Having a Haiku Day

In regards to Basho and his haiku from yesterday's post, I decided to try my hand at composing a brief verse or two. The 'rules' of haiku: each poem is made up of three lines with five, seven, and five syllables, respectively. The subject is usually an image in nature and captures a moment in time. 

The English translations of yesterday don't exactly follow the meter 5/7/5/ meter, but I am sure the syllable count in the original Japanese does.

I poked around and found a website that helps the budding haiku-ist build a poem. Begin typing in the box at the top of the web page and the syllables are counted for you - you won't have to use your fingers to keep track!  Below are five little gems I came up with this morning. Go to write a haiku and see what you can do. Please share your efforts with me in the comments. Have fun!

Autumn colors blaze 

on hillsides and park lanes - time

to light the home fires

**

Last rose of summer

Glowing pink on trellis in yard -

Hand me my clippers

**

Farmers market jewels

Still ripe with reds and yellows -

Where's the olive oil?

**

Bacon sizzling in pan,

Fresh eggs wanting to be cracked -

Pour the coffee please

**

Bookshelves groan with the

Weight of a million words, ideas - 

Time to purge perhaps

On Love and Barley: Haiku of Basho

Before there was Twitter, there was haiku. 

Haiku is the Japanese poetic form that consists roughly of three lines of five, seven, and five syllables respectively. The verse is usually of an image focusing on nature and most often ends with an insightful leap. 

This is what I enjoy about haiku - its brevity and its brain flip at the end.

I picked up a slim book of haiku poetry, On Love and Barley, by Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) at Hattie's Books in Brunswick, Georgia. It contains 253 poems and some lovely Japanese illustrations from an album of paintings by Ike no Taiga. It took me about 20 minutes to read these intriguing verses. 

(If you would like to give writing haiku a try, here is a link to a website that might help get you started  - Haiku.)

In his introduction to this volume published in 1985, the translator Lucien Stryk, writes:

Throughout his life as a wanderer Basho sought to celebrate: whether his eyes turned to mountain or gorge, whether his ears heard thunder or birdsong, whether his foot brushed flower or mud, he was intensely alive to the preciousness of all that shared the world with him. 

Here is a sampling:

Yellow rose petals

thunder - 

a waterfall.

   **     

Tomb, bend

to autumn wind - 

my sobbing.

**

From the heart

of the sweet peony,

a drunken bee.

**

Skylark sings all

day, and day

not long enough.

**

Autumn - even

birds and clouds

look old.

The Grits (Girls Raised in the South) Guide to Life by Deborah Ford

While on the Grand Southern Literary Tour 2013 book buying spree, I came across The Grits (Girls Raised in the South) Guide to Life (2003). Now, I ask you, how could I resist buying this book on the ways and means of Southern Belles by Deborah Ford?

Having been raised south of the Mason-Dixon Line I already knew that Pearls were considered the Crown Jewels down here and that when you offered a guest a 'coke' that could include any drink from Coca-Cola to 7-Up to ginger ale. I was raised on hand-written thank you notes and perfect table manners. And although I didn't inherit my mama's cast iron skillet, I can stir up a pan of cornbread with the best of them.

This is a book that doesn't take itself too seriously - even though sports fans in the South do! If you have a hankerin' to find out what makes a Steel Magnolia bloom, you have to look no further than this guide that covers how we feel about Southern Style and Manners, Hospitality, Music, Religion, Family and Friends. There is a section on The Southern Wedding and one (a little more serious) on Successful Southern Women who have made a difference outside the South. (Think Diane Sawyer, Oprah Winfrey, and Maya Angelou.)

Best of all, there are tried-and-true Southern recipes for Fannie Flagg's Fried Green Tomatoes, Sister Schubert's Special Rolls, the Mint Julep, and the always welcome staple, Cheesy Grits Casserole.

Sprinkled through the book are entries such as:
Grits Glossary -  newcomer, n: any neighbor who has lived there less than ten years, unless her mother is from the area, of course. 

Grits Pearl of Wisdom  - If you are going to flavor a Southern tea the only options are mint and lemon. Anything else would simply be uncivilized.

And here is a grammar lesson:
Y'all is singular.
All y'all is plural.
All y'all's is plural possessive.

Clear?

If you have ever wondered what a Moon Pie is or where on earth branch water (as in bourbon and branch) comes from or how to make a perfect pitcher of sweet tea, the answers are all here.

This book would make the perfect housewarming gift for your new neighbor from the North (i.e., a Yankee) who needs a bit of help in making the transition to living in the South. Or, perhaps your niece is getting married and needs a subtle refresher course in manners. Or, maybe just a present for yourself if you want an amusing look at what makes a Southern Belle so, well, Southern. Y'all.

The Island of Lost Maps by Miles Harvey

I can certainly recommend that you read The Island of Lost Maps 
(2000) if you are:

1. Interested at all in maps and mapmakers.

2. Like the unraveling of a true mystery.

3. Enjoy a meandering read that includes a bit of history, a smattering of Greek and Roman mythology, tales of navigators who sailed in the Age of Discovery, and adventures of the pathfinders who helped to map and explore the United States.

The overall arc of this true crime story is about a mild-mannered man who committed crimes in public against the public. It is brilliantly told by author Miles Harvey.

Gilbert Bland was by all accounts as bland as his name. But his actions were not quite so unimaginative. Mr. Bland went on a map stealing crime spree that took him to research libraries in the United States and Canada and perhaps even Great Britain. After gaining access to rare books rooms with a fake identification card, Mr. Bland would ask for specific volumes and when no one was looking - which apparently was quite often - would cut out valuable maps, stuff them under his shirt, and walk out of the library. He then sold the stolen maps to collectors and dealers. He actually had a Hit List - a notebook full of specific ancient maps that he wanted to pilfer.

It made me feel quite sick to my stomach to read about someone who had the temerity to handle a book with razor blade in hand.

In the telling of Mr. Bland's criminal career, capture, confessions, and convictions, the author gives the reader so much more than just a tale of thievery.

There are stories of Christopher Columbus, American explorer John Frémont, famous mapmakers, and wheeler-dealers in the map collecting world. Mr. Harvey takes the reader all over the map from the Garden of Eden to El Dorado; from Ponce de León's Fountain of Youth to Vietnam; from the Peabody Library in Baltimore to the University of Washington Library in Seattle; and from mapping land to mapping oceans and space. 

One also gets a glimpse into what drives Mr. Harvey to track down information about a man whom he is destined never to meet and the lengths to which he goes in order to try and determine the Why of Gilbert Bland's actions.

Mr. Harvey also interviews professionals that give insight into the motives that drive individuals to obsessively collect everything from ancient maps to books to PEZ candy dispensers.

And, after reading this book, you will never again look at the people sitting at reading tables or lurking in the stacks in your local library without just a smidgen of suspicion.

The Island of Lost Maps is truly a remarkable trip into known and unknown worlds. As a matter of fact, I am so delighted with this book that I will happily send my copy (which has a few markings in it from the previous owner) to anywhere on the map if you leave a comment expressing a desire to read it. In the event of multiple comments, I will draw the winning name out of the proverbial hat on Monday or Tuesday. Happy tripping!

Postmark Paris: A Story in Stamps by Leslie Jonath

It's funny how similar themes seem to arise from books that one is reading. 

Recently I read Hit Man (here) by Lawrence Block in which the main character, a killer for hire, takes up his childhood passion for stamp collecting. 

Right now I am engrossed in Bloodhounds, the fourth Peter Diamond mystery by Peter Lovesey. It concerns the brazen theft of a valuable Penny Black postage stamp from a Bath museum. The Penny Black, featuring the profile of the reigning Queen Victoria, was the world's first adhesive postage stamp. It was issued in Great Britain in 1840.

And then, just Sunday past, I plucked off a shelf in the travel section of Robie Books, a pristine copy of a little book Postmark Paris: A Story in Stamps (2005) by Leslie Jonath. It is the author's tale of her experiences living in Paris for a year when she was nine years old.

The book is really written for children and is quite a delight. One page features text in which Ms. Jonath recalls a particular memory of the City of Light - attending school, riding the Metro, visiting the Tuilleries, attending a ballet at the Paris Opera House, viewing exhibits at the Louvre, and even rescuing her brother when he is grabbed by a monkey at the zoo!

On the opposite page is an image of a French postage stamp that in some way relates to that adventure. So when Leslie learns that the French for cock-a-doodle-do is cocorico, three stamps featuring colorful roosters accompany the text. 

It is in Paris that the young Leslie becomes enamored with the world of postage stamps and soon she befriends the owner of  the dimly lit shop in her neighborhood that sells les timbres, as well as old maps and dusty gray books. 

The stamps she buys are lovely and colorful and many depict the art and artists that we have come to know so well: Monet, Picasso, Renoir. 

I can imagine that the young Leslie had a wonderful time collecting these little masterpieces and hope that she is still finding her way in the world through les timbres.

Leaf Peeping and Leaping

Just a tinge of fall color in North Carolina.

Driving through the Smoky Mountains last week, I was surprised to see that the fall colors were not as vibrant as I had thought they would be. I am sure there were many disappointed tourists who had planned trips to the area for the express purpose of 'leaf peeping'. The Chamber of Commerce, or whoever is in charge of such things, should have been out with cans of spray paint adding color to the trees!

Here, we are having a late fall as well. Some of the trees have shrugged on sweaters of red, gold, and orange and some are still cloaked in summer's green.

This is what Jean Hersey had to report on leaf happenings in October in New England in her book The Shape of a Year:

We forget from year to year how stirring fall colors can be. Annually we tell each other these are the very best we have ever had. And this year they really are! No one has any adjectives left. The scientific-minded speak of pigment and chlorophyll, the rest of us just surrender to our emotions.

The fragrance of burning leaves is another autumn delight. Their delicious rustle and the scent of their smoke invariably carry me back to the days when my father used to rake great piles to burn. Before he lit them my friends and I would burrow deep and hide ourselves in the slightly scratchy heaps. From here we would look out at the world through tiny odd-shaped chinks of light. My father would build several immense piles taller that he, and call us out when he was ready for the bonfires.  We'd stand beside him while three fires burned at once. He always did things in a grand manner -- never just one fire at a time. Enthralled and slightly awed we watched the blowing feathers of blue smoke circle heavenward, and now and then a great volcanic eruption would mushroom out, followed by a roar of flames as a new part of one of the heaps caught fire.

I recall such a scene from my own childhood only it was my grandfather who raked the leaves and set them alight to fill the air with that distinctive autumn smell. Now, of course, one can't burn leaves in the city anymore which is a shame as whole generations of children will never experience the delight of jumping into piles of leaves and the thrill of watching them burn. 

The Road and the End by Carl Sandburg

I promise I will eventually stop posting about Carl Sandburg, but for today, here is a selection from his Chicago Poems (1916) that seems appropriate for the ending of the Grand Southern Literary Tour 2013:

The Road and the End

I shall foot it

Down the roadway in the dusk,

Where shapes of hunger wander

And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it

In the silence of the morning,

See the night slur into dawn,

Hear the slow great winds arise

Where tall trees flank the way

And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road

Shall not commemorate my ruin.

Regret shall be the gravel under foot.

I shall watch for

Slim birds swift of wing

That go where wind and ranks of thunder

Drive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the traveled road

Shall touch my hands and face.