Robert Sheppard
HAIBUN: 52 HAIKU
Pasta shaped like ears – we listen for Napoli, hear our own hearing. The taste of the sea: clinched clusters on the bar’s edge – furled purple seaweed. An ancient pond, yes! the frog then leaping into its own rippled splash.
Seventies ferries: rain-hats, smoky waiting rooms – they ‘shew’ their tickets. They freeze in the streets, form municipal statues: traffic obstacles. Flexing in the sky, fierce, full and faceless – a super blue moon.
Toussaint L’Ouverture fighting with Calico Jack – for our attention. Tooth tugs at the nerve – blossoms pain to inner ear – the clove’s numbing oil. Geese stretch their long necks, greet the start of Celtic Spring – three white ducks in mud.
Hailstones speckle hair – wind bites through a closed door – Sunday afternoon. Internet pear-drop printed as a real world sign shows us we are here. Newly built station: empty platforms, pristine bridge – missed! – we hurtle through.
Gulls circling – then pigeons in chaotic flight – geese webbing through mud. The Calder Stones ring hunch their backs on us, whisper layers of lyric. Her blonde hair falling onto fur, she stirs milk, turns: steers beauty past him.
Muscovy ducks pose – three stare motionless in mud – but then, so do we! Squirrel chewing nuts: hungry he does not see me: though he stares at me. Traffic Warden lurks, takes photos, leaves a ticket; nobody likes him.
Old viscous cesspit: frog leaps into dead tadpoles – gulf, gloop! he’s sinking! Before she opens the tub of grain, she’s spotted: geese run, wings trailing. Two men and a dog locked in a tussle of teeth and leads and collars.
Grains scatter and swirl across the tightly packed sand – patter as they dance. Lying in a dream writing haiku without words listening for the form. Mort’s constellation: a whole poem approaches, bright for translation.
Under full sunlight the field of snow burns the eyes – a sheet of looking. Crisp impacted snow hard beneath our freezing feet under clear night sky. He isn’t racist; he just makes fine distinctions – like a Dulux chart.
Gulls, flecks on dark lake: geese standing on sheets of ice – end of the cold spell. Pair of Muscovies bobbing their necks – twist and jive – driven by instinct. A knock at the door: his eyes measure you: his smile enters the hallway.
Singing Ern’s poems, are we his multiple selves, dispersed in music? Stuffed frog on the shelf flops to the floor in a heap – soft friend on the rum. A stove fire roaring: a clear light half pint of beer – then back for murder!
Biting cold damp wind penetrates his duffle coat – knuckles in pockets. Fire in the elbow, pain streaking down his hot arm: icepack smoothes and soothes. Jimmy is slaughtered, nodding over his Guinness on St. Patrick’s Night.
Bright sun, snow flurries – beams through sleet – share the same sky: snow lightens the light. Passing through the park he stopped to write those words down like an Old Poet. New concept album: recorded live, each track the crowd noise between songs.
Dog sculpted from sand – its real-life model panting by the homeless man. Twitter explosion: storm of sparrows riots, shakes the Southwick privet. Crows run, hop, and bounce across the grass, into the mud where they peck for grubs.
Banners up, books out: folding chairs in neat, tight rows – strangers in the crowd. Fool rules IKEA: car was Zuton bike on moon: my zone yoyos too! From the dark Grotto, the sounds of Egyptian rap and the smell of weed.
Only a skater hopping across the surface disturbs the reed-pond. Colonial vista: the steep rise to the gallows, the gaol on the hill. Shrill jungle squawks from deep park evergreen: hide this button-eyed parrot.
Cat outside its flap at the top of its long ramp (young gulls squeak, shiver). After the shower, steam rises from cold car roofs as the sun bursts through. Mist wraps itself round the body of the mountain veils paths to the snow peaks.
breathless
wind-farm floats
beyond the ridges of sand –
close
white egrets wade
January - April/June 2018
Pasta shaped like ears – we listen for Napoli, hear our own hearing. The taste of the sea: clinched clusters on the bar’s edge – furled purple seaweed. An ancient pond, yes! the frog then leaping into its own rippled splash.
Seventies ferries: rain-hats, smoky waiting rooms – they ‘shew’ their tickets. They freeze in the streets, form municipal statues: traffic obstacles. Flexing in the sky, fierce, full and faceless – a super blue moon.
Toussaint L’Ouverture fighting with Calico Jack – for our attention. Tooth tugs at the nerve – blossoms pain to inner ear – the clove’s numbing oil. Geese stretch their long necks, greet the start of Celtic Spring – three white ducks in mud.
Hailstones speckle hair – wind bites through a closed door – Sunday afternoon. Internet pear-drop printed as a real world sign shows us we are here. Newly built station: empty platforms, pristine bridge – missed! – we hurtle through.
Gulls circling – then pigeons in chaotic flight – geese webbing through mud. The Calder Stones ring hunch their backs on us, whisper layers of lyric. Her blonde hair falling onto fur, she stirs milk, turns: steers beauty past him.
Muscovy ducks pose – three stare motionless in mud – but then, so do we! Squirrel chewing nuts: hungry he does not see me: though he stares at me. Traffic Warden lurks, takes photos, leaves a ticket; nobody likes him.
Old viscous cesspit: frog leaps into dead tadpoles – gulf, gloop! he’s sinking! Before she opens the tub of grain, she’s spotted: geese run, wings trailing. Two men and a dog locked in a tussle of teeth and leads and collars.
Grains scatter and swirl across the tightly packed sand – patter as they dance. Lying in a dream writing haiku without words listening for the form. Mort’s constellation: a whole poem approaches, bright for translation.
Under full sunlight the field of snow burns the eyes – a sheet of looking. Crisp impacted snow hard beneath our freezing feet under clear night sky. He isn’t racist; he just makes fine distinctions – like a Dulux chart.
Gulls, flecks on dark lake: geese standing on sheets of ice – end of the cold spell. Pair of Muscovies bobbing their necks – twist and jive – driven by instinct. A knock at the door: his eyes measure you: his smile enters the hallway.
Singing Ern’s poems, are we his multiple selves, dispersed in music? Stuffed frog on the shelf flops to the floor in a heap – soft friend on the rum. A stove fire roaring: a clear light half pint of beer – then back for murder!
Biting cold damp wind penetrates his duffle coat – knuckles in pockets. Fire in the elbow, pain streaking down his hot arm: icepack smoothes and soothes. Jimmy is slaughtered, nodding over his Guinness on St. Patrick’s Night.
Bright sun, snow flurries – beams through sleet – share the same sky: snow lightens the light. Passing through the park he stopped to write those words down like an Old Poet. New concept album: recorded live, each track the crowd noise between songs.
Dog sculpted from sand – its real-life model panting by the homeless man. Twitter explosion: storm of sparrows riots, shakes the Southwick privet. Crows run, hop, and bounce across the grass, into the mud where they peck for grubs.
Banners up, books out: folding chairs in neat, tight rows – strangers in the crowd. Fool rules IKEA: car was Zuton bike on moon: my zone yoyos too! From the dark Grotto, the sounds of Egyptian rap and the smell of weed.
Only a skater hopping across the surface disturbs the reed-pond. Colonial vista: the steep rise to the gallows, the gaol on the hill. Shrill jungle squawks from deep park evergreen: hide this button-eyed parrot.
Cat outside its flap at the top of its long ramp (young gulls squeak, shiver). After the shower, steam rises from cold car roofs as the sun bursts through. Mist wraps itself round the body of the mountain veils paths to the snow peaks.
breathless
wind-farm floats
beyond the ridges of sand –
close
white egrets wade
January - April/June 2018
Copyright © Robert Sheppard 2019
Robert Sheppard’s most recent book is the collaborative work Twitters for a Lark, published by Shearsman in 2017. His Petrarch 3 from Crater Press, 2016, is the first part of a loose series of 100 sonnets, of which Non-Disclosure Agreement forms a (much-later) part. He blogs quite regularly at robertsheppard.blogspot.com. His work has previously appeared in the second print issue of Molly Bloom and online in Molly Bloom 13 and 17.