Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Frogpond
ISSN 8755-156X
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Complete, and Poets & Writers.
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Contents
Best of Issue Frogpond Award 1
Renku 60
Haibun 66
Linked Verse 81
Essays 90
Contests 116
In Memoriam
John Budan in memory of Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Diane Skrivseth in loving memory of Donald Skrivseth
Harriet Levine and Jeanne Niccolls in honor of Harold G. Henderson to support
the HSA Haiku Award Contest and in loving memory of Anita Virgil
1
tide line . . .
every step taken
taken back
Michele Root-Bernstein
3
dewy morning—
orb weaver webs spangled between
the telephone lines
Wally Swist
Hannah Mahoney
late snowfall—
the discountenancing
of a gardener
Dan Schwerin
4 Frogpond 44:2
vaccine day
spring birdsong
a shot in the arm
Marilyn Ashbaugh
Mary Stevens
Christopher Patchel
keeping us
in our thoughts
steady rain
Gary Hotham
Haiku and Senryu 5
dusty stairs
I clean my shadow
step by step
ebb tide
crab hole after crab hole
sighs
Lorin Ford
at
the
base
of
a
redwood
lessons
on
perspective
GRIX
nurse log
doing nothing
starts to mushroom
Dan Schwerin
6 Frogpond 44:2
Martin Duguay
winter crow
holding half
a conversation
Srinivas S
jockeying
the horse weathervane
that loud wren
Barbara Ungar
Haiku and Senryu 7
beach grasses
stretching wind
into shadow
Michele Root-Bernstein
Tom Bierovic
lap swim—
starting a count
I will likely lose
David Cashman
Glenn G. Coats
8 Frogpond 44:2
Bisshie
fingernail moon
the feeble plucking
of guitar strings
Elisa Bobbiesi
ice-coated road—
the car’s slow waltz
round . . . and round
Patricia J. Machmiller
Derek Sprecksel
Haiku and Senryu 9
new moon
the slight drawl
in his twang
Erin Castaldi
dawn . . .
finding first position at
the piano keys
Elliot Nicely
spider web
catches barn dust
cracked windshield
Jerry Levy
bayou breakfast
part of the jambalaya
still moving
Frank Higgins
10 Frogpond 44:2
my name in print
the stone carver and I
both smile
Lee Giesecke
March 15th—
still needing the quilt
head to feet
Lenard D. Moore
first bloom
and the freedom
not to
Aaron Barry
spring zephyr
a bench inscribed
“She Liked To Play”
Carolyn Hall
Haiku and Senryu 11
home office
my coworker
mends her web
spring break
a day moon too high
to spike
Scott Mason
John J. Dunphy
Adam T. Bogar
12 Frogpond 44:2
Rick Tarquinio
James Schlett
my careless remark
yesterday’s clouds
in the swollen river
Polona Oblak
Jim Laurila
Haiku and Senryu 13
spring picnic
rolling up a blanket
of afternoon sun
Richard L. Matta
moonlight
the acrobatics
of a white cat
Laurie Greer
winter rain—
the escape key
on my computer
Sam Bateman
Carolyn Hall
14 Frogpond 44:2
the flash
of a junco’s tail
winter solstice
Dan Curtis
Nicholas Mathisen
his pacemaker
tune up
chamber music
Barbara Moore
opening day
the little leaguer’s
snaggle-tooth grin
Ellen Compton
Haiku and Senryu 15
downsizing . . .
still unable to pitch
their pinch pots
Anna Eklund-Cheong
crowded windowsill
the green uncurling
of unlabelled seeds
Amanda Bell
anatomy lab
my future wife
dissects a stranger
Joseph Robello
gardening
only one tick
this time
Bruce Ross
spring sun—
the glistening
of a stretch mark
Makarios Tabor
Michele L. Harvey
every day
a school day
lesser redpolls
Katrina Shepherd
sunlight
through the chrysalis
my daughter’s laughter
Joshua Gage
Nathanael Tico
in the center
of my Venn diagram
withered chrysanthemum
Fay Aoyagi
18 Frogpond 44:2
Bob Lucky
starry night
unclasping
the little black dress
Nika
planting seeds
with the tap
of a space bar
Victor Ortiz
Haiku and Senryu 19
in the crook
of old oak boughs—
a magpie bathes
Mary White
Jo Balistreri
cobblestone streets
an American stumbles
over the menu
Mark Dailey
Roberta Beary
20 Frogpond 44:2
oolong . . .
how deep
this autumn
Lori A Minor
Helen Ogden
sunset
a puppy whines
at his shadow
David He
Haiku and Senryu 21
insurrection
the white stain
of winter salt
Matthew Caretti
tent city
an eviction notice
on a concrete wall
Roland Packer
chain reaction
the guard dog takes it
as far as it goes
Tom Painting
my grandson
practices clapping
inauguration day
Bruce H. Feingold
22 Frogpond 44:2
spring breeze
a feeling of wonder
becomes a crocus
George Swede
Rebecca Lilly
taped
to his teapot
this leaks
Denise Fontaine-Pincince
it’s there
on the tip of my tongue
scrambled eggs
David Watts
forest clearing
shadows stir
at the meadow’s edge
Jay Friedenberg
Mona Van
Arvinder Kaur
24 Frogpond 44:2
winter twilight—
the stag’s antlers
turning silver
Ruth Holzer
midnight oil
not knowing where to start
to stop burning
Mike Gallagher
Michael Ketchek
Jacob Blumner
Haiku and Senryu 25
Jacquie Pearce
winter fragment
the green anole’s
shriveled body
Alex Fyffe
a traffic jam
getting home
coastal sunset
Olivier Schopfer
salt marsh
a white pillar
of egret
Dana Grover
26 Frogpond 44:2
burnt leaves
in the water trough
the blood-red moon
Mark Miller
aftermath . . .
all the flyers
of the missing
Dan Burt
deep gully—
the stream
finds a way out
Gregory Piko
teasle down
all along the train tracks
the finch’s song
Julie Mellor
Haiku and Senryu 27
kingfisher
the river plunges
into itself
Debbie Strange
winter garden
trying to remember
their names
Sondra J. Byrnes
midsummer
lost in the butterfly
lost in the flower
Kristen Lindquist
desert rain
letting the day
sink in
Peter Jastermsky
28 Frogpond 44:2
surviving cancer—
the purple crocus
beside my foot
Meik Blöttenberger
a half moon
breaches the crest of the bay
beached jellies
Samantha Renda
boom town
a dumpster diver’s
afternoon visit
Mike Montreuil
dropping coins
on his sleeping bag
winter rain
Matt Quinn
Haiku and Senryu 29
blurred skyline . . .
snowflakes melt
on my contacts
Jamie A. Muth
scarred moon
I love who I am
with you
Vandana Parashar
spring begins
I give my worries
wings
daylight saving
a kite
stuck in a tree
David Grayson
30 Frogpond 44:2
skyscrapers
my collar turned up
to the cold
Joe McKeon
spring twilight—
the basketball’s feel
on my fingertips
Barry George
comfort food
circling the table
a Beatles LP
Deb Koen
muting
my microphone—
acid reflux
Stella Pierides
Haiku and Senryu 31
the artichoke
shrinks leaf by leaf
dinner stories
chilly night
the tinkling sounds
of an elephant’s bell
Hemapriya Chellappan
old flame
leaving an impression
in the wax
Jayne Miller
Barrie Levine
32 Frogpond 44:2
snowmelt
shapes sharpen
into themselves
Michael Baeyens
Tanya McDonald
Marsh Muirhead
Haiku and Senryu 33
carillon bells
a ring of wheelchairs
around the sound
Sandi Pray
Tia Haynes
empty storefronts
the depth
of autumn leaves
Lori Zajkowski
pay raise
or
becomes and
Pat Davis
34 Frogpond 44:2
autumn dusk
another death
of someone my age
Angela Terry
rolling thunder
roadies load
the amplifiers
John Stevenson
late September—
all that glitters
is goldenrod
John S. O’Connor
Alan S. Bridges
Haiku and Senryu 35
steeping tea—
the changing scent
of steam
Janice Doppler
not long
for this world
clouds
Tom Clausen
LeRoy Gorman
pale face
we hand you the first snowdrop
over your broken pelvis
Ruth Yarrow
36 Frogpond 44:2
beginning of fall
Elmedin Kadric
crossword puzzle
wishing i didn’t know
enola gay
Gregory Longenecker
blood moon—
the lamplit edge
of grandpa’s tomb
Taofeek Ayeyemi
standing under
stars
not understanding
Warren Decker
Haiku and Senryu 37
kjmunro
leap day
the neighbor’s newspaper
on our porch
George Skane
laid off—
my ass sinks into
the (c)ouch
Susan Burch
a curtain
tickles my elbow
spring
dove song
I unlace
muddy boots
Gideon Young
Bryan Rickert
heavy rain . . .
hearing the marsh
in every step
Tony Williams
spring mountain
my woolen hat
starts to unravel
Tim Murphy
Haiku and Senryu 39
silver
flute
I
lift
a
mirror
to
the
moon
Lee Gurga
Silk
March wind
the regrets
I don’t yet have
Maggie Roycraft
a bee works
across hydrangea blossoms
another empty
Jon Hare
40 Frogpond 44:2
stilettos in snow . . .
before my sense of
sensibility
Cynthia Cechota
parallel
worlds
the
stack
by
my
bed
Annette Makino
Greg Schwartz
Paul Hendricks
Haiku and Senryu 41
pale haze
around the night light
pillow talk
Maxianne Berger
Mary Weidensaul
foreclosure—
the long shadow
of a daddy long-legs
Antoinette Cheung
Ferris Gilli
42 Frogpond 44:2
Paul Chambers
Julie Schwerin
spring rain
the dimple
in her chin
Sharon Rhutasel-Jones
morning gust
exchanging breath
with the night jasmine
Manoj Sharma
so above us
so full of itself
the moon
Robert Moyer
Kieran O’Connor
millpond shower
the perfect tense in
every drop
summer triangle
satellites criss-crossing
yesteryear’s stars
Terri L. French
Kat Lehmann
simpler living
raising chickens for eggs
and company
Robert Piotrowski
Ben Gaa
Haiku and Senryu 45
Francine Banwarth
spring mud
the hyphen
before American
Fay Aoyagi
Lorraine A. Padden
wave turning
over–turning
to whiteness
river stroll . . .
the clouds tinged
with salmon
Chen-ou Liu
Julie Schwerin
belly-down
staring into the stream
of consciousness
Laurie D. Morrissey
morning crescent
rising from the glen
the scent of wild fennel
Chuck Brickley
Haiku and Senryu 47
on a scrap
of white birch
a few lines
Jeffrey Ferrara
winter deer
half-glimpsed
in the words
Michele Root-Bernstein
end of day
a young girl sings
the herd back home
Kevin Valentine
48 Frogpond 44:2
spring thaw
a shaft of sunlight
on her sneer
Lew Watts
barefoot
the puppy’s little boy
puddles home
Robert Witmer
Brent Partridge
Pragya Vishnoi
Haiku and Senryu 49
Scott Wiggerman
each step
flint for the chemo
cool sand
Bob Redmond
family farm . . .
eyeing the scarecrow
eyeing us
Hifsa Ashraf
honeysuckle
and any moment
hummingbird
Robert Gilliland
50 Frogpond 44:2
Renée Owen
Seren Fargo
Jacob Salzer
solo oboe
the length of the arroyo
fresh coyote tracks
Keith Polette
Haiku and Senryu 51
arrowroot
being heartbroken
grows on you
M. R. Defibaugh
creek dipping
the dimples
of water striders
Jeff Hoagland
mistflower
the
whisper
I
wished
for
Lee Gurga
52 Frogpond 44:2
calf umbilical
dawn stretches thin
across the frost
Tyler McIntosh
John Barlow
aging in place
reading obituaries before
the sports page
Edward J. Rielly
spring snow
the cloud life
of a left-out trike
Mike White
Haiku and Senryu 53
nightfall
the runaway unfolds
her crayon map
John McManus
scratching off
the lottery ticket
melting snow
Jennifer Hambrick
my first time
listening to an ambulance
from inside
William Hart
Robert Epstein
54 Frogpond 44:2
winter forest
leaving our words
a few steps behind
Genevieve Wynand
google earth . . .
her swing set
still in the yard
Paul Murray
baseball glove
dad’s furrowed brow
softens
Bill Cooper
photos
the old barn
one winter too late
Ignatius Fay
Haiku and Senryu 55
Peter Newton
winter light—
the barber’s breath
against my ear
we speak
in complex sentences—
before and after goodbye
Joyce Clement
Jeannie Martin
56 Frogpond 44:2
never
just one wildflower
meditation spot
fortune cookie
sure but watch
a chrysalis break-open
footprints
leading to a shell
then none
vincent tripi
Remembering vincent tripi (1941–2020) 57
thoughts of home
i buy the avocado
with the stem
crickets . . .
it could just mean
watch-yer-step! watch-yer-step!
Sunflowers
always one
taller than i
vincent tripi
58 Frogpond 44:2
Renku
in a party of eight
someone prepares the roast Virginia
workshop:
a look at the crescent
brings a word Hiroaki
on a green leaf
a caterpillar travels from
dark to light Virginia
starless sky
their wedding rings tucked away
one inside the other Sylvia
with a sigh
the Tarot reader
riffles the deck Sylvia
she watches me
from the balcony
wet with dew Hiroaki
autumn wind—
the guard dog’s chain
rattles Sylvia
heart on my sleeve
wife coos from the bed Hiroaki
evening star
the garden gives up
its colors Sylvia
Carthage, Dresden,
Hiroshima & then Hiroaki
Renku 63
questions of
ethical conduct
on luscious tits Hiroaki
nearly home
a sudden downpour
slows my dance Sylvia
chimney smoke
rises to a flower
in its gauze Virginia
Early Moon
sunny morning—
yellow heads swaying
on the hill Mehr Sehgal
making pasta
with each drop of olive oil
the flavour explodes Gauri Kulkarni
Christmas bells
bring warmth
before the snowstorm Lakshmi Pillai
twinkling stars
hold conversations
with an early moon Zeal Shah
Haibun
Insomnia
Kristen Lindquist
It’s not a problem with falling asleep, but with waking up. 3:11
a.m., my husband is snoring away. My body is relaxed, comfortable
enough, but my mind is at once on full alert: pandemic, thousands
dead. But we’re alive. How active my brain is, how much I love
my thoughts. My mind cannot conceive of a world in which it has
been blacked out forever. My mind cannot conceive of forever. But
I know I’m never falling back to sleep. Then I think of the woman
I read about who sets her alarm each night for 3:00 a.m. so she can
solve the New York Times anagram puzzle the minute it posts. She
too is awake right now, her mind running through combinations
of letters, what’s a word, what isn’t…
climactic
acclimate
calm
Haibun 67
After the long flight, we turn onto Dad’s street. Dim streetlights
illuminate miles of concrete in the senior neighborhood. Each
house, amongst thousands, looks the same—pale white flecks of
mica sparkling in stucco. Searching for his home in the dark, our
best clue, his garden statue, a woman in a toga, urn balanced on
one shoulder. And the white plastic chair by the door for when Dad
gets winded. His hide-a-key turns the lock, the house silent with a
musty smell of disuse. I collide with his walker in the hall. One sole
nightlight gleams from his bedroom. The bed still unmade, just
as he left it. I imagine him, unable to move one side of his body,
gesturing with his one good arm for the ambulance driver to turn
off his air conditioner.
estate sale
ospreys winging over
lush Floridia yards
wedding pearls
passed on to me
my dark skin
68 Frogpond 44:2
As the chill creeps in, I think of the American dancer Loie Fuller
who swirled herself in skirts and chose from the fabrics a tweed
from the Outer Hebrides, the warp and weft of its weave.
sheep
on the skyline
a peatbog sunset
How the dye sinks into the stuff of memory. The crofts sunk into
the earth of windblown grasses. Gaelic voices. Song of the light as
it bobs on the waves. The lull of the loom.
Farmhouse Ballet
Glenn G. Coats
There are no lights coming down the road. No tire tracks in the
lane. Clumps of snow fall from hemlock branches. A pile covers
the mailbox. Inside, the house is hushed except for an occasional
whistle through a window or door. Wide floorboards are cold.
The sisters (six and two) begin to move. They run on and off the
thistle rug. Twist and spin. Cup handfuls of air and toss them up
toward the ceiling. The girls gallop and prance on invisible horses,
stomping rhythms across wooden planks, while outside, puffs of
snow rise up, then settle down like birds in the fields.
thawing boots
the tea kettle’s
one note song
70 Frogpond 44:2
Janus
Elizabeth Fanto
talk
details of the day
best told in the dark
Alone for the first time in over fifty years on New Year’s Eve, I
watch the predictions for snow first and then turn to the festivities
in Times Square. The chair beside mine is empty. My sons have
called, my sisters and I have chatted, and I have prepared a special
meal for myself. I eat by candlelight. I waver about which side of
the bed to use tonight.
at one a.m.
blowing out the candle
missing his scent
Haibun 71
Buda (( Pest
Matthew Caretti
The tinny rasp of new keys. Perhaps this place will remedy my
writer’s block. Perhaps the polished stylus of Anonymous will
conjure the Muse.
a hint of snowmelt—
from the rooftop, two guys shout,
“Spring is coming!”
Equinox
Stuart Bartow
derelict mailbox
chickadees
move in
Haibun 73
Parkinson’s Play
Stella Pierides
just as
the snowdrops wither
cherry blossoms
Sundown
Taofeek Ayeyemi
a group of fowls prance down the garden, using the exit gate. in the
distance, hawks are circling above a bushfire. i begin my rehearsal,
my gaze fixed at the crimsoned sky. a band of cicadas make a jazz
to my poetic lines.
harmattan deepens . . .
a beggar’s lead beaks
a sachet water
Cohesion
Tom Painting
The pike hits the red and white daredevil lure on my first cast and
tangles itself in the eel grass yards from the rowboat. My father,
in an uncommon show of patience, encourages me to calm. Keep
some tension on the line, he says. Eventually, that fish will make
a run for it and then you’ll be able to reel him in. And so, we wait
out a portion of the morning, I holding the rod and my father with
the net cradled in his hands.
glass partition
the mimed space
between us
Haibun 75
Unmasked
Lew Watts
a red flash
from the bald eagle
cutthroat trout
remote river
still unable to reel in
this thirst
“Hey, Lew!” Greg shouts across the room. “There’s a poet with the
same name as you.” I try to ignore him—my first collection has
just appeared. “I was Googling members. Sure looks like you,” he
continues. “Hell, it is you!” he shouts, holding up his phone.
in each photo
the same smug grin—
fish porn
Silence settles on the room. All eyes turn to Chuck, the patriarch
of the group. His large belt buckle shimmers as he leans back in his
chair and spreads his legs. “You’re not a fucking liberal, are you?”
vivid dancer . . .
through the split nymph’s skin
emerging blue
76 Frogpond 44:2
Revisit
Kendall Lott
Ohio
Tim Cremin
We were on the Commons by the bell when the shots were fired.
Unarmed college students gunned down by the National Guard in
broad daylight. “Four dead,” Neil Young sang, and the song became
our anthem. We were going to change the world. The next year, I
graduated and took a job in Connecticut. The year after that, Nixon
won 49 states. Classic rock stations still play the song sometimes.
national anthem
a white cop takes a knee
on a black man’s neck
Haibun 77
Cleaning House
Colleen M. Farrelly
dirt clinging
to old masks
my diary
Sisyphus
George Swede
Sloughing Off
Brad Bennett
86ed
Terri L. French
His feet on the metal footrests curl in like evening lotus. The
ash on the filter-less cigarette threatens to fall into his lap at any
moment. I point my finger to direct his attention. He flicks the ash
and stuffs the butt into an empty beer can. He always remembered
our names, how we liked our steaks cooked, what type of wine we
liked, and he always sat us at the cozy table for two by the fire.
Now, he lives in a group home, his once tall body crumpled into a
wheelchair.
after hours—
a fifth of Jack
and eggs over-easy
Haibun 79
Journeyman
Keith Polette
Neither father nor uncle ever guided my hand with drill or saw.
Instead, I attended to the whispered urgings of oak and cedar
and ash. My hands found the grip that fit the heft of hammer
handle and the sharp bones of carpenter’s square. In time, my arm
and breath and back fell together like waves at hightide into the
rhythm of crosscut. During those days, with my back to the light,
I built the boat of myself by hand, pitched with pine, and pointing
the prow towards the place where the moon was rising, learned to
row through the long planks of days.
summer leaves
the wind-swept sails
of clipper ships
a preening crow
for a moment
headless
80 Frogpond 44:2
When summer came, you boated & swam from dawn to dusk.
When fall came, you waited in a blind for ducks to come. When
winter came, you laced up & skated for miles. When spring came,
you waited for ice to clear & the fish to spawn again.
ferry crossing
the long line
behind a hearse
Heart-Springs
Michele Root-Bernstein
dumb
on the count of three we look into each other’s eyes and begin to
chant
the rules are not to look away from each other and not to ever stop
until
on a sudden dusk
all the world one ear
one drum
81
Linked Verse
Rengay, Sequences, and Tan-Renga
Stick Figures
Julie Schwerin and Michael Dylan Welch
winter morning
thirty-six Play-Doh
snowmen Julie
home isolation
I tell the kids I’m bored Michael
record cold—
the bulb burns out
in the Easy-Bake Oven Michael
spring evening—
the fridge magnet holds
our stick-figure family Michael
82 Frogpond 44:2
Left Unclaimed
Angela Terry and Julie Schwerin
drifting stars . . .
the river
continues to flow Angela
champagne
at the wake Julie
everyone
wearing black
except the widow Angela
his tuxedo
left unclaimed
at the cleaners Julie
the name
no one mentions Angela
a great void—
that hole
in the water Julie
Linked Verse 83
Derailed
Michele L. Harvey
diagnosis
winnowing the world
to now
infusion day . . .
young nurses
compare recipes
chemo brain . . .
a knitted cap
for added warmth
bluebird call
the wide open sky
of remission
84 Frogpond 44:2
Kala Ramesh
untouched veena
the moon
an old melody
on a never-ending journey
adding its weight
my quest for truth
Watering
John Thompson and Chuck Brickley
adding staccato
to the fountain’s gurgle
a passing shower John
nestling deeper
into a calla lily
two earwigs Chuck
morning glow
my wife waves a rainbow
over our garden Chuck
86 Frogpond 44:2
Fluid Dynamics
Bryan Rickert and Kat Lehman
everything
we used to be
drifting snow Bryan
slow rain
a puddle widens
the silence Bryan
swelling sea
the ancient brine
in every cell Kat
between us
only mist Bryan
cumulonimbus
the familiar shift
into shadows Kat
Linked Verse 87
Love of Reading
Dan Schwerin and Julie Schwerin
without a word
the sun’s slow slip
below the horizon Julie
sweet endings . . .
the first page
of the sequel Julie
88 Frogpond 44:2
The Climb
Bryan Rickert and Terri L. French
mountain crossing
our silent
topography Bryan
alpine winter
a family of pika
snug in their burrow Terri
in every crevice
aster blooms Bryan
summit camp
the soleless boots
we left behind Terri
Linked Verse 89
birch bark
flapping in the wind
the antics of crows Brad
an urgent need
to write it all down Kristen
quitting time
the crunch of salt
under my feet Jennifer
a winter tilt
to the crescent moon Brad
90 Frogpond 44:2
Essays
Everything You Always Wanted To Know About
Persimmons
from A Field Guide to North American Haiku1
by Charles Trumbull
吊柿鳥に顎なき夕べかな
tsurushigaki tori ni ago naki yūbe kana
Essays 91
hanging persimmons
birds without jaws
at evening
Iijima Haruko, retranslation after Fay Aoyagi
in Blue Willow Haiku World blog, October 16, 2015
The leaves of the persimmon tree are also edible and are pickled,
fermented, and sold as a snack and used to wrap sushi. Persimmon
wood is in demand for fine cabinetry, musical instruments, sports
equipment, and the like.
柿若葉風にゆらゆら径の上
kaki wakaba fū ni yurayura wataru no ue
柿の花咋日散しは黄ばみ見ゆ
kaki no hana kinō chirishi wa kibami miyu
Leaves changing color (柿紅葉 kaki momiji). The leaves are beautiful
in themselves, but their changing color and falling is considered
especially interesting, perhaps because that is the signal that the
fruit is beginning to ripen. Japanese children collect the colored
persimmon leaves.
柿の葉や仏の色に成るとちる
kaki no ha ya hotoke no iro ni naru to chiru
persimmon leaves
turn Buddha-colored . . .
then fall
Issa, trans. David G. Lanoue, Haiku of Kobayashi Issa
website
“Buddha-colored” = “golden”
此の柿は澁いか烏見てのみぞ
kono kaki wa shibui ka karasu mite nomi zo
Essays 93
persimmons so tart
not even crows
give ’em a glance!
Umezawa Bokusui, trans. Adam L. Kern, The Penguin
Book of Haiku (2018)
But birds love persimmons too, and choosing the optimal time to
pick the luscious ripe fruit, before the birds get to them, is a high
art. The World Kigo Database notes, “Usually the kaki fruit high up
in the tree are eaten by crows as a favorite food, and the fallen fruit
are eaten by the badgers (tanuki) to provide for their winter fat.”
A last persimmon
hanging between bare branches —
the hesitant sun
David Burleigh, Winter Sunlight (1992)
柿一つつくねんとして時雨哉
kaki hitotsu tsukunen to shite shigure kana
one persimmon
droops listlessly . . .
winter rain
Issa, trans. David G. Lanoue, Haiku of Kobayashi Issa
website
94 Frogpond 44:2
in “pecking order”
mockers, jays, siskins, finches . . .
the last persimmon
George Knox, Modern Haiku 25:2 (Summer 1994)
一茶忌の柿喰ふ椋鳥をゆるし置く
issaki no kaki ku’u muku o yurushi oku
a lone persimmon
lets go of the tree
Bob Boldman, Eating a Melon (1981)
三千の俳句を閲し柿ニつ
sanzen no haiku o kemishi kaki futatsu
after judging
three thousand haiku
two persimmons
Shiki-Kinen Museum English Volunteers, ed. and
trans., If Someone Asks … (2001), 48. ‘Working all day
into the night, finally scraping the bottom of the
haiku box’ There was a haiku box for submissions to
his column in the Nippon Newspaper beside Shiki’s
pillow. We can imagine how good the persimmons
tasted after reading through the many haiku,
especially because they were his favorite fruit.
Shiki, no wonder
after three thousand haiku
persimmons were sweet
Storm of Stars (1970), 148
芭蕉忌に參らずひとり柿を喰ふ
Bashōki ni mairazu hitori kaki o kuu
柿あまた食ひけるよりの病かな
kaki amata kuikeru yori no yamai kana
Ill,
From overeating
Persimmons.
R. H. Blyth, Haiku 4: Autumn–Winter (1952)
我が好きの柿を食はれぬ病かな
waga suki no kaki o kuwarenu yamai kana
柿喰の俳句好みしと傳ふべし
kaki kui no haiku konomishi to tsutaubeshi
He sized it all up with this verse under the headnote “After I Die”:
柿喰の俳句好みしと傳ふべし
kakikui no haiku konomishi to tsutau beshi
別るゝや柿食いながら坂の上
wakaruru ya kaki kui nagara saka no ue
Parting,
And walking up the slope,
eating a persimmon.
Hirose Izen, trans. R. H. Blyth, A History of Haiku 1
(1963), 177 “This verse was composed in the 7th year
of Genroku, when saying good-bye to Bashō.”
persimmon
the bruised part sweetest
John Sandbach, Step into Sky (2018) #35, p. 43
in my loneliness
I let the persimmon
get overripe
John Ziemba, in Raffael de Gruttola, Lawrence
Rungren, and John Ziemba, eds., The Ant’s Afternoon:
Haiku and Senryu by Members of the Boston Haiku Society
(December 1990)
Socioeconomic significance
Beyond the cult of growing and eating the fruit, persimmon trees
had a broader importance in old Japan. First, as is pointed out in the
World Kigo Database, “dried kaki fruit was sometimes the only food the
98 Frogpond 44:2
poor farmers in the Edo period could eat in winter, since they had to
give away all their rice to the authorities for tax purposes. Therefore,
the kaki trees around each farm house were pure necessity to feed the
hungry children.” It follows that owning many persimmon trees was
a sign of prosperity. Bashō composed two haiku that illustrate the
importance of persimmon trees to the economy:
里古りて柿の木持たぬ家もなし
sato furite kaki no ki motanu ie mo nashi
祖父親孫の栄えや柿蜜柑
ōji oya mago no sakae ya kaki mikan
where we lived
persimmons still clinging
here and there
Joseph Robello, Modern Haiku 49:1 (Winter–Spring
2018), 106
Essays 99
Kyorai’s house
even if they could be too bitter5
ripe persimmons
Bruce Ross, Mainichi Daily News Daily Haiku Selec-
tion, January 10, 2012, and Mainichi Daily News
Annual Selection 2012
A wild persimmon
beyond the reach of the raccoon:
the autumn moon.
Modern Haiku 7:2 (May 1976)
first frost . . .
on a silver card tray
wild persimmons
Modern Haiku 18:3 (Autumn 1987)
wild persimmons . . .
a woman at the roadside
wiggles her last tooth
Frogpond 14:2 (Summer 1991)
To wander there . . .
the meadow where the wild
persimmons blow!
Young Leaves (1970)
渋柿をはむは烏のまま子哉
yama-gaki mo hotoke no me ni wa ama karan
Lanoue explains, “Issa was a stepchild. Here, he imagines that the crow,
eating the astringent persimmon, must be an unloved stepchild—a
way of writing about his own childhood while seeming to be writing
about a crow.” He dotted the “i” with this haiku four years later (1820):
渋柿をこらへてくうや京の児
shibugaki o koraete kuu ya miyako no ko
渋かろかしらねど柿の初ちぎり
shibukaro ka shiranedo kaki no hatsuchigiri
I don’t know
if it will be bitter —
the first persimmon
Chiyo-ni, trans. Stephen Addiss, The Art of Haiku (2012)
listening to
the drama queen
I peel a persimmon
Fay Aoyagi, In Borrowed Shoes (2006)
柿喰へば鐘が鳴るなり法隆寺
kaki kueba kane ga naru nari Hōryūji
As I eat a persimmon
The temple bell tolls at
Hōryūji.
trans. Donald Keene, The Winter Sun Shines In (2013)
Essays 103
やっと郵便がきて
それから熟柿がおちるだけ
Finally the mail came and now only ripe persimmons drop
Hiroaki Sato, Santoka: Grass and Tree Cairn (2002)
しぐれて かきのはの いよいようつくしく
shigurete kaki no ha no iyoiyo utsukushiku
空襲警報るいるいとして柿あかし
kūshū keihō ruirui to shite kaki akashi
日がさして熟柿の中の種みゆる
hi ga sashite jukushi no naka no tane miyuru
Late Autumn
Against the white clay wall
Ripened persimmons
Reflect the remaining light of sunset.
Shinko Fushimi, in Noriko Mizusaki and Mayumi Sako,
eds., For a Beautiful Planet: Voices from Contemporary Sixteen
Poets of Japan (2009). [Published here in English only.]
吊鐘のなかの月日も柿の秋
tsurigane no naka no tsukihi mo kaki no aki
Essays 105
柿食うて暗きもの身にたるむかな
kaki kuute kuraki mono mi ni tarumu kana
Eating a persimmon
darkness builds inside me
逢えぬ夜の熟柿を吸う冷たさよ
aenu yoru no jukushi o suu tsumeta-sa yo
war news . . .
an old peasant talks to
the persimmon tree
子規の夭折ときには羨し柿の蔕
Shiki no yōsetsu toki ni wa tomoshi kaki no heta
106 Frogpond 44:2
Sometimes I envy
Shiki’s early passing—
persimmon calyx
Itami Mikihiko, Bruce Ross et al., eds.,
A Vast Sky (2015)
my first lover
now follows Buddha . . .
dried persimmons
Lynn Edge, Modern Haiku 46:2 (Summer 2015)
another exception
to the rule
dried persimmons
Angela Terry, The Heron’s Nest 16:2 (June 2014)
In the cubicles
the kafkaesque
of a persimmon
Paul Pfleuger, Jr., Roadrunner IX:2 (May 2009)
ジミ・ヘンドリクス干柿知らずに死す
Jimi Hendorikusu hoshigaki shirazuni shisu
Jimi Hendrix
he died without
tasting a dried persimmon
Noguchi Ruri, Spica Haiku Web Magazine, September
1, 2013; trans. Fay Aoyagi, Blue Willow Haiku World
blog, October 24, 2014
Essays 107
雪隠の神はまる貌柿の秋
setchin no kami wa maru kao kaki no aki
Notes:
1 “A Field Guide to North American Haiku” is a long-term project
along the lines of a haiku encyclopedia-cum-saijiki, a selection of the
best English-language haiku arranged by topic and illustrating what
it is about a given topic that attracts poets to write. When complete,
the Field Guide project will comprise multiple thick volumes keyed
to the several topics in traditional Japanese saijiki (haiku almanac)
and Western counterparts, notably William J. Higginson’s Haiku
World: An International Poetry Almanac (1996). These topics are:
Season, Sky & Elements, Landscape, Plants, Animals, Human
Affairs, and Observances. The haiku are selected from my Haiku
Database, currently containing almost 475,000 haiku. “Persimmons”
presents haiku selected from 724 haiku indexed under PLANTS:
persimmon: 346 haiku originally written in English, 372 translations
from Japanese, and 6 translations from other languages. Publishing
these miniature topical haiku anthologies is an experiment to
test the feasibility of the larger Field Guide project. Critique and
suggestions, supportive or critical, are warmly invited; please
comment by e-mail to cptrumbull\at\comcast.net.
2 Some fine articles about persimmons worldwide are Georgia
Freedman, “Beyond Fuyus: The World of Persimmon Varieties,”
Serious Eats website: https://www.seriouseats.com/2020/10/persimmons.
108 Frogpond 44:2
Although it helps to know Japanese, one can still get a feel for
this difference in heft by listening to haiku in both Japanese and
English, hearing the distinction that 5-7-5 syllables in English
nearly always takes longer to say, never mind that the English also
contains more words, concepts, or images. Sensitivity to the words
and images shared in Japanese haiku will give you an additional
sense of each poem’s individual heft, and therefore a sense of
the heft of the genre itself if you pay attention to many haiku in
Japanese, even if only through translation.
110 Frogpond 44:2
You can also get a feel for the difference by using Google Translate
on any Japanese text other than haiku. If you count the sounds of
the Japanese—properly counting vowels with macrons such as ō or
ū as two sounds and the “n” sound as an additional sound at the
ends of words—you’ll see that the English nearly always has fewer
syllables. To illustrate with a specific example in prose, a note in
Japanese on the Haiku International Association (HIA) website
says the following:
国際俳句交流協会では、季刊誌「HI」やこちらのホーム
ページ及び電子メールを使い、会員の皆様にご案内やご
連絡をしております。
初雪やキャンドル一つ祭壇に
hatsuyuki ya kyandoru hitotsu saidan ni
syllables as a target for haiku in English. This is partly why I say that
5-7-5 syllables in English is a violation of the Japanese haiku form,
not a preservation of it. But, if you choose to say that 5-7-5 syllables is
your target for haiku in English, seemingly accepting it as a given,
then you have made a compromise. And, if you allow yourself to
make that compromise (and it definitely is, because the poem is in
reality a different length), then why isn’t the “compromise” (from
a 5-7-5 writer’s point of view) to write haiku with fewer than 17
syllables equally allowable? On the surface, then, it seems possible
to argue that one option or the other is a compromise, and that
may well be the case. However, I would suggest that 5-7-5 syllables
in English is the only compromise compared with Japanese. That’s
because it produces a softball, a ball of a different heft, a choice
to write “obese” haiku, no matter how one might try to argue
otherwise. Furthermore, having 17 syllables is an issue without
even accounting for the fact that the syllables can vary so greatly in
English compared with Japanese (compare “strengths” and “radio,”
for example). As has been pointed out before, the word “haiku” itself
is two syllables in English, but counts as three sounds in Japanese.
That alone should serve as a convincing metaphor for the problem
of considering 5-7-5 syllables in English to be equivalent to Japanese
haiku form. But no, it’s a ball of markedly different size, and thus a
departure from the lean art of Japanese haiku. A poem shorter than
17 syllables in English is therefore not “minimalist” at all, but hews
closer to the heft of haiku in Japanese. And, thus, a poem as long as
17 syllables in English is better understood as “maximalist.” If one
chooses to accept the compromise of 5-7-5 syllables in English, that’s
always a personal choice, but it remains a compromise, and one is
still obliged, for the sake of haiku as a literary art, to employ other
techniques that matter more than filling a bigger bucket.
Can you still have fun with a Wiffle ball or a softball? Absolutely.
A problem arises, however, if poets playing with these balls believe
they are playing baseball. If they think so, it would seem that their
poems will strike out nearly every time and their players won’t
even know it. Furthermore, their poems won’t translate smoothly
or completely into the traditional Japanese form, as shown with
my “hush of first snow” poem. What works in the sandlot game
won’t fly in the big leagues or even the minor leagues. Nevertheless,
perhaps these more amateur balls are stepping stones to the bigger
leagues, and it’s no wonder that the vast majority of the leading
haiku poets writing literary haiku in English have graduated
through Wiffle balls and softballs to the making of real baseballs.
Quite simply, they have a feeling for the real heft of haiku.
Essays 115
Contests
2021 Nicholas A. Virgilio Memorial Student Haiku and
Senryu Competition for Grades 7-12
Judged by Tom Clausen and Sandi Pray
This school year has been difficult for students and teachers
alike. Understandable then that the number of submissions for
our annual student haiku contest decreased from a high of 6,000
submissions to the roughly 2,000 submissions that we received this
year. That being said, the judges of this year’s contest still chose six
high-quality haiku to win that would rival poems from any other
year. The students who submitted this year hailed from forty states
plus Puerto Rico and D.C. We also were pleased to read submissions
from international students from thirteen other countries.
harvest moon
corn whispers
the wind’s path
I closed my eyes and was there. This poem speaks to the senses…the touch
and sound of cool wind, the sight of the full moon, the scent of corn husks.
It has a melancholy about it that makes me wonder if the poet was alone.
—Sandi
autumn breeze
the cold chains
of the old park swing
The happy childhood memories of being in the park and swinging come
alive in this haiku. Yet, the change in seasons is apparent in the cold chains,
118 Frogpond 44:2
giving a hint of harsher weather looming ahead. I liked that the poet gave
the reader the chance to feel their own memories through this poem. As we
outgrow certain childhood pleasures, there remains the desire to remember
and revisit them. Swinging for children has an allure that lasts a lifetime. It
brought back my own memory of swinging so high I felt as if I was reaching
the sky. —Tom
eye clinic—
the medic squints
at my prescription
This senryu has a familiar truth plain as day! We all have seen plenty
of prescriptions written in hieroglyphic script that is cryptic and puzzling
when it should be absolutely clear and accessible! The wonderful humor of
this being at an eye clinic and prompting a squint, as if that might help
decipher it, makes for an instant smile and sense of insight into another
indelible foible of humanity—poor penmanship! This senryu touches on
our current day attachment to keyboards and the lost art of handwriting
that a generation ago was so valued by many. —Tom
summer rain
breathing in
the earth’s smell
What a sense of peace this poem evokes. The poet shows great sensitivity
and perceptiveness in a moment that many would overlook as they busy
Contests 119
themselves with other things. This is a good example of the use of sound
and scent to make the ordinary seem extraordinary. So much said in few
words. —Sandi
quiet library
dust particles suspended
in a ray of light
Sandi Pray is a retired high school library media specialist living a quiet
life in the wilds of the North Carolina mountains and river wetlands
of North Florida. As a vegan she is a lover of all life and the rhythms
of nature. Sandi’s haiku, haiga, and tanka have appeared in WHA
Haiga, Daily Haiku, Daily Haiga, Simply Haiku, Modern Haiku, AHG,
Frogpond, Cattails, Acorn, The Heron’s Nest, Akitsu Quarterly, Hedgerow
Poems, Brass Bell, Mann Library Daily Haiku, Under the Basho, Seize
the Poem Anthology, DVerse Poetry Anthology, Fragments Anthology,
Skylark, Moonbathing, Bright Stars, Atlas Poetica and Naad Anunaad:
An Anthology of Contemporary World Haiku. She is a past haiga editor
for A Hundred Gourds and is tankart editor for Skylark Tanka Journal.
Book Reviews 121
Book Reviews
Back home, she joins a monthly haiku group, co-led by the well-
respected poet, scholar, and former editor, Charles Trumbull.
Goldberg readily acknowledges that she has a lot to learn about
the Japanese form despite her widely-recognized accomplishments
as writer, painter, and teacher. She submits to multiple haiku
readings and critiques and confesses with humor and a hint of self-
124 Frogpond 44:2
In her love of lineage and all it implies, Goldberg “shines one corner
of the world” to quote Zen teacher Suzuki Roshi. Her message, her
teaching? Just this: If you care deeply and live fully in the small,
fleeting moments, your very life will be a poem. This is the Way of
Haiku, dating back to Bashō, Buson, Issa, and Shiki. I am certain
all four haiku masters—plus Chiyo-ni and Allen Ginsberg—would
bow deeply in recognition of Goldberg’s Great Effort. I bow, too.
126 Frogpond 44:2
With the book’s title and the knowledge that, in addition to being
a fine haiku poet, Powell also makes pottery, easy comparisons
come to mind. The art of shaping clay and shaping a poem both
require careful craftsmanship and a good eye for detail. And in
their own way, each are hands-on activities. Several poems in this
collection directly refer to pottery-making, and a strong sense
comes through of an artistic interplay between the two activities.
I envision lines of haiku coming into Powell’s head while his hands
are at work shaping a bowl or jug on the wheel or while he looks
around his studio.
And with his potter’s mind, Powell takes an age-old haiku trope
and brings it down to earth, as it were, transforming the so-often
romanticized moon into a lump of clay that he can get his hands
onto. And what does he make? This book, full of “old shadows”
that lengthen and linger.
Indeed, the rural topography of the poems set outside the pottery
studio feels ancient and rough, as if Powell were tapping into
some primeval spirit manifested there in rowanberries, loughs
and bogs, wildflowers, and birds. The farm animals out to pasture
also seem to come from an earlier time:
the stylist
rinses away
the sound of her voice
For anyone who might doubt or wonder about a city being a viable
source of one’s haiku, this book is a revelation and a reality check that
haiku are indeed everywhere. There is great instruction, encouragement,
and inspiration in this collection for anyone living in an urban setting
to recognize how bountiful the “nature” of a city can be. Throughout
Sirens and Rain, there are stellar examples of haiku to be found in parks,
alleys, shops, and literally any place you may find yourself:
Mark Miller has been writing and receiving awards for haiku for
over 30 years, but this is his first published collection. Light and
Counterlight includes 110 of his haiku arranged in clusters of 6 to
9. The general movement of the collection is through the seasons,
starting with this spring haiku: breaking light / the pale vibrato / of
cherry blossoms. Here are some of his best haiku progressing through
the seasons. I like the mystery in this one: whispering brook / so many
secrets / lost to the sea. Two from summer: (1) midday heat / the old collie
/ laps the shade and (2) ongoing drought / the stillness / of the rope swing. I
especially like this holiday haiku: midnight / a lone ferry fills the harbour
/ with Christmas lights. Here’s a haunting autumn poem: skeletal leaf
132 Frogpond 44:2
/ giving back all / that it has taken. I’ll end with this observant haiku:
midwinter forest / on milkweed the sighing / of a monarch’s wings. We
should be grateful that Miller has gathered so many of his award-
winning haiku into this collection.
The Years That Went Missing haiku by Susan Antolin (Backbone Press,
Durham, NC: 2020). 26 pages, 7" x 5". Glossy covers, perfect softbound.
ISBN 978-0-9994659-5-0. $9 from backbonepress.org.
The Nothing That Is haiku by David Kāwika Eyre (Red Moon Press,
Winchester, VA: 2021). 150 pages, 4.25" x 6.5". Four-color card covers,
perfect softbound. ISBN 978-1-947271-67-8. $20 from redmoonpress.com.
Bill Cooper has published seven previous books of haiku, six with
Red Moon Press. In his latest, he presents 122 haiku in four sections:
“Dripping Oar,” “Cypress Shade,” “Faint Trumpet,” and “Midnight
Bug.” The poems are arranged consistently throughout, with two
haiku on the left-hand page and one on the right. Not unlike
gumbo, the collection contains a combination of ingredients,
in this case haiku and senryu with a variety of themes. As you
Book Reviews 135
daylight crawls / crab by crab. Stevie Strang’s super moon / the day after
/ still the super moon is outstanding for its originality and gentle wit.
Her cosmic artwork, which enhances the title haiku, graces the
anthology’s cover. In addition to haiku in English, the collection
includes several foreign-language haiku, and haibun by 17 poets.
The anthology, in Kolodji’s words, “brings focus to quintessential
images of life in Southern California.” However, as an anthology
containing more than 200 haiku organized alphabetically by the
poets’ last names, this collection covers a wide range of subject
matter and emotions. It features both longtime and newer
participants of the study group with the result that some of the
poems are not as original and inspiring as others. The editors’
affection for the study group and their enthusiasm for the project
are evident. Reese and Rogers put their personal stamp on this
collection through their thoughtful selections and layout, and
their decision to include a section of window-themed haiku
in an otherwise un-themed volume. They clearly enjoyed their
collaboration, and readers will enjoy the result.
Staring at the Midnight Sky haiga by Mark Teaford (Red Moon Press,
Winchester, VA: 2020). 128 pages, 10" x 7". Perfect softbound. ISBN 978-1-
947271-65-4. $30 from redmoonpress.com.
140 Frogpond 44:2
Zane Parks’s Journey focuses on the life of city folks. This collection
expresses itself in the sensibility of urban reality, often in a
humorous way. These haibun have appeared in many haiku journals,
including Frogpond, Contemporary Haibun Online, and Modern Haiku.
A good example is the concluding haiku of “Celebration,” which
like many of his haibun, ends with a humorous haiku, like the end
of a joke. Here on his birthday, his roommate gives the author and
his girlfriend some privacy: peace march / we exchange the sign / and
the baby. Another example is “Easter Chicks, in which the author
and his brother get Easter chicks that are painted purple for Easter
and quickly grow up and peck at his mother’s feet while she hangs
the wash. It concludes with the following haiku: mom happy /
with the new craze / pet rocks. In his “Submission,” Parks imagines,
after sending a submission, what the rejection letter would be,
which should be amusing to many of us. Basically, Journey is an
entertaining read you will come back to from time to time.
Bar Resbel haibun by Bouwe Brouwer (The Old Sailor, Sneek, The
Netherlands: 2021). 29 pages, 14 x 21 cm. Four-color card covers, saddle
stitched, limited edition of 25, numbered and signed by the author. 15 Euro
from bouwebrouwer.com.
Each of its 14 sections, the first one beginning with the author’s
arrival, is accompanied by a color photograph facing the text. The
majority of the sections are centered on the bar of this work’s
title and descriptions of the activities of those who happened
to be in the bar at that time. Bar Resbel’s tone and approach is
in fact based upon the author’s favorite writer, J.D. Salinger. In
the chapter “Marbles,” the narrator quotes a line from Salinger’s
Seymour: An Introduction. Though the prose of each chapter
and how they are focused and expressed is very reminiscent of
Salinger, each one, as in many haibun, is concluded with a haiku,
some of which are expressed like traditional haiku—for example,
residential apartment— / in every window / a sunset. Many of the
chapters are also funny stories: Two brothers run the bar. The
author overhears the older brother talking to a regular customer
that their father passed away and left them a bottle of wine that
hadn’t been opened. The brother opened the bottle and found
it had become undrinkable. In a particularly humorous section
titled “Game,” the bartender, Nesto, is remembering a childhood
memory when he stayed home and played fencing by himself
with two knitting needles and stabs at one hand with the other
while also trying to defend himself with the first hand. In another
amusing chapter, an older American writer says, “Sometimes I
Book Reviews 143
Jill Lange’s debut collection is fittingly named for its flower theme
Book Reviews 145
with poppies featured across its front cover and daisies on the
back. Much like a bouquet, these poems are better for the way
they are grouped together and how their sequencing colors them,
adding vitality and interest. A purple flower example: early May
morning / before starting my car / the scent of lilacs. Red: poinsettias /
how they warm / a winter night. White: fields of daisies so many nots.
Lange’s use of motif draws earlier poems into conversation with
later ones, like in the following two where cornflowers stand in
for the speaker’s husband or memories of him: (1) cornflowers and
daises / the promises / we couldn’t keep and (2) country road / I’ve been
here before— / cornflower blues. Her effort to write about flowers at
all times of the year pays off with a book of haiku in which nearly
all resonate and many have depth. One of several sub-themes that
sustain the book’s development to its end are social justice issues,
such as in a haiku sequence called “Making Sense of It,” which
references poppies, soldiers, millennials, and war, as well as this
tanka: San Francisco / the 1984 convention / Geraldine Ferraro day—
/ everyone with flowers / mine violets. “From the beginning of the
twentieth century in France, a small bouquet of violets was a code
for love from one woman to another,” according to Jean-Michel
Othoniel’s The Secret Language of Flowers, which in the context of
Lange’s tanka, would be the love and admiration the speaker has for
Geraldine Ferraro, the first woman to be named a vice-presidential
candidate for a major party. In a section that focuses on memories,
this tanka connects well with events of present day where Kamala
Harris recently made history as the first female, first Black, and
first Asian-American vice president of the United States. This is
a good poem to end with and perhaps one that precipitated the
author’s desire to write this enjoyable floral collection: rescued— /
how a flower / also rescues us.
Paul Cordeiro’s chapbook Wild Violets was laid out by season by the
Book Reviews 149
poet’s close friend, Bob Barboza, who is also a haiku writer. Wild
Violets and Cordeiro’s collection from 2013, Bare Earth, are available
for free from The Haiku Foundation’s Digital Library. Comparing
them, pets remain a muse: labor day dusk / the beagle buries / a stewed
bone. In the newer work, there’s a single monoku: rolling out recycling
bins thunderclouds. Cordeiro also ventures into bolder territory in
the new work, including erotic tanka: rubbing legs / beneath the blue
moon / these crickets / not the only ones / in harmony.
Errata
In the previous issue 44:1—
Author Index
Frogpond Submissions: There are three issues of Frogpond each year with
month-long submission periods per issue—all of March for the spring/
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for the winter issue. Please see our full submission guidelines online at
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158 Frogpond 44:2
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