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

2 thoughts on “june, 2016

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