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February 12, 2014

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Goodbye Hope: a Monody Haībun

Last night in my email, was another writer’s bane, the let-you-down-gently words that sink in like thorns. I didn’t have high hopes, how can one in my place? I have time for writing, time for dreams, time for children-rearing, but no time for marketing.

Another so kind rejection in the mail.
How can I go on when to go on is to fail?
It’s nicely worded, not harsh at all,
And yet, it’s kind words hurt like an icy fall.
Why do I need for my words to be heard?
Why not chirp quietly on a branch like a bird?
Oh, hope, so fragile, so easily flown away,
Will you come back soon, stay for another day?

Why do any of us write? We have words inside us, needing to come out. It’s that simple. When my boys hit age three, they had to run. They ran and ran, circling me like dolphins around a boat, chirping and loving, laughing and falling. They ran because they had to, and I did not stop them. I tried to keep them safe.

Can I parent myself, the young writer? How would I do that? I know I need to write, and so I will. I will let myself write, and as I send my words into the world, I will try to keep myself safe.

Not everyone has to like what I wrote. I write for my own reasons, and I share magic and joy where I can. Even if only one person is touched, has a better day, feels the magic, then that’s enough. My work is enough. My words are enough. I will keep sending my words into the world.

As for my kind rejecter, I will smile, and I will remember that that person’s day is too long, too busy, too full to take on my words. That’s okay. She has a busy life, too, and only so many hours in it.

sycamore grows in summer
its roots leave words in the soil
the leaves read the shining sun

Note: A Monody is a lament, a dirge or an elegy for someone or something departed. A Haibun is prose, culminating in poetry, with its heart beating in the natural world. This was partly inspired by a series of recent rejections, by the weekly poetry prompt by painttheworldwithwords to write a monody and by the weekly Haībun Thinking prompt, with a freestyling example by Al.

References:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monody.html
http://painttheworldwithwords.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/poetic-form-of-the-week-monody/

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 8, 2014

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Poetry

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Warm Embrace Haiku

winter sunshine
hug reaches through the trees
embraced by the universe

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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 7, 2014

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Poetry

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Visitor in the Temple Haībun

The February sunshine steeps your boughs
and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
The groves were God’s first temples.
— William C. Bryant

Daily on my walks, I see miracles of beauty, hidden places that driving would never reveal. The slower I walk, with more deliberation and care, with time to look around, the more my soul lifts with the beauty casually offered to my eyes. Some combinations of shrub and tree were created with careful selection, pruning, fertilizing and skill beyond mine. I am the worshipper, visiting briefly in temples built by others.

Even my own garden has treasures I received, simply by deciding to dwell here. Some irises were planted by a previous owner. I thought they would be purple, and each year I waited for them to bloom. Their leaves never embraced a flower stem except once, overshadowed as they had become by the vigorous forsythia planted too close. One fall, I pruned back the forsythia. That next spring, the forsythia did not bloom, but the iris did: delicate and pale pink, with a creamy white interior.

not purple, unexpected
the pink of my son’s rosy cheeks
bearded iris bloomed

My neighbor, Terry, came down the driveway, waving, and calling to me. She told me she was delighted to see Reed’s irises in bloom after so many years. She asked for one, and I freely gave it. She told me about the woman who had planted them. Reed had developed brain cancer and was gone in a few months. The neighbors had come together to make the family meals while she enjoyed her last days, looking out on her garden. One neighbor came to play harp for her in the evenings. Now her garden is my garden, and her irises are in my care.

Last year, I moved all those irises away from the forsythia and into the sun. My neighbor, Terry, came by again: her iris had not survived. I told her I would give her another one day, once they had recovered from transplanting. One spring soon, I hope to see that pale pink flower again. I will care for them here, in my outdoor temple. As I tend the memories of my own mother.

mourning in shade
thick green bud rises in the sun
time to bloom again

Added by request, an old iris painting of mine, purple like the ones I carried at my wedding:

Iris 1 Painting by Brenda Davis Harsham

Inspired by the Līgo Haībun Challenge Prompt: Temple.

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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

February 5, 2014

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The Heart of a Garden Haibun

Used with permission of Sally – My Beautiful Things

I always leave part of my heart in my garden as the yellow leaves drift slowly down, followed by the snow. My summer heart hibernates there, with the bulbs and the frogs, below the frost line. I don’t have the heart to clear all the leaves away, it’s too like wiping the tears of the tree.

I prefer to leave them where they fall in the flower beds, fertilizer and insulation against the winter’s fury. On the grass, I rake them all into a big pile, and let the kids jump in. We toss up the leaves in fistfuls, and they fall in our hair. We make leaf angels, before we bag them all.

My summer heart is there still in my garden, slumbering, under the snow forts, the snowmen and beyond the snow angel farms. Wrapped closely with leaves, dreaming of sunshine and warm days.

first green shoots
split the soil apart
my heart leaps out

Inspired by the Tuesday Haibun Thinking: Week 3.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 29, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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Storms Gather Haibun

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
Robert Burns

Storms gather, and the air feels heavy. The first few rain drops are huge monsters, icy with winter indifference, a mixed bag of snow, sleet, hail and rain. The sidewalks have black ice. With the rain, they are slick, and I have fallen twice. I’m at least a mile from home. The rain stops again, the universe holds its breath, and the sun struggles through the layers of cloud.

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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 26, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

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Big Boots, Little Boots

my daughter’s boots
snugged beside her daddy’s,
new footsteps following

Note: Inspired by the Weekly Photo Challenge: Juxtaposition by the Daily Post.

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 24, 2014

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Poetry

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Winter Sun Haībun

Sometimes life gets away from me. Like the winter sun, the central things I care about seem too distant to keep my focus. I start to pay attention to the cold, the ice, the blocked flow of my life. And yet, through the trees, the sun returns, to remind me of all the things that form the center of my life.

sunshine on cold days
casting long shadows on the snow
spilling star shine

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Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 22, 2014

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Poetry

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112 Comments

Finding Friends Haībun

Ranger and Monty © Kathryn Forbes 2013

I’m not the first to ever write about finding friends. And I won’t be the last. I looked at Goodreads quotes about friends, and they number 1071. I felt like the most noble of researchers just continuing to read past page one. Yes, folks, in your honor I actually read page 2! Whew, that’s 60 quotes. Here’s one gem from page 2:

I don’t suppose you have many friends. Neither do I. I don’t trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It’s a sure sign that they don’t really know anyone. — Carlos Ruiz Zafón

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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 17, 2014

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Poetry

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Ends of the Earth Haībun

Definition of reverie: n. rev•er•ie (ˈrɛv ə ri)
1. a state of meditation or fanciful musing: lost in reverie;
2. a daydream;
3. a fantastic, visionary, or impractical idea.
— The Free Dictionary

Mary Cassatt painted a woman contemplating a flower and titled the painting Reverie. I stared at that painting, reproduced in an Impressionist art book, struck by the name, a word unheard for years. I looked around the crowded Starbucks, and everyone was looking at a screen or talking intently to others. I wondered when was the last time I experienced a reverie. Do they exist anymore? Are they like the fabled unicorn, only appearing to young children?

round, red zinnia
smells sweetly of rainy days
tastes of summer

I remember reveries from childhood. One time I toasted a hotdog on a bonfire. It was burnt on the outside and cold on the inside. Afterwards, I felt sleepy, contemplating the fire. I had a twilight dream that I was the hotdog, burnt on the side facing the fire and freezing on the side away.

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Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 15, 2014

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Photography, Poetry

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Three Photographs: Come and Gone

A haiku is not a poem, it is not literature; it is a hand beckoning,
a door half-opened, a mirror wiped clean. It is a way of returning
to nature, to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our falling
leaf nature, in short, to our Buddha nature. It is a way in which
the cold winter rain, the swallows of evening, even the very day in
its hotness, and the length of the night, become truly alive, share
in our humanity, speak their own silent and expressive language.

~R.H.Blyth~ Haiku, Volume One

I originally wanted these three photographs to be one visual haiku, in my case meaning a poem in three lines, each photograph to represent a line. However, I found the term already in use, and I decided that each one individually fits the common definition: a photograph that says something more than the contents; it uses two or three elements to suggest more than is present. I hope you enjoy my three visual haiku.

References:

http://peace.wikia.com/wiki/Visual_Haiku
https://www.lensculture.com/articles/masao-yamamoto-visual-haiku
http://www.digitalphotoacademy.com/DpaObjects/viewTip/4450
http://www.haikupoetshut.com/viskundx.html
http://www.flickr.com/groups/visualhaiku/

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 11, 2014

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Poetry

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Choices for the Soul Haībun

The church is near but the road is all ice;

the tavern is far but I’ll walk very carefully.

Russian Proverb

Years ago, I was working for a minimal salary. My net pay barely covered the expenses of professional clothing, commuting, food and rent. I worked very hard the first year, trying to be the perfect employee, working quickly, seeking extra work, hoping I would earn a big raise. I slid sideways into debt when my car was totaled in an accident and my cat needed expensive medicine.

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Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

January 6, 2014

Posted under

Poetry

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31 Comments

Grasses Sing Haiku

snowflakes fly sideways
grasses sing in the fierce wind
nature bows to storm

Note: Embracing the classical beginnings of haiku, as this author understands them, and as described in the post: Carpe Diem Goes Back to Its Roots #4 by Carpe Diem Haiku Kai. I cannot hope to explain haiku better, so I just link in zen appreciation. Peace and Joy!