june, 2016

otata 6



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




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






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







Hansha Teki




darkness clings moving into it













overwhelmed with
more of it













in the flesh













     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










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










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







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







Ken Sawitri




afternoon tea sipping a twisting world













the dawn peeled
at a canned city













boiled cabbage
I put today’s time on my diary













orphanage room
the iced glass window
mimics the dew







Helen Buckingham




remove   last resort
  insert   addiction







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













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







Johannes S.H. Bjerg








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













by non-action


the lake













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
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













on a poster













in spring
a coating
of hypothetical
and you sigh













there’s a bench
on a tongue of earth


is that closer
to the water















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













by a tongue
of land


the wet half
of the lake













on 3 sides cultured













close to the lake
furrows enlarge
its shape















the furrows













the old ruin













if my navel
was an eye


it would see
only bricks















the foot path
for people













the sun
‘s smaller


the lake













throw a stone
into the lake
where the sun is













on the far side
your shadow will lie
on the lake















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

















the lake













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













leave it as it is
is action













it’s everything




the missing













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








appears at the end of the month.
Address correspondence to —

2 thoughts on “june, 2016

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