Stranger's Weight in Fireflies Haiku

 
dark street
someone’s weight in fireflies
suddenly takes off

*

before dawn
a stranger’s footprints
cold ocean fills

*

beach before dawn
in dark fragments
finding myself

*

before dawn
where waves break
my thoughts break

*

Descartes, a crow
seeing the world
seeing its beak

*

walk miles of sand
to get from ocean
dark wave energy

*

spring window
an aphid
draws in my breath

*

walking miles
next to waves breaking
everything I know

*

snowy vineyard
a fox and a crow
pretend they’re strangers

*

cherry blossoms
two crows chase
absolutely nothing

*

my little black cat
rubs her fangs on me
her strange pet

*

pencil on my desk
next to a few shark teeth
its ancient fang sharp

*

morning reaches
the far side of the river
before us

*

spring goddesses
the lady with 37 cats
disgusts and awes

*

streetlights twinkle
out in the dark river
a piece of you swims

*

a goose neck
in morning glories
we’re not ourselves

*

moving an aphid
from bathwater to plant
a born-again drunk

*

mother says
teeth marks 
on sea things

*

it’s not just
an aphid on my finger
it’s a “rescue-aphid”

*

sparrows take
milky splash baths
in potholes we curse

*

the mouse hole…
nature leaks in
a nuclear plant

*

a mouse hole…
nature checks out
our nuclear deal

*

dragonfly hovers
in a cooling tower’s
nuclear breath

*

sealed nuclear
power plant in the river
dragonflies visit

*

moonlight
like Brahms
for dragonflies

*

a thunderstorm
sweeps the flags
off all graves

*

hissing rain sheets
old woman who died years ago
again sweeps our street

*

long ago
in the wind
witches sang

*

the kiss
first draft
witchcraft

*

the bobcat
climbs and climbs
spring ideas

*

picking wildflowers
a field once our house
our dog guards below

*

raking leaves
my dead neighbor’s dead dog’s ball
rolls out

*

my old street
only familiar faces
the clouds

*

buried child
a plastic kickball
hides in the basement

*

he keeps keys
to houses and beds
long gone

*

moon shines
coldly on a ladder
apple pickers forgot

*

a stone thrown
into the dark river
makes good time

*

late night rain walk
the past’s umbrella
opens its arms

*

heavy rain
falling asleep
between sympathy cards

*

in a pinch
headlights in rain
for moonlight

*

humans
the future’s
unreadable format

*

that sunflowers climb
that sometimes people fall
naked from the sky

*

a field stone
for doorstoop
blunt speech of home

*

a crow’s cry
just beyond a windowsill’s
glass button jar

*

her clothes donated
her glass jar
of buttons stays

*

shaving
the old cedar box
for new scent

*

Stone Age ends
stones struggle
to find work

*

surf pebbles
toss-talk
in their sleep

*

dark country roads
trees much taller
than their houses

*

forest walk
the clock’s blood pressure
much lower

*

slow tortoise…
envying rust
on its elbows

*

hay-tumble verdict–
again please but something less
than Evermore Street

*

night earthquake
dress shop mannequins feel
their first orgasm

*

ancient crack
in a teacup
holding it together

*

men merely dead
or truly dead
her smile tells you

*

usually
skip prefaces
but this morning fog…

*

drowned school jock
dark river had all winter
pops up on prom night

*

deep down
on the river bottom
all the free things

*

funeral home
the caskets cracked open
faint cries of porn

*

dark deli
lobsters in a tank
fight over bubbles

*

coffin shopping
he chooses a finish
that goes with his car
















Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger for Pexels

A Magazine in the U.K. with a Great Poetry Archive

I was very gratified to learn I had some poems accepted for an upcoming issue of  Ink, Sweat & Tears, a U.K. based magazine.

Here's a brief synopsis of the journal's history from the website:  "IS&T was founded by Salt author Charles Christian in 2007 as a platform for new poetry and short prose, and experimental work in digital media. Charles ran the site single-handedly, publishing new work every day till 2010, when now sole editor, poet and artist Helen Ivory came on board as Deputy Editor."

Publisher Kate Birch and Editor/Poet Helen Ivory now pilot this vessel. And their cumulative acumen has crafted a  literary journal of ensorcelling wiles.

I really enjoyed the haiku in the magazine's archive. Here is a sample. And another one. And check out these wild haiku of Andrew Pidoux.

Here are some poems by Helen Ivory which I enjoyed. I particularly liked "What the House Said." Her poems have a deadly-serious playfulness and a brashness, qualities that remind me of Stevie Smith's blithe darkness. 

Some Poetry Acceptances

I'm very happy to have had work accepted this week for upcoming issues of Presence (U.K.) and Failed Haiku.

Presence is a print journal. I would highly recommend subscribing if you enjoy haiku, senryu, tanka, haibun and related forms of poetry. Ian Storr makes great selections, so I find myself returning to the journal for multiple readings. Each issue has the richness you'd expect of an anthology.

Failed Haiku (the title is a sly way to tell you the magazine publishes senryu) is consistently exciting and brash. I've never visited the site and not had a great time and had my mind expanded in the bargain. Mike Rehling does a wonderful job of editing that every month (yes, it comes at you roughly every thirty days!)

May's issue of FH is being edited by the wonderful Kala Ramesh. There's a metaphysical quality to many of her haiku, so I look forward to seeing how the issue shapes up. Here's a really interesting essay by Ramesh, "Silences as Seen in Indian Aesthetics.  

Floated-Outside-It Haiku

gentle rain
into the river
barely talking

*

meteor shower
somehow somehow
the promise

*

having died
long before this Monet
we’re evenly matched

*

distant night train
an egg’s armor
begins to crack

*

green peeling staircase
paint every year
greener in memory

*

invisible girl
orange peels
for a city block

*

finding purple shells
low tide babbling
in our purple prose

*

watch a snake…
imagine it with hands
smacking its rosary

*

a loving mother
eats her children’s
gnat clouds

*

t.v. news
moth’s searing love of the bulb–
forgotten safeword

*

before he jumps, his joy
knowing a dark river
feels nothing

*

antifreeze leaks
the moon’s reflection
in a cold puddle

*

you wake to a mirror
speaking an unknown dialect
of moonlight

*

distant gunshot
so far away the sound
a lid crawling off

*

soft shell crab night–
we hear someone
eating a coffin

*

bacon strip
you eat a pig’s burn
ape orgasm

*

high school years later
lab’s floating pig fetus
only face i recall

*

buying meal worms on credit
he realizes his children
are watching

*

dark parked car
playing Bizet for fireflies
no one else

*

Christmas morning
dark centuries
open their presence

*

walking home alone
leaving drunk fireflies clearly
trying too hard

*

waking at night
promising darkness
things, things

*

fireflies
just seem to want more
every year

*

night airport
tired moonlight
coming and going

*

bales of hay
the crow at morning
a preacher

*

crickets in frost
cross the same field as me
as zero

*

dark autumn pond
reflections misquoting
like the rest of us

*

night hires
standing at the door
more reptile jackets

*

shuttered GOLD’s gym
geese preen in the lot
clones stretching

*

summer pond
child asks a small fish:
“which one’s your mother?”

*

beery winds
through dark branches
of downtown trees

*

twenty minnows
swam into me tonight
then a huge moon

*

balcony slouching a woman slouching there on it smoking made of straw

*

desert winds
tree widows their branches
moaning Kama Sutra

*

two story trees
violet membranes
bottled-up in paint

*

abandoned merely
cuz she is a skeleton
poor tree

*

juicy plum
(the joke in stars)
anything waits

*

spring breeze
you suddenly realize
he’s older on top

*

charles schwab
downtown wall fakes
lower case airs

Has There Ever Been...

Has there ever been a novel or other work of fiction in which the protagonist was a pet rock?

I'm guessing the answer is likely "no."

But I'm feeling this surge of hope...

And my keyboard is saying to me, "You have fingers; I have an alphabet; what's the problem here?"

Interesting factoid: "Pet Rocks are smooth stones from Mexico's Rosarito Beach."

I wasn't aware they all came from the same beach. Shouldn't I be worried about potential inbreeding?

Long Live Zines!

Jessy Kendall, editor of the long-running zine letterfounder, wrote me out of the lexical blue with a kind request to share one of my poems in his monthly.

There are other manifestations online.

I really love the visual headiness of that.

I grew up on zines: reading them, doing them, reviewing them, loving them. So it's great to see the continuation of that in some quarters.

Thanks, Jessy. I look forward to receiving that in the mail. And I look forward to floating through your online art and poetry menageries.

Things I Almost Buy on EBAY: Sauna hat, Russian Banya cap, Saunahattu, Saunahut, mütze, כובע לסאונה felt

Sometimes I come so close to buying an object just for the sheer otherworldly qualities it possesses.

See, this hat feels like a vital appurtenance of a former life calling out to me: "Here I am, your sauna hat! You dropped me in the field on the way back from talking to Niemenin about his goat's dyspepsia. I'm sure you felt the pangs of my absence! I languished in the wildflowers three whole nights. But no worry! Now we are reunited. Let us return to the church of super-heated rocks and love one another, as in the comforting winter nights of old."

Plus, it's only twelve bucks.

And it reminds me of an ancient Buddhist bell.

Transcending: Reflections of Crime Victims (Good Books, 2001)

Howard Zehr is a criminologist who has spent the greater part of his life exploring how criminal justice systems, the American one and others worldwide, can be improved to better serve their respective societies, the victimized and their survivors (“co-victims”) and offenders. He is considered a pioneer in the field of “restorative justice.” Restorative justice often involves a meeting or meetings between a victim of a violent crime and his or her offender, or a meeting between such a victim and an unknown offender who offended at a similar level against a third party. As one can easily imagine, this is an uncertain and fraught process. There’s no guarantee this will not further traumatize the victim. It’s usually only undertaken after a decent amount of time has passed (often, years) and the victim or co-victim has been able to reach a point where he or she feels comfortable enough to have a confrontation that intense.

One stated goal of restorative justice is to empower victims, to help them combat their feelings of anxiety and, in many cases, a profound sense of powerlessness that assails them after victimization. Offenders are encouraged to make amends in the form of apologies and good works. Sometimes restorative justice involves actual financial remuneration. Besides the psychotherapeutic benefits for victims, there is evidence that it decreases the likelihood that offenders will reoffend. Although restorative justice is a relatively recent innovation in the penal system, in many ways it might remind one of how now-vanished cultures in bygone eras handled justice.

Transcending is a book of portraits, in words and photographs, of victims and co-victims of violent crimes. Many of these individuals have lived through assaults so horrible you shudder to imagine the details they’re leaving out of the accounts of their long hospitalizations and journeys of many years to recoveries that are sometimes painfully partial. Some are parents who have lost children to predatory monsters. Some are incest survivors or survivors of stranger rape. Some have lost parents to murder. The first thing all these people have in common is major trauma that proved a threat to their very existence. The second thing they have in common is that they all survived. At the time this book was published, 2001, some were thriving, some were just finding the balance, and some were still struggling from day to day. Reading the book eighteen years after its publication date, you want to send good wishes into the darkness after them, and hope they are at peace.

A large number of the people profiled in this book have explored restorative justice, and have actually met with their offender(s). Sometimes this led (in the words of the interviewed) to “forgiveness,” but that’s a word used, one senses, in different ways by different individuals in this book, just as it is in life. For some victims, forgiving the offender means freeing themselves from the burden of hating any longer. Perhaps they better understand the forces which made the monster they face in that fateful conference, who might himself be an individual who was victimized from childhood forward. Perhaps with this understanding they can turn and walk away, their burden a little lighter. But then others in this book find a new calling in speaking to the victimizers and awakening these offenders to a sense of responsibility for their actions, and it becomes an important part of their lives. For some survivors, this process proves energizing and transformative. Others embark on the process of restorative justice only to find a cold manipulator on the other side of the prison glass. The book doesn’t paint overly rosy scenarios or deny the uncertainty of the process in restorative justice. The stories, though brief, are riveting. Many of the words stay with you.

This is not a lurid or exploitative book. This is a very spiritual book. I suppose that should not surprise me, since Zehr has a solid Mennonite background. This was not marketed as religious reading material. But I noticed the majority of the victims presented here do talk about their religious faith, and that faith is usually some form of Christianity. You might think the victims discovered this faith in their times of greatest crisis, that it’s a reflection of the “no atheists in foxholes” phenomenon. But I get the impression that most of these people had that faith before their victimization occurred. Not surprisingly, that faith was often tested by the torturous experiences they went through. Their faith often had to be redefined. I wondered whether this predilection for religious narratives was a result of the choice of agencies with which the author liaised to find the subjects for his book. Perhaps he went through ministries or agencies which had connections to ministries. The subjects and narratives are not all Christian. The book opens with several profiles which omit mention of God. One victim even mentions drawing support from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. But as the book continues, the Christian narratives quickly come to predominate. This didn’t bother me as a reader at all. I only mention it in the name of full disclosure for other potential readers. I know some readers find God-talk a great downer. The thing is, as with “forgiveness,” “God” clearly means different things to different survivors in this book. None of the survivors dwell overly much on their religious experience. It’s usually only a sentence or a brief paragraph. The majority of their accounts are about the healing process itself and how they manage to process the tragedy they still carry within them.

While this is dark reading material, I found myself greatly appreciative of the ways it challenged my own views on what justice should be. Many of the survivors point out how minimized (even trivialized) they felt at the hands of the State. The State plays victim in a courtroom. It arrogates the role of victimhood and throws the victims out of the courtrooms as soon as they testify. As one Canadian survivor of childhood abuse put it:

“The charges were pressed in the name of the Queen, her Crown and dignity, and I was just a witness. I didn’t like that bullshit — this happened to me. It didn’t happen to the f***ing Queen! I was always a bit pissed off about that.”

For me, some of the most disturbing stories told in this book (beside the raw nerve elements of murders of children and crimes involving torture) were the stories told by survivors in which justice never did arrive, and might never arrive. There are cases where the obvious murderers skated, got away scot-free, and cases where no charges could be brought for differing reasons. Some of these people had to undertake their healing while racked with doubt as to the identity of the murderer of their loved one. Some of these survivors are living with nagging suspicions they cannot prove. The book presents a real gamut of hells.

A few of these crimes were high-profile stories before the turn of the century and are still much discussed. I was surprised to find so many high-profile crimes from my home state of Pennsylvania, but the author had a connection here with the (then) governor’s victim advocate for our state. I found my explanation for that in Zehr’s “Acknowledgments.”

The book closes with an essay by Zehr, “Looking for the Burma Shave Signs — Victimization and the Obligations of Justice,” which does a stellar job of spelling out what restorative justice believes it can offer both victims and offenders, and ultimately societies, that retributive justice cannot.

What will I remember most from this book? I will remember the words of the survivors themselves, brave words, hopeful words, and often wise words. Here’s just a small sample:

“The measure of our civilization is not technology, but our attitude about life and how we treat each other. The abhorrence of violence is certainly a measure of how civilized we are. We’re not very civilized because we still solve our problems with violence.”

— Martha Cotera

“People shouldn’t go to prison so they can suffer. The suffering they need to do is to share the suffering they’ve inflicted.”

— Keith Kemp

“The offender who shot my son got a life sentence. But I feel more anger toward his mother than toward him. Somebody that’s 14 years old and had no remorse whatsoever must not have had any love at all.”

— Louise Williams

“In taking responsibility for having killed somebody, he needs to see his responsibility in having made all these other little deaths.”

— Amy Mokricky

“You trusted life not to injure you this way. You trusted life not to take a beloved person in this way. You trusted humanity not to have that ugly side to it. You trusted your family to be strong, and then instead you had to be strong yourself.

You trust that the judicial system is going to work. You trust that reporters have decency. You have incredible expectations of others’ behavior that just doesn’t happen. Now I have no trust in others, but I have a greater sense of trust in myself. I know myself a lot better. I see myself as being a lot stronger and more beneficial to the community.”

— Amy Mokricky