A Winter in the Baja

A sudden drift of

fish startles up from the sea,

their silver backs flash. 

Nightfall. The Little

Dipper pours starlight over

darkened mountain tops.

Walking a desert

track we turn and stumble on

piles of pipefish bones.

Break a branch of the

torote tree—sharp scent of

bitter orange lingers.

Palo Adan, grey

branch, half-moon: one scarlet bud

streaks the evening sky.

A Pacific wind

freshens. Hungry clouds nibble

The fattening moon.

Empty shells of a

conch graveyard glisten: so much

broken crockery.

 

Almost spring but the

sharp scent of beach fires burning

intimates autumn.

Walking on the beach

we startle a cricket; it

leaps into the sea.

A buzzard sits on

an abandoned power pole,

lines cut and dangling.

A beached sea lion

skull slowly submerges: sand

fills the eye sockets.

                                    

 
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First published in January 2018 in "Fresh Voices," an online publication of the Canadian League of Poets:
http://poets.ca/2018/01/19/fresh-voices-karin-cope-nan-williamson-barbara-black/

All photos were taken during the course of shore walks while sailing in the Sea of Cortez in 2016, 2017 and 2018.

Tea steeped sunrise (inventing a flock of lunes)

Just before

dawn, rain. The peepers

stop singing.

Wan light seeps

through the window, shakes

me awake.

Cold air on

my toes. I toss logs

on the fire,

open blinds, set

water to boil. Tea

steeped sunrise,

loon calling.

How do they know how

soon the rain?

Notes: (inventing a flock of lunes) 

Anyone who knows much about loons, the birds, as opposed to lunes, the poetic form (more on that in a moment), knows that loons rarely flock; they tend to appear as loners. Still, we have sometimes seen them gather on the open water off of Quoddy, out among the islands, as the seals do. And in the summer now and then, we hear them playing call and response with the coyotes on the hill. The lune, on the other hand, a poetic form also known as "American Haiku," can be multiplied and assembled in what poet Craig Santos Perez calls "flocks of lunes." He stretches his out sideways, as if in flight; my lunes, on the other hand, float, as if isolated on the water, rather more like loons.  Here, in Nova Scotia, it is said that the loons' cries predict a change in weather: rain, or the end of rain. 

Typically, lunes come in two forms. One, invented by the poet Robert Kelly, consists of a 13 syllable verse, divided into three lines thus: 5 syllables/ 3 syllables/ 5 syllables. The other form, invented by poet Jack Collum, is composed of 13 words, divided similarly into three lines: 3 words/ 5 words/ 3 words.  While lying awake two nights ago, and thinking about Craig Santos Perez's flocks of lunes, (which work on the Kelly syllable system), I began to compose the poem above in my head. Perhaps because it was the middle of the night, I scrambled the organization of the syllables, and composed instead according to a schema that runs 3 syllables/ 5 syllables/ 3 syllables. When I realized my error, I tried out a number of revisions, but in the end, preferred the simplicity and spareness that my stripped down version of the lune gave me. Who says mistakes aren't generative? And why can't we invent novel forms of lunes? What is poetry for, if not such small, but sublime, pleasures?

Image note: The photograph is of the view from my front windows, overlooking West Quoddy Bay.

Incoming Tide

The tide: is it coming in or going
out? With every wave, the sea shifts, breathes.
and so do we.

Green (ditch flood)

Trapped Stick Open Water

Sound of Running Water (encore)

Sound of Running Water 2 (more video haiku)

Sound of Running Water iv (Ice and Bubbles)

Sound of Running Water v (Whirling)

Sound of Running Water vi (Splash!)

Blue Heron Haikus

4 April 2013

Blue wings flap slowly,
great bird shadows the marsh:
spring shyly hungers.

When, if yesterday,
the blue heron returned, will 
frogs begin to sing? 

Notes

I took this picture in BC, while walking on a beach near Montague Harbour, Galiano Island, so this bird isn't an east coast Great Blue Heron. Still, it will do for illustrative purposes.

Thanks are due Marike, who noticed the first returned heron yesterday as we were walking by the marsh. She remarked how quiet and shy the birds are in the spring: "Spring is the season for mating and shyness." We had been recalling and laughing at how noisy the herons can be, particularly in the fall, when they scold us with their awful voices--GRAAAA AACK!--for stepping out of the house. But they are silent in the spring as they coast over ponds and marshes, looking for peepers and other prey. Often, too, they turn their backs to us, as if, when they cannot see us, we cannot see them. We're waiting still, and listening, for the first sign of the frogs.

Property

2 April 2013 

Sometimes the line
between one thing and another
is so carefully defined.

NOTES
I took both of these photos one afternoon in Halifax, Nova Scotia. They are part of a photographic project that tracks how boundaries are visually marked and patrolled.

Red Boat Haiku

Thin skim of sea ice
and a red boat is still docked,
tethered to summer.


Notes
Poetry exercise. Take a picture. Then describe what you see, simply, in one short line. Make sure you place the kireji, the twist in the middle at line two; you are looking for a break in logic, the shift that alters a reader's mental picture. Complete the idea. 17 syllables: 5/7/5. Voila: Haiku.