Reviews of Doghouse Publications
Capering Moons
Haiku from the Emerald Isle
Anatoly Kudryavitsky. Capering Moons: Haiku and Senryu Poetry. Tralee, Ireland: Doghouse Books, 2011, 62 pp., perfect softbound, 5 x 7.5. ISBN: 978-0-9565280-2-5, £12
Maeve O'Sullivan. Initial Response: An A-Z of Haiku Moments. Uxbridge, U.K. Alba Publishing, 2011, 66 pp., perfect softbound, 5.75 x 8.25.
ISBN: 978-0-9551254-3-0, 16 USD "Capering Moons" is the third poetry collection by Anatoly Kudryavitsky, an internationally published and award-winning poet residing in Dublin, Ireland. Kudryavitsky devotes his book's first half to haiku grouped traditionally into four seasons. The haiku are mellow and descriptive, such as his 2008 first-prize winner at the Suruga Baika International Haiku Competition, Japan (p. 13):
sheep unmoved The poem contrasts inactive sheep with barely moving clouds: all are leisurely and probably display similar off-white colors and frayed edges. Rich softness occurs everywhere: sheep's wool, green grass, clouds. The consonance of the "s" in all lines (highlighted by the rhyme of "grass" and "pass") reinforces the impression of softness.
Similarly Kudryavitsky's 2009 first-prize winner at the Haiku Magazine International Haiku Contest, Romania-Japan (p. 23):
aspen in the rain offers not just a description. In addition to showing what is seen and heard, the poem suggests the tactile sense of rain that drifts so gently from the sky that it allows a listener to also hear the water collected by aspen leaves and dropping from them. The slant-assonance of "a"-like vowels (aspen/rain/autumn) connect to the implied "fall."
The second section of the book ("More Haiku and Senryu") maintains the meditative descriptive voice.
The third section comprises two rensaku. Kudryavitsky subtitles each as a "Haiku Sequence." He organizes both temporally, the haiku leading from dawn through a composite day to dusk. He sets one in Tuscany and the other in Flanders, and the haiku do give a larger picture together than separately. The "Ghent Rensaku" is a little more successful because its haiku, such as (p. 54):
castle keep give a more individual sense of place.
The final section is a single haibun, of Ufa City and the Silk Road.
Another recent collection of haiku and senryu from the Emerald Isles is "Initial Response" by Maeve O'Sullivan (also from Dublin). This is O'Sullivan's first solo haiku/senryu collection. (She co-authored the 2005 "Double Rainbow" with poet Kim Richardson.) At first glance it's a more intriguing book than "Capering Moons": the cover and interior of Initial Response dazzle with exuberant ink-scribble-and-splash art by the haiku poet John Parsons; its poems are sequenced alphabetically rather than seasonally; its cream paper and robust font are easy on the eye. Unfortunately, a typical poem such as (p. 18):
one hundred degrees
ice-cold lemonade
warm banana bread
or (p. 53):
Chinese restaurant feels like a list that fades away rather than a crafted juxtaposition. Similarly, a poem that tells the reader an emotion instead of showing it, such as (p. 15):
six months pregnant would be stronger if the description of the emotion could be replaced by an image (perhaps but not necessarily a season word or phrase) to add depth and imply the emotion.
The section that has the strongest work is "F: Father's Death Day" which does have powerful haiku, particularly (p. 20):
father's death day A poem like this and the beauty of the book's appearance show O'Sullivan has a love and respect for haiku. Readers will come away hoping that her next book shows a greater proportion of poems with haiku strengths such as in the last poem above, particularly its juxtaposed images and significant closing line.
However, readers will find that Kudryavitsky's "Capering Moons" is the more successful of the two books reviewed here. It shows that the haiku spirit thrives in Ireland. The era of plenty that preceded the economic downturn had little space
for poetry in the big publishing houses. Even in Ireland, where artists
seem to be more valued by their government, poets don't sell well. If it
weren't for the small publishers, like Black Inc. Publishing and John
Leonard Press, Ivor Indyk and his journal, Heat - generous patrons of poetry, who typically put their life's savings into tiny volumes - Australian poetry would be a lost cause. There is more hope in the Irish
poetry scene - and the Poetry Ireland Resources site demonstrates this:
http://www.poetryireland.ie/resources. Doghouse, which functions very
efficiently online, with its delectably ironic moniker, is a very small,
specialist poetry publishing house that seems to be focussing on
emerging writers, like Eileen Sheehan. Down the Sunlit Hall is a second
volume, and Eileen Sheehan has an impressive tally of prizes to flaunt.
The Irish poetry scene has for decades now boasted a phalanx of feisty
feminist poets, and Sheehan is one of these. Her locale is domestic, her
loves familial - dying mother, children, husband more equivocally - her
sensibility dark and real, but with an eye on resurrection.
For me, the most moving sequence in the collection is a series of
poems - 'woman in the small hours, walking', 'living in the surreal with
Alois', 'Each Vessel Containing', perhaps 'In a Land that had already
Known Hunger', 'On the Morning of My Mother's Passing', 'New
Year's Eve', 'Threat of Rain', 'Down the Sunlit Hall', and 'To Keep' - about a mother who died when the poet was forty-three. Her sense of loss is understated, and the more real for being so. These are poems that enact loss and console simultaneously. The most impressive of them, 'living in the surreal with Alois', deals with a terrifying tumour-induced dementia, without dehumanising the woman who is tragically conscious
of her condition:
she's even forgotten my name I am visitor I am the one to complain to What the lack of punctuation and the matter enact is an imaginative
fusing, through ameliorative storying, of difference and empathy.
Mother and daughter are separate but mutually complicit in finding the
saving narrative. The domestic simplicity of the tale bonds the two in
gentle jocularity, which diminishes the malignity of the tumour and
helps the old woman save face and briefly understand her appalling
condition. In a lighter mood, in 'To Keep', when asked by the
undertaker about taking possession of her mother's wedding ring, she
notes the slenderness of her mother's finger and imagines a father
twelve years dead, but 'always early for everything' and 'marking
time/by leaning on the five-bar gate', and a reunion in which the mother is
... smoothing back the flying The choice of present tense powerfully works against potential
sentimentality, as does the satire earlier in the poem directed at the
unctuous undertaker, and the clear-eyed image of dead hands 'threaded
with unaccustomed/rosary beads'.
The volume aches with loss and miscommunications - apparently
trivial, but telling. 'The Trigger Factor' recreates that moment when a
partner or close friend drops a clanger the significance of which s/he is
unaware - a 'How could you have' moment. The sharp, paranoid response of the persona is figured metaphorically as rancid milk or cheese in a refrigerator. Our persona is no angel-in-the-house, serving up first the rancid foods, and
Lastly While the poems - for example, 'Leave me Be' (p.19), 'Bitten' (p.13),
and 'some contradictions that beset the ex-wife's brain' (p.48) - sometimes remind one of Sylvia Plath's Ariel poems of eloquent abuse
mixed with elements drawn from fairy-tale, they are much less
uncompromising, more human and humane; far less angry, and no less
real for being so. Another poem that focuses on the inevitable gaps in
intimacy is 'Unspoken' (p.11) in which a close friend is hurt to discover
a failure to disclose the deep shameful secret of having surrendered a
child. Even with young children, one senses a respect for their
difference, their otherness. This is motherhood and lover-hood being
redefined as a need for private space and as a space in which
imagination and empathy, vivid but momentary, are the temporary
bridges between autonomous selves. But there is also a laughing
acknowledgment of the costs of this separateness.
The poems also flow into another stream in modern Irish feminism,
in presenting the self in comic mode, as properly lustful, greedily
seeking enjoyment in sex. Eileen Sheehan's gambits are not as
outrageous as those of her sister poet, Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, who, by
the way, pins her endorsement of Eileen Sheehan's poetry to the blurbcover
of the volume, and so invites comparison. The quotidian pleasures
of flirting with men on buses, in mini-series and at the hardware shop,
as in 'Confession' (p.16), are not permitted to undo marital fidelity,
though the converse is also allowed: sexual jealousy - 'Primitive' (p.18),
'some contradictions that beset the ex-wife's brain' (p.48) - and marital
bonds are clearly negotiable in this volume. I was also delighted by the
gently humorous 'The Sister of Martha Rejects Her New Man' (p.44):
He was arse in the air when she knew Life is too long What recommends this poetry collection is its gentle, laughing
feminism, its plain-speaking, its capacity to seek out the discomforting
gaps in relationships and find a way through and forward, and its
capacity to find the elegant, understated metaphor. Sheehan is a poet to watch.
Anatoly Kudryavitsky is one hell of a haiku poet. His book, Morning at Mount Ring, stands far above most of the haiku books I have read in the past several years.
Kudryavitsky has a genuine respect for the genre and the culture that gave it to the world, and doesn't see a need like some English-language poets to redesign the genre to mirror and elevate his ego. He writes poetry he obviously lives, painting truth with light, shadow, and varied shades of ah. Take for instance, the book's first haiku: At dawn, the poet wakes up to the song of wind chimes. Not just him but a thousand birds as well. "Ten thousand" is a term borrowed from Chinese Tang Dynasty poets, signifying eternity. The poet feels at one with his surroundings in nature and symbiotically joins nature as a whole in celebrating the morning. Even for someone unfamiliar with Chinese poetry and its influence on Japanese poetry, this haiku invites interpretation indigenous to the reader's own cultural memory and social context.
Kudryavitsky is equally adept writing senryu: Many African nations are caught up in a web of transitional chaos, their futures up in the air, their geography, hotbeds of corruption, demogogy, despotism, instability, and violence. This particular senryu calls to mind Desmond Tutu's imprisonment in the Republic of South Africa when it was under apartheid rule.
One's familiarity or lack of familiarity, however, regarding African politics, determines how this poem is interpreted. This senryu has universal appeal because of its ability to connect with multiple mindsets.
I've heard it said many times that it's hard to say something in a haiku that hasn't already been said. Kudryavitsky writes with an original voice, drawing from the world he experiences. Take for instance: This haiku invokes multiple images: A peak, clothed in a cloud cloak, is climbing on New Years Day; the poet himself is climbing up and down more than one cloud covered peak from morning until after the sun sets. On the last mountain top he climbs, Kudryavitsky is greeted by the bright New Year's moon. The interpretation of this haiku may differ from the poet's intent, but invokes memories, feelings, and mental pictures, nevertheless, influenced by experience and perception indigenous to the reader's cognitive world. More than a postcard moment, the words, eleven in total, say much. Anatoly Kudryavitsky paints with nuances, using words to craft a delicate, symbiotic balance between nature and cognitive perception. He paints a picture that is more than picture, breathing into his canvas what words in the West often fail to say.
The poet is experiencing a cold winter. There has been lots of snow, even as the season nears its end. Cherry blossoms are blooming, bringing a new kind of whiteness to the countryside. The poet looks up at the moon through the blossom laden treetops. White blossoms, white snow, and the white moon; the white representing purity, newness, and clarity.
The poems in this book are not uneven. Almost every one of them is a gem. I recommend this book without any reservation. It is more than just a pleasant read; it is an exemplary example of modern day haiku. O'Connor is well-known and well-admired writer, indeed Clan File to the O'Connor Kerry Clan. His acclaimed poetry collection, 'Attac Warpipes,' appeared from Bradshaw Books in 2005. He is also a playwright. This is an admirable and beautifully-produced book of his reflections on and recollections of the Sliabh Luachra area; the only area in Ireland, according to the late Micheal Hartnett, where true Irish was spoken! Back cover notes by Brendan Kennelly. Considerably more than a local history The work of forty-eight writers is represented herem with contributors from India and Canada, the UK as well as Ireland. The ballad form is much overlooked and overdue a selection such as this. Of the more serious pieces in the book, 'Ballad of the Ploughman' by John Dillon and Ann Egan's Offaly Millennium poem, 'Esto Fidelis' are examples of why the ballad form should not be discarded completely. FINGERPRINTS (On Canvas) is an impressive collection of poems from Millstreet-born Karen O'Connor. Karen is a poet of talent, a fact confirmed by the fact that Brendan Kennelly sings her praises. The poems in Fingerprints (On Canvas) range from the humorous, such as 92 And Driving, to the very poignant If I Regret.
It's never a good idea to pick a favourite out of a collection of verse, as poetry is so subjective, but if my arm was twisted I'd have to volunteer Inspiration - a vivid 23 lines that will mean a lot to anyone who has ever tried some creative writing. Besides, any poem that begins: 'Today I'm sick with poetry, I vomit poems, In ink red as blood, Onto white ruled pages' can't be bad. Karen O'Connor's poems are modest journeys through intimate spaces that ring with a private knowledge. Images of hauntings, ritual, prayer and desire occur throughout. Often he reader may feel that they have happened upon an old quarrel or sentiment veiled in a light of mystery that she does not always, perhaps rightfully so, explain. Her work is most charming when it does not attempt to resolve or come to a realisation. OConnor is most effective when she does not attempt to charm the reader with sentiment, then her voice carries a unique boldness, as in 'Hunger', 'I hunger to know/The smell of sex when flowers have mated/The scrape of a ladybirds tongue on leaves'. VORTEX is John Sexton's third collection of poetry. Here are poems that carefully dissect the careless cruelty of life, in the case of BUTCHER'S DAUGHTER, its unrequited love under the scalpel: A more sorrowful view of unrequited love is found in CHENG YUN-SU UNDER SORROW BRIDGE, which ends: This poem displays the poet's sensitivity to the natural environment, which appears in several other of these poems, including I AM A POEM OF NIGHTINGALES:
Night lasts forever, There are also several surreal poems, rich in imagery and folkloric references. For example, A LETTER TO THE KING OF IRELANDS DAUGHTER, the narrator is turned into a kitten and then finds that: Another surreal poem, IN MY TWELFTH YEAR is a poignant poem of lost innocence and over-protective parenting, the narrator and his brother find an angel in the garden, but when they tell their Dad: Exploring his own role as a father in VORTEX, he watches his own autistic son take a shower and thinks about Joseph Mengele's possible thoughts about the boy. It is a powerful meditation on Nazism, but also deeply affirmative: This collection is powerful stuff that works both emotionally and intellectually and repays re-reading. Anyone can write a haiku and anyone can compile a book of haiku, or something similar to haiku. But good haiku and a good book of haiku are rare jewels. And becoming more so. As Managing Editor of Simply Haiku, I continually receive review copies of books in the mail and, to be honest with you, the majority aren't worth the time taken to read them.
John Sexton is an accomplished poet and writer who has written haiku for years and is the author of a series of books based on a popular children's radio show, The Ivory Tower, that ran for 103 episodes. A good writer isn't born. Being a good writer is the result of hard work, practice, study, and more hard work. Sexton's success is based on a solid work ethic and his ability to creatively translate and see life.
In John Sexton's poetry I see a deep respect for the Japanese haiku masters who gave us the genre and for the genre itself. I also see an original, fresh voice steeped in the social and geographical contexts experienced in the British Isles.
Take for instance this haiku: This haiku has something to say but doesn't &tell all.& It paints a picture with words that are memorable, with intricate textures and tones. The
&shadows of crows,& translated into something someone, perhaps a child, might be tempted to catch and the realization that they &are too fast to
catch,& is a wonderful image.
Sexton's poetry is, for the most part, consistent, and sometimes brilliant. Like many writing Japanese short form poetry outside of Japan, Sexton mistakenly labels both senryu and haiku under the haiku heading when, in reality, they are two separate, albeit closely related genres.
Senryu: Haiku: Although at times mislabeled, Sexton's poetry is a joy to read: Says Caroline Gourlay about Sexton's poetry: And Emiko Miyashita:
in the green grass...
a slow passing of clouds
each leaf dripping with
the sound of autumn
ninety-nine steps
to the rising sun
the bride throws her bouquet
we collect our order
she sizes up the new prams
with disbelief
after hours of phone calls
soft November rain
By J. Zimmerman
Down The Sunlit Hall
I am the one who is helpless as her she knocks she knocks
on the side of her head I imagine the lump she imagines
inside of her head I imagine it shrinking she knocks
on the side of her head and it falls out her ear
rolls like a marble look I tell her it's gone it fell out your ear
rolled under the table got ate by the cat she laughs was it grey
no, I say it was black, black as the darkness back as the devil
a right bad lot but he swallowed it up then he swallowed a rat
and she laughs I remember she says it was black, black as the darkness.
(p.24)
tendrils of your hair and
running
Running to meet him.
(p.68)
I plank down a plate, which holds
my recalcitrant heart, pulsing and
steaming, completely given over
to this love; careful of it.
(p.12)
picking marrowfat peas
off the floor
she would leave him.
to spend with a man
who's obsessed
with white, shining tiles
and cobwebs in corners.
By Frances Devlin-Glass
Morning at Mount Ring
awakening
to the echo of wind chimes,
ten thousand birds and I
police station
a map of Africa
behind bars
climbing cloud peaks
for the first time -
New Year's moon
between snowfalls:
the moon through
cherry blossom petals
By Robert D. Wilson
PULSE - Writings on Sliabh Luachra
By Fred Johnston
The DOGHOUSE Book of Ballad Poems
By Niall McGrath
FINGERPRINTS (On Canvas)
By Des Breen
FINGERPRINTS (On Canvas)
By Sandeep Parma
Vortex
Next you display some hearts
under a glass window.
The smallest of which,
on the left hand corner,
is mine.
I will wait here till water swallows me,
the river bursts and rises to Heaven;
till the moon's a hook from which hangs my heart.
(xii)
and the snow is white in the darkness.
I am the eternal moment of the nightingale.
the house was gone
and I could see you
pushing it down the street
on castors.
he erected a tall fence made from sheets of corrugated iron.
You'll see no angels now, he said.
I can see a half circle of children, emaciated, their faces miserable.
Some are visibly retarded, others invisibly so,
but I can see what they are, know what they are,
have the space inside me that they fit.
By Juliet Wilson
Shadows Bloom
a good game
but shadows of crows
are too fast to catch
first light
the river sheds a skin
of fog
thieving magpie
last slice of light
on the lawn
mysteries
I examine the drawings
on a moth's wings
the teaspoon shows me
with furtive inspection
my true, foolish face
sunlit street
a jackdaw shadow
passes through me
busy in the garden of my fingertip the ant
some spider willed me
this necklace
of dust
"He has a keen eye and the imagination and skill to communicate his observations in unexpected, fresh images, which he juxtaposes without recourse to labored symbolism and/or metaphor . . . a pitfall that few haiku poets manage consistently to avoid."
"From the soil of Ireland where poetry is deeply rooted, a new bud of fresh green haiku."
walking through the brambles
without scratches ...
my shadowBy Robert D. Wilson