Haibun Monday at dversepoets pub

January 9th is Haibun Monday at D’vesepoets pub.  I was asked to host this segment.    I have  been writing haibun, an ancient form of Japanese literature, usually a very few paragraphs followed by a relating haiku …for only  two months. I have a lot to learn about haibun.

 Kanzen Sakura (a marvelous poet on the staff there) introduced me to haibun through her own writings.  I had never tried this wonderful form.   Grace (also of dversepoets) will present a short explanation on haibun from previous postings.

The theme is “Childhood Experiences”, whether they be pleasurable or traumatic, but perhaps something that changed the course of your life or impacted you in some  unforgettable way.

The coincidences of life are strange.  My haibun is in part about my 13th birthday, and Monday, January 9th, is my 69th birthday.  I have never written or talked about the death of Honey, my first horse, and it took me 56 years to do so. But it feels right to do so at d’versepoets pub.

So, Haibun writers!  Post your childhood experiences and link your lives to others here!~ 

Dversepoets pub opens  Monday at 3pm EST for submissions. Check the website for directions on how to post there and leave a comment after you have linked.

Lady Nyo

–

Honey

 On the eve of my 13^th birthday, at almost midnight in the dead of winter, I went to the barn to check on my old mare, Honey. My father bought her two years before, knowing I was a child stuck in the countryside, with few friends. Honey was dead, the old Army blanket across her, and by the moonlight coming through the door, I could see her name embroidered on the side.

The next morning, standing at a bedroom window, dressed in my jodhpurs and a too-tight riding jacket, I watched a truck with a winch pull Honey by the neck onto the bed. Her frozen legs saluted the gunmetal sky. It started to snow, blurring what was happening outside. I could hear the motor of the winch and the thumps of Honey being rolled around.

That afternoon, on my birthday, I got my first period. My distressed mother tried to distract me with words ‘I was now a woman’. The pain in my groin was the only evidence to me I was alive.

 

The cold winter stars

Witness the grief of a child

Time does not erase

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

“Ghosts”…a choka for dversepoets pub

Japanese ghosts…..

Choka (long poem) is an ancient Japanese form of poetry that predates tanka and haiku.  It was very prominent in the great Man’yoshu of the 8th century, a collection of 4, 515 poems.  Gayle of Bodhirose’s Blog is hosting this wonderful form over at dversepoets.com.  Come read the submissions of choka over there.  It might choke you up.

Lady Nyo

–

Ghosts

 

Ghosts of lovers gone

circle my head in pale tones

grazing my body

with hands and lips now grown cool.

My loins slight response

barely encourages more

but lust knows its course

and demands my devotion

still calling forth attention.

 

In the past I knew

plump lips, rounded soft belly

blossom of my youth.

All of these circling ghosts

touched the filament

some of them the fundament!

Fast lusty dances

mouths and tongues greedy with joy

loins wrapped around loins straining.

 

Now, silence- alone,

all gone in the haze of time

spooks disturb my sleep

but still my skin remembers-

the scrap of a nail,

the caress of a soft hand,

teeth grasping a lip.

 

The flesh loses much regard

but memories surface still.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

“Olsen’s Pond”

 

 

 

Returning to the old house,

now still, vacant,

staring with unshaded eyes

upon a snowy front garden,

shrubs overgrown with the

lustiness of summer

now split to the ground

taxed with a heavy snow.

 

I tried to light the parlor stove,

cranky old smoker

clanking and rattling

in the best of times

now given up the ghost,

cold metal unyielding to wadded paper

and an old mouse nest.

 

Now the silence of the rooms

broken by hissing wind

whipping around eaves

rattling old bones in the attic,

stirring the haunts asleep in corners.

 

It took time for twigs to catch

water turn to coffee

bacon, eggs brought from the city

cooked in an old iron skillet–

tasting far better in the country air.

 

I looked down at hands cracked

in the brittle winter light,

moisture gone,

hair static with electricity,

feet numb from the cold

the woodstove not giving

more heat than an ice cube.

 

Walking down to Olsen’s pond,

Looking through the glassine surface

remembering the boy who had fallen

through while playing hockey

slipping under thin ice,

disappearing without a sound,

only noticed when our puck flew

High in the air and he, the guard, missing.

 

We skated to the edge, threw bodies flat

trying to catch him just out of reach,

crying like babies, snot running down chins,

knowing he was floating just under the ice–

silenced like the lamb he was.

 

Childhood ended that day.

We drifted away to the city,

our skates and sticks put up,

Olsen’s pond deserted like a haunted minefield.

 

Fifty years ago I still remember

stretched as far as I could

belly freezing on treacherous ice,

grasping to reach a life just out of sight,

his muffler and stick floating to the surface–

The boy, the important part,

gone for good from a chilly winter’s play.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

 

 

“Original Blessing”, for dversepoets pub.

 The east in the morning. with promise.

 

I am dizzy with love,

Standing in the rain,

This cosmic blessing

Pouring on my head,

Mingling with tears of gratitude

Til one stream

can not be deciphered

From the other.

.

I am an Original Blessing,

As are you,

And we are not born in sin,

But brought into the light of life

In great joy and anticipation.

.

Our first bellows are not of pain

But surprise at the roominess of the Cosmos,

As we kick  feet, flail  arms

And finally open eyes at the glorious colors

Of Nature.

.

Original sin would have us

Born rotten,

A theological monkey on our back–

But I know no God of the Cosmos

Who would scar these tiny blessings

With such  a heavy burden.

.

Original Blessing is a deliverance,

A deliverance of hope, trust and pride

A heritage where we can discern and save

Ourselves,

Walk in harmony with the Earth,

Stride with God across the span of life–

For this Earth is our cradle,

And all in it our kin.

.

For a truly wise person

Kneels at the feet of all creatures

And is not afraid to endure

The mockery of others.

.

And when the day sidles up to night

I will settle into the nest of the Earth,

Draw the dark blanket of the Cosmos

Across me,

Pillow my head upon stars

And know  the blessings I have been

Graced with today and always

Have come from the womb of God.

.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

“Autumn Dusk”

(Oil painting, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2003, “Pastoral” (after Constable)

(Morgan at  http://booknvolume.com has posted an interview of Madame Gormosy of Devil’s Revenge fame on her blog website.)

 

Stuttering winds blow across

Clouds tinted by the failing sun.

Brittle air softens,

Now a faded blue–

Shade of an old man’s watery eyes.

 

A late flock of Sandhill cranes lift off,

Pale bodies blending in the

Twilight with legs

Flowing dark streamers,

Their celestial cries fall to

Earth–

A harsh, chiding rain.

 

The trees in the valley

Are massed in darkness

As waning light leaches

Color from nature,

Creeps from field to hillock

And all below prepares for the

Rising of the Corn Moon.

 

Even frogs in the pond

Listen between croaks

For the intention of the night.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2016  (‘Autumn Dusk’ originally published in “White Cranes of Heaven”, Lulu.com, 2011)

 

“Turkey Vulture”, poem.

 “Frank”

(courtesy of pc.wallnet.com)

Dedicated to Sherry Marr whose compassionate nature and especially her love for animals stands as example for me.

 

Knew a woman

in a trailer park

in the scrub pines of Florida.

 

Poor as a church mouse,

half–crazed by life,

fed all  strays-

pariah of the neighborhood.

 

Every evening flocks of vultures,

like fixed-wing aircraft,

skimmed the pines,

landed in a muddle of dusty feathers,

awkward, out of their element

and with a group waddle

came to the cat food offered in pans.

 

They were patient guests,

waited for the strays to finish.

 

There was decorum

amongst them,

these fierce looking birds.

Perhaps they sensed

the charity offered

humbled their nature,

perhaps they had reformed,

I don’t know.

 

“Frank” was their leader

who held back until

the others were done.

 

Frank would never face you,

he sat sideways

though I believe he peeked.

Perhaps he was ashamed

A Lord of the Sky

brought to this station,

filling his crop with kibble

from a dented metal pan.

 

 

 

Come sit with me.

Extend a feather,

I promise not to stare.

 

Your warty red neck,

your hang-dog countenance

does not disturb me.

Your feathers a faded black

on Earth,

but wheeling into the Sun,

how glorious your wings–

Feathers exploding in prisms

And diamonds from Soloman’s mines!

 

Come sit with me.

Let our talons dig into the sand

let the ocean cleanse our feathers.

I will call you friend, brother

for the gift of humility

brought in on your wings.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016 (an earlier form of “Turkey Vulture” was published in “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014, by Amazon.

some paintings of birds done by me.

 

“Sea Eagle”, jane kohut-bartels, watercolor, 2001

 

“Winter Widow”, an attempt at haibun for dversepoets.

I’ve never written haibun  before but Bjorn’s prompts are always a challenge at d’versepoets pub.

Winter Widow

 

At the window she saw the naked trees of winter lit by a slivered crescent moon, casting thin shadows upon frigid ground. Skeletons in the moonlight, these ghostly trees, as brittle as her own internal landscape. Little flesh about her, a fresh widow, reduced by grief now resembling the fragile branches outside in the sullen night.

There was a time when she was juicy, ripe with swelling tissue, wet with moisture, velvet of skin. She lapped at life with full lips and embracing gestures. Speared on her husband she moaned, screamed with laughter, pivoted in sheer joy. Her life had been full, overflowing, desirable, endless, a portrait of promise.

He died one day. Life turned surreal. Much remained, only the reason for living gone. The temperature grown colder, like him under the soil.

Outside it started to snow. She watched the gentle coverage of branch, bush and ground, a tender benediction offered to a cradled earth. She knelt in the snow, grateful for this arousal to life.

She would live, but he must be so cold under the snow.

“Come kiss my warm lips

Cup my breast in your rough hand,

Growl into my mouth.”

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

“Original Blessing”….a poem

PItcher of Moon, available from Createspace, Amazon.com

Paperback: http://goo.gl/RzFRj4
Kindle e-book: http://goo.gl/cOh8Ww

Every so often, I get challenged by someone as to my religion. To me, religious or spiritual beliefs are personal, and I am not one to sally forth and try to convince anyone to believe as I do. Of course, this has led to much shunning and ridicule in my birth family. But they are extreme fundamentalists, and there is a heavy ‘hate’ issue (which is really fear) in their beliefs. I hope all these years I have lived have allowed me a more tolerant and broader picture of spiritual issues. I don’t go for dogma, whether it is clothed in liberal trappings, nor do I want to sit on a hard bench, or mumble prayers in devotion to some strange, dead prophet. But still….there is a pull towards gratitude. Sitting outside and watching the twist of huge oaks and pecans, the passing of clouds and all the bounty of nature pulls me into a profound gratitude for life.

Lady Nyo

“Original Blessing”

.
I am dizzy with love,
Standing in the rain,
This cosmic blessing
Pouring on my head,
Mingling with tears of gratitude
Til one stream
can not be deciphered
From the other.
.
I am an Original Blessing,
As are you,
And we are not born in sin,
But brought into the light of life
In great joy and anticipation.
.
Our first bellows are not of pain
But surprise at the roominess of the Cosmos,
As we kick feet, flail arms
And finally open eyes at the glorious colors
Of Nature.
.
Original sin would have us
Born rotten,
A theological monkey on our back–
But I know no God of the Cosmos
Who would scar these tiny blessings
With such a heavy burden.
.
Original Blessing is a deliverance,
A deliverance of hope, trust and pride
A heritage where we can discern and save
Ourselves,
Walk in harmony with the Earth,
Stride with God across the span of life–
For this Earth is our cradle,
And all in it our kin.
.
For a truly wise person
Kneels at the feet of all creatures
And is not afraid to endure
The mockery of others.
.
And when the day sidles up to night
I will settle into the nest of the Earth,
Draw the dark blanket of the Cosmos
Across me,
Pillow my head upon stars
And know the blessings I have been
Graced with today and always
Have come from the womb of the Universe.
.
Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2012

Published in “Pitcher of Moon”, Createspace, Amazon.com, 2014

“The River”…..a poem

 

from website: halfhearted dude…and thank you.

Maybe it’s all this green pollen floating around the air, the fertilizer for nature’s coming bounty. Whatever it is, there is a quickening, a thump in our guts as our thoughts turn to love and sex which is natural as we are also part of this season’s bounty.

Lady Nyo

 

THE RIVER

 

The sun streams in the window

Like a jarring benediction

From a loud-mouthed priest.

 

It falls upon us

As we spoon asleep

Your back turned to me

My nose on your skin

Breathing in the miracle of you.

 

Last night, our first in spent passion,

That particular coin flowed like a river

Between us.

You brought towels

To clean up the waters left by the flood.

 

Bending over me

Parting my thighs with your hands

I wanted you to leave the damp alone

And slide

Into the still wet, faintly pulsing dark chasm

My hollow jerking and twisting at the end of you

 

But instead

I curled up like a fiddle-head fern

And embraced your dark head with my hands

Pulling your mouth to my own 

And we flowed down that river again.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014

 

 

“The Children of Aleppo”

 

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS ‘LIKED’ THIS POEM, BUBBA, K.A., YOUSEI,  ETC.  I WILL TRY TO TRACK YOU DOWN AND THANK YOU~!  EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE READ THIS SOMETIME LAST WEEK.  I REALLY APPRECIATE THE SUPPORT FOR THIS POEM.

I posted this poem a few days last week, but took it down, I think for rework.  I’m posting it again for a particular reason, for a particular website.  This poem was submitted to The New Yorker and we will see if they publish this.  It will be published in PoetCRIT Journal this July in Mumbai, India.

Gary Hart, of Gary Hart Photography in California, wrote a lovely comment on  (www.GaryHartFacebook.com) about “Pitcher Of Moon”.  Gary supplied the cover photo.  It made the book look wonderful.  Thank you, Gary.  And thank you Nick, Steve and the good and sane people in my life.

Lady Nyo

–

The Children of Aleppo

 

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

There are little martyrs-in-the-making

Where 5 year olds and 8 year olds

Wish for a ‘family death’

Where they can die together

With their parents

Where they live in peace in Heaven

Never tasting the fruits of peace on Earth.

–

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

The children haunt the abandoned  dwellings

Of friends who have fled the city.

There they find abandoned teddy bears

While looking for guns for the rebels, their fathers.

–

“Oh, the poor thing!”

A dead canary in his cage

Abandoned by its owners

They flee the rockets, bombs

And mortars.

In the face of daily death

The sight of this bird

Evokes a child’s sorrow.

But the gunfire outside continues

(They are used to the noise)

And huddle in the pockmarked

Halls until safe to scatter.

–

The children of Aleppo

 Have no teachers, doctors.

These have fled the cities, schools

But they still pine for ice cream,

For music in the streets,

For curtains not torn by violence,

For books and toys

And gardens and flowers,

For friends that have not died

Innocent blood splattering

The dirty cobble stones

At their feet.

–

The children of Aleppo

Are free and children again

Only in their dreams,

And perhaps, if you believe so,

After death.

–

How do you put back the brains

Of a child in the cup of the shattered skull?

How do you soothe the howls of the mothers

The groans of the fathers in grief?

How do you comfort the left-alive siblings?

–

The children of Aleppo

Have no future as children.

Suffer the little children here,

They are the sacrifice of parents

And factions,

And politicians

All with the blood of

10,000 children

Who have died 

In a country torn

By immeasurable violence.

–

The beautiful children of Aleppo

Like children everywhere

Still want to chase each other

In the gardens, on playgrounds,

Want to dance in the streets,

Want to pluck flowers for their mothers

And they still pine for ice cream.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014