My Dear Readers:
I'm happy to share with you this exciting news: NeverEnding Story contributor Naomi Beth Wakan published a new book, Wind on the Heath, a life-spanning collection of haiku, tanka and free verse spans roughly "sixty years of inquisitive thinking and creative writing. The foundation of Wakan's work is her dedication to living an examined life, which Wakan describes in this way:
Seeking in the darkness
a crack through
which we may glimpse reality."
The poems in Wind on the Heath allow readers to "see the flicker of light showing through the crack. This is poetry to live by."
Naomi Beth Wakan is the inaugural Poet Laureate of Nanaimo (2014–16) and the Federation of British Columbia Writer’s Inaugural Honorary Ambassador. She has published over fifty books. Her most recent book of essays, On the Arts, came out in 2020 (Shanti Arts). Her trilogy, The Way of Tanka, The Way of Haiku, and Poetry That Heals was published by Shanti Arts in 2019. Wakan is a member of The League of Canadian Poets, Haiku Canada, and Tanka Canada. She lives on Gabriola Island, British Columbia, Canada, with her husband, the sculptor Elias Wakan. For more information, read "A Poet's Roving Thoughts: An Interview with Naomi Beth Wakan by Robert Epstein"
Selected Haiku and Tanka:
early sunlight
the gulls etch their shadows
on the cliff face
the gulls etch their shadows
on the cliff face
a blanket spread
under the cherry blossoms
teens work their iPhones
under the cherry blossoms
teens work their iPhones
end of summer
pinned to the park notice-board
a bikini top
this morning
an early phone call
and my life
commits deeper to the play
of black words on white paper
an early phone call
and my life
commits deeper to the play
of black words on white paper
struggles its way
onto the page
hard to hear it when each moment
trawls with it past memories
self-help book ...
another trip
around myself, another trip
skirting the edge
reflections
of anchored small boats ripple
in the lake
I too feel fragmented
when I think of past ventures
we lie together
like a knight and his lady
in a tomb effigy ...
only the rise and fall of the covers
shows we are still of this world
like a knight and his lady
in a tomb effigy ...
only the rise and fall of the covers
shows we are still of this world
his tragic crash
headlines for two days
then is displaced
by a campus rape
and life continues
a pile
of detective stories
by my chair
as if solving murders
can help me deal with death
I conclude today's book promotion post with Naomi's view of reading/writing haiku and tanka:
On Reading Issa Each Morning
Every morning,
as others open their papers
to the sports page, or
keep them closed on
the grim rumors of the day,
I receive a small, sweet message
by e-mail; a message
telling of simple things . . .
midday naps, the scent of the lotus,
deer rutting, and mountain rain,
a sickle moon, a temple bell,
muddy straw sandals, the beggar’s stove,
first frost, and slush-splashed robes,
plum blossom, Buddharupas,
saké cups, radishes,
garbage-removers, mosquitoes
at the eaves, and a cottage door
crushed by morning glories,
tumbled down houses, and dogs
mouthing down rice cakes.
Only occasionally a bigger mystery
presents itself for my morning
consideration, such as
a samurai’s discarded top knot.
Writing A Tanka
Writing a tanka
is like feeling
the breeze coming up
from the shore
on the first day of autumn.
It tells you that
the full blooming of summer
is over—
the seeds sown in spring
are now to be harvested,
and entropy moves center stage
as leaves fall and
stalks rot in the ground.
Yes, writing tanka
is like that.
Like a record of a full life
and the bittersweetness
of knowing that
it must come to an end.
Every morning,
as others open their papers
to the sports page, or
keep them closed on
the grim rumors of the day,
I receive a small, sweet message
by e-mail; a message
telling of simple things . . .
midday naps, the scent of the lotus,
deer rutting, and mountain rain,
a sickle moon, a temple bell,
muddy straw sandals, the beggar’s stove,
first frost, and slush-splashed robes,
plum blossom, Buddharupas,
saké cups, radishes,
garbage-removers, mosquitoes
at the eaves, and a cottage door
crushed by morning glories,
tumbled down houses, and dogs
mouthing down rice cakes.
Only occasionally a bigger mystery
presents itself for my morning
consideration, such as
a samurai’s discarded top knot.
Writing A Tanka
Writing a tanka
is like feeling
the breeze coming up
from the shore
on the first day of autumn.
It tells you that
the full blooming of summer
is over—
the seeds sown in spring
are now to be harvested,
and entropy moves center stage
as leaves fall and
stalks rot in the ground.
Yes, writing tanka
is like that.
Like a record of a full life
and the bittersweetness
of knowing that
it must come to an end.
Happy Reading
Chen-ou Liu
