While I’ll take life in any season, the transition from summer to fall is bumpy for me. This year, the melancholy I often feel during these pre-winter months has been accented by various family crises. Still, as the song goes, How can I keep from singing? Continue reading “Autumn 2014 haiku chain by Patricia K.”
She’s heeeerrrre …
Autumnal equinox: the tipping point between two seasons of light.
Fall arrived on Saturday a little before 9 a.m. I thought it happened today because my calendar says so, but my calendar got it wrong. I wonder what else my calendar has gotten wrong.
For those of us who (like me) may feel the touch of melancholy this time of year but have the impulse to celebrate anyway, WIZ is opening a haiku chain. Many of you know what a haiku is–probably, you’ve know since elementary school or junior high. For those who feel uncertain, 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. A haiku written in English stacks lines, often in the order of one short line of 5 syllables on top, a long line of 7 syllables in the middle, then another short line of 5 syllables on the bottom. But there are many paths–pick what suits you. Often, haiku mention the season under consideration. If you wish to learn more about haiku, you can go here or here.
How a WIZ haiku chain usually goes is this: Someone starts the chain. This year, that’s me. Somebody follows me, adding a single haiku in the comments, and then another person takes a crack, and ’round we go. You may link your haiku to an image in the previous haiku or stud the chain with something wholly original. I kind of like seeing other people’s individual expressions of how the arrival of this season strikes them. Other than the informal, €œone-at-a-time-please € tradition, there’s no limit to turns a participant can take and no deadline for this activity. It runs as long as it runs.
Summer’s final words
rasp leaves, shimmer on the lip
of the horizon.
Welcome to WIZ’s Spring Poetry Runoff open invitation haiku chain. This is a non-competitive (that is, not part of the poetry contest), come-as-you-are, just-for-fun activity that we run from time to time here on WIZ.
A haiku is a classical Japanese poetical form, usually 17 syllables all in a single line in Japanese, but I understand that there are longer and shorter forms. In English, a haiku often takes 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 paths–take your pick. Often, haiku mention the season under scrutiny–in this case spring, obviously. If you wish to learn more about haiku, you can go here or here.
The rules: Really, there aren’t any. How it usually goes is someone starts the chain–today, it’s Sean aka greenfrog. Somebody follows him, adding a single haiku in the comments, and then another person takes a turn, and around we go. Other than the informal, “one-at-a-time-please” tradition, there’s no limit to turns a participant can take and no deadline for this activity. It runs as long as it runs. So if you feel inclined to add a thread to the tapestry, don’t be shy.
Here’s Sean’s opening haiku:
The bud embedded
In the matrix of branch and
Earth and sun and spring.
Sean/greenfrog makes his home in the Denver area and blogs occasionally about yoga and meditation. You can visit his blog In Limine here.
Light’s rise sparks bright blooms:
birdsong, fields of it, vining–
spring’s first green flourish.
These mornings, I step outside my back door to hear the hush of winter thrown off by a clamor of birdsong–the crackle of starlings, jazzy riffs of purple house finches, a lonely two-syllable call from a flycatcher, screeches and churrings of magpies, ravens’ gravelly croaks, a woodpecker drumming a juniper tree, jangling songs of meadowlarks outshouting everyone. Quite stunning, this send-off of the season of low, cold light. And I can’t help but detect in the intertwining of different avian dialects the bloom of flowery beauty and signature fragrances of meaning.
The language of the birds, or the green language, is the mythical, magical language of wisdom and divine insight thought to pass between birds and those humans with ears to hear the music of the cosmos with which birdsong is thought to be impregnated. Some traditions equate la langue verte with the adamic or perfect language. Many folks might consider any relation between birdsong and human utterances and comprehension illusory. But if you listen closely, you will hear chirps in the language of many species ranging from rodents (prairie dogs’ alarm calls sound bird-ish, and the noisy grasshopper mouse chirrups constantly) to cats (chirps and trills) to amphibians (our Woodhouse toads pip at us) to insects to puppies to people–especially babies. My nearly 19-year-old disabled daughter, who can understand more words than she can say, chirps, hoots, and trills in response to questions and other words of address. After nearly two decades of studying her bird-like, tonal language, I think I can rightly claim that I’ve gained from it deep, magical insight–including into the quiddity of human expression. Because of my experience with her and what I think I hear in the language of birds and other animals and insects, I’ve begun to wonder if, rather than acting as the basic phoneme of a foreign language spoken by creatures with which we think ourselves to have little in common, the chirp might just lie at the root of human expression.
Whatever else it’s said to be, the mythical language of the birds is highly poetic, layered with multiple strata of meaning, playful, punful, sliding, gliding, beguiling to the ear when performed aloud, and, when conveyed in written interchange, deeply engaging of the mind’s inner ear.
For WIZ’s 2011 Spring Poetry Runoff and Celebration, let’s see if we can outshine the birds in their spring ceremonies. Human language can be just as green and gorgeous, just as textured and as alluring as the language of the birds. And when it comes to the opening of new prospects and possibilities, human language can have no rival. Even the language of the birds lags behind the best effects of the best human language: opening-the-possibilities acts of authentic creation. Poetry, with its multifaceted, many-leveled effects and metaphoric prowess–its strength for getting across–can create, so to speak, more world. As John D. Niles says in Homo Narrans: The Poetics and Anthropology of Oral Narrative, “It is through such symbolic mental activities [as storytelling and poetry] that people have gained the ability to create themselves as human beings and thereby transform the world of nature into shapes not known before.”
So this Spring Poetry Runoff, let’s go green in our language. I don’t mean Green, as in supportive of social or political movements touting environmental protection. In some cases, that language is the least green of all. I mean let’s go green, as in producing living, doing, being language that acts to open possibilities by virtue of its creative Ã©lan. I mean let’s give out words that don’t just describe experience, they create experience, providing raw materials that others can recombine for their own narrative needs, thus altering, here and there, world and worlds. Referencing John Miles Foley, Niles calls this cosmoplastic, or “world-building” energy of human language, “wordpower.”
During this year’s Spring Poetry Runoff Contest and Celebration, we’ll not only be running the poetry contest with prizes in the Most Popular Vote Award and Admin Award categories but also an open-invitation haiku chain (a developing tradition on WIZ), a non-competing category for those poets wishing to participate in the Spring Poetry Runoff just for fun, the Runoff Rerun (re-publishing of one of last year’s poems), and other activities.
Hope you join in. It’s spring. Let’s sing it up.
To review submission deadlines, rules, voting procedures, and prizes, go here.
Photo of singing western meadowlark by Alan Vernon.