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BLITHE SPIRIT
Journal of the British Haiku Society
Volume 17 No. 2 - June 2007
Editor - Graham High
12 Eliot Vale, Blackheath, London, SE3 0UW
Associate Editor - Andrew Shimield
Blithe Spirit exists as a forum for diverse contributions in the writing and appreciation of haiku and kindred forms of
verse. It welcomes all related submissions from the membership. The Editors take responsibility for the selection of items
for publication and the layout of the magazine. The views expressed in articles do not necessarily reflect the Editors’ own
views.
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SPRING
icy winds
through spring willows –
he snips at my fringe
Diana Webb
dry at last
the winter’s clippings burn
in an early evening sun
Charles Christian
spring-clean
watching in self-scrutiny
polishing mirror
Francis Attard
checking for snowdrops
your foot turns the leaves aside
and our hearts leap
Frances Prokofiev
spring sunshine
two dusty butterfly wings
opening
Jane Whittle
old Mr Finch
sans woolly hat
it must be spring!
Leo Lavery
struggling with haiku
I just let it go & watch
the early spring rain
Bill Wyatt
willow
branches
shoulder length
Peter Butler
low sun
across the floodplain
factory smoke
Stuart Mcleod
white flash –
in the field of young lambs
a rabbit’s tail
Jane Sunderland
white magnolias –
nostalgia
for another year
Katherine Gallagher
spring morning –
the pampas grass
shivers in the breeze
Ronald Rubin
hail shower
puddles on grassland filling
with frogspawn
R M Atkinson
disappearing
beneath the spring flood
one-lane bridge
Patricia Prime
Crawling in traffic
on a dull Monday morning;
roadside cherry blossom.
Brian White
under the snowdrops
a snail’s shell
brims with rain
Caroline Tonson-Rye
in full bloom
vista of pink cherry trees
petals silently fall
Clare Masters
jumble sale
new buds
on the potted plants
frances angela
bare winter path
disappearing in
new greenery
Dennis Stukenbroeker
platform –
is that my man
in the spring sun?
Maeve O’Sullivan
Field path –
how far does the butterfly
follow me ?
Yasuhiko Shigemoto
this April morning
under the oak trees
blue snow
Melissa Meek
Twilight chill
trees in bud
full of different songs
Ian Storr
glows yellow-green
the fissured bark of an oak
chaffinch song
Keith J. Coleman
Butterflies
engulfed
in the cherry blossom storm
Yasuhiko Shigemoto
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RENGA ESSAY
Triparshva Renku
Norman Darlington
When I designed the Triparshva Renku format in 2005, it was in an attempt to capture the dynamics and scope of the 36-verse
Kasen—the favoured vehicle of Basho and his followers—within a format more suited to today’s compositional context and expectations. In Basho’s
day, the Kasen—which seems quite long to us now—was perceived as an abbreviated form, barely more than a third of the length of the ‘standard’
100-verse Hyakuin.
But times change, and recent decades have seen 12- and 20-verse renku forms come out of Japan, and gain some popularity among
western renkujin. But it has been my experience that, in attaining its brevity, each of these new forms has sacrificed one or another essential
aspect of the Kasen; be it jo-ha-kyu (Introduction-Intensification-Fast Close), a pacing mechanism considered absolutely essential to renku, and
to renga long before it; or the length of the individual movements required to develop a kinetic progression central to the overall aesthetic.
The Kasen has four sides of 6, 12, 12 and 6 verses respectively. The innovation of the Triparshva is to arrive at a 22-verse poem by dropping one
of the internal sides, and shortening the remaining one by just two verses, resulting in a three-sided format of 6, 10, and 6 verses. The effect
is to allow a more complete development of the internal dynamic of each side than is possible with any of the modern shorter forms. With its long
Intensification movement, there is ample space for a full four-verse Edo-style love sequence, beginning with a koi no yobidashi (‘love’s herald’)
and concluding with a koi banare (‘end of love’).
Indeed, although my design approach may be regarded as innovative, innovation is really not what the Triparshva is about. Its
aim is to recapture the pace and modulation of Edo period haikai-no-renga, in a format which will appeal to 21st century poets and readers. In the
two years since the publication of its design, it has been used as a vehicle for collaborations by poets in Africa, Asia, the Americas, the Antipodes,
and Europe. Anyone interested in using it can find a detailed tabular schema by visiting Xaiku.com and clicking ‘renku’.
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HAIBUN
Behind the waterfall
Fred Schofield
little gusts of spray soaking our right legs; the crashing water blurs hearing and sight. Try to stop and stare but it’s too cold.
Hands numb, how daft to carry gloves instead of wearing them. We pick along jagged glistening rocks: emerge into a shower of rain. Wave to our friend
who waits on the opposite bank …
Reunited, back along the riverside path, wind blowing the
remnants of the shower away might just be warm enough to dry our trousers. I linger, senses stunned by a surge of white rapids; try in vain to wriggle
wet hands into damp gloves. The others are out of sight. The path peters out. A couple of hundred yards ahead clouds of spray rise from the top of a
second waterfall. Some figures are moving around but they turn out to be two photographers... Lost?...
sun and rain
through bare trees ghosts
of my companions
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time wasting
Diane Webb
a small spider's web
quivers in the breeze -
random petals
'Are you wasting time, Diana Hill? Are you wasting time?'
The lay teacher with iron-grey plaits coiled round her ears glares at me across the convent-school classroom of ten year old girls.
'No, Mrs Brown. No' I reply.
'What are you doing then?' she demands.
'Drawing on my blotting paper' I admit.
'Drawing on your blotting paper?' She interrogates me further. 'Do you realise that you will have to account to Almighty God for
every moment of time you have wasted on this earth?'
I say nothing. I realise nothing of the sort.
'Then you can go straight to Mother Mary Bernard's office and tell her that I have sent you there to draw on your blotting paper.'
She points to the door.
A sharp shiver at the name of the headmistress, as blotting pad in hand, I slip out and creep along the corridor to her room.
I knock sheepishly. She appears, a small wiry black-robed figure, her cheeks slightly less apoplectic than usual and asks me what I want. Obediently
I tell her what I have been sent to do. She nods. 'I see. Then you'd better come in and do it.' Opening the door wider, the matriarchal nun stifles
a giggle.
outside the church
the tree
just blossoming
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Gone
Barbara Dordi
Sitting on the overgrown bank, behind me the new motorway’s monotonous hum, before me bottles and boxes drifting out to sea,
I recall daisy chain weekends with friends and Tarzan adventures in the woods that once were. Mothers are reading, knitting, chatting; fathers
compare their catches and throw back eels which have no currency with our mothers. The smell of fish and I’m back in this place. Father’s basket
seat creaking, he unhooks a fish and drops it into his long, green keepnet.
blood-red floats bobbing
fishing lines arcing the air
a creaking branch snaps
I make sure not to look at my daughter, his favourite grandchild, sitting beside me at the service. Afterwards, installed in the
first car with my brother and sister, surely this is the longest way to the crematorium? The journey is endured in silence, avoiding each other’s
furrowed faces. The oldest, I must set an example, keep my composure.
in the hearse’s wake
window-gazing to hide tears
a sign: GONE FISHING
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TANKA
seated
in a formal garden
symmetry
about the rows of roses
and the meeting of our lips
Greg Piko
first cut of grass
reminds me of
that first time
and the two of us
still longing
Stanley Pelter
check the corridor…
the hospital is quiet
but for your slow moans;
you send me a tired smile,
in between the gas and air
Andrew Detheridge
down the street
where we played
so many memories
yet not a single face
I recognise
Paul Smith
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A TANRENGA SEQUENCE
Rusting Cowbells
Patricia Prime and Andre Surridge
abandoned farm
the dry cow trough sprouts
wild flowers
over toi toi the dance
of white butterflies
morning sun
the porch swing’s
faded cushions
a wind gust sets off
rusting cowbell chimes
ants on the move
only opening one eye
an old labrador
a red fence takes the trail north
to the bustle of the town
a cloud burst
sends shoppers scampering
for verandahs
where each individual
is immersed in their own thoughts
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