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