December 12th 2015

I write for perfection in my poetry. A haiku a day forces me to post poetry I normally wouldn’t. This afternoon while I sat in Spaulding auditorium, watching my family practice in the Christmas Revels, I reconsidered last night’s haiku. I explain too much. In brevity, I think, is greater expressiveness.

·

in
····the window at night—seeing only
··············myself

only·

I wrote for a while at the Hanover book store. Looking out a window at night is like looking into a mirror, even on a busy street.

I like being by myself in a busy corner—a comfortable kind of loneliness.

36: December 12th 2015 | bottlecap

 

December 6th 2015 | Journey to the South

··

We journeyed to the south today. Out for Christmas shopping. The morning began as the season’s most beautiful. Low clouds in the valleys left the trees a brilliant white, especially beautiful above the green grass and the copper of their fallen leaves.

·Din

midnight
······frost—trees floating above the valley’s
···············clouds

·

We travelled south over the White River then out of the clouds in Pomfret. The field’s brittle golden rod, wild parsnip, yarrow, meadowsweet, Queen Anne’s lace and aster were bursting with tufts of sunlit frost.

·

sunrise—
·····December’s wildflowers must also
···············melt

·

Further south along Route 100, the road rises skyward until the vast expanse of the Greens laces the horizon. A lone farmhouse overlooked the valley and I wondered at the beauty of the view—and also the loneliness.

30: December 6th 2015

 

December 4th 2015 | eggshells

Basho wasn’t Basho’s birth name, nor was it Buson’s or Issa’s. Basho assumed his haiku name when his disciples built him a hut and planted a banana tree beside it. Basho, which is Banana tree in Japanese, was named after it. When I was writing haiku several years ago I signed my haiku with my nickname—bottlecap (because of my bottlecap glasses). So if I’m going to pass myself off as a haikuist, then it seems to me I ought to get back to signing my haiku that way—by my haiku name.

·

eggshells
····in the old mailbox—last summer’s
··············delivery

·

·

28: December 4th 2015 | bottlecap

·

As I was clearing room for wood, I moved an old mailbox atop its rotten post. It had been left leaning on the shed wall. When I picked it up, out fell a Barn Swallow’s nest and its eggshells. I decided to lean it round the corner for another swallow and for another carpenter—who might also wonder why it wasn’t thrown out.

December 3rd 2015 | black leggings

·

women
····in black leggings—the crow blending
···········in

·

·

27: December 3rd 2015

·

Passing through the Dartmouth green, black leggings remain a staple among the college women. And I couldn’t help notice a crow in the middle of the green, as if it too were walking between classes—and just as fashionably dressed.

December 2nd 2015 | December’s wind

December’s wind blowing through an abandoned shed:

·

dangling
····by its own thread—the dead spider’s shadow
·············moves

·

·

26: December 2nd 2015

·

Titling ones haiku is sort of cheating, but if Basho and Buson can do it, I plead clemency. It was a cold wind across Vermont today. I was in a shed overlooking the Connecticut river. The shed was full of cobwebs and the corpse of a thin-legged wolf spider dangling from a rafter. The river cast up an icy light.

November 25th 2015 | spider

·

spider—
····crawling for warmth under the heel
···········of my boot

·

·

19: November 25th 2015

·

  • Lunch was sitting by a wood-stove. We had to keep the doors open, for work, though it was cold outside. We kept the wood-stove loaded with wood. I noticed a spider had come over the door sill. It came across the white tile, slow and cold, until it finally crawled beneath the heel of my boot. I carefully stood some twenty minutes later.

September 23rd 2015 | abandoned

·

abandoned
····in the old truck bed—leaves, water and
········the sky

·

·

17: September 23rd 2015

·

  • Out under an old apple tree, birch and hemlock, is an old blue pickup truck. The tires are cracked and flat and the hubs are rusted into the dirt. There’s almost something beautiful about it. If I were a good photographer I could capture the dignity of the old machine.