wolf hour

drizzle-drench day

black swans
drift between

cold
cuts in keener

sleep
and non-sleep

than a sword

Otaki Beach

mythic chant

the cosmic silence

stillness roaming about

roaring within words

lonely places

deep night vigil

sounds within

a flightless bird

the sounds without

rises within

something slips
in-between

before dawn

stillborn day

enlightenment
awakens

a cockroach scuttles

to a drone attack

from the glare

where hitherto

stay-at-home

words of consecration

my carbon footprint

cannot go

leaves none

 




to be

not to be

traces
of swan-glide

a tomorrow

slashed in water

that never ends

the art of haiku boils down to this

shadows

a toothless old man

emerging
from the fog

sucking marrow

while light dies

from the skeleton
of words

Silent Live Stream
 
As I stroll along the banks of the Waikanae River, it becomes clear to me that the making of a poem is also the process of translating a pre-verbal phenomenon into an idiom that changes one's perception both of the phenomenon and of the language used to evoke it. Patterning words into poems has become for me an act of language-making that strains towards the unique utterance of what has hitherto been outside the apparent purview of language.
 
a mosquito
what is not yet 
leaps the length
pierces my heart
of our caresses
with its absence

silent music
my mothering-me
matrix

on the temple bell
a butterfly dreaming
Schrodinger's cat