36
Pins drop into a steel cup.
The shake of a passing train.
Rainfall will end
up with a thin ice crust,
synchronizing storm drains.
Today: one more baby born
or border crossed, 300 million.
Street lights splice traffic,
Provinces of fire-blown trees
perilous paradise
Make-up kit spilled on the 3rd ave. bridge,
Minneapolis, red leaves, red lights.
Steaming custard buns
white surface, one dotted red
Mars hangs in night sky
Mother's microwaved dinner
Salty with laughing crying
Carefully prepared
in an old fashioned homestyle -
come home to old friends
Hiss of espresso monster
Conversation bubbles up
walk into the cafe,
to the back of the room
to the one face, beaming
Alphabet soups for sale, one
by one, constructing letters
Plate stained purple,
typewriter minus letter H,
free with any purchase.
Jackhammer shredding sidewalk
Farmer's market crushed berries
Migrant workers camp by
the millennial library:
the wait, the weight
Fishboats at the marina,
City of water and ash
The line snakes over
Boat rail, turbulent water
Dead fish on the pier.
Imprints of hands on windows
just before shattering
Each to a word, lines
traced in wartime letters
maps to our past
Still--we're under the spell of
the alphabet of retaliation
Wings rise east
misguided by burning treelines,
charred city -- a speck, a speck
Yellow bulldozer snorting
launches a swirl of seagulls.
Plastic covers sag with rain,
cranes halt above
the future hospital
Ideas of her self lurking
underneath overpasses
Leaf in clover leaf
Cartoon school bus wiggles by
Scattering the wind
She sketches loops and spirals
Pencil resting against her thumb
Labyrinth turnpikes
On the daily commute-
Tolls along the way
Speedbumps glazed with yellow paint
Sleeping roadway log lizards
Filmy fog distances blue
Structures, milks signals
From the tips of antennae
Peering down on the plaza
Speckled with light and foot traffic
Beveled histories
Facades of pilaster, plinths
Speak, La Place Vendome
Interpret the messages
The speech of cogs and branches
The coming of storm?
Trees in the margin
Italicized by the wind
From the bus window, the miles
Float under well-traveled wheels
Poised in the center,
Flung to the edge of the
Roundabout turning
Towers in the east are there
So she knows she is here
Saigon: motorbikes
Jammed at stoplights, exhaust fumes
Scattering insects
November 17, 2006
Round Renga Round
The introduction to the book Round Renga Round:
http://www.ahapoetry.com/zabegan.htm
An interesting read about how a book about rengas began.
http://www.ahapoetry.com/zabegan.htm
An interesting read about how a book about rengas began.
What is Renga?
"Renga was a form of collaborative poetry, usually written by three or more poets, that was created by giving the tanka, the five-line poem of the classical anthologies, a sort of call-and-response form. One poet wrote a first verse of three lines in a five syllable-seven syllable-five syllable pattern [called a HOKKU], and the second poet completed the tanka with two seven-syllable lines...
A third poet writes another three lines, which, together with the previous couplet, make an entirely new poem. Then the next poet adds another couplet to make a third poem, which is completely independent of the first two. And so on. The seasons change, the subject changes, and, in the classical renga, the poem proceeds through a hundred verses.
Rules developed. The renga had to be written in a certain way. No story could be developed, the seasons had to keep changing, a traditional image of the autumn moon had to be introduced at least twice, images of spring flowers three times, and so on. The form became immensely popular among educated people at court and in the monasteries. Treatises were written on appropriate ways of making links, and anthologies of examples were published... And it began to spread, as a social activity, to cities and towns, and was taken up by merchants and farmers, some of whom were imitating the refinements of the court, some of whom were drawn to it from the learned traditions of the monastery.
These renga often used a more informal language, treated their subjects playfully, and were shorter, often thirty-six verses long. The 36-verse form was called a KASEN, and the style of the poetry was called HAIKAI NO RENGA."
Text taken from The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, & Issa. Edited by Robert Hass. (c) 1994, Ecco Press.
A third poet writes another three lines, which, together with the previous couplet, make an entirely new poem. Then the next poet adds another couplet to make a third poem, which is completely independent of the first two. And so on. The seasons change, the subject changes, and, in the classical renga, the poem proceeds through a hundred verses.
Rules developed. The renga had to be written in a certain way. No story could be developed, the seasons had to keep changing, a traditional image of the autumn moon had to be introduced at least twice, images of spring flowers three times, and so on. The form became immensely popular among educated people at court and in the monasteries. Treatises were written on appropriate ways of making links, and anthologies of examples were published... And it began to spread, as a social activity, to cities and towns, and was taken up by merchants and farmers, some of whom were imitating the refinements of the court, some of whom were drawn to it from the learned traditions of the monastery.
These renga often used a more informal language, treated their subjects playfully, and were shorter, often thirty-six verses long. The 36-verse form was called a KASEN, and the style of the poetry was called HAIKAI NO RENGA."
Text taken from The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, & Issa. Edited by Robert Hass. (c) 1994, Ecco Press.
Moving: nothing but HAT's
I've meandered over to this newer blog, and am feeling a bit bereft leaving my old postings on the other site. But of course, thanks to the ingenuity of the cyber world in which we now exist, everything I've shared on the old blog still exists at www.hoanganhtran.blogspot.com
There is, somehow, a greater sense of loss in this transition. The movement from old to new didn't result from the arrival of newer, more well-thought out ideas. Instead, it's because of a (selfish?) desire for gimicky gadgets. Blogger says it is to be standards-compliant. But it's not, really. Could this substitution originate from a desire to be decked out in fresh new attire -- laid out on display...?
Blogs are created for the personal needs of the writer, the individual wishing to make her mark on the world, vying for some attention in cyber space. Blogs are also created with the audience in mind. Who am I writing for? Who sees this page? Why do I do this? Does it matter whether or not anyone views my blog? Does it matter whether or not anyone makes a comment? Why do I care? Why suddenly this concern about what the blog looks like, about who sees it, etc.? Ultimately, it comes down to me, me, me, me -- there's not enough room here... I am a product of my environment? Yikes!
There is, somehow, a greater sense of loss in this transition. The movement from old to new didn't result from the arrival of newer, more well-thought out ideas. Instead, it's because of a (selfish?) desire for gimicky gadgets. Blogger says it is to be standards-compliant. But it's not, really. Could this substitution originate from a desire to be decked out in fresh new attire -- laid out on display...?
Blogs are created for the personal needs of the writer, the individual wishing to make her mark on the world, vying for some attention in cyber space. Blogs are also created with the audience in mind. Who am I writing for? Who sees this page? Why do I do this? Does it matter whether or not anyone views my blog? Does it matter whether or not anyone makes a comment? Why do I care? Why suddenly this concern about what the blog looks like, about who sees it, etc.? Ultimately, it comes down to me, me, me, me -- there's not enough room here... I am a product of my environment? Yikes!
Genesis
It was the sixth day. Adam was ready.
He saw the oaks firmly rooted
in the void. Power is a matter of branching.
He had seen the mountains, vast storerooms holding
only themselves, high empty cellars.
And deer. With legs as thin as stethoscopes
they stood listening to the breast of the earth,
and as soon as they heard something, they ran away,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.
And he had seen the sea, the busy swelling and receding
that makes one calm. And the empty, provocative gestures
of the wind, come along, come along, though no one followed.
And the depths, gulfs that make one uneasy. And being silent,
because that's what everything was doing, and being too big.
Then God said: and now you. No, said Adam.
By Herman de Coninck, trans. by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown
The Plural of Happiness: Selected Poems of Herman de Coninck, Oberlin College Press
Read this poem on Poetry Daily
He saw the oaks firmly rooted
in the void. Power is a matter of branching.
He had seen the mountains, vast storerooms holding
only themselves, high empty cellars.
And deer. With legs as thin as stethoscopes
they stood listening to the breast of the earth,
and as soon as they heard something, they ran away,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.
And he had seen the sea, the busy swelling and receding
that makes one calm. And the empty, provocative gestures
of the wind, come along, come along, though no one followed.
And the depths, gulfs that make one uneasy. And being silent,
because that's what everything was doing, and being too big.
Then God said: and now you. No, said Adam.
By Herman de Coninck, trans. by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown
The Plural of Happiness: Selected Poems of Herman de Coninck, Oberlin College Press
Read this poem on Poetry Daily
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