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Volume 37.2
Summer 2006

 

sample haibun

 

Between Poems

Do other poets periodically experience intervals in which they can neither write nor recite their poems without feeling phony, forced, and artificial?

I believe I’m usually patient about it when I start thinking that everything I’ve written is false and expresses only my illusions about people, the world, and myself, is only the result of bad habits and the desire to please my mother, is a pale imitation of other imitations. … Such thoughts are part of a cycle, painful but perhaps necessary, both true and untrue in ways that I now believe will become clearer to me over time and according to a process that is greater than me and that I need not attempt to channel, steer, bottle, or sell.

end of summer
shopping for something
less comfortable


by John Stevenson

Driving Through the New Jersey Dusk

Bare trees stretch like avenues into this twilight’s luminous green, and the stars draw near. The road unwinds past lit windows, blue silhouettes of bushes. Flickering headlights sweep toward me over the crest of a distant hill. The air I drive through smells of wood smoke.

Now a field begins, stretching its pale body under the full moon, and now the closed, black ranks of forest. Atop the next rise an all-night diner blinks. A few truckers sleep in the lot. Inside, the knotty pine tables are lit by red candles; the waitress sponges a formica counter.

all night diner —
a trucker tries to order
the waitress

Across the valley a train whistles three times, like the syllables of a childhood name suddenly recalled, carrying with them an ache for something I rush toward this night, some landscape lost so long ago I can only guess its vague shape.

The road winds on. An abandoned gas station waits around the bend, blue phosphorus numerals lighting the clock above the calendar.

crumbling concrete —
an old pick-up fills
with cold moonlight

And out there, that glow in the sky, some city slows down for the night, neon still pumping. Passing through it, lights blurring like streamers on a birthday party hat, I find myself in the dark again, climbing into foothills of the mountains.

The past is our only security. The child I was still runs in the fields, still plays in the woods, still sleeps in a room with a night light. She comforts me, tells me stories about who we are, reminding me of landscapes and people known without trying in that long day and long night. I listen for a while and thank her for the memories. I was lonely before she began. But I must drive a far distance to somewhere she has never been. I warn her that we might not know where we are when we get there. And then I comfort her, reminding her of something she knows but I had forgotten: the journey is our destination — the lost landscape, the nostalgia that swells across these hills, motive enough to keep going.

from the mountain
only rivers, only clouds
on this moonlit map


by Penny Harter

 

 

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