Image Credit: Freeimages.com
I’m in shock. I witnessed something today rocking me to the core. At 6.30am, whilst walking, I saw a boy, aged about 14, running from the front garden of a house and jump into an expensive BMW motor car, being driven by a woman old enough to be his mother. At first I thought I had stumbled upon a misdemeanour. I continued to observe and saw the woman lean across, stroke the boy’s hair, and place a newspaper on his lap. The car drove about 20 feet forward, stopped, and the boy ran out, posting the newspaper through the next door along from the house where I originally saw him. This performance continued for each of the 12 houses in the street. Are paper boys not supposed to ride rickety bikes, taunt grumpy old men and be chased by dogs? I still bear the scar on my buttock where Old Wilson’s Alsatian nabbed me at the 34th attempt. And I thought the Snowflake Generation were figments of the imagination.
Precious to the touch
Basildon Bond or Tracing
A Mother’s treasure
Stillness irks her. Like a naughty child, she pesters around the armchair blowing “chase me” into my ear. As usual, I succumb. In a prolonged moment, walking boots replace slippers; warm home comforts meet with a cold slap. At first the atmosphere is hostile, but she begins to weave her magic, pointing to Red Kites etched on Cumulonimbus; a distant woodpecker hammering through moving trees. She runs into empty rooms, turning on lights and painting “I LOVE YOU” on vacant walls. We embrace and my reason for being, flows.
With every step
She leads the pen to places
Where dreams are hidden
© Davy D 2017
Thank you to Charles, at The Reluctant Poet, for the conversations about Calliope and planting the seed, and to the Sailorpoet for thoughts on his recent travels and helping to coin the phrase “motion must be your muse”.
The street looks different through scratched Perspex and burning petrol. Buildings and people morph into a grey spectrum – speed of shadows providing distinction. Despite hundreds of voices chanting “kill the pigs” and the thud of bricks and scaffolding poles on riot shields, I still hear my heartbeat and taste fear inside choking acrid smoke. God placed me in a privileged box and I struggle to connect with their rage, their poverty, their isolation; thinking only of how to keep family and friends away from a eulogy.
Anger floods the street
Waves of hatred roll against
© Davy D 2017
A few months ago I wrote, what I thought, was my first Haiku.
One commenter on the post pointed out the poem was not a Haiku in the traditional sense.
It appeared I had stumbled upon the Senryu.
So what is the difference?
There is much debate within poetry and academia as to the difference between Haiku and Senryu.
The Haiku Society of America defines the haiku as “a short poem that uses imagistic language to convey the essence of an experience of nature or the season intuitively linked to the human condition.”
They define Senryu as “a poem, structurally similar to haiku, that highlights the foibles of human nature, usually in a humorous or satiric way.”
That’s that sorted; add a bit of satire or humour to a Haiku and you have a Senryu.
If only it was that simple. I have spent hours reading various essays, articles and websites debating the difference between the two forms and I am more confused than when I started.
Writing to the structure and framework of, for example a sonnet or a quatrain, is a great way to practice and develop the skill of poetry writing, but should it matter how we label or categorise the finished result?
At the end of the day it is all poetry.
I’m off to tackle the Haikai, Renku, Haibun and Hokku ………aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.
What are your thoughts on this. I’d love you to join the conversation.