Robert Hass, on translations, haiku and poetry

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@BUKCOLLECTOR 2 жыл бұрын

Enjoyed very much your poems and unique cadence and word choices that had an emotional impact and kept me engaged throughout. I, too, am a poet ( I write mostly Japanese format senryu , tanka and it’s usually humorous kyoka. ~~ here are a few of each: ~~ winter night a homeless man asleep with the moon ~~ dry wind only whistling among the oldest stones ~~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~~ centuries later issa’s snail arrives at the pond- frightened by Bashō’s frog it slips in without a sound ~~ mayfly never made it to June ~~ **senryu and tanka can be serious at times, exemplified by the following two senryu: ~~ cattle car- between the slats human eyes ~~ stutthof- the stench of burnt smoke from the chimneys ~~ my plasticJesus in communion with my plastic flowers on my car dashboard ~~ All love, Al

@BUKCOLLECTOR 3 жыл бұрын

enjoyed your haiku analysis and guest Robert hass reading his poems and humorous haiku. Here’s my latest haiku: turning a new leaf **the genesis of this haiku was the result of me wanting-in these troubled pandemic times-to turn over a new leaf and make a fresh start-especially to try and change my conduct and attitude towards others and be less judgmental. Other published haiku writers have told me that the effectiveness of my haiku was the “double entendre” which is probably more suitable to senryu ( and probably why I am known more for my senryu). But once in a blue moon my muse will bless me with an efficacious haiku and I’m humbled. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida. Al

@BUKCOLLECTOR 2 жыл бұрын

hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

@حسنيالتهامي-ج7ث 4 жыл бұрын

Thanks for this interview .I admired it a lot especially Robert Hass' speech about Haiku. I read some articles for him related to this subject> I'm going to translate some of his poems into Arabic.

@BUKCOLLECTOR 2 жыл бұрын

Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese poet who helped me perfect my Japanese format poems. I am now considered one of the leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties. They are all Contemporary American Senryu : ~~ thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ personal trainer I grunt sweat strain and HE gets paid ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the Dollar Store ~ damsel in distress Clarke Kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears- once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ all variety of seeds at an Audubon sale-. early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . umbrellas open and adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe birds and people tweeting ~ deserted train depot a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~~ return to my youth lit by the tracks of Lionel trains. ~ Tanka: ~ crowded bus a young lady offers me her seat it seems like yesterday I was offering mine ~ deserted train depot a conductor once shouted “All Aboard!” now just a line of rusted tracks leading nowhere ~~ Haibun; ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. Harlem The A-train replaced by the Bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ -All love, Al