hey rosemary, i promised you an issa tribute poem, so here we go...
first, the rice goes into the soup
then the fish
carrots, mushrooms, leeks
the poet stirs it with a stick
and the song that he sings, wordless and off key, goes into
the soup
and the smoke of the fire, bits of drifting ash
whatever the wind brings along
remnants
of rain
grains of earth and herb from a thousand plowed fields
mountains crumble in the poet’s mind
become loose boulders rolling
become round and smooth and wise
some grind down to dust and wait for the next mountain to
rise
some
travel the valley
seventeen perfect pebbles roll within reach
go into the soup
the last drops of saki and a thread from his shirt, into the
soup
he adds the vanishing memory of youth
all the leftover laughter of summer festival
drunk
friends
all the footsteps that stumble
dew
drops
nightingales
lonely
cricket
into the soup and stirred with a stick
the spirits of scarecrow and firefly, into the soup
the stars and the moon above, tangled in the gravity of soup
crash into the soup
soup becomes universe
alive
the poet sits, symmetrical in silence
(night - highway - fire - soup)
he holds the bowl with both hands and takes little sips
the
soup is hot
“clear view
in the soup kettle…
the milky way”
posted for poets and storyteller united writer's pantry
This, dear señor Woodruff, is a delicious poem. I love that the metaphors and imagery makes is dance between a recipe and living, I love the care the poet/cook takes when adding each ingredient, I love the varied nature of said ingredients... And most of all, I love that I can taste that first sip.
ReplyDeleteBRAVO
ReplyDeleteFantastic haibun. Happy Sunday Phillip. Thanks for dropping by my blog this morning
Much💜love
Such a delicious poem! So much goes into a bowl of soup. The note to rosemary at the beginning is cleverly done; it's easily part of the poem or a note. Skillful! :)
ReplyDeleteFrom the primordial soup we came and into the universal soup we will vanish. Love it.
ReplyDelete~~~ I celebrate "soup becomes universe alive" ~~~ a wonderful write.
ReplyDeleteThis is a delight to read, a celebration of all the little things that go into the joy of living. Our ingredients may be simple and humble, but taken all together, what a nourishing broth they make!
ReplyDeleteFantastically epic! Soup of the Gods and Goddesses.
ReplyDeleteHow lovely! This soup warms me. And I love how well you know your Issa (of whom I have by now learned a thing or two as well). I am so glad to have had some hand in prompting this; it's a joy of a poem to read, and brilliant too.
ReplyDeleteThis is exactly what poetry is!
ReplyDeletethe haiku at the end of the haibun is just perfect.
This glows with perfect little lights of descriptions--nature is not a feature of most modern Western poetry, (and that is one of the virtues of genuine haiku, but I digress) but in this it is alive, and as it should be, formed of and into integral ingredients of the soup of life that sustains us all, aware and unaware, inside and out. I especially like your use of repetition, the seventeen stones, and the way the poem distills as it nears the end--scarecrows and crickets and fireflies, sensations of taste and sight and smell, all into the soup, to be sipped if you are wise enough to cook it. Really excellent stuff, Phillip.
ReplyDeleteHappy Sunday Phillip. Thanks for dropping by my blog today
ReplyDeleteMuch💜love
“whatever the wind brings along
ReplyDeleteremnants of rain ...
all the footsteps that stumble ...
the spirits of scarecrow and firefly ...
the poet sits, symmetrical in silence”
Beautiful.
This is fantastic. As a general rule, I tend not to like poetry about the process of writing poetry. However, this is so brilliant, with amazing concrete imagery, the little details of the wordless off-key song, language, and then the sipping of the hot soup at the end. Your poem broke my rules and prejudices because it is that fantastic, and I love it!
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