Patricia has recently retired from teaching after 30 years, and now devotes some time to the reading recovery programme at her local school. She is the co-editor of the New Zealand haiku magazine Kokako and reviews editor of the online magazine Stylus. She writes short stories, poetry, reviews and articles, and likes to write collaborative poems with other poets.
Contact Patricia: pprime at ihug.co.nz.
View all posts by Patricia Prime
i’d like to be able to say something good about
this haiku (?) but alas i can’t. patricia, the
responses you penned in response to bob’s
responses are much better than the featured piece.
prado,
one thing you fail to understand, i do not write for the “larger literary community”. if i were to, i’d write along the same lines as so many more; mostly imitations or duplications of the works done by “acceptable others”.
one question out of curiosity, prado can you give me some legitimacy for the term “larger literary community”
two things prado, i write for my own satisfaction, and i get more excitement from bad criticism than from favorable ones.
bob,
the english language haiku, is it not
an imitation or duplication of what
the japanese masters had done? there are
many excellent haiku, the one that started this discussion does not qualify as excellent.
by larger literary community, i mean those who
practice the art of writing in genres other
than haiku. one question bob, is there not a difference between say a hot dog from 7-11
and a plate of veal scallopini from wolfgang
puck? see what i mean? bob do you see?
prado,
the (english haiku) is not a poor imitations of the “masters”. there are poor examples in many languages, even within the japanese language; most simply copying another’s work, changing a word here and there.
those who practice the art of “writing in genre” are a poor judge of the haiku. many could not define (the haiku), other than they’ve stumbled upon it once.
“no, there’s no difference, once eaten”;
one is over-priced, and they both come to the same end.
bobby,
by genre i meant short fiction, narrative &
free verse poetry, i didn’t mean genre in the sense of mystery, horror, etc. that being said,
if your’re asserting that ernest hemingway
would be a poor judge of haiku, i can
only chuckle.
morning crows
we bicker over a slice
of burnt toast
feel free to critique my haiku. do you think
i’m getting the knack?
prado, there has begun to be some redundancy to our discussion. i tried e-mailing you direct, but was led to believe there isn’t a pdc@yahoo.com
in rereading my words i failed to see ernest miller hemingway’s name, i have knowledge of his works, his stories and poetry.
if there is a site validating your premise, forward it; or better yet, list hemingway’s works or thoughts on the haiku, then, i can reply in kind.
boby,
it seemed as though you were saying those who
practice other forms of writing are unfit
to judge haiku. i think this is a foolish
assertion. to long to get into here, but
those who practice other forms or formlesses
of poetry, prose, etc would probably
be more objective toward haiku. for one thing
they would’t be wowed by certain “names.”
haiku isn’t that mysterious bob.
prado,
sad, or even ironic, (they) are unfit to judge. you’d think (they) would perceive the haiku; rather saying what it is and isn’t. basho’s fiercest critics knew; instead, ridiculing his maturing style.
“foolish assertion”, apply it correctly, not so much in haste to me, but to the knowledgable (ones) who should know or think (they) know better. (their) being objectionable, you’d think so.
some are WOWED by “names”.
prado, the beauty in a haiku is mystifying.
I’ve tried to send you a private message but my emails have been returned. I’ll be away for the next week, so will return to tinywords when I get home.
white out
a windstorm of
pear blossoms
On a sheet of ice
the chick trying to free itself
from its mother’s claws
–R K Singh
a bearded iris
sporting new growth–
cottonwood fluff
cottonwood fluff
riding a evening zephyr
through blue irises
in flight …
two ducks
familiar silhouettes
edge of the pond
a patch of undergrowth
claimed by the ducklings
edge of the pond —
my thoughts
on the other side
beside the harbour
shags dry their wings
on a rocky outcrop
rocky outcrop
cross the field —
farmer wipes his brow
under
the lamposts’neon lights
someone sends a text
still broken
after last month’s hailstorm —
neon lig_ts
i’d like to be able to say something good about
this haiku (?) but alas i can’t. patricia, the
responses you penned in response to bob’s
responses are much better than the featured piece.
hurricane warning
the buses
packed with tourists
frosty morning
the farmer’s wet gumboots
beside the fire
frosty morn,
mid-summer
we even see different stars
a quiet day
the morning moon
drops from the sky
the morning moon –
perchance, i spoke too soon
something we both share
midwinter
small buds cling
to the willows
pussy willow
harbinger of spring —
of these things, i’ll soon dream
dream state –
the duvet drawn up to my eyes
this cold winter night
small world —
been there
each time we meet, you say
you’re going there
in thirty years . . .
my neighbour trims his trees
for the first time
what was it, over the years —
among blades of grass
ball of white spittle
poor haiku, and the subsequent self indulgent prattle even worse.
EUREKA!!!
it would seem prado has the much sought after knowledge/final word as to what a haiku is/isn’t
or is it, what one doesn’t understand, one calls
“poor”, or “prattle”
yet, tell us more, prado
——————-
the sky is falling
the sky’s falling
ran chicken little
spring rain falling . . .
rattle of an empty can
along the road
seasons change
this dawn, high streaming clouds —
spring, or is it fall
this type of “poem” is the reason the larger
literary community scoffs at english language
haiku. tell me bob, is this a “poem?”
hot afternoon
two men throw their hats
in the river
in regards to patricia’s poem, what’s to understand? bob, note taking is not poetry
a fall of blossom –
overhead a spider web
tangles in the breeze
prado,
one thing you fail to understand, i do not write for the “larger literary community”. if i were to, i’d write along the same lines as so many more; mostly imitations or duplications of the works done by “acceptable others”.
one question out of curiosity, prado can you give me some legitimacy for the term “larger literary community”
two things prado, i write for my own satisfaction, and i get more excitement from bad criticism than from favorable ones.
bob,
the english language haiku, is it not
an imitation or duplication of what
the japanese masters had done? there are
many excellent haiku, the one that started this discussion does not qualify as excellent.
by larger literary community, i mean those who
practice the art of writing in genres other
than haiku. one question bob, is there not a difference between say a hot dog from 7-11
and a plate of veal scallopini from wolfgang
puck? see what i mean? bob do you see?
prado,
the (english haiku) is not a poor imitations of the “masters”. there are poor examples in many languages, even within the japanese language; most simply copying another’s work, changing a word here and there.
those who practice the art of “writing in genre” are a poor judge of the haiku. many could not define (the haiku), other than they’ve stumbled upon it once.
“no, there’s no difference, once eaten”;
one is over-priced, and they both come to the same end.
bobby,
by genre i meant short fiction, narrative &
free verse poetry, i didn’t mean genre in the sense of mystery, horror, etc. that being said,
if your’re asserting that ernest hemingway
would be a poor judge of haiku, i can
only chuckle.
morning crows
we bicker over a slice
of burnt toast
feel free to critique my haiku. do you think
i’m getting the knack?
dripping
paint on his shoes
bobby calls it art
prado, there has begun to be some redundancy to our discussion. i tried e-mailing you direct, but was led to believe there isn’t a pdc@yahoo.com
in rereading my words i failed to see ernest miller hemingway’s name, i have knowledge of his works, his stories and poetry.
if there is a site validating your premise, forward it; or better yet, list hemingway’s works or thoughts on the haiku, then, i can reply in kind.
boby,
it seemed as though you were saying those who
practice other forms of writing are unfit
to judge haiku. i think this is a foolish
assertion. to long to get into here, but
those who practice other forms or formlesses
of poetry, prose, etc would probably
be more objective toward haiku. for one thing
they would’t be wowed by certain “names.”
haiku isn’t that mysterious bob.
on parole
the wide spaces
of a basement apartment
dawn’s early rays
the first whitebaiters
out on the wharf
ocean mist
a fog horn rolls in
with the waves
sea mist rising –
on the deserted beach
the gull’s measured steps
brisk breeze
disturbing her dark ravenous hair —
a falling of my eyes
first light
from my neighbor’s house —
i await the dawn
temperature rising
mist slicken blacktop —
first commuter’s horn
slowly receding
behind dark clouds
the full moon
crescent moon
i bait my hook
by its light
prado,
sad, or even ironic, (they) are unfit to judge. you’d think (they) would perceive the haiku; rather saying what it is and isn’t. basho’s fiercest critics knew; instead, ridiculing his maturing style.
“foolish assertion”, apply it correctly, not so much in haste to me, but to the knowledgable (ones) who should know or think (they) know better. (their) being objectionable, you’d think so.
some are WOWED by “names”.
prado, the beauty in a haiku is mystifying.
day moon disappears
the old lady lost again
from the rest home
opaque full moon
hanging on
blue skies, before noon
harbour bridge –
one shade of blue where
water and sky meet
cross the bay
yellow than yellow
full moon, tonight
early morning call
stepping over puddles
on my way to work
tinkling …
hearing the rain
late night call
the summer chair
rocking by itself –
spring breeze
hurricane season
all things moved by unseen hand —
where’s katrina
stone angel
one small hand spills
sculptured flowers
silk flowers
the thermometer reads
thirty below
orchid show
the old man’s face peers
from behind the blooms
rubbing the sleep
from my eyes…
morning glories
first day of spring
the swallows return
to last year’s nest
empty nest
hailstones fall
on the dinner bell
late afternoon sun
more insistent now
the cow’s bell
first stars
cow by cow
the pasture empties
changing weather
seagulls circle around
the cathedral spire
faces in the clouds —
her hand
cross my brow
open pressed yellow flower, imprints
on closed book pages
darken by age
wrinkles of sage —
in her eyes, i feel young again
no encore, curtain comes down …
sleep of it’s own accord
last days of summer
fledglings on their own …
comes winter
on the dinner table
an empty plate, my thoughts as well
the moon dawns —
more insistent, now
the toll of the bell
cross the heavens
one less star
homeless
people sleep with possessions
beneath their heads
torrential rain
the saints in three piece suits
sitting on their hands
dark clouds brooding
i’m trying —
if only to make it home
for the homeless
this bend in the road —
beneath the overpass
more rainfall …
for the poor
tomorrow, lack of hope
month’s end
before our eyes
the ruins of a city
abandoned
on a flooded motorway
cars and trucks
midsummer heat
resulting storm’s rage —
lives flooded
harm done —
long before the storm
hopeless september
return to fruitless ways —
bodies wash ashore
rising water
the toddler asks if we can
take the tricycle
the sun beckons
schoolboy hockey players
compete for a cup
ragged clouds
the jigsaw blade snaps
on an arc
afternoon swing
the rise and fall
of her blonde curls
carousel ride
memories of mother
spin in my mind
evening sun
shining on daffodils
by the garden fence
morning glories
my neighbor offers me
an “eye opener”
grandson’s day out
he takes a technicolour ride
down the hydroslide
painted daisies
our toddler colours
outside the lines
in a line
outside the school gate
poplars
unemployment line
the clerk grumbles
“i hate this job”
around its seeds
the persimmon
gone to pulp
on my tongue
a spearmint leaf
declares itself
brought to a halt
by cherry blossom perfume
I forget the chores
snow day…
he shovels the driveway
s fourth time
beneath a blue moon
two tennis champions
battle for the cup
half moon
how can a child be called
illegitimate?
visiting father –
the toy box emptied
on the kitchen floor
divorce final…
i count the dividing lines
on the highway home
steam train museum
passenger carriages reflected
in a chrome handrail
winter afternoon…
counting the cars
of a freight train
among a tangle
of locomotive wheels
apprentice engineer
first date…
her border collie
on a short, taught leash
answering the call
of a stranded minke whale
the bucket brigade
midway through my momologue
the vibration
of my cell phone
all the way home
humming a tune whose words
I’ve forgotten
oldies station
the many ways i haven’t grown
beyond seventeen
election day
an old lady with a cane
hands out stickers
trail’s end…
he returns his walking stick
to the forest
as the sun sinks
house lights come on across
the dark valley
glass bottom boat tour
everbody watching
the flying fish
during a power cut
we talk of conspiracy theories –
the wind dies down
late autumn
a cardinal’s song
fills dealy plaza
close company –
an aerobatic team performs
above the public
cloudless sky
the skydiver’s
blue parachute
big chill –
a ewe and a lamb contemplate
a day in the snow
sidewalk sale…
in every sympathy card
the sun’s warmth
in the cathedral
reflecting beside a reliquary
a worshipper
subway platform
above the passing faces
the face of a clock
construction worker
lying in his wheelbarrow
studies passers-by
ocean stars
i too
am a grain of sand
an empty bay
footprints in the sand
lead to the water
moonless night…
searchlight beams sweep across
the syrian border
cold light of dawn
a backpacker murdered
on a scenic trail
cat…
bluebirds shift
from bath to branch
bubble bath
the perfumed air
of the child’s bedtime
cheap cologne
a barfly settles
on the stool beside me
sunday morning walk
the birds surprise me
on all sides
_
V of geese
_
a vapor trail
completes the triangle
its head
in a stormwater drain
the large white goose
hurricane news…
here, the whir of the washer’s
spin cycle
on Buddha’s image
a framework of windows
filters sunshine
dense fog…
seeing so clearly
how lost i am
rural road
smoke from a burn-off rises
in a cloud-spotted sky
rush hour traffic
a flock of starlings
turn above the overpass
wild, defiant stare
the stray black cat faces
its attacker
war talk
a mole ducks back into
his tunnel
coastal sentinals –
spotted shags
enjoy the sunshine
nightfall…
the dalmation becomes
one spot
traffic island
the windscreen cleaner
juggles his squeegee
winter funeral…
just enough snow
to cover the coffin
growing season –
a helicopter drops
fertiliser
I’ve tried to send you a private message but my emails have been returned. I’ll be away for the next week, so will return to tinywords when I get home.
patricia,
i don’t have a computer, i send these from work ,
from my sister’s. i use the address in order to post. have a great trip.
prado
harvest moon
the deep green
of a fresh kiwi
three under-fives
the bath-tub full of toys
and pink bodies
autumn emptiness
the knowing look
on the pumpkins face
deep footprints –
alongside pumpkins
the wheelbarrow
spring equinox…
our toddler graduates
to training wheels
escaping his hand . . .
a little child chases
the helium balloon
gone for good…
everything that was
one breath before
a walk in the park
fairy bubbles steal the show . . .
the child transfixed
cloudy morning
the psychic shines
her crystal ball
White Sunday –
Samoans dressed in white
for church procession
monday morning…
the weight
of my workboots
contortionist
her dismantled costume
lies backstage
war talk
our toddler tries to place
a square peg in a round hole
hot steam of tea
another disaster
in the morning’s paper
fish and chips
she blots the grease
with bush’s face
pages reveal
the price to tax-payers
of a mid-sea rescue
nightfall…
i remove the lid
of the cicada jar
summer moon
oranges
quartered on the plate
the last page
missing from the novel…
winter deepens
anniversary . . .
still the orchids bloom
on the veranda
85th birthday
mom tells the waiter,
“extra spicy”
childhood memories
I discover a first tooth
in a little box
winter wind…
the hygenist offers
nitrous or novocaine
dentist’s waiting room
a child’s drawing of a tooth
on the wall
painting a line of sparrowa
across the sky..
sparrows
early summer
a waxeye feeds
on a loquat tree
halloween
the sugar maple drops
its last orange leaf
collapsing
underfoot
dry husks
weaving
a ladder to the sky…
white spider
through a crack
in the old oak table
a money spider
broke…
the black depths
of the wishing well
sudden visitors
putting things out of the reach
of their toddler
one touch
the delicious warmth
of her fingertips
cool moon rising
silhouettes of commuters
against the oak leaves
Be still, my heavy heart
I feel a haiku coming:
Ah, that is better
fire engine
two visitors reflected
in the polished hubcap
moonrise
i abandon my search
for a word to describe it
photographed
from a helicopter
the changing skyline
I’ll be away for 10 days, back on 1st.
have a great trip!
winter stillness
a straight line of smoke
from the crooked chimney
dangling a worm
the thrush looks at us
sideways
carried over
from a morning nightmare…
cacophony of jays
Halloween –
preparing the goodies
for trick ‘n’ treat
november 1st…
the display window pumpkin
turns into a sleigh
early guy fawkes
the sound of firecrackers
into the small hours
silence…
the old hound’s ears
stand at attention
stock truck
a sheep dog pokes his nose
out of a port hole
yesterday morning…
in the port of duluth
the flag of new zealand
rainbow fades
her bright dress hangs limp
on the line
rainy day
the hum of the clothes dryer
lulls me to sleep
crowded house –
a gannet seeks a landing spot
on Gannet Rock
graveside service
vapor trails criss cross
the cemetery sky
overcast sky
latent with spring rain
I walk faster
moonrise
i arrive at the inn
with a quarter in my pocket
sultry evening
preparing for the party
I suck an ice cube
six martinis
the last olive
falls in her lap
such a weak sun
on Guy Fawkes day
the sound of crackers
midnight mass
a pearl tinged halo
circles the moon
family evening . . .
at midnight picking up
children’s toys
two corvettes
and a case of beer…
do little boys ever grow up
overpass
a bas relief of native flora
on the concrete
glass bottom boat tour
a woman with gold toe nails
adds a touch of rouge
race practice –
the cox’s boat beside
the rowers
where the
water meets the cloudless sky
a white sail
rescue mission
twenty helicopters
above the canopy
earth day
the antique globe
wobbles on its axis
A & P show
three kunekune pigs
snooze in a marquee
state fair…
cows shrink beside
the winning pumpkin
after Halloween
the smile still on the face
of the pumpkin
manhattan rain
white face runs
down the mime’s white face
plumed predator
a caged falcon
gives vent to its rage
mid arguement
she stops to tell me
there’s a spot on my tie
four in the morning
the scent of a barbecue
lingers in the air
insomnia
recalling the second date
kiss by kiss
among the petals
at the local flower show
the sleeping man
describing her dream at breakfast
i look into the eyes
on mine
exam time –
post-it notes mark the pages
of her Shakespeare
christmas play
the first wise man
forgets his lines
93rd birthday
she turns the pages of an album
trying to remember
nursing home
on the wall above his bed
a pink elimination schedule
race day
a horse and jockey’s shadow
in the birdcage
small town jail
out beyond the bars
endless prairie
lit by the moon
a fountain of water
from a burst pipe
separated…
i buy a balloon
to hear it burst
summer morning
the scent of honeysuckle
as I go shopping
lost & found
the homeless man claims
a pair of mittens
broken planks
on the old wharf
still the boys fish
sunday school
the boys bring home
a jar of tadpoles
first date
one last look in the mirror
and she’s ready
french kiss
our mouths ripe
with cheap wine
in the dim light
of the movie theatre
his nose piercing
on top…
the crescent moon
through her hoop earrings
family dinner –
getting everyone’s attention
her new beau
in love
the young couple
watching us kiss
evening stillness . . .
I turn the page of my book
“Love Songs” by a friend
tango lessons…
some steps i lead
some steps i follow
a tramper
dances across the river
on a swing bridge
at the spot
where the river widens
she says “i love you”
funeral mass
his wife touches her lips
to the casket
eulogy
the deadman
unrecognizable
Thanksgiving Day
the US flag flies
in a neighbour’s yard
Red Square
everyone wears
black & grey
synchronised swimming –
a pod of orca dolphins
in the harbour
rush hour
everyone going elsewhere
in the same line
home late –
outside with a night-cap
to look at the moon
grandma’s hope chest
tucked beneath the quilts
a silver flask
street fair
beneath green canvas
beer-soaked grass
kentucky dusk
the scent of sour mash
spreads across the valley
on the DVD
Bob Dylan sings of love and loss
where have the years gone?
encore
dylan & his band segue
into forever young
rock concert
bodies press against each other
in the evening heat
winter thaw
the hiss
of the steam iron
birthday party
the ice swirls at the bottom
of his glass
first snow
the mime’s
black top hat
heatwave –
the flower with no name
droops by the footpath
maple keys spin
in a sultry breeze…
first kiss
Christmas phone call . . .
her kids throw snowballs
mine go surfing
december 1st.
the splat of a snowball
against the windshield
abseiling
down a high-rise building
two window-cleaners
wheelchair bound
a housefly scales
the living room wall
on my wall
the last calendar month
Hasui’s snow scene
winter funeral
the pallor
of the mourner’s faces
goodbye hug
the scent of her lip balm
as she leaves for school
blackout…
candlelight flickers
on her history book
early morning rain
the swish of car tyres
outside my window
winter thaw
the remnants of a dream
fade away
on the walk home
the humidity
cooled by raindrops
drought
i long for the days
she’d have me in for tea
day moon
one white flower
on the clematis
ghost story
an owl hoots
at the end
haunted house
her pantyhose
still hang on the line
bayside strip joint
the dancer’s
fishnet stockings
teachers’strike
red t-shirts and balloons
on the protest march
gaza dusk…
the bright red banner
of the martyr’s brigade
child’s garden plot
she picks the first strawberry
before it ripens
first dandelions
my daughter discovers
a new freckle
concert in the park
the sound of a harmonica
pressed to lips
sultry afternoon
she teaches me to whistle
with a blade of grass
hot morning –
around the water cooler
we talk of cricket
distant thunder
the thud of rugby players
in front of the grandstand
swirling loops
in his Christmas letter . . .
old friend from the past
his hearing aid
my hearing aid
best friends
roar of traffic
nothing to watch
but the noonday sun
broadway
a policeman and his mount
gallop past the cab stand
“rent-a-santa”
university students
wave, dance and sing
tree trimmed…
the angel wears
a pair of dog tags
a plank swing
soars above the sea wall
into the sunset
driftwood
the surfer speaks
of a far away beach
wave-pool
a lifeguard watches youngsters
from a blow-up dolphin
nude beach…
the lifeguard’s
white safari hat
7 year-old
the sun shines
through his spiked hair
good friday
waking to the beat
of the carpenter’s hammer
King Kong movie
her ice cream melts
in the scarey part
after the film
taking the d train
through the south bronx
zoo party –
on a train of elephants
santa and his elves
windblown snow…
all three wise men
pointing south
abandoned chapel –
tucked away in a corner
the holy family
story time
i read the kids a fable
called genesis
in the domain
a four-year-old strolls
with her Buzzy Bee
sunrise
the first rays fall
on the honey jar
mowing the lawn
some dandelions
left for the bees
winter thaw
the yellow stripe
of a croquet ball
Maori home
grandad gives his mokupuna
his old guitar to play
wounded knee
a tattered flag ripples
above the government office
crystal mountain
we pan for worthwhile nugget
in the water sluice
sutter’s mill
the tourist drops a jackson
to pan for fools gold
at the top
of the mall’s 80-ft tree
a gold star
first day of school
songbirds overtake
the treehouse
hot moonlight
the beach comes alive
after midnight
moonlit beach
the silver waves
between our tan lines
merry christmas patricia to you and yours!
midnight mass –
candles brighter
than the stars
boxing day
the kids play house
in the playhouse box
joining the fray . . .
summer sales begin
in the shopping mall
sidewalk sale
in a squeaky shopping cart
everything she owns
low tide
the smell of the salt-marsh
lingers in the air
boardwalk
my daughter pulls me toward
the taffy maker
on the beach
forming the child’s name
with seaweed
clear water
we float downstream
on a bed of clouds
in a cloudless sky
the song of a nightingale
reaches the day moon
piano practice
she plays a dirge
on this sunny day
shaped by the land
a farmer and his wife
watch the cricket
Happy New Year!
produce stand
a toothless old woman
tempts me with an apple
happy new year patricia!
sunrise . . .
peeling the oranges
for breakfast juice
butter drips
from an ear of sweetcorn…
summer sunset
summertime cleaning
the wooden gothic church
repainted
midwinter
i sweep the dirt
under the rug
“Rays of Grace”
in my parcel from India –
unseasonal hail
just married
the preacher directs us to
the cheapest motel in town
holiday time –
counting my money
into small piles
I’ll be away for 10 days. May be time to draw a line under this sequence of haiku as it’s getting rather long. Maybe start again some time.
departing train
i watch her wave
’till she’s swallowed by the sun
agreed! it’s been fun
spring returns
it’s time once more–
autumn in new zealand
wave swash
rushing to the shore
a fragmented moon
been a great sequence, why stop?