Shamrock Haiku Journal

Shamrock

 

Haiku Journal

of the Irish Haiku Society

 

Focus on

EUROPE Off-Centre

 

Interest in haiku existed in Europe ever since the beginning of the 20th century.Wikipedia mentions some European non-English-speaking countries where haiku movements are best developed: "countries of Northern Europe (mainly Sweden, Germany, France and The Netherlands), Balkan countries (mainly Croatia, Slovenia, Serbia, Bulgaria and Romania), and Russia." Shamrock has published or is planning to publish thematic issues focusing on each of these countries, as well as on Italy, Spain, Belgium, Poland and probably Turkey.

As for this particular issue, it presents a selection of haiku from several European countries where haiku scenes are far from satisfactory. Furthering our study of European haku geography, we showcase authors from the states that don't have formal national haiku associations, haiku magazines and/or websites. You'll see that there are many extremely interesting poets living 'off-centre'. Some of them publish their work in such magazines as Simply Haiku and The Heron's Nest, the others win prizes at international haiku contests, and therefore can be regarded as haiku plenipotentiaries of the countries they live in, the localities where haiku movements sometimes need as much help as they can get. This publication was meant as our small contribution to it.

Among the twelve countries represented in this issue, three are republics of the Balcan region (Bosnia, Macedonia, Montenegro), another three, the Baltic countries (Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania), further three, central European states (the Czech Republic, Hungary, Slovakia), two republics of the former USSR (Belarus and Ukraine), and finally Portugal. We have made every attempt to find traces of haiku activities in such countries as Albania, Cyprus, Iceland, Greece, Luxembourg, Moldova, Switzerland, but to no purpose. We would be intersted in hearing from haiku poets, the natives of the afore-metioned states, should they read these lines.

Finally, we must mention that we tried hard to find Ukrainian haiku written in their native language but instead had to settle for those written in Russian. If we overlooked haiku poets writing in Ukrainian, we owe them apologies. Again, we would be interested in hearing from them and considering their work for publication.

 

 

Belarus

 

Greedy mud!

see how it pulls off

the beggar's overshoes

 

 

transparent air –

we can view

the last summer

 

 

 

prickley sow-thistle...

but look how the bee

befriends it!

-- Ales Razanav

(translated from the Byelorussian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

that riverbed stone –

what does it know

about summer heat?

 

 

 

a street lamp alight –

raindrops on the pane

suddenly awake

 

 

 

who can remind me

the name of this flower?

listening to the wind

 

 

 

what is he looking for,

this black moth?

a black flower?

-- Miraslav Shyback 

(translated from the Byelorussian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

Bosnia and Herzegovina

sparrow and a magpie

sipping water from

the same puddle

-- Denjo Mirsad 

 

 

summer here –

poppy petals

on the cow’s hoof

-- Ljubomir Dragovic

English versions by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

 

 

 

The Czech Republic

 

Evening nearing –

a stray dog runs to meet me,

a bone in his jaws

 

 

 

On the night train –

two sober gentlemen

playing checkers

 

 

 

Glasses clinking

and clinking – seeping through,

a squeaky laugh

-- Kateřina Rudčenková 

English versions by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

 

 

ESTONIA

 

 

White wooly clouds

growing whiter

after the swans flew near

 

 

 

Withered grass whisper –

underneath the thick snow,

dreams of grasshoppers

 

 

 

Unexpected winter –

all night I hear leaves fall

onto the snow

 

 

 

In the limestone quarry,

an ice-hole, today reflecting

the cold sun

 

 

 

Pine branch growing fast –

I open my window,

it enters my room

 

 

 

Fir-trees –

so high, but sinking

into birds’ songs

 

 

 

In the field of blooming poppies

vultures scream of

approaching autumn

 

 

 

Inspired by nightingales’ song,

frogs start croaking

with gusto

 

 

 

Leaves still warm

after the first thunderstorm –

hey, snails

 

 

 

Inside a frozen apple,

a pale worm crawling into

his last dream

-- Andres Ehin

(transl. from the Estonian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky and the author)

 

 

 

Blustery wind

we‘re caught in the golden blizzard

of falling leaves

 

 

 

A tiny feather

descending –

birdless sky

 

 

 

The train screams

and slows down –

three silver firs on the pane

-- Arvo Mets

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

Autumn storm –

waves taking away with them

a sign "No swimming"

 

 

 

This plump girl

wearing her summer dress –

she has so many flowers on!

 

 

 

Cold stove –

between the last year's logs,

a dried grasshopper

 

 

 

Morning fair –

a vendor shakes off snow

from his fir-trees

 

 

 

Old house brought down –

trees swarm

around the pit

-- Felix Tammi

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

Hungary

 

birds singing,

the pear-tree flowering:

gulash soup on the simmer

-- Judit Vihar

 

 

 

an arrow in the grove

showing the direction

to butterflies

-- János Kurszán Kántor

English versions by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

 

 

 

 

Latvia

 

Poetess's car:

silver handles and piston rods...

a train far away

 

 

 

Invisible thread:

a black butterfly pulling

the yellow locomotive

 

 

 

Night train...

after sleep, I wake up

within my dream

-- Valdis Jansons

(transl. from the Latvian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

Lithuania

warm breeze!

grasshoppers' chirping

invites autumn

 

 

 

autumn sky –

the shadows of grass blades

sink in the river

 

 

 

clanking cold –

a woodcutter's song

gets stuck in the trunk

-- Artūras Gelusevičius

(transl. from the Lithuanian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky and Nadezhda Vinogradova)

 

 

 

Eagle in the blue sky –

two wings outlining

a calm

 

 

 

White pelicans

and sacred cows…

a rainy day

 

 

 

I wore through my shoes

and now walk barefoot –

can't see my home

 

 

 

Three white mountains

above the three green hills...

a long road

-- Paulius Normantas

(transl. from the Lithuanian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky and Nadezhda Vinogradova)

 

 

 

Japanese tourists

up in the castle,

their eyes follow migrant birds

 

 

 

derelict house

the wind slams the door

producing no echo

-- Artūras Šilanskas

(transl. from the Lithuanian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky and Nadezhda Vinogradova)

 

 

full moon –

gazing upon the light

in my own window

 

 

 

cold night –

barman pours wine for a late guest

on credit

-- Artūras Šilanskas

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

night brighter

than the last day...

first snow

 

 

 

first frost...

but children's clothes

thinner than ice

-- Mindaugas Valiukas

(transl. from the Lithuanian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky and Nadezhda Vinogradova)

 

 

 

 

Macedonia

 

Mussels on the beach –

a tiny crab takes cover

in a flip-flop

 

 

 

Children sledding

sunbeams sliding

down the roof

 

 

 

Morning frost –

a sun drawn

on the car side

 

 

 

Early morning…

on a telephone cable,

chattering sparrows

 

 

 

A hospital bed –

my shadow in a hurry

to lie down

 

 

 

Dust-covered book –

a new title given to it

by somebody’s finger

 

 

 

Headlights on –

a car seeking out

unexplored routes

-- Nikola Madzirov

English versions by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

 

 

Montenegro

 

a nun wielding a broom

chases autumn

around the monastery

 

 

 

new moon –

hanging from the bough,

a half-eaten pear

 

 

 

autumn sky –

the raven follows

a war-plane

 

 

 

a bucket under the eaves –

one waterdrop falls in,

two leap out

-- Zoran Raonić

English versions by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

 

 

 

Portugal

 

moonlit grass

the sleepless wind disturbs

flowers' dreams

 

 

 

a leaf falls –

the old lake's eye

blinking

 

 

 

old road –

sun unrolls its bright carpet

for a walker

-- Alonso Alvarez

(transl. from the Portuguese by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

Storks

leaving these deserted fields

never looking back

 

 

 

Plane-tree

pollarded by the neighbours –

where have the birds gone?

 

 

 

Flee, butterfly!

men approach,

the whole armies

 

 

 

The desert wind

complaining

that trees are no more

 

 

 

A snow path…

dirty snow on my wellies,

the colour of men

 

 

 

Another storm…

the wind carries off myself

and almond blossoms

-- Casimiro de Brito

(transl. from the Portuguese by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

Slovakia

 

tiny bronze sculpture:

a dead woman praying

to the sun-god

 

 

 

circumnavigation

in wastelands of the zodiac...

sand in gullies

-- Mila Haugová

English versions by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

 

 

Ukraine

 

Night heat –

the air-blast from the fan

tries to lift a newspaper

 

 

 

Evening coolness –

the feeble trees lower

their leaves

 

-- Ruslan Goondakov

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

Summer heat –

stretched on a stone lion,

a street cat narrows his eyes

 

 

 

Novemeber –

morning coffee gets stronger

with each passing day

-- Alla Mutelika

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

the smell of ozone...

get on with the poems,

my old printer!

-- Tatiana Lugovskaya

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

 

 

A box of pencils –

only the black and the white

surviving

 

 

 

Sweltering heat –

a girl plasters her face

with make-up

 

 

 

Autumn dew –

tiptoeing the garden,

a cat

 

 

 

A street fiddler –

in his hat, the first

yellow leaf

-- Oleg Yourov

(transl. from the Russian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky)

 

---------------------------<->----------------------------

 

 

 

Girls with the Orchid

by Oksana Popova (Ukraine/Ireland)

 

---------------------------<->----------------------------

 

 

 

summer solstice –

daylight begins

with a crow's call

 

 

 

spring flowers –

one by one a bouquet

forms itself

 

 

 

beach picnic

the rising tide nibbles

at the sand castle

 

 

 

a dusting of snow –

more sugar sprinkled

on the cookies

-- Adelaide B. Shaw (USA)

 

 

 

heron

under a soft rainfall –

balsam flowers

 

 

 

empty now

a yellow water lily –

damselflies chase

 

 

 

scarlet petal

beaten against the pane –

October light

 

 

 

dark solstice sun sinks –

signpost to the open fields

lit up

-- Diana Webb (England)

 

 

 

down the valley road shadows shifting gears

 

 

on a bare twig rain beads what light there is

 

 

deck class sparrows claim my ferry seat

 

 

first light –

eye to dreaming eye

with a kookaburra

-- Lorin Ford (Australia)

 

 

 

winter twilight –

yellow apples cling

to the high branches

 

 

 

after her death

watching the rain

meeting the river

 

 

 

crowded promenade

a little boy jumps

our long shadows

-- Lynne Rees (England)

 

 

 

last off the train,

the blind man takes his time

to button up

 

 

 

sunburst –

a raindrop at the base

of a Worcester pearmain

 

 

 

a stray firework

tails off into the dark –

lunar eclipse

-- Matthew Paul (England)

 

 

 

somewhere in this swamp

the sun has drowned –

a ball of gnats

(after Ho-o)

 

 

 

narrow cave –

a wave rushes in,

the shape of its howl

 

 

 

surfacing at low tide,

a shopping trolley

dripping with sunshine

-- Anatoly Kudryavitsky (Ireland)

 

 

 

sunset –

a cat’s shadow rests

by the flowerbed

 

 

 

abandoned harbour –

an old fishing net

still catching rubbish

 

 

 

lying in clover –

a tired dog letting

the world go by

-- Martin Vaughan (Ireland)

 

 

 

twilight hour –

an amber glow of

crickets' calls

 

 

 

fishing boat at dusk –

gulls' cries

swirling the mast

 

 

 

dawn    a snail uncurls from sleep

-- Aisling White (Ireland)

 

 

 

pruning the roses –

a red ant attaches itself

to my arm

 

 

 

clear morning

the crack

of an eggshell

 

 

 

opening the door –

the curl of sunset

in a rose

-- Laryalee Fraser (Canada)

 

 

 

withered trees

sparrows sink deeper

into their necks

 

 

 

shaded avenue...

an abstract painting

of bird droppings

 

 

 

sun ripe fields

the jostling backs of

coloured saris

-- Kala Ramesh (India)

 

 

 

autumn wind

a cloud of crows

out of the cedar

 

 

 

almost summer

replanting the fields

where the river ran

-- Susan Constable (Canada)

 

 

 

overturned hat

snow covers

the coins

 

 

 

supermarket:

undecided

next to the pickles

-- Rose Hunter (Canada/Australia)

 

 

 

reunion:

a pause before calling out

each other’s name

 

 

 

dream over –

I reach for you and

you're still by my side

-- John Zheng (USA)

 

 

 

patter of bamboo chimes

at dawn...

wind getting up

-- Hugh O'Donnell (Ireland)

 

 

 

dried fruits

on the bird table –

bees hum

-- Aine MacAodha (Ireland)

 

 

 

a shaft of sunlight

through the forest...

an open pine cone

-- Terry O'Connor (Ireland)

 

 

 

early evening –

only a blackbird

traffics the lane

-- Katherine Gallagher (Australia/England)

 

 

 

morning fog...

leaving home

without my purse

-- Raquel D. Bailey (Jamaica/USA)

 

 

 

brittle petals...

my dry lips

on your dry cheek

-- Christine Vovakes (USA)

 

 

 

immortelle

pressed in Grandma's

prayer book

-- Srinjay Chakravarti (India)

 

 

 

evening heat

her eyes on mine

just long enough

-- Josh Wikoff (USA)

 

 

 

retirement village

she carries his old dog

up the hill

-- Quendryth Young (Australia)

 

 

 

walking at sunrise

the scatter of pollen

from tall grass

 

-- Nathalie Buckland (Australia/Wales)

 

 

 

feast of the dead:

floating down the stream,

paper lanterns

-- Anima Yamamoto (Japan/England )

 

 

 

New Year's Day –

lifting the lid

on another jigsaw

-- Helen Buckingham (England)

 

---------------------------<->----------------------------

 

 

Malden Park

 

by Jeffrey Woodward (USA)

Walking, we forget.

Walking, we remember.

It is merely physical exercise today while, tomorrow, it may be a cause for deep meditation.

An Indian summer morning in my favorite city park, some 500 acres of rolling hills with little groves scattered here and there amid open meadows, two ponds ringed by cottonwoods and willows, some simple wooden footbridges to negotiate a shallow creek. 

I have the luxury of the entire park to myself, it seems, but an indefinable melancholy, a melancholy of unknown provenance, shadows my every step and proves itself an intimate, if unwanted, companion. Why?

 

 

watching the water

go under the bridge –

clear autumn

 

 

One can continue on, walking. One can continue on, in a state worse than that of any beast of burden, walking under the weight of regrets that one piles upon oneself repeatedly and habitually, a labor more unforgiving than that of a taskmaster’s mule.

The sky itself is relatively clear but beginning to cloud. The weather, delightfully mild. 

Here is a nice spot in the grass. Here one can sit and look. 

Look at the neighboring stalk of grass. What do you see?

 

 

the clarity

comes to nothing… 

a drop of dew

 

 

One can stand. 

One can walk, again. 

One can consider, in the soon-to-be vanished yellows and reds of autumn leaves, how an inexorable uniformity and sameness will settle over these hills, if only superficially, as every bold distinction is muted in the slow decline toward winter’s onset:

 

 

a mole is gray,

a mouse is brown –

fields of autumn

 

 

Nevertheless, each individual red and yellow leaf still shows itself in sharp relief, even though the sky clouds slightly. Insects, too, sing in the grass that is losing its color, insects that with each passing day are fewer and more distant. The New England aster sprays here and there, clusters of pretty purple flowers, while the rarer Lindsey’s aster with its paler blue petals is plainly seen amid the white showy and heath asters that everywhere dot the slopes.

 

 

voices of insects

drift a little 

with the fleecy clouds

 

 

One walks to forget. 

One walks to remember. 

I abandon my pleasant seat in the grass. 

A cloud, even though the day is still luminous. A cloud, where all was clear before. 

One last hill to climb, then, in my morning walk:

 

 

through heath aster  

to the crest of a far hill  

and fleecy clouds

 

 

on a dusty path  

that leads me up into  

the sky of autumn