave

A hand print
On a heart shaped sand castle––
Evening glow

At the close of day, we walked down to the beach again, and listened to the waves as they lapped the shore by night. The sky was quite clear, but lights from the condominiums washed out the constellations.

A shooting star
Draws a fresh line
On a black canvas

Moons West & East

A while back, Tito told me of the “Ayame Society,” of which I had been unaware. The society was formed in London  a century or so ago “to establish a garden where the poetic flowers of East and West compete in their fragrances.” Seeing as how it now is, or soon will be, moon-viewing season in Kyoto, I post a short poem concerning the moon by the American poet Robert Frost (1874-1963), in the  hope that this voice from the West might inspire some replies in haiku, here in the Icebox.

“The Freedom of the Moon”

I’ve tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I’ve tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water star almost as shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later,
I’ve pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

N.B. “The Freedom of the Moon” was collected first in Frost’s 1928 volume “West-Running Brook.” The image reproduced here is from a signed first edition of the book, given to me by Jack Hagstrom, a dear friend of the poet himself.

In the footsteps of the dancing girl

When I was a tourist in Japan in October last year, I visited Izu Peninsula and followed late novelist Kawabata’s path from Shuzenji 修善寺 down to Kawazu 河津, the centre of his Dancing Girl (「伊豆の踊子」) lore.

I attempted to capture some of the serendipity (偶然) of the trip in a haibun. Now my travelogue has gone up on the website JapanVisitor, and I would cheekily like to mark the ‘event’ by posting my haibun and a link to the site. I hope these are of interest.

Rain comes on soon after I walk into the spa town Shuzenji in central Izu. I have the modest Fukui Minshuku to myself.

early into the outside bath –

meet me,

to only

rising raindrops

The welcoming shower subsides just in time for me to visit the eponymous temple before nightfall. But I slip on one of the slick stone steps on the way out, and come down hard on one hand.

1201 years ago the Shingon monk Kōbō Daishi struck his iron staff into the riverbed in Shuzenji and up welled a curative hot spring. Tokko-no-yu is now used as a footbath. I have other ideas….

plunging my stinging wrist

thrice into Iron-Staff Spring:

Kūkai answers my prayer

After a stroll among bamboo thickets glistening in lamplight, I reach the steps that lead up to my inn. To the right is a small torii in the gloom. Something else smoulders orange at my feet.

rusty toad on the step

someone croaks from the shrine:

“what’s there?”

An old woman, obscure in the interior, watches me as I climb up.

Richard Donovan

Shuzenji, 23 October 2008

Rain comes on soon after I walk into the spa town Shuzenji in central Izu. I have the modest Fukui Minshuku to myself.

….early to the outside bath –

….rising to meet me, only

….raindrops

The welcoming shower subsides just in time for me to visit the eponymous temple before nightfall. But I slip on one of the slick stone steps on the way out, and come down hard on one hand.

1201 years ago the Shingon monk Kobo Daishi struck his iron staff into the riverbed in Shuzenji and up welled a curative hot spring. Tokko-no-yu is now used as a footbath. I have other ideas….

….plunging my stinging wrist

….thrice into Iron-Staff Spring:

….Kukai answers my prayer.

After a stroll among bamboo thickets glistening in lamplight, I reach the steps that lead up to my inn. To the right is a small torii in the gloom. Something else smoulders orange at my feet.

….rusty toad on the step

….someone croaks from the shrine:

….“what’s there?”

An old woman, obscure in the interior, watches me as I climb up.

– Shuzenji, 23 October 2008

http://www.japanvisitor.com/index.php?cID=357&pID=2048

“So turtles pair…”

Tito kindly suggested that Mayumi & I commemorate our marriage this past April here, with our friends in/on the Icebox. Reprinted below is the text we chose to place on the back of the program for our wedding ceremony, taken from Shakespeare’s late play “The Winter’s Tale,” together with a photograph of the event in medias res.

FLORIZEL:   I think you have
As little skill to fear as I have purpose
To put you to’t. But come; our dance, I pray:
Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,
That never mean to part.

PERDITA: I’ll swear for ‘em.

フロリゼル:  こわがる理由が君にはあるまい、
こわがらすつもりなど僕にはないのだから。
それより、さあ踊ろうじゃないか、いいだろう。
君の手をパーディタ。決して離れようとはしない
キジバトのように、ひとつになって踊ろう。

パーディタ:  私もキジバトの誠実さには負けはしません。

N.B.: In the scene here quoted, Florizel proposes to marry Perdita. In English, we speak of “taking a woman’s hand” in marriage, though Florizel takes it also for a dance. “Turtles” are turtle-doves, which, in English poetry, are emblems of fidelity in love, because they pair for life. (Mark makes bold to add, with a wink––and for those who know Mayumi well––that in “The Winter’s Tale” Perdita, though she remains unaware of it until the last act, is, in fact, a princess. Incidentally, neither one of us ever dances.)

Moonlight

Early this morning, the following haiku came to me from a moment of real experience. In a curious way, it struck me as meaningful, although I didn’t intend it to be. Has anyone else had this sort of experience, I wonder – where innocent haiku occasionally seem to be symbolic? You could just as well say, of course, “It’s rubbish!”

…on the roof terrace

……tying a rotten rope

………by autumn moonlight

……………………….(Saga, Kyoto, 5.9.09)