Some of these beach haiku were written by random trips to beach.
Most of these are part of a series based on afternoons spent at the beach on Hilton Head Island with my pad out ( a real paper note pad), hoping for words with my iPhone camera handy to add illustration to my thoughts.
I wanted to see if I would be ‘inspired’ by what I saw, by what I heard, by what I smelled, by what I tasted, what I felt emotionally and what I felt tactilely.
Some turned out okay.
Some were too forced.
Some were just bad.
Some did involve some or all of those feelings.
As far as it goes, I guess I was inspired by by what I saw, by what I heard, by what I smelled, by what I tasted, what I felt emotionally and what I felt tactilely.
Please aware that most of these haiku were NOT WRITTEN on the date in the title – for an explanation of this please see The Series link in the navigation table.
swimming pools palm trees
summer resort winter rain
hope springs eternal
The pool is ready.
The pool guy has been and gone.
The loungers are lined up by the chimney with care.
The palm trees sway with the breeze.
The sky is an iron gray.
It is December 20th.
And a cold rain is falling.
Still …
Still …
Sunshine, pools and palm trees.
It is only a matter of time.
Hope springs eternal.
you cannot even
remember the questions that
weigh so in your mind
From Terns by Mary Oliver.
Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought,
But of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.
It’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky,
And here they are, those white birds with quick wings,
Sweeping over the waves, chattering and plunging,
Their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes
Happy as little nails
The years to come – this is a promise-
Will grant you ample time
To try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
Where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.
But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,
Than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.
The flock thickens
Over the rolling, salt brightness. Listen,
Maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world
In the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer,
But it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,
Is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,
But of pure submission. Tell me, what else
Could beauty be for? And now the tide
Is at its very crown,
The white birds = sprinkle down,
Gathering up the loose silver rising
As if weightless. It isn’t instruction, or parable.
It isn’t for any vanity or ambition
Except for the one allowed, to stay alive.
It’s only a nimble frolic
Over the waves. And you find, for hours,
You cannot even remember the questions
That weigh so in your mind.
In a recent text message, my sister Lisa asked me to look up this poem.
It was my sister who first pointed out the work and writing of Mary Oliver to me.
She said this poem make her think of me and the beautiful ocean … in our neighborhood.
The beautiful ocean in our neighborhood.
I really like that.
I really like that a lot.
“My life,” wrote Mr. Thoreau, “is like a stroll upon the beach, as near to the ocean’s edge as I can go.“
Just a stroll upon the beach.
Just a walk along the neighborhood ocean.
As near to the ocean’s edge as I can go.
And It’s only a nimble frolic
Over the waves. And you find, for hours,
You cannot even remember the questions
That weigh so in your mind.
PostScript on Terns and Seagulls – The sight of a white bird near water leads most people to assume it’s a seagull, but in reality the term seagull is not one specific type of bird. Any of a number of different gull species are what we often refer to as seagulls, even when we are far from any sea. Seagull is a generic term for the many gulls in the Laridae family of shorebirds, according to the Michigan State University Extension. The Laridae family also includes terns, many of which are similar in appearance to gulls. Telling a gull from a tern can be difficult, although it’s easier to tell them apart when seen in flight. That’s because the terns common in this area have sharply angular tails and wings, while gulls have more rounded wings. (from the The Forest Preserve District of Will County website)
sea rocks apounding
in high wind, southeast sleet, these
are heard so to speak
From the poem, So to Speak by Carl Sandburg.
Dreams, graves, pools, growing
flowers, cornfields – these are
silent, so to speak
Northwest blizzards, sea rocks
apounding in high wind, southeast
sleet after a thaw – these are heard,
so to speak
waves of blue heat that
wash the sky; sea-violins
play along the sands
Based on the poem, Blue Water, by John Gould Fletcher.
Sea-violins are playing on the sands;
Curved bows of blue and white are flying over the pebbles,
See them attack the chords—dark basses, glinting trebles.
Dimly and faint they croon, blue violins.
“Suffer without regret,” they seem to cry,
“Though dark your suffering is, it may be music,
Waves of blue heat that wash midsummer sky;
Sea-violins that play along the sands.”
According to Wikipedia, John Gould Fletcher (January 3, 1886 – May 10, 1950) was an Imagist poet (the first Southern poet to win the Pulitzer Prize), author and authority on modern painting.
groping as we grope
if heavens colors were like
music heard afar
Adapted from the poem, Spring, and the Blind Children by Alfred Noyes: from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1913 John Murray (Publishers) Ltd.
As much as I loved the line,
Or wondering, when they learned that leaves were green,
If colours were like music, heard afar?
Seems like the idea of music as colors has turned up before in this blog – and I believe there has been discussion of folks who do SEE color when listening to music.
Then there is the lines:
As though, for them, the Spring held nothing new;
And not one face was turned to look again.
And I think how to have never seen a sunset.
To have never looked back for that one last look.
I am reminded on the painting of the blind soldiers by John Singer Sargent.
Once again the line from The Color Purple comes to mind that “I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.“
Spring , and the Blind Children
They left the primrose glistening in its dew.
With empty hands they drifted down the lane,
As though, for them, the Spring held nothing new;
And not one face was turned to look again.
Like tiny ghosts, along their woodland aisle,
They stole. They did not leap or dance or run.
Only, at times, without a word or smile,
Their small blind faces lifted to the sun;
Innocent faces, desolately bright,
Masks of dark thought that none could ever know;
But O, so small to hide it. In their night
What dreams of our strange world must come and go;
Groping, as we, too, grope for heavens unseen;
Guessing – at what those fabulous visions are;
Or wondering, when they learned that leaves were green,
If colours were like music, heard afar?
Were brooks like bird-song ? Was the setting sun
Like scent of roses, or like evening prayer ?
Were stars like chimes in heaven, when day was done;
Was midnight like their mothers’ warm soft hair?
And dawn? – a pitying face against their own,
A whispered word, an unknown angel’s kiss,
That stoops to each, in its own dark, alone;
But leaves them lonelier for that breath of bliss ?
Was it for earth’s transgressions that they paid –
Lambs of that God whose eyes with love grow dim –
Sharing His load on whom all wrongs are laid ?
But O, so small to bear it, even with Him!
God of blind children, through Thy dreadful light
They pass. We pass. Thy heavens are all so near.
We cannot grasp them in our earth-bound night.
But O, Thy grief! For Thou canst see and hear.
No Haiku For You 