I did not get to share what I thought of or what I wrote after reading my choice of Haiku -- A Gold Bug. But this is what I came up with after using Billy Collins' poem Japan as an example.
A gold bug –
I hurl into the darkness
and feel the depth of night.
(Takahama)
Haiku + Japan = Firefly
Firefly
Thinking of a golden bug
the words flutter constantly
in my head.
It makes me feel happy
and bright inside, like a
glow worm forever shining.
I close my eyes and see the speckles
all around. The various dots ones sees after
looking directly into the sun’s rays.
I turn the light on and off in the dark room.
To remember the image at night
I look at the stars twinkling around me.
The disco ball flickering at a midnight rave
evokes the feeling of you
casting temporary light among the moving shadows.
And it is when I look up a the heavens,
and whisper in the wind the
wonderful words of the golden bug.
I then see fireflies flying
launching through the air in the darkness
and disappearing into the depth of night.
I quite like this poem because it explores the different ways in which one could die in a unique way. It is quite opposite to Lolita's recollection of her mother's death, which was not really memories of her own, but those borrowed from someone else.
I also like it because it introduces the reader to another piece from another writer. Collins lets his readers experience another artists' piece through his work. By giving his reader a chance to discover the piece through a simple mention in reference he also gives his readers the choice of doing research on the piece mentioned or just leaving it as just a simple reference.
So it is sort of like a two for one deal. Sweet. :)
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The poem:
Picnic, Lightning
by Billy Collins
"My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident
(picnic, lightning) when I was three."
Lolita
It is possible to be struck by a meteor
or a single-engine plane
while reading in a chair at home.
Safes drops from rooftops
and flatten the odd pedestrian
mostly within the panels of the comics,
but still, we know it is possible,
as well as the flash of summer lightning,
the thermos toppling over,
spilling out on the grass.
And we know the message
can be delivered from within.
The heart, no valentine,
decides to quit after lunch,
the power shut off like a switch,
or a tiny dark ship is unmoored
into the flow of the body's rivers,
the brain a monastery,
defenseless on the shore.
This is what I think about
when I shovel compost
into a wheelbarrow,
and when I fill the long flower boxes,
then press into rows
the limp roots of red impatients—
the instant hand of Death
always ready to burst forth
from the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.
Then the soil is full of marvels,
bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco,
red-brown pine needles, a beetle quick
to burrow back under the loam.
Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue,
the clouds a brighter white,
and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edge
against a round stone,
the small plants singing
with lifted faces, and the click
of the sundial
as one hour sweeps into the next.
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
— Charles Baudelaire
Evening Harmony
The season is at hand when swaying on its stem
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
The violin quivers like a tormented heart;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar.
The violin quivers like a tormented heart,
A tender heart, that hates the vast, black void!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar;
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
A tender heart that hates the vast, black void
Gathers up every shred of the luminous past!
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
Your memory in me glitters like a monstrance!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Evening Harmony
Now comes the eve, when on its stem vibrates
Each flower, evaporating like a censer;
When sounds and scents in the dark air grow denser;
Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates!
Each flower evaporates as from a censer;
The fiddle like a hurt heart palpitates;
Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates;
The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser.
The fiddle, like a hurt heart, palpitates,
A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor.
The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser.
The sun in its own blood coagulates...
A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor,
The whole of the bright past resuscitates.
The sun in its own blood coagulates...
And, monstrance-like, your memory flames intenser!
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
Harmonie du soir
the hours approach when vibrant in the breeze,
a censer swoons to every swaying flower;
blown tunes and scents in turn enchant the bower;
languorous waltz of swirling fancies these!
a censer swoons in every swaying flower;
the quivering violins cry out, decrease;
languorous waltz of swirling fancies these!
mournful and fair the heavenly altars tower.
the quivering violins cry out, decrease;
like hearts of love the Void must overpower!
mournful and fair the heavenly altars tower.
the drowned sun bleeds in fast congealing seas.
a heart of love the Void must overpower
peers for a vanished day's last vestiges!
the drowned sun bleeds in fast congealing seas...
and like a Host thy flaming memories flower!
— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)
Evening Harmony
Now is the time when trembling on its stem
Each flower fades away like incense;
Sounds and scents turn in the evening air;
A melancholy waltz, a soft and giddy dizziness!
Each flower fades away like incense;
The violin thrills like a tortured heart;
A melancholy waltz, a soft and giddy dizziness!
The sky is sad and beautiful like some great resting-place.
The violin thrills like a tortured heart,
A tender heart, hating the wide black void.
The sky is sad and beautiful like some great resting-place;
The sun drowns itself in its own clotting blood.
A tender heart, boring the wide black void,
Gathers all trace from the pellucid past.
The sun drowns itself in clotting blood.
Like the Host shines O your memory in me!
— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)
Villanelle:
Pan: a Double Villanelle
I
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot Glod of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
— Oscar Wilde (1913)
Cool little fact from Wikipedia:
The first magazine devoted entirely to renga in English was started by Jim Wilson of Monte Rio, California, in 1986. It was called APA-RENGA because it was a continuation of the Amateur Press Association model magazines in which all members could post whatever they wanted. This meant that the members would read the renga being offered and then could write a connecting link. Wilson tabulated these links and then all the possible links were sent back to the participants. This meant that instead of having linear links, the renga expanded outward into many versions of the same poem. When Wilson passed APA-RENGA on to Terri Lee Grell in 1989, she renamed the magazine Lynx and added short stories and other poetry and published quarterly. In 1992 Grell passed Lynx on to Jane and Werner Reichhold. They added haiku and tanka to the renga written by subscribers and carried on the project of participation renga. In 2000 Lynx went online where it remains today at AHApoetry. Narrow Road to Renga by Twenty Pilgrims and Jane Reichhold (AHA Books 1992) contains examples of many varieties of renga, as well as templates for kasen renga as well as the unusual "net renga."
Here is a nifty site that I stumbled upon that deals with Haiku, Tanka, Renga and Sijo.
