Tag Archives: poetry

BOOK REVIEW: The Classic Tradition of Haiku Edited by Faubion Bowers

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The Classic Tradition of Haiku: An AnthologyThe Classic Tradition of Haiku: An Anthology by Faubion Bowers

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Amazon page

The other haiku anthology I reviewed is Classic Haiku, located here.

This is the second haiku anthology that I’ve reviewed on my site. While they’re both thin volumes of traditional haiku, each has its distinct flavor. The previous volume was organized by season. This one is organized by author. The two books share several authors (e.g. the greats Bashō, Issa, and Buson), but diverge on many of the lesser known poets.

One nice feature of this book is that it offers multiple translations of many of the haiku. Poetry is notoriously tricky to translate as literal translations can be meaningless. Multiple translations can give one a better opportunity to hone in on what the author meant to convey. This volume does give the original Japanese poem in romanized transcription (for those who enjoy the sound the author conveyed as well as meaning), but–unlike the other volume–it does not include the kanji. (This doesn’t matter for me, as I don’t read Japanese, but I’m sure the kanji is a nice feature for readers of Japanese.)

Some favorites are:

clouds occasionally
make a fellow relax
moon-viewing
Matsuo Bashō

islands
shattered into a thousand pieces
in the summer sea
Matsuo Bashō

you’re the butterfly
and I the dreaming heart
of Sōshi
Matsuo Bashō

[Note: Sōshi is the Japanese name of the Taoist thinker Chuang Tze, and this references his famous statement about having dreamt he was a butterfly.]

that dream I had
of being stabbed–was true
bitten by a flea
Takarai Kikaku

oh, won’t some orphaned sparrow
come
and play with me
Kobayashi Issa

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Early Spring Haiku

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stalwart Beech tree
still gathering sunlight
on last year’s leaf

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dandelion
arrives to party first
eager flower

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a bud breaks open
its tiny leaf waves hello
welcoming the spring

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spring’s urgent leisure
flowers drop a fine pollen
to ride listless winds

POEM: Salkantay: or, Sea-level Gringo

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The pass begins

The pass begins

Boulders lay strewn like the dice of God,
moss-covered, on a close-cropped blanket of green.

The Pass educated me,
I’d never known I could see snow and jungle in the same day.
I never knew how thin of air would sustain me.
I still don’t know how a fish out of water
has the death throe energy to spastically flop.

I was a tortoise: plod, stop, resume plodding, repeat.
If I’d been deprived of oxygen to the same degree as that fish,
I’d have just silently fallen off the switchback into the valley below.
Into boulder scree and the carcasses of sea-level dwelling gringos past.

POEM: They Spiked My Punch

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IMG_5559They spiked my punch.
I had no lunch.
I got so drunk, so very drunk.
Drunker than I thunk
that a man could ever be,
and I don’t know if I can trust what my eyes did see:

I saw: two elephants riding pogo sticks,
the Taj Mahal made  of Lego bricks,
Ned Flanders as a creepy voyeur,
A lady talking to an honest lawyer,
goats doing kung fu in the park,
a talking dog and a man who barked,
a traffic cop with a great big smile,
the line for kicks formed in single file,
two geese played a wicked ping-pong match,
I got hit by a bus–look not a scratch.

POEM: In an Ancient Village

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Seven years down the road
with dirty feet and no abode
I’d wander to and fro
along the narrow streets
of an ancient village



And when the monster came for me
I did not even claim to see
his vile disfigurement
in the dim winter light
in that ancient village



For years I tried to sail away
having failed to keep the beast at bay
but my ship  always
circled back ’round
to that ancient village



Then they’d throw me in some grimy pit
with scarcely room to for me to sit
and I’d whisper curses
under my breath
about that ancient village.



Then the monster would call on me
and all the townspeople would flee
as I wreaked havoc
on the town square
of that ancient village

POEM: Do They Really Sleep?

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Are these sleepy  little villages and hamlets really tucked into bed by eleven?

When my train rolls by and there is nothing on display to my bleary eye

except vacant roads, dark shadows, and the dim glow of night-lights.

Cars are still; people are absent; time is frozen but for the wind-blown hedges.

But do these villages go to sleep, or do they just turn off the lights

and do those things which should not be subjected to the light?

POEM: Perception of Self

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That cat thinks she’s quite a mouser

but, truth be told, she’s just a houser.

At stalking and lurking she’s a master.

But catching? Well… they get past her.

 

POEM: The Street Sleeps

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Litter skitters down the street,
stopping beseechingly at my feet.
No one likes the morning chill.
So this raucous street is now still.
Still but for the will to wake.
Shhh! Let it sleep for goodness sake.

POEM: This Indescribable Feeling

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I lack the words to dignify this feeling.

Imagine a coarse hemp rope knotted around one’s heart
It’s cinched tighter and tighter, tugged at both ends
The rope creaks under this burden, but it does not snap
It creaks like an old wooden sailing vessel, riding the swells

POEM: Deceit Days

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What an apple!
–spoiled and rotten
The weave of lies
is soon forgotten.
Cast and reel,
no hook is set.
Which lie is true?
He soon forgets.

He says,
Just let me be, and I won’t lie.
But ask me now and it’s fib or die.

The lying life is tenuous.
Backpeddling? Strenuous