The Poetess Within
by MJHaney

I grew up in a lake village. Strip-mining had left deep gashes in the ground, so the miners had flooded the scars and sold the land to developers. They built a small community around these forty-some small lakes, and my family moved there when I was six years old.

Of course there's a poetic metaphor in that experience. Indeed, some poets would argue that the heart of poetry lies under the surface of the poem. Robert Frost defined poetry as … "what's lost in translation." It's what isn't said that makes the poem. It's what's hidden under the lily pad that roots it to the earth. It's the same with the nature of poetry, what isn't said by the poet is what enables the reader to form a connection with the poem.

We come to think of poetry as genre, as the other. Poetry isn't defined by what it is upon a page, rather it is defined by what it is not. We can be fairly confident when we see a piece of writing, just by the arrangement on the paper, that it is prose or poetry. We can be even more sure of what genre the writing belongs to when the poet follows a form or convention that is recognizable as a sort of poetry. Western poetry has evolved so that no one can offer a clear-cut definition of what it is anymore. Still, Western poetry values the use of image, figurative language, symbol, sound, form, persona, tone, theme, or any combination of those. The merit of any poem is usually based upon the effective use of those elements; and it is safe to say that each poet will have different feelings towards, and a different voice employing any of those aforementioned elements.

Haiku, being an Eastern verse, follows a different set of rules. Nevertheless, form, image, and theme are just as important to the haiku poet (the haijin) as they are to the writer working within the constraints of the sonnet. Understanding the form of haiku in English is a bit problematic. The first barrier that one must get over is the language. Because the rules were written for Japanese writers, they don't necessarily apply to haiku written in English. This can be explained linguistically in the differences between Japanese and English.

In "The Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Share, and Teach Haiku," author and haiku poet William Higginson lays down the law for writing a traditional Japanese haiku in English. The Japanese language has a power for compression that English does not. Higginson notes that haiku written in 5-7-5 syllable format in English is almost twice as long as a poem written in 5-7-5 onji (sound symbols or phonetic characters) in Japanese. His solution is to write an English language haiku that contains around twelve syllables with two accented syllables in the first line, three in the second, and two in the third line.

bitter cold morning
haunting
memories of abuse
MJHaney (published in 2-2003 issue of Short Stuff Magazine)

Also central to the form of haiku is the seasonal reference, called the kigo, which serves to anchor the poem in a moment of time. Haiku poets in Japan would maintain lists of appropriate kigo for haiku. These words were usually culturally relevant and included celebrations and observances, along with natural phenomena such as cherry and plum blossoms. In English, these kigo are usually translated in terms of our four seasons.

Haiku appears to possess a fragmentary nature, as though on the verge of leading towards another, more significant moment. This is often described as a "haiku moment" or a "moment of truth"—which generally links the haiku to the study of zen. The language of the haiku is simple and minimalistic—remember that the verse was originated by traveling Buddhist monks. The language serves to bridge the gap between everyday discourse and the sort of Zen enlightenment that writers desired to achieve. The man said to be the "great master" of haiku, Matsou Basho, explained, "The function of haikai [haiku] is to rectify the common speech" (Hass XII).

the Milky Way!
and the smell of red leaves
fallen in my hair
MJH

Haiku are dominated by natural themes—the ebb and flow of the seasons, the flowers coming in and fading out of blossom, the birds song and migration. Basho felt the primary function of poetry was to "observe the ceaseless interplay of the temporal and the eternal" in the natural world (Makenzie 5). Almost all haiku can be understood in this life-cycle context that Basho described.

my grandmother's garden
even the hyacinth
are a little wilted
MJH

A working definition of haiku is understood only when the ideas revolving around form, image, and theme are understood in context of the genre. Haiku are short poems that hinge on a strong, concrete image. Haiku tend to touch upon the life and nature cycles, making a statement about the emotions tied up in those cycles. The combination of form, image, and theme result in what is described by Western haijin as the "haiku moment" and become the basis of the English language haiku.

I encourage you to think about haiku as an exercise in writing poetry—especially during Poetry Month. I love to think of the water blossom as a metaphor for the haiku—tiny and perfect, but deceptively deep. And just think, once you've mastered the art of the water blossom, the haiku—which would certainly encompass an entire lifetime, you will be all that much prepared to write longer, more substantive poetry (trees! and then skyscrapers!). April is the perfect time of year to begin writing haiku. Find a small notebook that you are comfortable with, a pen that writes freely, and will fit in your pocket, and go out into the world—into the streets, into the woods, and see what kinds of poetry you can find.

first day of spring
evicting the mouse
that moved into my golf bag
MJH

Sources:
Hass, Robert, ed. 'The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, & Issa. Hopewell, NJ: The Ecco Press, 1994.
Higginson, William J. The 'Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Share, and Teach Haiku. New York, NY: Kodansha America., 1985.
Mackenzie, Lewis. 'Autumn Wind Haiku: Selected Poems by Kobayashi Issa. London: John Murray Ltd., 1957.

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is an artist, writer, and web-designer in northwest Ohio. She edits WaterBlossoms at www.waterblossoms.net, a quarterly e-journal dedicated to the delicate art of short verse. You can find her writing and projects online at www.paper-cup.com.

Subway Meter
by Elyse Salpeter

When I think of fads, so many come to mind. In the 70s and 80s it was bellbottoms, white leisure suits, big hair and combs stuffed into the back pockets of Gloria Vanderbilt Jeans. In the 90s and into the 00s it was piercings, tattoos, jeans that barely cover your DKNY underwear and cellphones. Now, what about poetry? Do you think of that as a fad? Well, maybe you should. One of the most elusive of literary genres is making itself known to the masses, and in a very unique way. It's called Poetry In Motion®, a joint program of the MTA New York City Transit and the Poetry Society of America.

As a New York City commuter, I've had my share of times on the NY subway where I've been stuck for extended periods while the tracks cleared of traffic. In lieu of staring at the other passengers, trying to read the newspaper of the person next to me, or simply trying not to get too upset at the crowd of people pressed against my body, I've noticed the wonderfully distracting ads that have recently been displayed in the cars. It's not hair products, divorce lawyers or the newest alcoholic beverage, but poetry, snippets from poems ranging from the most popular poets to the most obscure.

As someone who was not initially a poetry fan, I've found myself moving seats in subway cars so I could get a better view of the passage being displayed. I've craned my head to see past the commuters blocking the last line of text and once, I nearly missed my stop trying to finish one poem that I hadn't noticed until the train had almost come to my station.

I've become quite fascinated with the authors of the different poems, which list their dates of birth, some recent and some from hundreds of years ago. Some of the work, I must admit, I don't entirely understand, but others have struck me so profoundly I've found myself thinking about them throughout the day.

I had the opportunity to speak with Brett Fletcher Lauer, Director of Poetry in Motion®, and he was kind enough to answer some questions for me.

Q) Brett, could you please tell me a little bit about Poetry in Motion® and how it came about?

A) The Poetry In Motion® program started in 1992, as a joint program of the MTA New York City Transit and the Poetry Society of America, and was based on the London program "Poems of the Underground". Since then, the program has run in numerous other cities including, Atlanta, Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Los Angeles, Portland, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C. and currently reaches over 10 million commuters a day.

Q) What has been the reaction to this program?

A) The response to the Poetry In Motion® program in New York City and across the country has been overwhelming. The PSA receives letters and phone calls from the public requesting copies of the posters, information on where they can find and purchase a copy of the book where a poem originally appeared, and asking if I will email them a copy of the poem.

I have also had numerous experiences at a coffee shop or at the copy shop when someone asks where I work and what I do. On finding out that I am the Poetry In Motion® Director, they can't help but recite entire poems to me, or list their favorite poems, even naming poems that were posted over five years ago.

Q) How long do you intend to keep the program going?

A) The program has just celebrated its 10th anniversary in New York City and is a committed program of both the MTA and the Poetry Society of America. The PSA is also committed to starting new programs in other cities, most recently adding Pittsburgh to the list.

Q) How do you decide what poets and pieces to showcase?

A) Since the program is accessible to the 7 million public transportation riders in New York City alone, it is important that the program represent a diverse array of cultures, geographical locales, and historical eras. It's also vital that the poems represent a balance of classic poets, contemporary poets, and languages other than English.

Another major consideration for the poems is also their length. The posters only allow for a certain amount of text that is readable from across the subway car. Also, the poems must be short or we must choose excerpts from longer poems, typically twelve lines or less.

However, the most important concern when selecting a poem for the subways and buses, is always the poem is something we as readers respond to and that we imagine commuters will also respond to.


Q) Brett, I'd love to include some of your favorites. Do you have any?

A) I have many favorites such as Sharon Olds "Primitive," William Carlos Williams "This is Just to Say," Fanny Howe "O'clock," Jane Kenyon "The Suitor," Sherman Alexie "Crazy Horse Speaks," W. S. Merwin "Separation," Faiz Ahmed Faiz "Let me Think," Sonia Sanchez "A Poem for Jesse." My current favorite poem in the public domain is:

"The Tropics in New York"

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Set in the window, bring memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mythical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.

My eyes drew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

Claude McKay (1889-1948)

FROM ANOTHER ANGLE
by Susan Long Turner

TO BE OR NOT TO BE—A Poet?

One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 - 1832)

I'm your original "know nothing about poetry" person, so I thought it might be fun to learn a little bit about our theme for the month. All I can say for sure is that poetry leaves me with a feeling, sometimes nameless, but usually uplifting. "A prose writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose," Samuel McChord Crothers said.

That's what happened to me years ago when I ventured into depths above my head several times. I decided to be a poet by capitalizing the first letter of each line:

"I had your picture and my love
To keep away the icy blast.
And I had the memory of all our past
To use as a shield against an escadrille"(or esquadrille)."

I delighted in the sound of "esquadrille," which I thought meant army. Now I can't find it in Webster. I don't recall much about the rest of the poem(?), only the ending.

"But I came home to find you gone.
Now I have only your picture and my love
With the memory of all our past
To warm my icy heart."

Obviously, I'm no Browning or Keats, not even Oscar Wilde, who supposedly still writes poetry and wise words from the Other Shore. To enlighten me, and perhaps a few of you, it's time to scour my bookshelf for information about this ancient art. Here's a title that interests me, poemcrazy by Susan G. Wooldridge. Her quote from Pablo Neruda illustrates Crother's point. I wrote prose with caps at the beginning of each line, and Neruda's few lines are poetry:

". . . Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when. . . ."

Now this leaves me with a nameless feeling, but a "feeling." In poemcrazy, Wooldridge watches a blue jay flap over her with a stolen blue marble. "I'm so glad I was watching." She pictured the jay's nest lined with round blue marble windows to let blue light shine on small eggs. "Surely this nest is glowing blue, woven with leaves, sticks and grasses," she wrote.

The author realized that the "image angel" had visited her. This caller caused her to see that every image around her spoke about the nature of the world and her place in it. "I began to see the images she brings me—slow traffic, spiders' eggs, a man dressed in a map of the world—are messages to connect me to the world outside."

I suspect I'll stick with prose, but I will follow Goethe's advice to hear a little song, read a good poem, and see a fine picture. Instead of speaking a few reasonable words though, I'll call on Susan Woodridge's "image angel" to help me write a few words filled with images that connect my characters to their outside world.

* * * * *

Susan Long Turner is co-author with Russ Turner of "Wings Born Out of Dust" which is available now from 23 House Publishing and is also available in trade paperbacks and hardback at other major online bookstores. Visit her Website

A Dead Bulldog, a Tower of Stone, and a Poet Named Jeffers
by Mitchel Whitington

I'd never been a fan of poetry, and if someone held a gun to my head I still wouldn't have been able to name five poets. On a trip to Carmel, California, however, my wife booked a tour of a place named "Tor House," a structure of stone hand-built by some fellow named Robinson Jeffers many years ago. She'd put up with a lot of non-sensical things that I'd found to do on vacations, though, so I shrugged my shoulders and decided to paste a smile on my face and hope that the tour passed quickly.

We joined a group of ladies, and the docent began to take us through Tor House. We paused by a window that had a small garden underneath, with tiny stone markers scattered here and there. Our guide told us that as long as Robinson and his wife Una had been at Tor House, an English Bulldog was always in residence. The dogs were buried there in the garden, so the docent paused and read one of Robinson Jeffers' poems, "The House Dog's Grave: (Haig, an English Bulldog)." She started out:

I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment,
You see me there.
So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.

Being a major dog-lover, these words immediately brought to mind our basset hound Fred, who died about a decade ago. Tears were starting to well up in my eyes, and I couldn't believe that a work of poetry was reaching in and grabbing my heart so fiercely. The docent continued on, and a minute or two later, maintaining my dignity was a lost cause. She read:

"I hope that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dears, that's too much to hope; you are not so well cared for
As I have been."

I literally had to walk away from the group. I was trying to look like I wasn't wiping away tears as I tried to appear to be studying the building skills used to construct the rock tower next to the house. Deep inside, though, I was wondering just who this man was, this Robinson Jeffers, who had reached through time to touch me with his words.

Born John Robinson Jeffers in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he traveled the world with his family and was able to study in several different countries, learning Greek and Latin in addition to his liberal education. Jeffers graduated from Los Angeles' Occidental College in 1905, and afterwards did graduate work in various fields, jumping from medicine, to forestry, the philosophy and literature.

His life seemed to come into focus in 1906, when Jeffers met Una Call Kuster. If there are such things as love at first sight and the concept of soul mates, then Robinson and Una embodied both. Una was already married to an attorney, but there was an overpowering bond that drew them together. She finally obtained a divorce from her husband, and married Robinson in August of 1913. Within a year, the couple had moved to a growing artist colony in Carmel, California, where they would live out the rest of their lives. Jeffers split his time between writing poetry, building their house of stone that he named Tor House, and raising their twin sons. He loved the house, and felt that it might someday give way to progress or to nature, and left explicit instructions for finding it as you'll see from these lines from his poem, "Tor House":

Look for foundations of sea-worn granite, my fingers had the art
To make stone love stone, you will find some remnant.
But if you should look in your idleness after ten thousand years:
It is the granite knoll on the granite
And lava tongue in the midst of the bay, by the mouth of the Carmel
River Valley; these four will remain
In the changes of names.
You will know it by the wild sea-fragrance of the wind.

As it turns out, a non-profit organization named Tor House Foundation has purchased the house, and it will hopefully still stand there as a monument to this wonderful poet, even after ten thousand years.

Una had always loved the rock towers of Ireland, and dreamt of living there one day. When it became clear that they would always live in Carmel, Robinson set about building a forty-foot stone tower for her beside their house. During our tour, I climbed to the top and looked out over the Pacific Ocean. It was truly inspirational, and I began to understand that the passion that this man had.

I purchased a book of his works on our visit to Tor House that day, and relished every single word. Some poems brought a smile, others tears, and a few made me stop and think about life itself. One of my most intense fears is that of death, but Robinson addressed it both with the construction of his house and in the poem, "The Bed by the Window:"

I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house; it is ready waiting,
Unused unless by some guest in a twelvemonth, who hardly suspects
Its latter purpose. I often regard it,
With neither dislike nor desire; rather with both, so equaled
That they kill each other and a crystalline interest
Remains alone. We are safe to finish what we have to finish;
And it will sound rather like music
When the patient daemon behind the screen of sea-rock and sky
Thumps his staff, and calls thrice: "Come, Jeffers."

He did die in that bed in 1962, following his wife, Una, who'd succumbed to cancer twelve years before. Just imagine planning out the bed that you would die in while building your dream house. His had a small horizontal window that allowed someone lying in the bed to look out at the sea, which was probably his last Earthly sight.

I'd love to quote much more of his poetry for you, explaining what parts have touched my life, but it's probably better that I just point you to a local library or bookstore. Read Jeffers' work – I know that he will reach you as he has me. And if you are ever in Carmel-by-the-Sea, visit Tor House. You'll see the stones that he lovingly laid to build their home, climb the tower and look across the Pacific, and see the resting place of Haig, their beloved bulldog. You might even shed a tear or two for that furry fellow immortalized in his master's loving poem.

* * * * *

Mitchel Whitington has published in many genres, from comedic fiction in "Uncle Bubba's Chicken Wing Fling" to his latest travel guide to haunted locations in the Lone Star State, "Ghosts of North Texas." Find out about his new book at www.ghostinmysuitcase.com.

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Justice
by R. S. Nailor

William Hill lived in a distant rural valley. The remarkable thing about this gentleman was that he spoke only in rhyme. It wasn't because he couldn't speak normally, but he always found it more interesting to play with the words and respond in a lyrical manner.

Exactly how long had this been happening? Since birth, in fact, his first words were "ga ga" and, of course, they rhymed. Now his parents weren't upset by that fact; no, not at all. The years passed and his vocabulary increased and the young boy was ready for school. The parents, by then, had a bit of consternation regarding Billy going to school but decided that the teachers would correct the problem.

The first day of school had its repercussions.

"What's your name?"

"Bill Hill."

"Where do you live?"

"Not very far. I came by car."

"Exactly where do you live?"

"I came here to tell, I live in the dell."

"Stop that this very instant."

"Stop what, I have to ask. Rhyming words is my task."

The other children were nearly in tears from laughing so hard at what Billy was saying.

The years proceeded and young Billy grew older and wiser; his vocabulary increasing as well. Many of his friends drifted away, tiring of this habit of poetic responses; even his questions were poems.

He proposed to Mary Sue, using his customary poetic phrases.

"Marry me and be my bride.
And we will travel far and wide."

Mary Sue thought for a long time before finally answering with a 'No' instead of the 'Yes' that Bill had sought. Her reasoning, one would have thought, should have changed Bill's penchant for rhyming.

"I love you, Bill, but I can't live the rest of my life spouting poetic sentences to discuss everything. If you're willing to give up this ridiculous speaking manner, I'd re-consider your proposal."

Bill slunk away and lived quietly by himself for many years, continuing to talk in a rhyme to those that would listen when he went out.

It was during a trip to town one day when he was stopped for speeding. The arresting officer wasn't amused with Bill's ability to rhyme and Bill found himself having to stand before the judge.

"Exactly what are you here for, Mr. William Hill?"

"Your honor. Before you I stand
With a speeding ticket in my hand."

"You can do away with the cute poetry Mr. Hill. The court is not amused."

"As you wish, as you say,
I talk like this all the day."

"If you continue to talk like this, sir, I will find you in contempt of court."

"My manner of speech is here to stay,
If you must, then take me away."

"Mr. William Hill, I place you under arrest and you will spend the rest of your time in jail until you find it in your heart to speak normally; at which time I will re-consider this case."

"Consider it not, for I can not change,
Then I'll stay in jail and not roam the range."

"Mr. Hill," the judge said, glaring at him. "This is what I would call poetic justice."

* * * * *

R. S. Nailor is Poetry Editor and Production Manager for the Emporium Gazette. His manuscript, THREE STEPS: THE JOURNEYS OF AYROLD, is currently in the final stages of editing. He has short stories included in three ebook anthologies from 23House and numerous articles and poems elsewhere on the internet. You can visit him at Lore's Webs.