From the Desk of the Editors
WHR August 2011
From the Desk of the WHR Editors
We wish to start a new column from this issue, which introduces some of the works of this magazine’s editors themselves. This is a very common practice in Japanese haiku magazines but seldom, if ever, seen outside Japan.
The new column is aimed at creating a dialogue between our readers and us editors through exchanging works, a two-way path of our creativity. It is hoped that the readers will enjoy and appreciate it. It is by no means meant to present our works in terms of teaching or making any point. The sole aim is to share and enjoy for mutual benefit.
Kala Ramesh, Deputy Editor-in-Chief
World Haiku Review
Haiku
tsunami —
the rising wave
of human cry
the unsung bell . . .
in a ruined temple
autumn deepens
green hills slope
toward the paddy fields . . .
whispering long necks
parched earth —
the brick wall sizzles
with each raindrop
banyan tree's girth:
the countless leaves
this tree has shed
desert winds . . .
the pockets of footprints
swiped away
monsoon rains —
in spite of my grip I slip
in these flip-flops
where forest meets water
fireflies draw on night's canvas
Buddhist sangha . . .
chanting on the breath
of the leaf month
your setting sun
swirls into my morning . . .
parijat blossom
Senryu
his eyes speak
before his tongue
one more lie
window shopping . . .
on a headless mannequin
my face appears
red light area
she waits for a man
to make eye contact
without eyes . . .
in the darkness of my sleep
a dream of a film
oil massage—
I breathe in the fragrance
of Himalayan herbs
pricking our thick skin
the yogi who fasts for days
against corruption
Haibun
Misty Morning
mustard flowers yellowing the trodden path back to spring
I row the boat . . . my travelling companions come and go, on and off. Parents, siblings, husband, children, friends, Beatles, Kumarji, raga music, haiku . . . Like the far away moon, warm and constant on its never-ending journey, my days wax and wane.
As dense mist pass by, some knock on the door of my boat house and others just barge in to fill my each breath with their thoughts. Out of this maze I walk out, spinning insults, wounds and rounds of applause into flowers and fruits. Gathering or trying to gather all parts of me into one — whole and undivided
her low deep moan
fills the misty morning . . .
a cow in labour
The Rambler
"What is it to digress?”, my daughter asks me one day. . .
to go off at a tangent
deviate
stray
wander
. . . maybe even ramble?
"But, why is it so bad? Won't it be interesting to do that? I would find such a person any day more interesting to talk to, than the stuck-in-the-mud types . . ." My little daughter muses. I couldn't agree with her more on this point.
I remember one of my teachers — her spectacles with bifocal lenses — used to stare her eyeballs out when I started to talk . . . I felt small, which actually I am in my house — the shortest of my siblings, but that is neither here nor there, well coming back to my height — with age, I've shrunk further now.
The other day I was walking down the street, and passing a lamp post, my shadow looked shorter and stouter — I felt positive this is how I'd look, say ten years from now? I read a book recently which said to never mix proteins with starch — they'll never get digested but remain in your stomach churning . . . one is acid and the other is alkaline, and in the lab . . .
I look . . . my daughter is nowhere around.
getting older
each second by a second
mother tells us stories
she's told a million times
as if for the first time
Kulfi Wallah!
On saturday nights we wait
for that man on his old bicycle
his voice most peculiar
unmistakable even in my dreams
hearing him again tonight
my mouth begins to water
breathing in the scent runs a marathon
coming out almost through my skin
he opens a terracotta pot
from which he digs out
a small aluminium cylindrical cone
as each clamour to be the first
he gives that all knowing smile
as he hands me, the youngest of us all
the first plate
made from areca leaves
with neatly sliced ice cream on it
I hold it precariously
not wanting to drop any of it
nor wanting to be the first to begin
for then I’ll be the first to finish
and I would have to see my siblings
eat, lick and eat and . . .
my eyes would refuse to look away
“Kulfi wallah!” mother calls out
to give him the money
for our once-a-week sin
—an almond, cashew
and cardamom mix
of home-made ice cream
the bestest in the world
same joy in her voice
I remember as a child . . .
Mother's Day
bronze temple bell
the mingling undertones
of myriad thoughts
Rohini Gupta, Technical Editor
World Haiku Review
Haiku
across the page
faster than my pen
a falcon's shadow
afternoon thunder
the bright blossoming
of umbrellas
already stars
above the snow peaks
so very far to go
writing
a poem, sunset turns
the page golden
the kittens
hiding shivering
first rain
storm clouds
above the mountains
but one patch of stars
down the stairs
the cat keeps pace
with my slower steps
Haiga