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
Otata 
Great haiku and an interesting prose.
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A nice month. Very much enjoyed Bjerg’s angles on the lake
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