I find this fascinating as an insight into the thought processes that
generate poetry, here in particular the haiku, apart from , of course the
poetry itself which is first class. I have saved this to my Word programme
to savour at leisure. Thanks for this Gary, very much. Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Gary Blankenship" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, December 09, 2002 9:18 PM
Subject: New: A Walk in Kubota Gardens
Lately, there has been a bit of haiku in the house. Other than dialogues,
most of my writing these days is haiku related. A haibun is prose with a ku
as puncuation. My offering below may contain a bit two many ku to be true
haibun.
Friday and Saturday I attended my first meeting of The Haiku Society of
America in Bellevue, WA. Besides meeting folks I only new by email and many
more I did not know, the highlights included this walk, a very funny talk on
"haikuholics by Michael Welch, editor of Tundra, and the Haiku Box we took
away as a gift. The Box was full of haiku as art and a few plain paper
offerings. The longish haibun (?) came from a garden walk part of the
agenda as explained below, and is a rare attempt by the old Dawg at haibun.
A Walk through Kubota Garden
In winter fog,
the garden sleeps
until poets.
Saturday, December 7, a typically foggy Northwest morning, attendees at the
Haiku Society of America's quarterly meeting visited Kubota Garden in
Seattle. The Garden was originally built in a nursery owned by Fujitaro
Kubota. In 1981, the Garden was declared a historical landmark by the city,
and in 1987, they were acquired from the Kubota family as a park. Another
seventeen acres were purchased as a natural area to protect the creek and
ravine.
Our walk was scheduled to start at 10 am. I arrived about 9:30, the only
cars in the parking lot apparently part of wedding party there for
pictures - the windows of one painted with just married graffiti.
through morning's chill
the laughter
of new beginnings
Most of these works are as written that day. A few have been modified and
fewer still added since.
At the trailhead is a bulletin board, pictures, news and haiku posted, a
stack of maps and a pipe slotted for donations.
pennies announce guests
silent
dollars aid the garden's rest
one leaf left
the white birch
bows its head
A good portion of the Garden is plantings left from the old nursery, now
wild, if not feral.
left unattended
the trailing yew
a world onto its own
holly-
home
I will miss the berries
I save the holly sprouts I find on our little patch of ground, many
replanted so they can grow with being disturbed. Because they are feral,
they will never berry.
each stone
just far enough apart
for me to travel back
a pond without carp -
a haiku with a frog
Nothing seems sadder than a pond empty of life, especially in the chill of
December fog. An alternative verse:
a pond with carp -
a bride without hope
Even in the wild areas, the gardeners have been at work. In the Big Wet,
native plants take over very quickly.
girthed
a big leaf maple
left as a reminder
such perfection
molehills and toadstools
Mapes Creek, which feeds the ponds, flows into Lake Washington.
from the ponds
the garden flows to the sea
stone -
narrow bridges
hold me to the path
The garden includes a formal Chinese Moon bridge, a Heart bridge, and many
rugged rock and wooden crossings that allow us to wind among the ponds.
an empty pond contributes
One area of the Garden was drained and no waterfall flowed down the
"mountain."
on the mountain top
a neighborhood
and chain link
This day, animal life was rare.
behind the spider's web
a chipmunk
unseen
finally ducks
There were two wedding parties at the Garden while we were there. The
second came in a stretch limo.
in the driveway
a single pink blossom
abandoned
the poet crosses
the lawn
to find a verse
rose hips and asters
brighten
the forest's entrance
in the shade
hydrangeas
refuse to fade
I was surprised to see small bits of flower color. Berries were expected.
a single pink flower
I do not know its name
pink berries where I look for red
December 7th -
my father-in-law
whispers to me
My wife's father fought in the Pacific campaign. He was know as Lucky
because a sniper's bullets missed him as he rescued a wounded buddy. A
child of the South and Depression, I do not know what he would think of my
interests in oriental poetry. He would have enjoyed the Garden.
parking lot empty
the garden dreams
of poems and white dresses
And we return to traffic, lunch, the main business of the Society, and the
routine of our lives.
Gary Blankenship
December 7 - 9, 2002
Dec Byron Sacre at: http://gardawg.homestead.com/gardawg.html... Writer's
Hood at http://www.writershood.com/... Poets for Peace.... ˇPoemas sí, balas
no!
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