As part of Wilderness Interface Zone’s Love of Nature Nature of Love Month, we thought it would be fun to run a Valentine haiku chain. This is a just for fun song and dance event for many voices and dancing levels.
A haiku is a classical Japanese poetical form, usually 17 syllables all in a single line in Japanese, but there are longer and shorter forms. In English, haiku often take the form of one short line of 5 syllables, a long line of 7 syllables, and a short line of 5 syllables, but there are many ways–take your pick. If you’re interested, you can find out more about haiku here or here. (For fun, check out the “annoying haiku” at the first website.)
There’s no deadline for this activity and the only requirement is that you focus your feeling in a nature-oriented haiku. You can link your haiku to an image in a preceding one or simply forge a link out of new images altogether. The chain runs as long as participants continue to forge links in the smithies of their minds.
Considered a mindfulness practice, writing haiku requires discipline–even if you’re writing effectively annoying haiku. So if you like the challenge of cramming your deepest feelings and most perceptive insights (or your silliest ones) into 17 syllables, this activity is for you.
Ready? Here is my opening Valentine haiku:
Tart flowers have shaped
bee’s dance; bee, flowers’ bouquet.
Almost, this is love.
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Patricia Karamesines {p.karamesines@gmail.com} is the author of The Pictograph Murders (Signature Books 2004), an award-winning mystery novel set in the Four Corners area. Her poetry appears in the landmark anthology Fire in the Pasture (Peculiar Pages 2011) and has also been published in Dialogue and Irreantum. A long time ago, she was the founding editor of BYU’s literary journal Inscape, a feat she remains satisfied with. She has won numerous awards for her poetry and essays. She writes for A Motley Vision and runs the nature writing blog Wilderness Interface Zone that advocates for the greening of human language. Currently, she is an English tutor and adjunct at Utah State University-Eastern Blanding where she works closely with the university extension’s Native American student population.
Almost, this is love–
a bee, a bud, the nectar
trembling on my lips.
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From a bud’s lip slides
A brief drop of molten snow
Pilgriming earthward.
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Nectar trembles on
lips for some. Not me: bees sting,
Pollen aggravates.
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Pollen aggravates
the nostrils, but cleansing rains
drop grey on my soul.
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Drop grey on my soul,
that it may turn bud-green bliss,
condensing kisses.
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(Steve, you beat me to James’ last line! Ah, well: I’m springboarding off it, too.)
drops gray as his soul
the moment she left: rain
trails down his face
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(Now to springboard off Steve’s last line:)
condensation kisses
the window: the outline
of a heart returns
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my heart returns here,
wilderness interface zone,
where swans hold the love
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.
Swans have held my love
Swimming, dunking, drowning—yet
I still float in thee
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I still float in thee–
sun, storm and dolldrums. I still
float with thee in us.
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Oops. Doldrums.
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Birds do it, Bees too
Love is blind, without a clue
Haiku ought not rhyme
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My life partner has
Near limitless patience with
my eccentrici . . .
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back for more:
with us, the doldrums
are sweet storms of gratitude;
light, in passing clouds.
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Dave & I posted at the same time. Going off his,
My eccentrici
ty is boundless in times of
Spring: wild abandon.
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No matter how wild
our abandon, all living
returns to one dance
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return to my sight
buds, robins, bulbs, and worms
restore my springtime
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Restore my springtime,
bee and blossom-blessing honey-kiss.
Thaw all, baptize, and bloom.
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Spring thaw, baptism, bloom
rebut the spindle-fingered cold and gloom:
it’s almost love, this winter’s doom.
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It’s almost love, this doom,
This imminent again of bulb and worm. Almost.
A few ticks more, then . . . love.
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Doom is almost love.
At first light, black walnut trees
Radiate in blue.
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In blue this true ab
andon imprisoned in
side this red we seep
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Red-stained maple twigs
Seep sugars drawn from snow-bound
Roots, deeping past ice.
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Past ice is present
mud, slow equinoctial slime.
Spring gnaws from beneath.
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Spring is gnawing me
red. I cannot ignore the
floods rising inside.
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flood rising inside
still. the great green groan sings, glides
towards its own heaven.
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Own. Love is its own.
Not belonging to lovers;
Nor the beloved.
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.
Nor the beloved,
Nor the lost, nor the unthought,
Nor me, nor thou; just us two
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not “I” not “thou”:
one flesh cleaving
beneath the new moon
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Beneath the new moon,
tentative feet try out the new-born mud
as old snow drools its way to seed.
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Old drool crusts cracked seeds.
Millet hulls melt into old,
Greying, snow cover.
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Greying snow’s strands flow
to creek beds where stones plait them
into sunlit braids.
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