Deposit # 28

The poetry you see here reflects
over three decades of work. I have
changed over the years as you have.
If you want to see what I write
currently, visit:

I love and appreciate you all.

Robert D. Wilson

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Issue Number 5

robert d. wilson's
A depository of Wilson's Japanese short form poetry,
haiga, haibun, and free verse performance pieces.

and still no
moon to guide me
through blossoms
into half lit huts
reeking of fish

beneath the 
ulam vendor, a monk
chastening flies

on the 
other side of
the world
leaves talk to you
in brown whisper

       twilight dawn . . .
a dead woman
frying tofu

she ladles
soup over rice
in a tin 
shack straddling the
pasig river

deep morning . . .
raindrops tiptoe past 
our house

i light a
candle to find
in the cell i've
locked myself into

       autumn noon . . . 
caught in an old
dragon's tailwind

is this the
dream i dreamt long
ago when
elves danced on blossoms
miming crickets?

     high noon . . . 
new rice watered with
exhaust fumes

what's she
thinking, the pregnant 
girl staring 
at me with a 
rice field smile?

still morning . . . 
chicks hoping the 
monkey'll feed them . . . 

she holds my
hand at night when 
the dragon
passes through me
coughing memories

      street children . . .
eagles devour
their prey

deep morning
the light inside of me
watches late 
night movies with
the house lizard

to be a
cockroach feeding on
people's dreams!

not to my
liking, the dreams
you dream and 
plaster on walls
claiming to be a mirror

between walls,
a cemetery
painting blossoms

tell me i
can still dream, walk
on water
without having a
messiah complex

moonlight hangs 
from my fishing line 
like wall flowers

the night we 
cast our hearts into 
de bay and snagged
a plastic bag

i wait on a 
seatless toilet for
spring to blossom

even the 
dogs eat rice here, have
bowl, chase it down
with yesterday

in the floating 
world of summer, a
kano courting pesos

*Kano: a tagalog slang term for an American

she waited
until i was gone
to chasten
herself in the mirror
i refused to be

autumn rain . . .
a kano wipes sweat 
from his forehead

high noon . . . 
laborers dance 
with leaves
in a ballroom 
made of mirrors

small snails . . . 
for those in the rice 
field, dinner

lucky girl!
washing laundry in 
a clear 
water stream 
without strings

who is she, the
girl washing laundry in
a giggling stream?

the sky yawns
spewing clumps of clouds
into thoughts
i can sculpt between
subway stations

      late night . . . 
a hummingbird between
heart beats

is this where
you belong, egret,
lodged here
in my cranium
like a stone buddha?

poor dog,
a cage growing out
of his head

he drinks too
many beers beneath 
a paper 
moon oogling who
could have been his sister

An untitled haibun

how I feel?
another damned

Basho came and went, writing this and that, careful not to blemish his status as haiku master extraordinaire . . . talking about lonely seas and crickets living under helmets with young soldier's dreams . . . kept women, peeing horses, weeping fish . . . and me, centuries later, nothing like the master, the un-xeroxed poet he asked us to be, sitting cross-legged on a 500 foot banana leaf covered with fish scales and gossip scrapped from the heels of wannabe Basho's; bearing a soul only Allen Ginsberg would understand, with his angel headed hipsters and a mother who lived in a world Dali would run from or paint . . .

walls tremble . . .
blushing from the lyrics
sung by god and frog

robert d. wilson

The following is the same haibun translated into the Serbian language by Sasa Vazic.

Хаибун без наслова

како се осећам?
још једна проклета

Башо је дошао и отишао, пишући ово и оно, пазећи да не поквари свој углед хаику мајстора, изванредног... причајући о усамљеним морима и цврчцима који живе под шлемовима са сновима младих војника . . . бринуо о женама, коњима што мокре, уплаканим рибама... и мени, много векова касније, ни налик мајстору, оригиналном песнику, како је то од нас тражио, који седи прекрштених ногу на листу банане дугом 500 стопа, прекривеном рибљом крљушти и трачевима саструганим са потпетица тобожњих Башоа;  са душом коју би могао да разуме само Ален Гинзберг, са својим анђелом на челу упућених и мајком која је живела у свету од кога би Дали или побегао или га насликао...

дрхте зидови...
поцрвенели од песама
бога и жабе

All poetry, haibun, and haiga on this 
blog were written by robert d. wilson

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