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~ poems and photos

Monthly Archives: December 2013

Dim Sum poems by Tom Clausen

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Dim Sum

≈ Leave a comment

2001:1 ( first issue- guest poet)
*
after she’s asleep
moving most of her dolls
      away…
*
tears
from the cold-
Christmas lights
*
snow patches
throughout the woods
pine scent
*
as I approach
his work station
the mouse clicks
*
most of the rain
    not falling
      on me
*
in the empty room
father and son:
two quiet types
*
2003:1
*
valley fog:
out of it
geese in formation
*
bright autumn day
the bus driver yells at me
PAY ATTENTION!
*
our turn
to stand here-
falls overlook
*
a key in the pocket
   the coat
     no longer fits
*
warehouse district-
a late afternoon cloud
spreads
*
long grocery line
the modest excitement
of my thoughts
*
late night bus-
a light on
in the fare box
*
jogging
just past the church
I clean my glasses
*
late afternoon sun
noisy blackbirds swarm
the transformer
*
a few floors down
in another building
someone else looks out
*
my son sniffs
the football-
“is it really pigskin?”
*
the crowd presses
to look in-
zen garden
*
extended goodbye
their paved driveway
buckled by roots
–
– for Karen Montner-Silverman
*
full moon
a coffee can of pennies
holds the door open
*
mower won’t start
  busy as a bee
      a bee
*
Christmas eve
in her pajamas all day
the youngest one
*
from room to room
on the Clue Board
a tiny spider
*
as the spider goes
down the drain
a second thought
*
2003:2
*
spring wind-
the kid in the neighborhood
has a new whistle
*
March rain-
within the red wine
a nap in my chair
*
always takes his time
the custodian watches
      the floor dry
*
abandoned lot-
chocolate milk carton
bleached white
*
     alone
in the middle of a crowd
   someone I knew
*
we know by the degree
he teases his sister-
all better now
*
the load tied down-
her painted toe nails
on the dashboard
*
just arrived-
their dog sniffs
our tires
*
class in the forest
they all look up
to the trees
*
reading into it
as much as I can
             my life
*
improving
my handwriting
the high quality paper
*
in the middle
of some construction
a lilac blooms
*
railroad crossing
an old man
waves at the train
*
Discovery channel-
an older male vanquished
heads for the hills
*
straight out
   of a dream
       another day
*
steady rain
a pickle
in the parking lot
*
the dates
    on the coins
        I give up…
*
zoo safari trail…
ant caravans travel
the railing
*
2004:1
*
standing here just watching
the spring sun sparkle
on the water
and what is it they say about
living life to the fullest
*
cell phones
they find each other
in the mall
*
between bites
from the apples
    his stare….
*
the finished letter
in the envelope…
taken out again
*
Veteran’s Day
the normal route
past the cemetery
*
picture window
in all that white
a cardinal
*
flea market-
a Rubik’s cube
already solved
*
where I sit
on my usual bench
remains of a nut
*
a little tree-
not enough shade
to sit in
*
lingering in bed
the ceiling
has no answers
*
framed photo-
the three of us
close back then
*
under my breath
    “oh boy”
sitting down for lunch
*
an old oak
on a hairpin turn
dark scarlet
*
autumn colors-
how assertive
she becomes
*
I choose one-
a roomful of chairs
without people
*
snowfall
my daughter asks where
we are going…
*
soft spoken-
on her windowsill
more snow
*
first snow gone-
this steady need
to practice
*
alone with the cat
the look between us
held awhile…
*
potluck luncheon-
a yellow jacket cleans
its antennae
*
2004:2
*
long conversation…
through different windows
the sky
*
having brushed off
several small ants
an extra large one…
*
loud storm
I think of
our roofer
*
spring sun
good enough
right where I am
*
mid day
my son’s bear hug
still with me
*
for lunch
looking for an empty room
room after room
*
our daughter tells us:
let the listing goldfish
live as long as it can
*
taking me back…
water laps gently
at the shore
*
old farm house-
the pitch of the
patterned linoleum
*
our child
who will not go to sleep-
sheep on her pajamas
*
my wife removes
the parakeet’s mirror
for awhile…
*
left and right
he follows the way
of his kicked stone
*
without any music
I catch myself
tapping in time
*
spring in the air
so many false starts
in my heart
*
to start the day
her slipper sounds
too fast
*
on hold…
branches in the window
wave wildly
*
empty classroom
windows open
to summer
*
2005:1
*
sweet corn on the cob
thinking of my old
typewriter
*
gray morning-
a workman with a fancy watch
mixes mortar
*
one short chapter-
I move the lawn chair
to reclaim some sun
*
just oatmeal
the waitress says
   “enjoy”
*
before I pick up the nickel
a rain drop
on Jefferson’s head
*
her tossed jacket
another place
for the cat
*
my arm snagged-
a good look at
the wild rose
*
fall colors
in the lake-
one thought after another
*
pawn shop
guitars and guns
lined up
*
bike ride
as fast as I go
the moon on the water
*
crows jabber
at daybreak-
if that were all
*
cross country skiing…
twenty-two falls
her big brother’s count
*
snow falling
I read myself
to sleep
*
meditation…
i remember I left
the lights on
*
my wife asks
if she should feel sorry for me
“I’ve got it covered”
*
her voice-
flake by flake collects
 on a twig
*
big test day
she scrambles an extra egg
for his breakfast
*
outside
in the dark
I let my imagination go
*
dying light
at the corner of the shed
chickens peck away
*
2005:2
*
hunting four leaf clovers
students discuss
their childhoods
*
in the car singing
until I’m passed
and seen…
*
my mistakes-
no matter how many
coats of paint
*
spring air-
bumping into someone
I thought was dead
*
spring rain-
the cat in the window
washes its face
*
spring sun-
making a list
of what makes me happy
*
illuminated clouds-
a store for sale
way out here
*
brilliant spring
the ambulance passes
quietly
*
Valentine’s Day-
I forget to get
the garbage out
*
last sandwich
from the loaf
the two ends
*
relatives set to visit
so many cobwebs
to remove
*
resting in the shade
an elderly man sits
on a gravestone
*
the river
full of ice
broken free…
*
happiness…
a child I don’t know
waving at me
*
exam week
she lies face up
in the rain
*
a dime on the walk
a stranger
beats me to it
*
our two loudest
on vacation
in the same week
*
spring twilight
a young couple play badminton
without a net
*
sun pops out
a construction worker
breaks into song
*
2006:1
*
day’s end
rinsing the fish
in tap water
*
so many years
to remember…
I sit up straight
*
she turns down
my favorite music…
plays recorder for me
*
daybreak-
the spider centered
in its web
*
in my room
just thinking…
do not disturb
*
doubting myself…
but he looked too good
to need a quarter
*
night train-
part of myself reflected
in thought
*
looking busy
as my wife
pulls in
*
on the windowsill
her first tooth
without the tooth fairy
*
in a hollow
at the base of the trunk
a seedling
*
quiet part…
out loud a little one asks
“when will it end?”
*
first game
doing her best
to avoid the ball
*
a crow
circling like a hawk
but it is a crow
*
in the dumpster
potted plants
take the rain
*
2006:2
*
stand of tall trees-
not sure what
I’m turning into
*
dinner time-
each night
a fallen hero
*
Father Leo
two seats down the pew
doing a puzzle
*
winter wind
the voice of one tree
after another
*
walking alone…
a submerged log
comes to light
*
lined
with plump rain drops
the clothesline
*
sitting alone…
her second time through
the newspaper
*
the mourning dove
lowers itself
to take off…
*
blue sky-
nothing constructive
to offer
*
moments into
my music
the vacuum cleaner
*
dandelions-
I give someone
easy directions
*
behind the wheel-
yet another of his
personalities
*
last day of school-
she tells me there was nothing
more to learn
*
in the garden
right by St. Francis
the woodchuck hole
*
so many books
  I can’t find
     one
*
quickly
after the artery scan
a Danish
*
the day lilies-
some have crossed
the road
*
afternoon sun
a chef naps
at one of the tables
*
Sunday morning-
a brook sparkles
out of the hills
*
2007:1
*
strip mall-
the shimmer of leaves
on a new tree
*
muffler shop
a man managing
his cough
*
in our doorway
a man reads to me
a bible passage
*
beginning late…
    the under attended
     concert
*
morning sun
just a plain paper bag
with frost
*
evening star-
    the horizon
    of my childhood
*
walking the tracks
my thoughts
go nowhere
*
near zero-
just rabbits
and crows
*
the cashier
holds another large bill
up to the light
*
water
       from the flower vase
                   returned to the garden
*
unmarked grave-
a chicken
named Sunflower
*
mixed blessing
my best critic
at home
*
warm winter day-
our dog squints
for a scent
*
old friends talk-
each holding
car keys
*
geese
in the deep bowl of sky
salmon clouds
*
breakdown lane
        plastered
                 with political stickers
*
my wife catches me
picking from our trash
again
*
overwintering
in the hay wagon
scarecrow
*
dining room
next to my wife’s chair
her dog at attention
*
2007:2
*
construction site-
folks gathered around
the newborn
*
those were the days…
she’d meet me halfway
from work
*
flurries…
a truck piled high
with hay
*
too faint
for my son to see
a little used trail
*
light rain…
a sense of trust
along the way
*
  trying to figure
how to spend it…
  a little free time
*
priceless-
a poor night’s sleep
in the tent
*
sun comes out…
the walk home
with my shadow
*
full of dirt
a dump truck waits
for her to cross
*
summer-
seeing more
of her
*
flower garden
where she buries
the goldfish
*
pleasant forecast-
my wife announces
her plan
*
so many things
I need to do
    alone
*
wasting not
a moment
spring peepers
*
urologist’s office-
a framed photograph
of the falls
*
the place emptied…
a spring breeze
blows through
*
in the dark
seeing my flashlight batteries
dying
*
a week before he died-
new glasses
for distance
*
just in case-
weighing myself again
after the shower
*
late day sun-
at the edge of the party
everyone aglow
*
2008:1
*
rundown docks-
minnows schooling
around the trawler
*
cruise control…
unable to decide what
to think about
*
mixed in
with the instructions
her perfume
*
restlessness
in the night…
not even a senryu
*
busy bar
another case of
mistaken identity
*
full moon
he tells me
his side of the story
*
through dinner
our dog waits…
then eats his own
*
winter sky-
an empty nest
left behind
*
ninety years
each of her cocker spaniels
named “Honey”
*
rivals:
my wife has named our computer
Charlotte
*
my children
don’t want to stop
historical marker
*
turning back
in the harsh wind
a crow cawing
*
my wife tells me
I’m going to make it-
common cold
*
the hills…
each house nestled
in the dark
*
the kitten kneads
at empty space
bottle feeding
*
drive-thru bank
sun on the oil slicks
in each bay
*
in the kiddie pool
a couple of ducks
go at it
*
first night away-
we discuss
our pets
*
2008:2
*
well worn
the lowest branch
at school
*
misplaced again
the address
for my gypsy niece
*
Gettysburg-
a different motel
this time
*
my daughter growing…
closer and closer
to the mirror
*
offset from its stain
a rusted washer
on the boat’s deck
*
retirement home-
seagulls lined up
on the jetty
*
to upgrade
his iPhone
the young beggar
*
baby rabbit
not scared
enough…
*
for the day
the cat favors
a paper bag
*
thunder and lightning…
my wife gets up
to lock the door
*
behind the shed
grass growing
from a hay bale
*
biking slowly
through a shower
of cherry petals…
*
the sudoku
I’m stuck on
light and easy
*
spring morning…
so many birds
telling it!
*
my wife not well-
we follow through
the cemetery visit
*
cold wind-
a stranger looks at me
like a friend
*
before the auction-
my wife trying to catch
a chicken
*
forsythia-
in the yard again
moving stones
*
spring twilight-
to think she once played
Tinkerbell
*
mascara-
staring off
at the clouds
*
2009:1
*
of age
my son donates
to a candidate
*
by myself
at the end of the bed
a chocolate
*
looking up
as far as we got
the moon
*
just a shiver
of not being here
– the stars
*
getting the newspaper…
just enough snow
for footprints
*
county fair-
the parachutist lands
elsewhere
*
school taxes
cider and donuts
at the bank
*
almost everything
iced over-
chickadees
*
Physical Therapy…
the cat tilts its head
side to side
*
walking home…
some of the snowfall
rides on me
*
a couple
holding hands
testing the ice
*
trying to get my glove off shaking hands
*
twilight-
how casually the deer
cross the road
*
the universe
of my thoughts
contracting
*
daybreak-
the boats
at rest
*
every
one
in
line
for
basket
ball
tickets
so
tall
*
three trees
so close together
in the moonlight
*
in the same sentence
my wife mentions my role
and the wallpaper
*
goldenrods-
the bee’s
appendages
*
with his cane
waving to everyone
who passes…
*
2009:2
*
abandoned car-
the place for campfires
and many moons
*
driving real slow
the old pickup
shaky too…
*
roaring wind-
my little thoughts
for tomorrow
*
blushes of green
I follow her
into the woods
*
long lunch
getting to the heart
of the paperback
*
lamb’s ear
softening
the quarry
*
spring sun stirring in the pond
*
motel overnight-
once again I see
my whole self
*
mid-summer
he moves everything out
of the garage
*
another day
a few birds fly
across the sunset
*
snow melt
a bottle in the remnants
of a paper bag
*
moment of silence-
bubbles surface
on his beer
*
an hour
from his bath
our dog has rolled again
*
nearly empty theater…
      how close
      they sit
*
July 4th
at the stockyards
just a few sows
*
spring planting
petals scattered over
turned earth
*
the current
up under the bridge
into the ice jam
*
almost done-
my wife starts whistling
to herself
*
suddenly
a fruit fly
interested in me
*
in the tent
talking ourselves
to sleep
*
her apron on
leaving one house
for another
*
new day
bringing water
to my face
*
2010:1
*
     fog
  over the valley
shape of the inlet
*
so many things
I can’t tell my wife
her barking dog
*
so much unclear-
snow melting
from a locked bike
*
cold night
semiconscious tug-of-war
with my wife
*
the dog in me
a warm breeze rustles
through the corn rows
*
startling me
startled
pheasant
*
kicking around town ever since Vietnam
*
before or after birth
our relationship
with the stars
*
within the grain
of the table
a dragon
*
passing me by
in the stillness
a snowmobile
*
the easy chair-
out of sight
of my family
*
quiet out-
while resting I find
my pulse
*
wings open wide
                        as they enter
                                            the river
*
home
another sunset
over the hill
*
heat wave
no time
to go back
*
how slowly
   he drives
        across her lawn
*
summer night-
walking into
her perfume
*
harvest moon-
more clothes designated
for pajamas
*
the house gone
I take the steps to see
the foundation…
*
autumn wind-
the squirrel’s high wire act
over traffic
*
another Thanksgiving
the fold-out turkey
at her desk
*
2010:2
*
sitting in the sun
not even trying
to figure anything out
*
my beer:
claiming it’s best
in 1893
*
the big snake
on the road ahead
a branch
*
   all the time
ending and beginning
   the universe
*
May day-
a dandelion in a pot
at the nursery
*
kids
in a tree
I once climbed
*
on the street
a person really happy
about something
*
he stands there
a sheet
over his seedlings
*
opening my mouth
to say hello
a bug flies in
*
midnight-
the cat steps on
just one piano key
*
after the rain
a snail pulling away
from itself
*
snow melt
a fly lands
on me
*
fireflies
the cat at the door
doesn’t want to come in
*
under the fence
into the chicken yard
      a caterpillar
*
redwing blackbirds
snow in patches
between headstones
*
I carry it around
then place it back
a candy bar
*
whale watch-
those waiting to board watch
those getting off
*
twilight
  with my wife
    hydrangea blossoms
*
winter wreckage-
no card from her
this year
*
hot night-
looking to the heavens
with a Popsicle
*
outside the meeting
back and forth
the sprinkler
*
2011:1
*
coming in
under the greenhouse door
a strand of ivy
*
feeling down-
a quick visit to my parents
in the cemetery
*
yesterday’s coffee-
fruit flies hanging out
by the mirror
*
Happy Holidays-
I fasten
my seat-belt
*
more or less
trees frame where
the farmhouse was
*
staff meeting-
I identify
with the last donut
*
as if to show me
the wind pulls up
a swirl of snow
*
the way
the waterfall flows
into being frozen
*
one generation
pushing another
in a swing
*
empty nest-
he gets a single fish
in a bowl
*
autumn silence-
clippers rusted shut
in the garden
*
after the river boat… the river
*
the lumber yard
surrounded
by forest
*
another day
without any sheep
our sheep dog
*
a measure
of the night’s cold
our cat’s affection
*
old photo…
the detective
in me
*
hints of a headache-
leaves blowing around
the tree
*
our quiet-
flowing over and under
the ice
*
Mother’s Day-
a mix of sun
wind and rain
*
from the ball game
the camera zooms
to the moon
*
cold hands-
the moon
half full
*
gates
to the cemetery
in shambles
*
summer night-
walking into
her perfume
*
2011:2
*
between poems
the wind
in the microphone
*
another day
I don’t look
in the mirror
*
dawn-
turning off
the night light
*
takes off
in the wind
his hand blown kiss
*
on the surface
   riding downstream
     some of the twilight
*
here I am
in the same place again
trillium
*
the opening
just right
Orion’s belt
*
scattered
with feathers
red berries
*
old snow
I keep my quiet
around her
*
attic cleanup…
placing some stones
back outside
*
rainy night-
climbing Everest
in the easy chair
*
more snow-
a man on the bus
with a braille laptop
*
a Happy Camper pulls up next to us
*
at the dentist
renovation work
next door
*
thunder and lightning-
one of the dogs becomes
part of me
*
near zero night
my breath
comes and goes
*
on his way
to the interview
picking lint
*
late autumn-
leaves in a pile
cling together
*
second foul shot…
just the sound
of pompoms
*

Selected Senryu by Tom Clausen

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Tom selected favorites

≈ Leave a comment

New Year’s eve …
I enter into
the Twilight Zone
*
*
*
the universe
of my thoughts
contracting
*
*
*
most of his studying
looking
out the window
*
*
*
knotty pine cabinet
above the toilet
two knots look back
*
*
*
before bed
my son’s music louder
than mine
*
*
*
in her sleep
she steals back
her hand
*
*
*
on the wall
Jesus on the cross
above her side of the bed
*
*
*
breeding pairs
at the zoo-
with strollers
*
*
*
to start the day
her slipper sounds
too fast
*
*
*
police car-
my thoughts of what I’ve done
wrong
*
*
*
as they control
their dogs
meeting…
*
*
*
after the pleasant part
of our walk
we hurry
*
*
*
dinner over-
he addresses
some crumbs
*
*
*
meeting her boyfriend
our handshake
out of synch
*
*
*
sneaking M & M’s…
the crunching
in my ears
*
*
*
after the party
undressing
myself
*
*
*
morning zazen:
marriage counseling
ourselves
*
*
*
wanting my old life
when I wanted
my present life
*
*
*
lunch alone
without a book
I read my mind
*
*
*
child’s play
so close
to screaming

Selected Tanka by Tom Clausen

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Tom selected favorites

≈ Leave a comment

each day a cycle
home to work, work to home
a quiet faith in things,
as real as unreal this way
of being here all these seasons
 *
*
*
so many things
to have opinions on
yet as I drive along
I don’t arrive
at any of them
 *
*
*
standing here just watching
the spring sun sparkle
on the water…
what is it they say
about living life to the fullest
 *
*
*
now the mower won’t start
in the middle of this rough day
I find myself
carrying a white towel
back to the house
 *
*
*
in my daughter’s room
which used to be my room
her shelf
full of model horses
all looking at me
 *
*
*
high clouds…
one horse leans in
against another-
before our children
my wife and I were like that
 *
*
*
with thunder very close
our little dog
gets in under my legs,
if only I could feel
so safe with myself
 *
*
*
early summer breeze
plays the sun
across the forest ferns-
everything so nice
I hardly know what to do
 *
*
*
before the new puppy
my wife got ten chickens,
before them two parakeets, two cats,
our two children and long ago
just me…
 *
*
*
at the old parking lot
the sparrows bathe
in a big puddle
sometimes I’m so happy
just to be here as witness
 *
*
*
my wife needs a room
of her own,
a place to close the door,
a place I never saw
in the sunnier days before
 *
*
*
a storm coming up
and as I take the laundry
off the line
it occurs to me
this is a moment to savor
 *
*
*
I hold back 
 saying anything
because of the way one thing
leads to another
if you let them start…
 *
*
*
hugging
perhaps too long
but not long enough
to remember
her name
 *
*
*
years are passing
unable to shed tears
for anyone-
will I wait to the end
to let it all go?
 *
*
*
I’ve never been homeless
but think of it
seeing that shed
with a broken window
dawn light streaming in
 *
*
*
the geese go where
they must go
no mind-
the spring rain drops
bouncing off me
 *
*
*
much of my life spent
wanting others to like
what I like-
in my jacket pocket the stone
is worked with worries
 *
*
*
having told her
I was writing less
and living more
I promptly write down
the absurdity of that
 *
*
*
for all that
which I will not get to
do in this life
the fountain carries on
in the rain
 *
*
*
the sun leaves me
at the Rest Area
with another day done
I entertain the thought
‘you can never go home again’
 *
*
*
you, ready as me
there on the other coast
imagine, to hop a freight
and leave behind all
that didn’t seem quite right
 *
*
*
in the wind
I rake and gather
leaves
with thoughts of people
I’ve known before
 *
*
*
the river must make
so many curves
to pass through the lowlands
             the way nature always
             says something to us
 *
*
*
this piercing cold
makes me realize
the gift it is to be alive
even if the way along
is too thin or thicketed
 *
*
*
in the attic
to set a mousetrap
I find a letter of long ago,
the fiction of a new love
that did not last
 *
*
*
amazing
flesh and bones
driving in heavy traffic,
that here I am
doing this
 *
*
*
in embers tonight
I stare
and wonder why
I am here,
you are there
 *
*
*
ten years later…
both married with one child
we all pass on a path
and smile politely
without a word
 *
*
*
cold walk home
I stop to pee
looking up in the dark
the tiniest of snowflakes
finds my nose
 *
*
*
to show me
the spirit of a train
I wish for one to come-
these overgrown tracks
I walk along
 *
*
*
the cold walk,
silence
between us,
the creek running
under ice
 *
*
*
three days removed
from Halloween
the ghost of me goes
through the motions
in this tattered family costume
 *
*
*
my favorite old t-shirt
through the wash
with my fountain pen in pocket
has left ink stains to wear
all around my heart
 *
*
*
showing my daughter
my childhood ‘fish’ jackknife
she promptly says:
“i’ll put that in your grave
when you die”
 *
*
*
in line
at the post office
I watch her
pen point search
for the last thing to say
 *
*
*
beneath the open
library window
she wakes slightly to stretch,
and beautifully
change position
 *
*
*
creating a space
in himself
that can’t be filled
        – his lengthy ritual
          seaside walks
 *
*
*
a pale sun
visits
every now and then
the crocus bed
you made
 *
*
*
in the bottom of a box
during our yard sale
I find my childhood chieftan ring
          – within five minutes
            my son has lost it
 *
*
*
sunset shot through
the mist nestled 
across the swamp,
how hard it can be
to forgive and forget 
 *
*
*

she looks long
at the ocean,
that place she threw
a rock and
her bracelet too…

 *
*
*

the concert over,
the crowd empties
out into the street,
where people and music go
in some eternal tune

 *
*
*

so the day
with its snow
and cold is done,
a three star
sudoku too!

 

 

 

 *
*
*
were I an old dog
with a happy grin
and even some naughty habits
it seems my family
might find me more sympathetic
 *
*
*

passing by so close
and quietly…
it’s as if the dark permits
the deer and me
a mutual sense of safety

 

 

 *
*
*

she presides over an hour
this sunny spring day…
when my focus begins to shift
she tells me
we aren’t done yet!

 

 

 *
*
*

of this world
one day
in a third floor mansion,
the next
at the bottom of the sea

 

 

 *
*
*

so much spring going on
yet the old truck,
going nowhere,
has a bird’s nest
built on a back tire

 

 

 

 *
*
*

 

by myself
driving by the lake,
the one I once drove by
with my mother,
that last trip out of town

 

 

 *
*
*

in the attic to clean
I read letter’s from my parents
to each other…
so many things
that cannot be thrown out

 

 

 

 

 *
*
*

I check out both ends
of the Staten Island ferry
and join the majority…
those who look ahead
to where we are going

 

 

 *
*
*

again this year
the leaves fall
and I watch…
the world as it is
still too much

 

 

 *
*
*

late night
alone in the stillness
the Christmas lights
go off and on,
off and on…

 

 

 

 *
*
*

before dawn…
this timeless journey
in the here and now
exploring further
myself again…

 

 

 

 *
*
*

cracks in the plaster
have appeared again,
as inevitable as ever
this difference
between us

 

 

 

 

 *
*
*

on my bike ride home
I pass a man and his kids
who both wave at me…
my happy wave back
in cycling fellowship

 

 

 

 *
*
*

how lovely
to do nothing at all
as these wind gusts
billow her blouse
a bit open

 

 

 

 

 *
*
*

no contest at all
sitting here under a willow
watching the water
while all sorts of chores
remain undone…

 

 

 

 *
*
*

yet another message
to be found out here,
this plains town
football field
without a scoreboard

 

 

 

 

 *
*
*

gently
the morning has come,
the ash tree leaves a flutter
as if I should hesitate
to find my way
 into the day

 

 

 

 *
*
*

I give up the search
and go out to buy
another bottle…deciding where
to safely hide it
I find the missing one!

 

 *
*
*

always wanting
to speed further away
from that day, pulled over
to be given a ticket
for my family to see

 

 

 *
*
*

made my bed
and lying in it
a whole night
without much sleep
but plenty of positions…

 

 

 *
*
*

perpendicular
to my path here
late in the day
quickening my step
someone I want to see…

 

 

 *
*
*

there was a first day
on the job and now
forty-two years later
I arrive at the last day
and walk out the door…

 

 

 *
*
*
post cards
from all over the world
sent with little messages
as if I was somewhere
beyond the living room…
 *
*
*
 raining leaves
in the balmy breeze
this walk shows me my life
has arrived with no need
to be at odds with itself

Selected little poems by Tom Clausen- possibly a few haiku mixed in..

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Tom selected favorites

≈ Leave a comment

 
another day
avoiding it
the sun
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
summer night-
in a pile of rubble
the house’s scent
 
 
 **
 
 
 
between poems
at the microphone
the wind…
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
another reminder
the blossoming tree
with thorns
 
 
 **
 
 
 
sun on new snow-
a chickadee
repeats its name!
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
in an opening
just right
Orion’s Belt
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 the way
the waterfall flows
into being frozen
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 one generation
pushes another
in a swing
 
 
** 
 
 
 
autumn again-
after everything
I pour her tea
 
 
 
 **
 
 
each time
out to the U-haul
holding hands
 
 
 
** 
 
 
another day
a few birds fly
across the sunset
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
outside the meeting
  back and forth
   the sprinkler
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
 
 
stuck inside
the dog gets up
and turns around
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
autumn nightfall
dropping my son off
for something else
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
where I sit
on my usual bench
remains of a nut
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
on the trail again…
walking deeper
into myself
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
after our visit
in quiet, the things
I forgot to say…
 
 
 
 **
 
 
Halloween-
to a simple question
my life story
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
first snow gone-
this steady need
to practice
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
 
 
I choose one-
a roomful of chairs
without people
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
 
crickets…
my eyes closed
to the day
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
lunar eclipse-
back inside something I did
or didn’t do
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
letting her
walk all over me
ladybug
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
back home
these trees I knew
in all their seasons
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
another full moon
my checkbook
still unbalanced
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
snow filling
our tracks into the woods
by heart
 
 
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
undefended:
in the cold rain
their snow fort
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
long wait alone
in the parking lot…
a dog in the next car
 
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
keeping quiet
the day’s last light
on new grass
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
she wanders away…
her snail disembarks
the matchbox truck
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
alone
in the middle of a crowd
someone I knew
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
always takes his time
the custodian watches
the floor dry
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
peepers
my daughter whispers
something she knows
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
reading her letter-
suddenly aware of the look
on my face
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
from room to room
on the Clue board
a tiny spider
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
by the ocean…
again filled
with emptiness
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
reading into it
as much as i can
my life
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
a few floors down
in another building
someone else looks out
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
so much we have…
yet between us too
an emptiness
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
a few snow flakes
entering the woods
silence
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
cold dusk
my thoughts pass through
a crow flying by
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
boardwalk-
we go to one end
then the other
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
the plant in the window
has gone everywhere
it can
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
spring frost-
the park cannon aimed
at the church
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
in the empty room
two quiet types
father and son
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
despite
the development
deer path
 
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
a flat tire
near my father’s grave
I stop to visit
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
in love
bicycling
into the snowstorm
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
the spread of stars
wind moves the snow
from where it fell
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
between bites
from the apple
he stares…
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
lingering in bed…
the ceiling has no
answers
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
flea market-
the Rubik’s cube
already solved
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
snow fall-
my daughter asks where
we are going…
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
left and right
he follows the way
of his kicked stone
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
winter stars-
our meeting
un-arranged
 
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
wondering …
will the squirrel find
half of what it buried?
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
 
most of the rain
not falling
on me
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
mower won’t start
busy as a bee
a bee
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
straight out
of a dream
another day
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
steady rain
a pickle
in the parking lot
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
the dates
on the coins
I give up…
 
 
 
 **
 
 
spring
removing the neighbors
from view
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
the chainlink fence
runs into
high water
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
the crow
in me
gets a response
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
the habit of looking
where it used to be
– the mirror
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
garden walk-
she checks herself
in the pond
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
taking off my clothes
my heart
closer…
 
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
 
 
alone in the waiting room
checking the plant
for reality
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
droning plane fades out…
how little difference it makes
what age I am
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
my child asks
what keeps the moon up?
you do, I reply
 
 
 
 **
 
 
walking
through more
– my life
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
being there
in the woods
a tree falls
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
cross country runner
no one ahead
or behind
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
each
of the rain drops
that touch her…
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
mountaintop:
giving back
each breath
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
 
free spirits
a year later
they return
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
 
the way
rain takes
the mountain
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
for my son:
lifting a stone
to see
 
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
watering their plants
seeing their house
without them
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
rehearsing
the reading
to no one
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
the clouds
calligraphy
reads…
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
day break-
from the bread truck’s roof
frost swirls
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
dreary day…
jack o’lantern collapsed
on it’s grin
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
crane
on the horizon
holds a cloud
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
at the cliff edge
my whole life
behind me
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
closed-
deep inside
a light
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
under the manhole
the night gives
a gurgle
 
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
after the thriller
the wideness
of bed
 
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 
river bank swallows-
my beer label
peels easily
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
lying in the leaves-
the sun shares the shape
of her corduroys
 
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
the hypnotist
describes her technique…
sound of the stream
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
swallows sweep
through the cemetery
– fresh grave
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
stiff wind-
shadows of things
stretch on the street
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
 
passing me by
in the stillness
a snowmobile
 
 
 
 **
 
 
on the street
a person really happy
about something
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
    no one there
the bus driver
opens the door
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
back and forth
the elephant
weighs a foot
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
sunrise-
yesterday’s footprints
in the snow
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
on a rise
between headstones
a snowman
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
the custodian
brings up
karma

 
 
 
** 
 
 
in a day dream…
I almost
walk into her 
 
 
** 
 
 
end of its first day:
the shiny garbage can
all beat up
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
morning light-
the strangers have become
familiar
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
high up
against a big cloud
specks of birds
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
first day-
a student turns the map
every which way
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
daylight savings-
I leave my calendar
a month behind
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
in the way
of a dream
the turtle without a shell
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
overnight snow-
to help the sun
I shovel some
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
glint from a car
a stray thought
of Camelot
 
 
 
 
 **
 
 
time called
wrappers rush by
home plate
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
old wagon
the last load
still there
 
 
 
 **
 
 
 
end of the trail
the world
without humans
 
 
 
** 
 
 
 
 the back road…
one turn after another
more outrageous reds
 

A Haiku Way of Life- thoughts on the spirit and practice

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Haiku Way of Life

≈ 3 Comments

A HAIKU WAY OF LIFE 

[]                 by Tom Clausen

A beginning place for me is to go back to the haiku I read and the various books and essays about haiku which made indelible impressions and so captivated me at that time. To this day, the gift and sense of those earliest readings remain very strong.The first haiku I encountered were in Cor van den Heuvel’s HAIKU ANTHOLOGY, R.H. Blyth’s multi-volume series and numerous individual books by authors I discovered through Cor’s Anthology.

Ten years ago, when I first dipped my toe into the haiku pond rather tentatively, I was nervous with excitement and amazed at how kindred and welcoming my first contacts were. The feeling that I got from haiku was true gladness to have discovered a manner of expression that completely clicks for me – it just simply felt right, perfectly concise, precise and not telling me how or what to feel as much as simply giving me the wholly decent chance to get there on my own.  The brevity and discipline of the haiku form was the obvious antidote to combat my tendency toward wordiness, overstatement and excess. It was entirely refreshing to me that haiku insisted on the writer utilizing the fewest words possible – to convey the poetic in the ordinary anywhere, anytime.

I can remember early on being so happy with haiku that internally I vowed to read and write haiku for the rest of my life. Such was the appeal and strength of feeling I had then and still have to this day.

Admittedly, in these past ten years there have been moments of doubt, dry spells, lulls and wonders – if I had maybe lost my way and lost interest in haiku. Yet repeatedly, I’ve discovered that reading haiku and finding good poems can and will spark my interest and get me going again. A great haiku is its own best endorsement. To read a great haiku is bound to reinvigorate anyone who has at any time felt the magnetic charm of haiku. The true satisfaction I get from each great haiku is but one of the reasons I avidly remain engaged and feel assured now as I did ten years ago, that I’ll keep reading and writing for a long time to come if not for the rest of my life.

Haiku puzzle me. There are many haiku I read that don’t move me and do disappoint. Yet I find most haiku at least pleasant and many I find wonderfully intriguing, even inspiring. The very best haiku often appear seamlessly “easy” to have written. This, of course, is rarely so, which makes the illusion of ease beguiling. Speaking for myself here, I feel no closer to any consistent ability to write a good haiku now than I did when I began ten years ago. This phenomena is both compelling to keep at it, and of course, a bit to a lot frustrating. It does guarantee a perpetual state of beginningness that is somewhat unique and humbling. It is quite appealing that haiku are highly portable and can be worked on as an exercise in the mind wherever you are until it becomes itself, just right.

John Stevenson once wrote in a letter to me that he viewed his joining the haiku community on the order of moving to a new small town where the community was both welcoming and eclectically interesting. I knew what he meant – it spoke well for my own sense of connection and camaraderie that began almost immediately after I read a news article in an Ithaca paper profiling Ruth Yarrow.  Shortly after reading this awakening article, I sought out anything “haiku” I could find – my first source was Cor’s HAIKU ANTHOLOGY through which I then subscribed to Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Wind Chimes and Brussel Sprouts, to name a few.

The breadth and brilliance I discovered in the many voices I read at that time instantly aroused in me a sense of deep inner knowing and inspiration that is the connection of a well-conceived haiku. I’ll never forget the initial immersion and beautiful opining I felt reading poems like these from Cor’s Anthology:

 

                                     time after time
                  caterpillar climbs this broken stem
                                     then probes beyond

                                                 – James Hackett
                                         the swan’s head
                                      turns away from sunset
                                             to his dark side

                                                     – Anita Virgil
                                                 hot night
                                            turning the pillow
                                             to the cool side

                                          – Cor van den Heuvel

And the following two by John Wills that are haunting in their dreamlike poignancy: 

                                              the river
                                        leans upon the snag
                                            a moment

I am so drawn to that snag, the force of that river and that perfectly rendered moment where the snag no longer can hold forth and surrenders. It is staggering that eight words can convey something so evocative and dynamic. 

                                            boulders
                                    just beneath the boat
                                            it’s dawn

Here we are given the earth, the waters and the heavens, with us in the boat to help us recognize just where we are in this life – very much in between all these eternal forces.These poems and many others I’d love to share, compel me to constantly search for the next holy or purely precious haiku. I thoroughly enjoy the arrival of each new haiku magazine and the perusal that follows. I keep notebooks of my personal favorites and enjoy the internal sensation that goes into each selection.

With my own writing, I have learned repeatedly not to trust myself and to graciously place my trust in the editors, haiku community, friends and my wife to discern what is truly worthy of being submitted or published. Here is my sense of what goes into haiku creation – from a letter written to Jim Kacian:

Over the years I’ve valued very much the little notes of feedback from editors – we each find our way more or less collectively by virtue of the community where the group is constantly giving guidance to the individual. I often feel than any little success I’ve had is less about me and more about the range of editors and haiku friends, and the guidance I’ve received simply be reading widely what’s out there, then forgetting it, but letting the spirit of it seep into and permeate my
being …

I am tremendously grateful for the work of editors who in tireless devotion sift and cull from the masses of submission those that they deem worthy. The number of off-base, uninspired, and maybe even embarrassing attempts at haiku I’ve created over this past decade is highly relevant to why I must keep at it. With hope that an improved sense of craft and consistency will develop!

Somewhere I read that Basho wrote about 2000 haiku in his life of which 100 or so are considered excellent, and of which he believed there were maybe ten that truly hit the mark. This is a tough ratio but perhaps holds a realistic perspective for us all. Excellent haiku craft requires tireless resolve to keep at it despite the misses and bunches of weaker attempts, with hope that out of the effort will surely come some keepers, and, if we are lucky, serendipity may provide an opportunity to create a haiku that will stand the test of time.

There is no way to predict what will become worthy, but the whole process of jotting notes, refining, submitting and seeing what gets selected is a near endless divination of what is and is not haiku. This could playfully be called the Haiku Wars and they are no doubt as endless as the poets putting their heart into the form. It is worth keeping at it just to see what and who next will break the surface of our haiku pond, either jumping in, feeding or getting out.

A major reason I keep reading haiku is that I hope to find good ones or another haiku that simply “wows” me and fills me with a grateful sense of being alive, so that I am one with that haiku moment (even if just a flash!).

At work nearly ten years ago, I posted this poem by Ryokan:

 

                                the thief left it behind
                                          the moon
                                    at the window

No matter when or how many times I read and feel this poem’s koan quality, I am glad for it, for myself, for all life, for this world. Perfectly, in three lines is the solace of truth and mystery conceived.A real blessing of haiku is its portable, direct simplicity that allows a favorite poem to be kept in mind. As I prepared what to say today, I opened a fortune cookie that seems right to share here today, and perhaps holds the key to what appeals above all else in each of us about haiku:

Keep it simple. The more you say
the less people remember. 

In this spirit, a haiku by Ruth Yarrow that I’ve meditated on over and over:

                  after the garden party        the garden

This great one liner says practically all I could want to say about human existence. We each are part of a garden party, yes, but the garden after the party is the place we alone seek out to find ourselves and our deepest nature.Once on a hospital form, under the category of religious affiliation, I checked “other” and wrote “haiku.” Haiku to me is a way of life, a choice of focus and a form of spiritual appreciation requiring us – reminding us to see beyond self or as Basho said, Haiku is simply what is happening in this place at this moment.

HAIKU HAPPENS, as a bumper sticker proclaims, will happen to us only if we remain open and ready to engage in the range of myriad nuances and subtle cues from nature that are voices simultaneously taking us inward and outward, connecting us with the nature we have come from and will return to.

In R.H. Blyth’s THE HISTORY OF HAIKU, he lists thirteen characteristics of the state of mind which the creation and appreciation of haiku demand. They are:

  1.  Selflessness
  2.  Loneliness
  3.  Grateful acceptance
  4.  Wordlessness
  5.  Non-intellectuality
  6.  Contradictoriness
  7.  Humor
  8.  Freedom
  9.  Non-morality
10.  Simplicity
11.  Materiality
12.  Love
13.  Courage 

These all appeal to me as affirmations and good qualities to navigate our life stream with. The practice of reading and writing certainly serves to hone these qualities. To extend the spirit of R.H. Blyth’s list, I’ve come up with my own additional thirteen characteristics:
  1.  Faith
  2.  Sharing
  3.  Discipline
  4.  Concision
  5.  Solitude
  6.  Humility
  7.  Awareness
  8.  Ritual
  9.  Creativity
10.  Centering
11.  Truthfulness
12.  Curiosity
13.  Patience 

I’d like to discuss briefly each of these 13 characteristics and explain what about each of them might serve to sustain a haiku interest. 

FAITH

Haiku, to me, is a faith in all of nature. The changes in nature are infinite and yet, as with all changes, there is a return to where things begin. The miracle of cycles large and small provides that each nuance of nature is unique and at once universal. These billions of nuances provide sensations that are faithful, and it is these matters that comprise the subject and feelings that are haiku. In my nearly 50 years, I’ve come to be entirely enchanted by the flow of seasonal changes, shift by shift, subtle and dramatic, that without fail, are induced like birth itself , by a magical timing that makes every moment the conclusion of a ripening – our weather, our day and night gives each creature a chance to sleep and be reborn to greet a new day as it truly is . . .  a new chance.The past and the future are not real in the sense that only the present tense, always now, is really happening. Past and future are mere abstractions, inaccurate memories and predictions. Haiku as faith is the poetry of the here and now, and focuses us on the reality that this is all we have – ever.

 

SHARING

A haiku for me is often, if not always, conceived and worked on in solitude, yet the essential path that sanctifies or completes the creation is when that poetic moment reaches someone else and creates within them a sensation that in some way approaches that which gave rise to the haiku. Without a reader, without sharing, a haiku is like a seed adrift on a breeze … waiting to be received.By nature, I am more of a loner and a seeker of solitude than a social being. However, I learned long ago I am uncomfortable being always alone. Haiku then, for me, provides the perfect medium for recording what transpires for me in solitude, sharing these fillings and learning which, is any, of these resonate with others.

 

DISCIPLINE

To write haiku, one must remain aware, ready, open, and sensitive. For myself, I can sense when my life manner is eroding and getting out of balance. When this happens, it is usually because my pace has become too fast, my priorities mixed up, and motives far removed from natural rhythms. Living in a way where one is a true witness to nature, as one must be to write haiku, is a discipline which encourages and even demands a constant contact with a deeper understanding. 

CONCISION

This may be as critical as any quality as to why I personally must continue to read and write haiku. I have a lifelong tendency to overwrite, to say too much and generally revel in excess. What better antidote to this then than haiku? 

SOLITUDE

In solitude we find the beauty of seeing things on their own terms. Nature naturally, quietly speaks for herself. No human values, pronouncements or expectations need intervene. Being alone in nature allows us to be as a ghost, without distraction, open, ready and able to experience purely. 

HUMILITY

The haiku perspective, by recognizing poetry in the affairs of things, gives to all creation an equal footing. Aside from this humility, which is an essential part in the act of writing haiku, I’ve found to be at times extremely humbling. To fiddle and fumble with a few little words, trying them this way, then that, without being able to get them just right, shows how difficult it is to write a good haiku, however simple the result may seem. 

AWARENESS

This is the readiness to fully read then record the poetic messages that constantly surround us. 

RITUAL

Haiku encourages a heightened awareness of the pageant that is the flow of the seasons. By embracing seasonal changes, we create an honoring ritual acknowledging the inevitability of our involvement in the constant state of passage. 

CREATIVITY

To read and write haiku, one must have a desire to fulfill the inner calling to create, and to express in words that which gives us the “ah” or “aha” quality in life.Anita Virgil, in her essay “When Is A Haiku?” (Red Moon 1997 Anthology), wrote It happens to us all. It makes one say or think or feel – ah! as we suddenly see the ordinary in a new light. It is a moment of intuition, an insight into the vital inevitability of things as R.H. Blyth calls it. It can be a glimpse of the beauty or cosmic humor of life, of pathos, of poignancy or paradox. It can be intensified awareness of natural phenomena which reflect human emotion. One does not wish to lose this moment. One wants to share it with someone or record it for one’s own enjoyment. Whatever the impetus, these moments serve to point up our aliveness and connection with the world, our brief time upon the earth. They point to our very humanity.

Creativity is moving with one’s life and recognizing it to be worth recording and recreating in part of in whole.

 

CENTERING

Jim Kacian, in his new book, SIX DIRECTIONS, states, Through the cumulative effects of small moments, we expand our sense of the universe to its full size, that the only way out of a circle is through its center. He goes one to state, If we did not believe the former, we would not believe in haiku as a way and a means. When we pass through the center, subject and object, time and space disappear and we move outside of the plane where we began, infinity, eternally changed.Haiku is effectively a centering. Whether reading or writing haiku, the bottom line is one must enter the moment wholeheartedly, becoming in essence one with the moment – centered in it.

No one escapes unscathed the pains and burdens in life. We each develop ways of dealing with these inevitable aspects of life. For me, haiku and the centering that it inspires has provided a useful strategy for coping with more difficult times. At times, our existence creates a paradoxical tension where we feel a potential to be unified with everyone and everything, yet feel simultaneously, every alone and separate . . . to me, a haiku is a harmonizing of unity and separation.

 

TRUTHFULNESS

In the preface to HAIKU, Vol. I, R.H. Blyth states, Haiku does not aim at beauty. Like the music of Bach, it aims at significance, and some kind of beauty is found hovering near. The real nature of each thing, and more so of all things is a poetical one. Haiku shows us what we knew all the time, but did not know we knew; it shows us that we are poets insofar as we live at all.Haiku are kernels of truth, unadulterated by opinion, emotion, through or desire. They stand bare boned and crystal clear to exact the truth of what is.

Basho, in the following taken from Eric Amann’s highly recommended book on haiku, WORDLESS POEM, further suggests the utter truthfulness of haiku when he states, Haiku are a way of seeing, hearing and feeling, a special state of consciousness in which we grasp intuitively the identity of people and nature and the continuity between ourselves and the larger cosmos.

Further, Basho said, Learn from the pine about the pine, from the bamboo about the bamboo. But always leave your old self behind, otherwise it will get between you and the object. Poetry springs out of its own when you and the object have become one, when you have looked deep into nature to see the hidden gleam. No matter how well worded your poems may be, if the feeling is not natural, if you and object have not become one, your poems are not true haiku, but merely imitations of reality.

 

CURIOSITY

Reading and writing haiku allows an exercise of one’s naturally felt curiosity about life and the world. The subject of haiku is often obvious, but requires the relation to the subject to reflect the subtle and magical occurrences and interactions always in our midst. 

PATIENCE

This quality may be more personal than universal, but I’ve found that haiku are not always there for me to write. Much as I’d love to write a haiku a day or even more, the reality is, I can’t. My ability to produce is more on a sporadic level and between attempts, there are definite “dry spells” which require much patience to wait through.Having gone through my 13 reasons, I’d like to give another  incentive for my involvement with haiku: I love to get mail! Even as a child, my love of mail led me to write for travel brochures, to railroads, pencil companies – anyone who might respond with something for me in the daily mail delivery. Since joining the haiku community, I have discovered a wonderful treasure-trove of correspondence – not only do I get mail, but it is of a highly enjoyable and special nature.

I’d like to conclude with a final thought that summarizes what sustains my haiku habit. Haiku for me is the perfect record of my simply existing here and now. Each haiku, in a way, can be thought of as a farewell poem – an acceptance of the transitory nature of everything. Reading entries from a lifetime’s worth of my journals is at this point, only of minimal interest to me, and I’m sure not even that to anyone else. Yet the better of those haiku I’ve written, I am pleased to return to and would be happy to have someone else find and read someday.

 the damsel fly leaving
the lily again and again
        only to return 

The above paper was read by the author at the Haiku Society of America meeting, September 19, 1998.  Grateful thanks to the poets for permission
to reprint their haiku here.

BACK TO CONTENTS PAGE
Learn how to listen as things speak for themselves   – Basho

Growing Late-tanka

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Chapbooks

≈ Leave a comment

available through Snapshot Press:
www.snapshotpress.co.uk
ISBN  1-903543-13-4
US  $14.00    Canada  $17.00    UK f. 7.99
Growing Late- by Tom Clausen (2006)  edited by John Barlow
 taken from the back cover:
‘Tom Clausen has taken the tanka form and given it his own voice. His poems are flags set at the boundaries of his person that guide the reader deeper into him or herself. Though his work is very personal, the honesty and validity of it applies his observations to all of us. He has courageously looked into his heart and found us all’    – Jane Reichhold, Editor, Lynx
‘Tom Clausen has journeyed deep into the human mind and heart, the vagaries of which he brilliantly links to the cycles of the natural world. These are autumnal poems, filled with wistfulness and regret for time past. At the same time, however, Clausen finds comfort in the tiny wonders of daily life; a daddy-longlegs, bare feet, the scent of wood smoke, and his own chair. With deep modesty and generosity of spirit, he is “quietly recording” and “living all these/ middle-aged days.” ‘
Pamela Miller Ness, Editor, Red Lights
http://www.snapshotpress.co.uk/books/growing_late.htm

Tanka

as useless
as this hard rain
on frozen ground—
these memories of all the people
I once was

so many chances
in a day
to say something to you
but here it is
growing late

my beer gone flat
but out of duty
I finish it—
living all these
middle-aged days

Reviews

‘A highly recommended addition to your tanka collection. Poem after poem demonstrates the mastery of a highly skilled poet willing to engage the unsentimental realities of his existence.’
—Lynx

A Work of Love-tanka

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in A Work of Love, Chapbooks, Published Poems, tanka

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

A Work of Love, Chapbooks, little poems, poetry, tanka

A Work of Love  (1997)  Tanka
from Tiny Poems Press ( out of print)

*
*

midnight again
the furnace cycles off
and no wind-
for a while the quiet
becomes a longing

*
*

between chores
I study my hands
as if they might hold
something
I should know
*
*
tiny bluets
all around me
and over there
a couple,
very much in love
*
*
I can’t help my desire
glancing over
to her terminal
after little bits of decent
time have passed
*
*
by spontaneous consent
our subtle flirting
has played itself out–
our friendship will be
all the better for this
*
*
she’s not here
to see it
but after breaking the stick
I perfectly fit the broken ends
back together again
*
*
as if one
were not enough
I daydream pleasantly
of several women
I know
*
*
her look guarded
as she tells me
she may be late–
what great news this is,
she still will come
*
*
so intent with feeling
that her warm greeting
to someone just beyond me
gave me a moment so sure
she was greeting me
*
*
seeing her by chance
I once had a dream about her
years ago–
over time it has taken on
a substance of its own
*
*
what a surprise
she wants to take a photo
of us together–
I keep thinking
about it
*
*
Queen Anne’s Lace and
Black Eyed Susans
by the thousands along the road
and to think
you married me
*
*
as we gaze across the fence
my wife asks what I think
about a cow’s life,
honestly it looks quite okay
except for the flies
*
*
far from home
in the car
my wife mentions in passing
the name of someone
we don’t see anymore
*
*
in the company of friends
our marriage takes on
an air of comfort
as we all attend to things
other than ourselves
*
*
after supporting
their divorce plans
I write them a Valentine;
suggest they reconsider
it all again
*
*
beyond this life
that one old friend
I bump into over and over
promising that we’ll get together
again, someday
*
*
deep in the night
letting the phone ring
and ring…
then for a long time
wondering who?
*
*
when I think back
six years ago
when my mother had the stroke
I can’t remember who
I was back then
*
*
under a tree
we talk of mother’s passage
from this life–
inchworms suspended
all around us
*
*
I had it all
figured out,
this little wisdom of mine,
then in the night
the rain so hard
*
*
who knows what she thinks
or desires
yet the rain this Saturday
steady, as my wife reads
I watch her carefully
*
*
these days housebound
if only we could agree
to keep our words
silently
to ourselves
*
*
wanting my old life
when I wanted
my present life
stirring the soup she made
as a cold rain falls outside
*
*
some days seem
altogether too much
but then
so welcome it becomes
the night
*
*
after a rough day
she props her head in hand
a few inches from my face
and asks intently:
“do you really like me?”
*
*
the house quiet
and cold
this early morning alone
saddened to know how much
I desired just this
*
*
the envelope to me
sealed carefully with tape
on every seam
when opened, reveals
absolutely nothing
*
*
tolerably melancholy
to sit here while the kids play
and be lost in myself–
on a path nearby
she walks in the sun
*
*
for over a decade
we’ve talked–
still you want our talk
as much as I want
the silences between
*
*
nothing special
about deja-vu,
feeling down–
once long ago I felt
young and free
*
*
even though
we’re always together
my wife asks if
I’ve tried
the new pizza place
*
*
I look over
the three sleeping bodies
beside me–
to think a whole decade
I felt all alone
*
*
instinctively
for old times’ sake
I reach out, half awake,
to give your breast
a quick little squeeze
*
*
this rainy fall Sunday
I write poems and watch
steam rise from my tea–
as she passes she rips off
a little piece of sandpaper for me
*
*
my youth spent
gathering strength and solace
of friends near and far–
these short years later
losing them one by one
*
*
the cold walk,
silence
between us,
the creek running
under ice
*
*
every few bounces
the robin pauses on the lawn
to look and listen
as if that were all
there was to do
*
*
I have much to do
it is obvious–
what I will do is exactly
what she wants,
her little two year old heart
*
*
the tentative start-up
of talk…
                to a new friend?
begins the old doubt
of just who I am, again
*
*

Homework

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Chapbooks

≈ 1 Comment

Homework  ( 2000)  Snapshot Press, Poetry/  Haiku & Tanka
published by Snapshot Press:
  www.snapshotpress.co.uk
oop-   ISBN 1 903543002
Review of ‘Homework’  by Jane and Werner Reichhold:

Homework by Tom Clausen. Saddle-stitched, full color cover, 4″ x 6″, 36 pages. $10., ppd. ISBN: 1-903543-00-2. oop- by Snapshots Press, 132 Crosby, Liverpool, L23 8XS, England.

To quote the jacket notes: “Focusing squarely on domestic life, this collection of haiku, senryu, and tanka is often funny, often sad and always paradoxically both familiar and eye-opening.” It cannot be said better nor more succinctly what this newest book by Tom Clausen contains. I can only add my continuing praise for Tom’s work. It is always a revelation and delight how he seizes on the tiniest experience, and through his examination of it and the cool observation his own feelings, carries it over into a major event. This leaves the reader wondering, “Now, why did I not notice that?” and “Why did I not think of that as material for a poem?”. It seems that tanka is especially designed for the methods of Tom Clausen. Even when aware of the smallest thing, he is also aware of how that thing or event is affecting him. This occurs even in his haiku.

While some purists might fault his haiku for not being closely enough aligned with the nature-nature viewpoint, his sensibilities are absolutely accurate for tanka. This collection gains, I think, by the inclusion of his haiku (which often portray the lighter moments of family living). They seem to play off and actually highlight the attributes of his tanka. Altogether, the editing and arrangement of the poems seems especially fine and relevant. For anyone who has grown up in a family or is living in a family now, this book will take away those terrible moments of aloneness when one felt that no one else in the world ever had such moments of doubt, despair and pure undiluted joy. Tom has been there, and he has the courage to face them directly and honestly, and to continue to hang with the feelings until he has created pure poetry out of them.

no longer me
it proves a mystery who it is
I’ve become
walking around this house
with my family there inside

I sort of knew
my coffee cup
was empty –
so much I look in it
just to see

The sensitivity of the editor, John Barlow, is shown in the choice of a drawing done by Tom’s young daughter, Emma Clausen, as cover along with the insider joke of the title of the book – Homework. Delight piles on delight with this one.

Standing Here

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Tom Clausen in Chapbooks

≈ 3 Comments

Standing Here  ( 1998)  self published

daybreak-

the rubber duck alone

in the empty tub

 

 

 

 

 

 

standing here

at this window, remembering mother

standing here

 

 

 

 

 

 

my child asks

what keeps the moon up?

you do, I reply

 

 

 

 

 

 

the door open

to the meditation room

no one there

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

waiting…

behind opaque glass

snow falls

 

 

 

 

 

 

bitter cold morning-

compressed with the trash

some of sunrise

 

 

 

 

 

 

quiet evening-

a spider walks its shadow

across the wall

 

 

 

 

 

 

goldenrod gall

quivers-

blowing snow

 

 

 

 

 

 

winter moor-

my footsteps come back

to me

 

 

 

 

 

 

dark morning snow

the bus packed

with faces

 

 

 

 

 

 

light snow…

the students study

in silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

late afternoon-

pigeons bank back to

the building

 

 

 

 

 

 

watering their plants

seeing their house

without them

 

 

 

 

 

 

last ray of sun

in the feeder

a sparrow

 

 

 

 

 

 

closed-

deep inside

a light

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a stranger smiles-

the elevator closes

and goes up

 

 

 

 

 

 

my son asks

how far it goes

… space

 

 

 

 

 

 

lunch alone

without a book

I read my mind

 

 

 

 

 

 

drought-

ants disappearing

into cracked earth

 

 

 

 

 

 

still summer night-

shining a flashlight

around the garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

for my son:

lifting a stone

to see

 

 

 

 

 

 

formal garden-

a cabbage butterfly’s

whimsy

 

 

 

 

 

 

urinating…

the delicate breeze

among the ferns

 

 

 

 

 

 

cold front

the forgotten dulcimer

pings

 

 

 

 

 

 

heavy rain-

lilac blooms smush

against the window

 

 

 

 

 

 

lying in the leaves

the sun shares the shape

of her corduroys

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sentinel pine-

roots running every which way

showered in moonlight

 

 

 

 

 

 

deep overcast-

chickory blue

out of concrete rubble

 

 

 

 

 

 

late day sun-

deep on the forest floor

a seedling

 

 

 

 

 

 

beach walking…

collecting pebbles

and letting them go

 

 

 

 

 

 

floating in its own

little place in the rocks

a diet Coke can

 

 

 

 

 

 

quietly, he goes about

reading the names

grave by grave

 

 

 

 

 

 

early autumn blue-

last turn out of town

facing the hills

 

 

 

 

 

 

as we talk…

wind blowing leaves

out of the trees

 

 

 

 

 

 

snow flurrying…

the deer, one by one, look back

before they vanish

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the dark

through the window light

my wife and child

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image

chicken shed

15 Sunday Dec 2013

chicken shed

snow domes flake by flake collecting…

Posted by Tom Clausen | Filed under poems and photos

≈ Leave a comment

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Tom Clausen's avatarTom Clausen on Mann Library Daily Haiku by Jo…
Gabriela Marie Milton's avatarGabriela Marie Milto… on once upon a time by tom c…
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