Sunday, March 31, 2013

2013 NaPoMo Haiku/Senryu (and other poems)

Well kids, it's that time of the year again wherein your intrepid hero attempts to navigate the roiling and treacherous waters of inspiration with his flimsy poetic craft. This year unlike others, we come into the month with a great deal of momentum, although sans our former muse who now merely glowers when she deigns to glance in our direction at all. But the Show must go on and write we will even if it is without the buoyant mania that once propelled our craft. We are tied to no line except that one which anchors us nightly. Our goal is the distant city of Haijin many miles downstream. How far, you ask? Who knows. The point is to get closer. We will enjoy the process of the ride rather than sweat the arrival. We must make at least thirty stops along the way, a haiku or senryu for each day, although they will likely swirl in eddies and waves as opposed to a continuous flow. By the end of the month I would also like to have written at least seven haiku in Kriolu, last month I wrote my first two, which leaves me five to go. We begin though in English;

Whitney's voice
from a passing car-
An old receipt

Fresh blueberries
falling into
Chucky's laughter

of the barren volcano-
Nunny's stare

Crushed pumice
blackens the beach
Grandfather's temper

She thanks me
for no reason-
Thawing ice

Ninety eight
reasons to come out-
Sports Illustrated

Crescent moon
peeling the yellow
midnight banana

over a comma-
Quarter Moon

April swirls
Bobbing in the white waves
a little buoy

Sound of Evening rain-
The apple trees' branches
against the window

Clouds drifting-
Just before just after
goodbye kiss

Crack of thunder-
All the neighborhood cars

This tongue
between moist lips-
Sealed envelope

A scar
below her right breast-
The Milky Way

Mountain Laurel blooms-
Flickering deep in Penn's Woods
a single candle

her tongue warms
my nipple

Low fog-
A Mourning Dove's
high coo

Above the hum
of the power line-

Vaguely threatening
The man in the red pickup
afternoon sky

Golf ball
semi-lodged in sand-
Half moon

Chilly afternoon-
I turn up the flame under
a pot of greens

Storm clouds-
Branches of this lone tree

All in-
My stack suddenly

Thanksgiving Night-
Wild Turkey in a

Fiftieth birthday-
Looking up a word
I used to know

Marsh reeds sprout
through sidewalk asphalt-
Her reluctant smile

At the corner
A boy with his pants sagging-
Half moon

Hair bun bobbing
she slowly disappears-
Setting sun

Adjusting the hat
then readjusting it-
Cool breeze

Plink plink
a shuffling of poker chips-

April first- 
The waitress' fingernails 
are ivy green

First of April-
Maybe this cute cashier 
has no boyfriend

Spring lonliness- 
The wind pushes an empty 
box of Newports

April puddles-
Even this atheist
must take a leap

Starless night-
Almost forty ounces
of emptiness

Autumn breeze-
Brushing what's left
of my hair

Early April sky-
Even a seventeen bar
Blues isn't this gray

First kiss
after making up-
Sheet lightning

Monday Morning-
Even my reality checks 
are bouncing

Apparently I
didn't catch her drift-
Leaves swirling

I find everything
except love

April Fools Day-
At least the puppy knows
he's chasing his tail

Cracked nail 
on my left big toe- 
Sliver of moon

The homeless man
staring into the window-

As part of output this month I'm going to try to get this haiku translated into French, Arabic, Spanish, and Portuguese (those being the primary languages of the West African Slave Trade);

Only sunlight
passes in both directions-
Door of No Return

Só os raios do sol
passam nas duas direcções-
Porta sem retorno

(Portuguese translation by R. Erica Doyle)

Ne passe que lumière
dans les deux sens –
Porte du voyage sans retour

(French translation by Christine Lux)

Anyone with expertise in translating to those languages or in writing haiku in those languages can feel free to comment or add input.

So far, the only regular poem I've written this month is this fun one I came up with for Jericho Brown's birthday;

I placed a candle
upon a cake from New Orleans
And Please it was, upon a plate.
It made the nervous words
Surround that cake.

The alphabet rose up to it,
And curled around, no longer ordered.
The candle was Please upon the cake
And of a shimmer in wick.

It took desire everywhere.
The cake was chocolate and Please!
It did not give of fork or knife,
Like nothing else from New Orleans.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

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