Category Archives: The Sunday Whirl
Flinging Words Away
Written on a window in a fearsome hand—
Fourteen quaint conundrums, hard to understand.
Part of them are Hindi, six of them are Greek,
All of them are playing games of hide-and-seek.
Paint was used to daub them on the panes of glass,
Where the townsfolk gather and outsiders pass.
Intimate connections drew the strangers here
To the storefront window where the words appear.
Someone in the nighttime flung the words away,
Her whole body hopeful that by light of day
Things would be made clearer, intimate and free—
Hence the hand that painted, hence this wordy spree.
And the artful painter? She reserves the right
To remain in shadows, keeping out of sight.
Whirling with Robert Bly
The first line of each haiku or senryu is taken from “Ravens Hiding in a Shoe” by Robert Bly.
A four-year-old speaks
her first five-syllable word:
chickadeechatter.
~~ ~~ ~~
God has already
blessed both the ravens and wrens—
holy their winging.
~~ ~~ ~~
Some ancient language
may give our thoughts wings to soar
above this madness.
~~ ~~ ~~
Ravens at night hide
in blue-and-gold satin gowns—
yes, even the males.
~~ ~~ ~~
Each sentence we speak
can be a treacherous snare—
except for ravens.
~~ ~~ ~~
The end of summer
deserves a celebration—
wrens and ravens dancing.
~~ ~~ ~~
So much of your life
is crammed into the instant
just before you die.
~~ ~~ ~~
The old alchemists
tried to unbalance the scales
between lead and gold.
~~ ~~ ~~
an old woman’s shoe
bedizened with dust and grime—
her endless journey
~~ ~~ ~~
Standing near their stoves,
the cooks slap at mosquitoes
while stirring the pots.
~~ ~~ ~~
In church in wartime
you hear the gasps of mothers
frantic for their sons.
~~ ~~ ~~
Death a thousand times
may ride on his white stallion
and not be sated.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #140
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A four-year-old speaks
her first five-syllable word:
chickadeechatter.
~~ ~~ ~~
God has already
blessed both the ravens and wrens—
holy their winging.
~~ ~~ ~~
Some ancient language
may give our thoughts wings to soar
above this madness.
~~ ~~ ~~
Ravens at night hide
in blue-and-gold satin gowns—
yes, even the males.
~~ ~~ ~~
Each sentence we speak
can be a treacherous snare—
except for ravens.
~~ ~~ ~~
The end of summer
deserves a celebration—
wrens and ravens dancing.
~~ ~~ ~~
So much of your life
is crammed into the instant
just before you die.
~~ ~~ ~~
The old alchemists
tried to unbalance the scales
between lead and gold.
~~ ~~ ~~
an old woman’s shoe
bedizened with dust and grime—
her endless journey
~~ ~~ ~~
Standing near their stoves,
the cooks slap at mosquitoes
while stirring the pots.
~~ ~~ ~~
In church in wartime
you hear the gasps of mothers
frantic for their sons.
~~ ~~ ~~
Death a thousand times
may ride on his white stallion
and not be sated.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #140
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 98
Glimpses
Through tears and patience
the prophets gently warn us
of the wrath to come.
~~ ~~ ~~
three holy women
gazing with sublime intent—
the moment passes
~~ ~~ ~~
the puzzle pieces
fly savagely through the air—
her avenging hand
~~ ~~ ~~
stealing a stale loaf—
the discipline of hunger
driving Jean Valjean
~~ ~~ ~~
eighty-year limits—
nothing heroic about
protesting hip joints
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #138
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Whirling with Gary Soto
The first line of each haiku or senryu below is taken from “The Elements of San Joaquin” by California poet Gary Soto.
At a used-car lot
three naked boys are hiding
under a Kia.
~~ ~~ ~~
When the season ends,
spent root and leaf plowed under
replenish the earth.
~~ ~~ ~~
As the heat rises,
a vixen scurries homeward—
birth-time for her kits.
~~ ~~ ~~
On the river’s edge,
two women who lack nothing
hold hands, then plunge in.
~~ ~~ ~~
Little by little
the quivering candlelight
vanquishes darkness.
~~ ~~ ~~
on my wrists and palms
a dozen faces held fast
by tattooer’s ink
~~ ~~ ~~
I am becoming
an imaginary door
to another world.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
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More Postcards from Paradise at Recuerda Mi Corazon
Another Whirl with Yeats
I seem to have left my heart in Dublin, a UNESCO City of Literature. The first line of each haiku or senryu below is taken from “The Shadowy Waters” by W.B. Yeats, one of Dublin’s enduring writers.
Where do you come from,
and why do you watch me bathe
by waning starlight?
~~ ~~ ~~
Meadows of the dawn—
here the Faerie Queen holds court,
crowned with drops of dew.
~~ ~~ ~~
We are changed to birds,
dangling from a coral thread—
seven flightless years.
~~ ~~ ~~
Do you remember
how the plume of rising smoke
throttled us with fear?
~~ ~~ ~~
The roots of the world
are dry and thirsting for rain—
old woman brews tea.
~~ ~~ ~~
While we have the chance,
let us tell the incident
to the desert rain.
~~ ~~ ~~
Magic in his harp,
mystery in the bottle—
open this rare tale.
~~ ~~ ~~
washed among the stars—
a golden ball of longing,
held by a bent hand
~~ ~~ ~~
I have done with words
what carpenters long to do:
build for the long term.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #136
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Whirling with W.B. Yeats
I seem to have left my heart in Dublin, a UNESCO City of Literature. The first line of each haiku or senryu below is taken from “The Shadowy Waters” by W.B. Yeats, one of Dublin’s enduring writers.
Let the dreams go by
with neither fuss nor fanfare—
others will come soon.
~~ ~~ ~~
I have deceived you
again, but no one need know,
save the two of us.
~~ ~~ ~~
She takes off her crown—
having nowhere else to go,
she weeps on her throne.
~~ ~~ ~~
Fumbling in a dream,
she could not help but wish that
daybreak would come soon.
~~ ~~ ~~
Were you not afraid
when the figure came to life,
calling out your name?
~~ ~~ ~~
I held out my hands
to prove I’d nothing to hide—
you slapped my left cheek.
~~ ~~ ~~
I could see a bird,
miserable and quaking
in the tomcat’s teeth.
~~ ~~ ~~
The birds are scattered—
hardly enough plump pigeons
to compose a pie!
~~ ~~ ~~
They will not follow
unless you take the straight path—
Boise to Cheyenne.
~~ ~~ ~~
My lasting sorrow
is still sweet enough for me
on bitter evenings.
~~ ~~ ~~
The only riches
that interest her are wisdom,
truth and righteousness.
~~ ~~ ~~
From the topmost shelf
the bust of Buddha crashes
to the kitchen floor.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #135
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Whirling with James Joyce
Dublin, where I spent the days after Christmas, is a UNESCO City of Literature. The first line of each haiku or senryu below is taken from “Eveline,” a short story by James Joyce, one of Dublin’s enduring writers.
A man from Belfast
stumbled through the morning mist,
looking for a sign.
~~ ~~ ~~
The two young children
scattered, one this way, one that,
with the man’s advance.
~~ ~~ ~~
He told her the names
of the faces in the mirror—
she forgot each one.
~~ ~~ ~~
For so many years
stable straw sustained her soul—
famine in the chaff.
~~ ~~ ~~
On the cinder path
a tattered coat, pockets torn,
stayed her wayward feet.
~~ ~~ ~~
She elbowed her way
through a vast crowd of thousands,
brooking no rebuke.
~~ ~~ ~~
Brothers and sisters,
do you fear cathedral chimes
stunning the night air?
~~ ~~ ~~
The name of the priest,
Gorman, had an edge to it,
like grit in her teeth.
~~ ~~ ~~
With his blackthorn stick
he begins to scale the wall—
all his foes fall back.
~~ ~~ ~~
Out of the last house
comes a scream of raw terror—
neighbors close their blinds.
~~ ~~ ~~
Everything changes,
from the broad curved boulevard
to the trackless waste.
~~ ~~ ~~
Little brown houses
skirted the village edges—
mice snuffling for crumbs.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #134
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Seven Whirls with James Joyce
Dublin, from which I returned two weeks ago, is a UNESCO City of Literature. The first line of each haiku or senryu below is taken from “The Dead,” by James Joyce, one of Dublin’s enduring writers. Because of time constraints, I have used only seven of the Wordle words.
While the three women
fasten pearls about their necks,
the men suck their pipes.
~~ ~~ ~~
One of the young men
knocks his pipe against his palm—
rain of grey ashes.
~~ ~~ ~~
Where she was going,
there was neither light nor air—
she would not turn back.
~~ ~~ ~~
When the piano
begins to call out her name,
she flees in terror.
~~ ~~ ~~
Quoting poetry,
she folds the linen napkins,
every crease a sign.
~~ ~~ ~~
the supper table
spread with lacy filaments
of the spider’s art
~~ ~~ ~~
a glass of whisky
thawing frozen skin and bone
bitter winter nights
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #133
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Whirling with Bram Stoker
Dublin, from which I have just returned, is a UNESCO City of Literature. The first line of each haiku or senryu below is taken from Chapter 1 of Dracula by Bram Stoker, one of Dublin’s enduring writers.
Flask of slivovitz—
the drunk old farmer stumbles
to the harvest field.
~~ ~~ ~~
My horses are swift,
diminishing the distance
between here and there.
~~ ~~ ~~
Nearly a foot wide,
the ditch beside the footpath
swallows up the night.
~~ ~~ ~~
The flash of our lamps
breaks a path through the darkness,
step by step by step.
~~ ~~ ~~
A chorus of screams
greet us at the palace gates—
we flee in terror.
~~ ~~ ~~
There were petticoats
littering room after room—
tattered, torn and red.
~~ ~~ ~~
Are many odd things
the sign of a mind that bends
and goes its own way?
~~ ~~ ~~
An elderly man,
taking painful steps and slow,
sings to sidewalk worms.
~~ ~~ ~~
The sign of the cross—
a burden she bears gladly,
although her heart strays.
~~ ~~ ~~
With a kindly word,
her virtue blossoms fully,
then bears tart, wild fruit.
~~ ~~ ~~
After the winter,
she cherishes one small wish—
to see wild plums bloom.
~~ ~~ ~~
An old tradition—
scribbling poetry in sand,
then erasing it.
© 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Poetry Pantry #132
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Not Even a Mouse
The first line of each haiku-form stanza is taken from “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement C. Moore.
Not even a mouse
seemed to be stirring that night,
but the cockroaches…
All snug in their beds
with not even a rustle—
weary boys and girls.
All snug in their beds,
the children danced through the night—
at least in their heads.
A long winter’s nap
without a spasm of regret—
do I ask too much?
The stockings were hung
above the warm, spacious hearth—
seven in a row.
Eight tiny reindeer—
a Christmas Eve enigma,
prancing on my roof.
Little old driver,
you clench a pipe in your teeth,
puff-puffing away.
Tarnished with ashes,
St. Nick burst from the chimney
and set right to work.
A bundle of toys—
rare and beautiful playthings
to light children’s eyes.
Right jolly old elf,
do not hurl yourself at me,
even jestingly.
Down of a thistle,
why are you so insistent
when your end is near?
I heard him exclaim
that the rapid-transit game
was done till next year.
© 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
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