3 haiga

 

the planets of the other world feel it more

17 syllable ku written while listening to the music of Scott Cortez*

rising to the surface of my coffee worlds borne from a weave of guitar drones


:

keep me up at night I'll write your name with soft pencils in a camel's eye

:

running across red fields we change our leopard's spots and head for Paris

:

most of it made from air we lean into it through four generations

:

half the language a stranger eating take-away food she's a dust cloud

:

a 108.000 km/hour through nowt the speed of life as we know it a boy's ball

:

that soft carpet that rough skin your virtual self gets infected too

:

mostly done by repetition life goes on your reflection: a hat

:

let's stay where the warmth is we can speak French if you like and eat apples

:

pockets full of faces the hole you entered was the one that ate god

:

born among nomads a dune is taken to the sacrificial mound

:

I'll hide u if u want read from the book of fruit sleep just half the day

:

sometimes a whale or a biscuit slowly slowly pull out squeezed and deaf

:

believe me it's April the wind is a long cold stranger passing by

:

3000 milliseconds have you got your hat on while phoning slipfooteyestar

:

like your loved one written in Neutrino you're older than sand and beef

* Scott Cortez: https://soundcloud.com/user561315

and http://wavertone.bandcamp.com/album/the-earth-glows-brightly

and various bands incl. Lovesliescrushing

blur

smudged

by dirty

windows

the moon's

there

barely

full

:

no

pretending

the knee

that hurts

the moon

there

:

no

drama

blur

red

moon

:

not

even

a distant

car

just

a cat

in

heat

this

cold

night

:

what

attitude

needed

that

bare rock

hanging

:

a year

since

I polished

these

windows

the moon's

older

:

before I knew I could be seen world wars

A Wee Fairytale / Et bitte eventyr - haibun

A Wee Fairytale

it's a leaky boat made from the web of starlight that light that is the loneliest kind in the universe in that boat a king sets out to conquer the world hoping to gain power over a multitude of creatures none of which he has made (or could ever make) he suffers the vain hope it'll make him happy happier than he is at the moment that's in the nature of men: ever searching for something that'll make them a bit more happy than he is and that's why staircases are endless

wet as it falls rain

he doesn't question his urge nor does he question whether he has the right to rule over other creatures living by their life-force for him his quest for fulfilment – be it ever so temporary and volatile – is what inhabits his dreams at night fills his heart every day and makes his spaghetti taste like mud his yearning and unhappiness is the core of the cosmos and he doesn't lift his eyes to look out the window

with good will that silhouette is a peregrine falcon

but of course the boat sinks at some point and of course the king don't get to rule the endless universe it's always all or nothing with kings like that and at the bottom of the World Ocean he gets to practice folding a jellyfish into a hat

bouncing off photons a tree is eight minutes older

Et bitte eventyr

det er en lækkende båd lavet at stjernelys det lys der er af den mest ensomme slags i universet i den båd sætter en konge ud for at erobre verden i håbet om at opnå magt over en mangfoldighed af skabninger hvoraf ingen er skabt af ham selv (som om han kunne skabe nogen) han har den vage formodning at det vil gøre ham lykkelig i hvert fald lykkeligere end han er for tiden det er i menneskers natur: altid at lede efter noget der vil gøre dem en smule gladere end de er og det er derfor trapper er endeløse

våd som den falder regn

han sætter ikke spørgsmålstegn ved sin trang ej heller spørger han sig selv om hvorvidt han har ret til at bestemme over skabninger der lever ved sin egen livskraft for er hans søgen efter at opnå sit mål – det være sig nok så midlertidigt og flygtigt – det der fylder hans drømme fylder hans hjerte hver dag og får hans spaghetti til at smage som mudder hans længsel og ulykkelighed er kernen i kosmosset og han løfter ikke sine øjne for at se ud af vinduet

med lidt god vilje er silhuetten en vandrefalk

men selvfølgelig synker båden på et tidspunkt og kongen opnår ikke at herske over det uendelige univers det er altid alt eller intet med sådanne konger og på bunden af Verdenshavet får han tid til at øve sig i at folde vandmænd til hatte

reflekterende fotoner et træ er otte minutter ældre

Samsara - haibun

the rope I climb I have taken from the spinal cord of a stoned homeless man slowly merging with the flow of acid rain heading for the ocean via the sewers at times it's a snake or a ladder for dwarfs and ambitious ants at times it's a newsstand selling old papers “we can only examine processes which are already in the past” the black rider says gulping down the homeless man's dissolving tattoos

flat-out broke

I sell my reflection

for dust

I will never die I will die continuously that's the deal of being and being again at some point I will have collected enough coupons to get the holes for the flute I carved from my right femur I give a pizza a sky funeral pigeons and gulls descend from the cake in the sky while I hum Psalm 23 “I shall not want” but I do I do want and it keeps me going

Om Bhur Bhuvah Svah …

somewhere there's a koi

with my name on it

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gayatri_Mantra

In Japanese, koi is a homophone for another word that means "affection" or "love"

blur

smudged

by dirty

windows

the moon's

there

barely

full

:

no

pretending

the knee

that hurts

the moon

there

:

no

drama

blur

red

moon

:

not

even

a distant

car

just

a cat

in

heat

this

cold

night

:

what

attitude

needed

that

bare rock

hanging

:

a year

since

I polished

these

windows

the moon's

older

3 "haiga" w poemwords

 

 

On a Station - haibun

On a Station

a young woman whose body and its language says she wants to be invisible more than anything else empties her bag on the bench and sorts her things after size with the biggest nearest to her she puts them back one after one from her skinniness I assume she's starving herself she has the complexion of yellow moonlight

maelstrom
the step before oblivion
is a matchstick girl



a young man dressed in new clothes following the fashion of his peers walks around in tiny measured steps following paths only he himself can see he seems uncomfortable as if he really doesn't know what kind of behaviour and gait goes with the image he tries to convey he walks as if he's afraid to touch the ground

all grey the rain the eyes in the wall in the crowd



they've recently converted to Islam these two Danish women in their early twenties they exchange experiences with living in a male dominated sub culture of quasi fundamentalists from their facial expressions it's hard I can see though they confirm to each other that it's exciting they adjust the scarf covering their hair one putting a stray strand back under the other's scarf they're sitting behind me on a double bench forgetful of how loud their voices are Ali does this Muhammed does that it's very hush hush

rushing from light to light (on time) our pilgrimage on Earth

Bones - haibun

Bones

The turning point in crime shows was when we began seeing the detective as a person. No longer was it the crime -> case solved straight line but we got to know a little about how the (imaginative) hero was as a person. Depths were added to the supposed reality of the genre. Nowadays it's standard.

What do you do, then, when you think the hero or heroes of a crime show are utterly uninteresting and superficial persons?

first snowdrops

the road goes on

unimpressed

(“You stop watching those shows, don't you?”

“I'm not watching. They're just there, aren't they?”

“Well, you turned on the TV ... I rest my case.”

“Bloody know-it-all!”)

Japanese? - a haibun

”What's with the chop sticks and the miso soup? You're not Japanese.”

”You sure? I could be.”

”No, you're not. You're born in Denmark and it takes more than flirting with a culture to actually be a part of it.”

”I can try, can't I? I mean, I'm taking lessons in language, brush painting, cooking and what have you. I'm thinking of going there as soon as I can.”

”When will that be? You haven't got the money and you're afraid of flying.”

”Man, you're always so negative! Can't you just be glad I have something that excites me?”

”Of course I can, but you won't become Japanese no matter how many courses you take. And besides, they would never accept you as one of theirs if you ever get to go. You'll be a foreigner for 10 generations or more.”

”Says you. What do you know?!.”

“I know they work very long hours and you haven't held on to even a part time job for more than 2 weeks. You couldn't survive in Japan. Not on the same terms the Japanese live.”

“Shut it! Have you seen the band-aids? These damn straw sandals give me blisters.”

cold fondue

what's left of the frog

the cat eats

170 syllables

something to the left of me about to end the world in H-minor

by my right foot's halo a beetle that should have died before winter

in my left nostril a prophet talking of a blooming red desert

lifting my arm to draw a circle of air for the last bird looping

in my right ear I make a bed for nomadic penguins and planets

from my navel I extract a galaxy of rubber stars in May

signing the sky on it's far side like YK now he's doing reds

IKB and a faulty fall into the tank with sleeping fish and weed

between the chairs a caravan of souls heading for Dwarka to rest

folding shadows into cranes a hundred times or more like time beasts

ear yummy

primitive stereo

McCartney's bass rolls potatoes

on Lucy

it's getting better?

warm milk and honey

will fix the hole

perpetual dusk

she's leaving home

with Pepper's crew

4000 black holes

with a little help my mind

can fill a car

changing lights

I record a recorder

in a wlarus

goodmorning goo

within you without you flies

Mr. Kite

foolless hill

Henry the Horse runs off

with the meter maid

My Favourite Things - ku sequence

My Favorite Things

spiraling off incense sticks My Favorite Things Coltraneian

left one shoe in a raga in Harlem

Lady Morphine in A-Minor this sleep in longing

what the hell's with these birds? my left head turns

the falling upwards of feet not mine and a half-smoked cigarette

not fair the song doesn't exist unless I hear it

between the bricks a view to another dance

tuck me in with a needle in your eye

dressed in flames she merges with organs

singular plurality music bound by time and trouble

carving a shenai from a bone once in God's thought

no snakes to tame the untameable a basket of rotting grapes

household fairies in ampuls barely glass

the lark's nest

December light?

I remind myself

there's a first

for everything

long before I began to wake up my brain was singing a song. it was a song for children one every school boy and girl have been singing since the 1920's I guess (the composer died in 1931) and one I have sung hundreds of times as a boy. but it (my brain) could remember the first verse only. I was rather annoyed by those missing words and by the song that interrupted a warm and intimate situation just beginning to be very hot between me and a girlfriend I had in my teens but her face turned into an ipad on which I began to look for the missing words of the song. it was a song about a girl finding a lark's nest and keeping it a secret for the fox and the boy.

ground coffee 3900 light years from Canis Majoris