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Survival Haiku

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Year's end —
If I survive a few more of them

I'll have worn a rut in the lane.

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The Indescribable Beauty of Snails

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If you wish to learn

The indescribable beauty of snails

Just cast your eyes humbly down.

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Moon Talk

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Under this moon

How can I disagree?

You're such a good friend Autumn.

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What's a poem

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Hands clasped behind me

I thought: a poem

Is a kind of snapshot.

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Night Haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Friday, 27 Mar 2015, 01:28

Getting up in the night. 

That loose floorboard. 

Groans like a ghost.

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Sunup haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Thursday, 26 Mar 2015, 00:46

What a daily grind!

Getting the sun out of bed.

All together birds.

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First Spring HaIku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Wednesday, 25 Mar 2015, 00:27

A frosty night in spring.

The rabbits don't seem cold.

Like me they hope.

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Herb haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Monday, 23 Mar 2015, 00:30

The herbs

Form a miniature garden.

I feel honored.

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International Poetry Day

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Edited by Richard Walker, Saturday, 21 Mar 2015, 02:53

Today 21 March is International Poetry Day.

So here's one of my favorite poems. I often think about it. Its author is Issa and the date it was written is March 1818.

A pheasant calls out

As someone blind

Crawls across the bridge.

Credit

Haiku adapted from Chris Drake's translation.

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Calendar leaves haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Thursday, 12 Mar 2015, 01:42

A movie cliche.

The wind takes the calendar leaves.

We still cry though.

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The millpond

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Edited by Richard Walker, Tuesday, 3 Mar 2015, 00:29

Watching lights in the millpond.

My hands frozen to the rail.

No movement.

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Riddle Haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Sunday, 1 Mar 2015, 01:50

Blown off in autumn.

Missed in winter snow.

Blossom. No need now.

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Sonnet and Haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Tuesday, 10 Feb 2015, 02:28

One of the verse forms I most admire is the sonnet, and another is the haiku. There are many differences but both display a classic structure and an economy of expression.

A favorite sonnet of mine is Shakespeare 73.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
 
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
 
I tried to compress this into a haiku. Here is my attempt.
 
It's autumn now
Smell of burning leaves. Winter follows
Hold tight, hold tight.
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Haiku without a season

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Edited by Richard Walker, Monday, 5 Jan 2015, 01:24

You knew I was lying.

Cried the liveforeverbird.

You knew. You knew.

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Haiku for winter

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Edited by Richard Walker, Monday, 29 Dec 2014, 01:36

In summer the old man puts up a brave face.

Easier in winter.

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New mist

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Edited by Richard Walker, Sunday, 7 Sep 2014, 01:12

Wading through tiny mist

Suddenly it's autumn

Yesterday summer.

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Rain haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Wednesday, 18 Jun 2014, 00:22

It's easy now

Living with a bunch of ghosts

Except when it rains.

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haiku

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Edited by Richard Walker, Wednesday, 14 Apr 2010, 00:39

Spring

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First blossom petals,

On my remaining hair.

Spring again!

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The Catcher in the Rye

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Edited by Richard Walker, Sunday, 31 Jan 2010, 01:50

J.D. Salinger has died.

The immortal novel he wrote way back (1960?), The Catcher in the Rye, is a magic book, probably the best or second best American novel of the 20-th century.  He wrote some other stuff - short stories - and they are good too.

Something I remember from these stories is an attachment to haiku, I think a famous one by Issa is there somewhere

Don't swat it!
The fly is rubbing
Its hands and legs

Salinger then gave up publishing any work and  famously became an extreme recluse, refusing all publicity and repulsing interviews.

That doesn't seem so surprising or unreasonable; he seems to have been drawn towards a contemplative life, and had an interest in Zen.

 

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