only? And I just wrote
that time goes too fast.
In one afternoon, two
poems so much opposed!
(But the other one was not written for this 'Book of Days'.)
The term ryubun was created by poet Orrin Prejean, for haibun-like writings using senryu rather than haiku. This is what he says about it:
*ryubun: is a coined term i created about two yrs ago with the help of a Japanese poet on twitter. it means 'Willow Essays or Willow Sentences/Writings' 'Senryu' means 'River Willow.' In an attempt to show how poetic and full of depth Senryu can be (like the Haiku), I didn't want to use the term 'Haibun'....
I have his permission, indeed encouragement, to use this label when it applies to my own writings. I continue to use the label 'haibun' as well, to enable these pieces to be found by those who don't know of the new word.
Nasty little phone scammer, trying to spark fear
with your alarmist, authoritative wording –
if I didn’t know you were just a recording,
I’d very much like to scream in your ear
to cause, if not pain, at least annoyance.
(Although, you’re not a complete waste of time,
having inspired this morning’s rhyme.)
What I did was just laugh and hang up. Good riddance!
Lunch with old friends from the VOW writers’ group (Village of Women). The group came to a natural end a few years back, but some of us still meet for lunch and a catch-up several times a year. One of us brought a new poem and read it to the rest of us; we loved it. We loved even more hearing of her new adventures and new-found self-confidence.
we ageing women
tell each other, meaning it:
‘You look beautiful!’
‘The wild girl in the heart’
(Dorothy Hewett’s phrase)
hides, these days, in a slow,
faltering body. I navigate stairs
bit by bit, angling my feet
painstakingly, not to trip.
Dorothy herself got old and fat,
but still sat down on the grass
with Nigel Roberts and me
at a Montsalvat poetry fest,
discussing our various erotica.
If I sank to the ground now,
I don’t think I’d ever get up!
I write a poem for today.
It’s much too long. I add it
to a different collection.
I try another, realise
it invades a friend’s privacy
(even though I don’t name them).
The hour is late. I promised
to send some people ‘absent’ Reiki.
I decide to leave poetry here for tonight.
The lanky schoolgirl from over-the-road
arrives with her shy, sweet smile,
her good manners and her capability,
to work an hour in my garden.
Remembering myself at 13,
I wonder about her dreams,
and what may be a vivid inner life –
but don’t intrude by asking.