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
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)
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)
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)
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
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)
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