june, 2016

otata 6

 

 

vincent tripi, Hansha Teki, John Levy,
Alegria Imperial, Ivan Randall, Ken Sawitri, Helen Buckingham,
Kim Dorman, Johannes S.H. Bjerg

 

tokonoma

 

As I was desirous to recover the long lost bottom of Walden Pond, I surveyed it carefully, before the ice broke up, early in ’46, with compass and chain and sounding line. There have been many stories told about the bottom, or rather no bottom, of this pond, which certainly had no foundation for themselves. It is remarkable how long men will believe in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to sound it. I have visited two such Bottomless Ponds in one walk in this neighborhood. Many have believed that Walden reached quite through to the other side of the globe. Some who have lain flat on the ice for a long time, looking down through the illusive medium, perchance with watery eyes into the bargain, and driven to hasty conclusions by the fear of catching cold in their breasts, have seen vast holes “into which a load of hay might be driven,” if there were anybody to drive it, the undoubted source of the Styx and entrance to the Infernal Regions from these parts. Others have gone down from the village with a “fifty-six” and a wagon load of inch rope, but yet have failed to find any bottom; for while the “fifty-six” was resting by the way, they were paying out the rope in the vain attempt to fathom their truly immeasurable capacity for marvellousness. But I can assure my readers that Walden has a reasonably tight bottom at a not unreasonable, though at an unusual, depth. I fathomed it easily with a cod-line and a stone weighing about a pound and a half, and could tell accurately when the stone left the bottom, by having to pull so much harder before the water got underneath to help me. The greatest depth was exactly one hundred and two feet; to which may be added the five feet which it has risen since, making one hundred and seven. This is a remarkable depth for so small an area; yet not an inch of it can be spared by the imagination. What if all ponds were shallow? Would it not react on the minds of men? I am thankful that this pond was made deep and pure for a symbol. While men believe in the infinite some ponds will be thought to be bottomless.

 

— Thoreau

 

Ξ 

 

 

 

vincent tripi

 

 

 

old stone wall each in our place

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

forgiveness —
the compost
close as i can get

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

between windmills
between butterflies
between breaths

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

eagle     no last names      sky

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Hansha Teki

 

 

 

darkness clings moving into it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nothing
overwhelmed with
more of it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nothing
en-worded
in the flesh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

deadened
     low water laps
     old terrors

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

without light alone lingers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

autumn leaves
            each day adazzle
      in doubt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by candle-light
words fall further than
                  where we end

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

John Levy

 

 

 

rubber bands close their claws, they
could use blindfolds too, these lobsters
near the Red Lobster’s cash register

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

at dusk, quivering above the working frog voice
boxes a black bird rides the swaying
female cattail’s cylindrical spike of white wisp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the cemetery with
tall evergreens
between which ravens

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Alegria Imperial

 

 

 

cross legged

her bare knees attract

a flock of gulls

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

shortened hem
 a spillover of stargazers


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

through her eyelet wrap his sins for a year

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Ivan Randall

 

 

 

sickle moon sharpens time soon for harvest

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

winter moon’s up
new room
tin cup

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

windowbox orchid orphan’s burgeoning pain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

o winter beach her wit beacon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the pain
of a red sunset
blood under my toenail

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Ken Sawitri

 

 

 

afternoon tea sipping a twisting world

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

billboards
the dawn peeled
at a canned city

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

boiled cabbage
I put today’s time on my diary
9:11

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

orphanage room
the iced glass window
mimics the dew

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Helen Buckingham

 

 

 

remove   last resort
  insert   addiction

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Kim Dorman

 

 

 

After Issa

 

 

 

one rice plot
all our house
can afford

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

silent, aloof
he ignores
the flowers

 

Buddha’s Death Day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

those moonlit
plum flowers tempt
me to steal!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in shade

 

the shrine gathers
coins & a few
scattered petals

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

just a warbler
singing to this
suffering world

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

swept the garden
just to welcome
a warbler

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

when it rains the
innkeeper also
shelters a horse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a willow beckons
at the entrance to
a whorehouse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

tea houses &
cherry trees bloom
overnight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

must be a
holiday even
for rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

only a drop
or two—I guess
it’s over

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

summer’s first
melon —the boy sleeps
holding it close

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

come, flies!
share in the year’s
first harvest

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

mosquitoes gone
now it’s time
for the old folks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that mosquito knows
I’m old & slow—
buzzes in my ear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the mosquito bites
a second time
& is silent

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

 

Johannes S.H. Bjerg

 

 

 

Lake

 

 

 

breathing
neither up
or down

 

            go to the lake
            watch the lake
            leave the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it was there
it disappeared
it was ploughed
it is there again

 

       and from the graveyard above
              the dead wash
               into the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

returning
by non-action

 

the lake
above
ground

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

now it has water
now it has wind
the lake’s there there

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

at the foot of the holy hill
a body
of water

 

to stick a finger into

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it will float a leaf
      a duck
      a reflection

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the lake
that went away
and came back

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

without water
what’s
the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

an eye beneath heaven
full of clouds
of fish

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

before it had a name the lake was

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not all the way around the foot path

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

at night
the lake is probably
there

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

on a poster
faded
possible
birds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in spring
a coating
of hypothetical
trees
and you sigh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there’s a bench
on a tongue of earth

 

is that closer
to the water

 

or?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that tongue of soil grass and trees pointing to where the geese feed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lickable
by a tongue
of land

 

the wet half
of the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

on 3 sides cultured

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

close to the lake
furrows enlarge
its shape

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dirt-snakes
headless

 

that’s
the furrows

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the old ruin
bricks
on
bricks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

if my navel
was an eye

 

it would see
only bricks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

meandering

 

the foot path
for people

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

see
the sun
‘s smaller

 

than
the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

throw a stone
into the lake
where the sun is

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

on the far side
your shadow will lie
on the lake

 

dry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

look at them
they’re light-proof
the coots

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the wooden remains
of a house
up through it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

under the clouds
a lakeful
of waves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a tooth more or less
that which makes up
a lake
doesn’t care

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

unleaving your mark
the bench by the reeds
sees you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

perhaps you’re a cloud
you think of buying
new shoes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in a dream
there’s water
and then
there’s water

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

cleaning ink pens
you listen
to the drain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lake I could draw you with water

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a drop of ink in the water
the opposite
works too

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there
and
there

 

vanishing
points

 

around
the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

no matter how hard you look
no place
for a straight line

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

leave it as it is
is action
too

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sometimes
it’s everything

 

tinnitus
and
lake

 

and
the missing
teeth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that blue pill an echo of the lake?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

take that
the pill not
the lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

between the ruin and the holy hill a lake again

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

you put your tongue out
not the earthen one
and stand upright

 

the lake greets you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the man with the dog
you without one
under trees

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

warm enough to wear Ozaki’s hat

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

varmt nok til at bære Ozaki’s hat

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

otata
appears at the end of the month.
Address correspondence to —
otatahaiku@gmail.com

may, 2016

otata 5

Quindici haijin italiani

Fifteen Italian Haiku poets

Andrea Cecon,  Angiola Inglese, Antonio Mangiameli, Francesco De Sabata, Gabriele Stella, Giacomo Vit, Leonardo Lazzari, Luca Cenisi, Marco Riccardi, Maria Teresa Piras, Marina Bellini, Maurizio Arena, Nazarena Rampini, Pasquale Asprea, Pietro Tartamella

tokonoma

IL MISTERO C’È, è in noi. Basta non dimenticarcene. Il mistero c’è, e col mistero, di pari passo, las misure; ma non la misura del mistero, cosa umanamente insensata; ma di qualche cosa che in un certo senso al mistero s’opponga, pure essendone per noi la manifestazione più alta: questo mondo terreno considerato come continua invenzione dell’uomo. Il punto d’appoggio sarà il mistero, e mistero è il soffio che circola in noi e ci anima; ma noi siamo portati a preoccuparci di quegli sviluppi che dànno situazione magari a un albero in un paesaggio; di quella trama di rapporti che non tollera spostamenti se non subendo un cambiamento di carattere. Perciò per noi l’arte avrà sempre un fondamento di predestinazione e di naturalezza; ma insieme avrà un carattere razionale, ammesse tutte le probabiltà e le complicazioni del calcolo: se avessi quattro invece di tre elementi, se capovolgessi l’ordine, se soffiasse un gran vento, ecc. … e se avessi un quinto fattore, succederebbe… in finimondo, forse; ma resteremmo sempre in un campo di precisioni inesorabili.

 

 

THERE’S THE MYSTERY — it’s in us. It’s enough not to forget this. There is the mystery, and with the mystery, together, the measure; but not the measure of mystery, a humanly insensible thing; but such a thing that in a certain sense opposes itself to the mystery, for us the highest manifestation: this earthy world considered as a continuous fiction of human being. Our foothold will be this mystery, and this mystery the breath that circulates in us and animates us; but we are inclined to worry about those developments that place a tree in a landscape; of that web of relations that can’t be changed without undergoing a change of character. Therefore art for us will always have an element of predestination and naturalness; but also a rational character, admitting all the probabilities and complexities of calculus: if I have four instead of three elements, if I invert the order, if a great wind blows, etc, … and if I have a fifth factor, such would happen… pandemonium, perhaps, but we would always reside in a field of inexorable precision.

Giuseppe Ungaretti, Ragioni d’una poesia
Translation, JM

 

 

Ξ 

 

 

Andrea Cecon

 
 

un rintocco striscia nella nebbia l’orizzonte di Kiev
fine autunno nel silenzio in giardino l’altalena

a ringing crawls through the fog on Kiev’s horizon
autumns end in the garden swing’s silence

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Angiola Inglese

 

 

 

carta increspata –
s’illumina di luna
un papavero

 

corrugated paper —
a poppy lit up
by the moon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nuvole scure –
una viola e la luna
nella pozzanghera

 

dark clouds
a violet and the moon
in the puddle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

la ragnatela –
sull’intrico di rovi
vento d’inverno

a web
in a tangle of thorns
winter wind

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Antonio Mangiameli

 

 

 

un temporale –
il canto dell’assiolo
si sente appena

 

a storm —
one scarcely hears
the horned owl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

un cerchio d’ombra –
i rami intrecciati
dell’oleandro

 

a circle of shade —
the tangled branches
of oleander

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

il vento forte –
assieme alle foglie
una farfalla

 

the strong wind —
a butterfly together
with the leaves

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Francesco De Sabata

 

 

 

lattina vuota
solo una vespa ronza
intrappolata

 

empty beer can –
a wasp’s buzzing
trapped inside

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

orme – la neve
ricorda il nostro incontro
scende la sera

 

footprints —
the snow remembers our meeting
evening falls

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Gabriele Stella

 

 

 

neve sui monti –
si nasconde alla vista
il biancospino

 

clouds on the mountains —
the hawthorn
hidden from view

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lunghe radici
ondeggiano nel guado –
a piedi nudi

 

long roots
rippling in the ford
bare feet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

iris negli occhi –
nubi s’accavallano
sul primo sole

 

iris of the eyes
clouds crossing
the first sun

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Giacomo Vit

 

 

 

Bianca ferita
nell’inverno indugiante
la margherita.

 

wounded whiteness
indulgent in winter
marguerites

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cicala spiega
sul verde meridiano
crotalo d’aria.

 

cicada explains
the green meridian —
air’s rattlesnake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cani randagi-
per chi cerca carezze
alta è la neve.

 

stray dogs
for those seeking caresses
deep snow

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Leonardo Lazzari

 

 

 

Soffio di vento –
sull’asfalto due foglie
si rincorrono

 

a breeze —
two leaves chase each other
on the asphalt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stelle cadenti
o fuochi d’artificio? –
Notte d’agosto

 

falling stars
or human fires?—
august night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quadro di giugno –
la luna incorniciata
dalla finestra

 

a painting of June —
the moon framed
in a window

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gatto randagio –
tutta la sua attenzione
su una farfalla

 

stray cat
all your attention
on a butterfly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Salici in fila –
una foglia sull’acqua
non fa rumore

 

a row of willows
a leaf on the water
noiseless

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pioggia autunnale –
le gocce gareggiano
sulla finestra

 

autumn rain
the drops compete
on the window

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melodia nota –
sul fuoco lo scoppiettio
di caldarroste

 

a well-known melody —
chestnuts
crackling on the fire

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Luca Cenisi

 

 

 

Stagno notturno —
un’anatra attraversa
la luna piena

 

night pond
a duck crosses
the full moon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aggrovigliato tra i denti del pettine sole di maggio

 

tangled in the teeth of a comb may sun

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neve tardiva –
un bambino impara i fiori
dal suo tablet

 

late snow —
a boy learns the flowers
from his tablet

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Marco Riccardi

 

 

 

Asfalto grigio –
blu non ti scordar di me
tingono il ciglio

 

Grey asphalt –
blue forget-me-nots
dye the edge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Riparte il treno –
anche questo diventa
flusso del vento

 

the train departs
this too becomes
a movement of wind

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ora di punta –
la folla di eremiti
con gli occhi altrove

 

rush hour —
a crowd of hermits
with their eyes elsewhere

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Il vento fischia
e fa cadere gli alberi
dentro il mio sogno

 

Wind whistle –
trees are falling
into my dream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Il tuo russare
mentre veglio il tuo sonno –
il tempo scorre

 

Your snoring
while I watch your sleep –
time flows

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Maria Teresa Piras

 

 

 

primo dell’anno –
profuma di limoni
la neve fresca

 

first of the year
the perfume of lemons
new snow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

refolo estivo –
si sfogliano i gerani
sul davanzale

 

summer gust —
the geraniums drop their leaves
on the sill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

il lume acceso –
fuori dalla finestra
scorre l’autunno

 

the lamp lit —
outside the window
autumn’s flow

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Marina Bellini

 

 

 

(poems in English)

 

Easter Mass –
the clop clop of a horse
along the canal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

forest bathing –
a weightless feather falls
before me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the grass is tall –
villagers forage for nettles
and wild asparagus

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Maurizio Arena

 

 

 

(durante la festa di Hanami in Giappone)
(during the Hanami festival in Japan)

a primavera
i fiori di ciliegio
volano via!

spring
the cherry blossoms
take flight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

soffia il vento
i giovani sakura
cadono lievi

 

a breath of wind
the young cherry blossoms
fall lightly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

giorno di festa
tra i ciliegi in fiore
a bere sakè

 

festival day
to drink sake below
flowering cherry trees

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Nazarena Rampini

 

 

 

Pioggia di maggio –
il suono del torrente
riempie il greto

 

May rain —
the torrent’s sound
fills the pebbly shore

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Già primavera –
vola via una farfalla
dai panni stesi

 

Already spring —
a butterfly flies from the clothes
hung out to dry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Schiarisce il cielo –
riflesso di un airone
nella risaia

 

the sky clears —
a heron’s reflection
in the paddy

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Pasquale Asprea

 

 

 

Piccoli insetti nell’erba sovraccarica una speranza

(ispirato dal 5° anniversario del disastro di Fukushima)

 

tiny insects in the grass a hope overloaded

(inspired by the fifth anniversary of the Fukushima disaster)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bruma serale –
il canto di uccelli
invisibili

 

evening mist —
the bird songs
invisible

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Piccoli mondi
chiusi nella corolla
di un crisantemo

 

little worlds
shut in a mum’s
corolla

 

 

 

Ξ 
 

 

Pietro Tartamella

 

 

 

(traduzioni Antonella Filippi)
(translations by Antonella Filippi)

 

fa freddo ormai
e ancora cammino
con scarpe estive

 

it’s cold, now
and still I walk
with summer shoes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

rondine in cielo
il suono dei bicchieri
che si toccano

 

a swallow in the sky
the sound of glasses
tinkling

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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