Faroe Islands - A Photo-Haiku Sequence Collaboration by Ron Rosenstock: Images and Gabriel Rosenstock: Haiku in Irish and English

 

Faroe Islands

                    A photo-haiku sequence

 

Images: Ron Rosenstock (USA)

Haiku in Irish and English: Gabriel Rosenstock (Ireland)

 

 

 

ina dtost

ó mhaidin . . .

stacaí farraige

 

 

they've said nothing

all morning . . .

sea stacks

 

 

 

 

 

ljós . . .

an focal Faróise ar sholas

ljós . . . ljós . . . ljós

              

 

ljós 

the Faroese word for light

ljós . . . ljós . . . ljós

 

https://forvo.com/word/lj%C3%B3s/

 

 

búir leoin

is ea í  

búir na síoraíochta

 

 

a lion's roar

the roar

of eternity

 

 

 

 

osna

ó chroí folamh . . .

néalta á mbá ina chéile

 

 

a sigh

from an empty heart . . .

merging of clouds

díreoidh sí go deo

ar a bhfuil as a raon –

méar na caillí

it points forever 

to what's beyond its reach –

the witch's finger

 

 

 

 

Na Scigirí . . .

glé amach is amach iad

na néalta

 

 

Faroe Islands . . .

the utter clarity

of clouds

 

 

 

dordán aduain

píolótaigh truaillithe

ag mearcair

 

strange hum

pilot whales

contaminated by mercury

 

Gabriel Rosenstock

A recent collaboration by Ron Rosenstock and Gabriel Rosenstock is Daybreak: poem-prayers for prisoners, published by Cross-Cultural Communications, New York, in association with Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1135894

As a meditative experience, gaze at one of Ron’s photographs and listen to a Faroese folk song (recorded in 1959):

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:(omkv%C3%A6d)_N%C3%BA_siglir_edilingur_-_SMV_-_SVA_BB_5422_11.wav

Ron Rosenstock and Gabriel Rosenstock (no relation) have collaborated on many projects in recent decades:

https://www.theculturium.com/ron-rosenstock-the-invisible-light/

Vimeo:

https://vimeo.com/154895088

A photo-haiku featuring the standing stones of Callanish is available in many forms on Redbubble, such as a mouse pad!

https://www.redbubble.com/i/mouse-pad/Photo-Haiku-by-Grosenstock/152960710.G1FH6

 

One Short Story & One Flash Fiction Story By Kenneth M Kapp

 

I Heard It from a Friend

Short Story

By Kenneth M Kapp

 

            That’s usually how it goes. My drinking buddy has a friend who was a Green Beret. OK, so it was from a friend of a friend. They got to talking last week and this Green Beret tells him how he got an email from an old buddy in his platoon – they had served together in Kuwait in 1991 – telling him how he had run into Captain Riley in the local watering hole. “OUR Captain Riley! He looked great considering how he was blown up by that IED. Cheerful and bubbling no end. Said he was just visiting, wanting to set the record straight.”

            Anyhow, this Captain Riley made him take notes on what he was telling them. “Valuable intel like this you won’t get a second time so get it right the first time. Told him to write it down like it was a story in case it falls into enemy hands.

            My drinking buddy gave me a print-out. Says it was an attachment in that email he got. His Green Beret friend said that he was one of the ODAs at that table in the story below that he wrote down like Captain Riley said to do.   

Listen Up

            Three ODA’s [Operational Detachment-A] sergeants saluted and sat down at the table. When your 18A puts out the word you come.

            “Listen up.” Captain Riley’s forearms flanked his beer and shot glass. “I taught you: you’re captured – first thing you do is start planning your escape.”

            He drained half his ale. “Easy enough picking up a cloud puff here and threads there. Light enough to scrunch and conceal. Soon you’ve enough for an all-white ghillie suit.”

            He slid the glass of scotch closer to the beer. “You wait until they get careless; maybe when they bring you the next round. Ask them to sit down while you pop behind the cloud to relieve yourself. Then it’s sayonara – you just rappel down here and reconnect with your team.”

            Stinger, the intelligence sergeant, coughed into his fist. “OK, you’re supposed to escape, we understand that. But from what you said, you’re getting all the beer and scotch you want. So what’s the problem?”

            “Problem is, I didn’t give a rat’s ass they gave me beer and blended scotch. The chain of command sucked at the highest levels and there no single malts which I like!” 

 

Out on the Prairie

Flash Fiction Story

By Kenneth M Kapp

 

Hank was a big jackrabbit with a thin skin and didn’t like jokes about his size.

Willy advised. “You’re overly sensitive. So what if people ask if you’re a jackalope – if that’s your picture on the postcard. No harm in that, right?”

Hank wrinkled his nose, stepping right up to Willy’s face. “Jackalope?”

Willy pushed back, bumping his friend’s hip. “Jackalope!”

Hank hopped back, and Willy again caught him in the hip – yelling and pushing.

The rabbit warren was joined by the neighbouring prairie dogs, shouting encouragement.

And thusly was hip hop born on the prairie.

Kenneth M. Kapp - Ken was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. He's a homebrewer and runs white water rivers. His essays appear online in havokjournal.com and shepherdexpress.com.

Please visit http://www.kmkbooks.com.

Three Poems by Dr Bikram Kumar Mohapatra

 

A BARE SOLITUDE


This is the kind of solitude
that restores the ambiguity of thought
and shields a sad screen on consciousness.


The amorous man’s soliloquy
is about the modernity of sex
and the poet looks for
the new born words.


Before the evening the infernal smoke uproars
From the kitchen.
The nest coming birds
have a glimpse on the poet and the man
while flying away with their bare crotches.


The birds hovering becomes trivial to man
but inspiration to the poet.


Suddenly a ghostly silence succumbs
the forgetfulness in depression
As another setting sun
spills the past on water.


Before the last ember
dies from the burial
before the last whisp of smoke ends


The amorous man weeps
but a lulling sanity unravels the poet.
The sobbing sound emanates from him
as an euphonic elegy
which is sweetest enough and eternal.




IN THE MOMENTS OF THE SETTING SUN



In the indifferent moment of the setting sun
the spirit of bonhomie elongates on the
surface of water


An old fisherman sits silently beside the
river looking for a better prey
in loneliness.


Hours drift slowly shackled by the
wriggling hope.


In the widening dusk
a stupid desperation
broods over the fisherman with a strange
failure of tactics
suddenly an unidentified effortless
impotency curves on his
rheumy eyes.


Time and again a kingfisher hovers round the
sky and dives with the blue of the sky in to the blue
of the water.
it comes out victorious with the
virtuous moments as a living fish crawls in to
the eternal gloom through its beak.


Yet.
Just before the evening an owl hoots in the
emptiness of destiny
the ruminative shadow
of the fisherman silhouetted on
the amplitude of water.


He gets himself ready to catch the shadow as a fish
by stretching his net over the surface.


Although the sun moves westward
offering the reddish darkness
for an infinite and eternal order.




THE MONOLOGUE OF A DWARF



Each day
Shackled by the ruthless curiosity
I come out to go along the road
people laugh at me earnestly
stamping the symbol of a reptile
on my lulling gesture as if I am a mongoose.


And all day
Thoroughly defying my aptitude the incredible
desires inspire me to discover the exited
sanity even in the crowd.


How Columbus and Vasco da Gama
lead towards a new land?


I make a sordid search relentlessly watching
Every intent eyes around.


Late in the night
bitten by a haunting dream in grim silence
I kill a snake that raises its hood
with much disturbed hissing sound
and again
I sleep beside the dead serpent’s coil.


Early in the morning
wisps of cloud float in my sky
an uncertain requiem drips down
in to the dark pit of my heart
I open the eyes
a nameless sorrow suddenly
fades out as my mother wakes me up.


Once again
I hear the cracking of thunder
and ceaseless pouring of rain.

Dr Bikram Kumar Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English language and literature under govt of odisha, India.  He has done ph.D on comparative poetry.

He is a widely published poet and critic in English literature. He has also presented papers in many national and international seminars. He is also an author of the book, Metaphysics of confession: The poetry of Sylvia Plath and Kamala Das.

Three Poems by David M Blake

 

And if the heart’s a rock

 

Then chisel away

until it cracks and splits

apart like a nation

at war with itself.

 

Break it into pieces

and gather its dust

in a jar to display

like seaglass on

a shelf. Somewhere

where you can keep

it in your view and

study the concaves

of each crevice;

how it formed

and what minerals

or memories it is made of.

Carry me in your breath

in a way that is lighter

than it could ever be

in my chest.

Sad in another time zone

 

When I was younger I thought

the rails would compose promises

from across the county line of

backpacks and hot metal screeching

towards the desert but I hate the heat and

to escape it I would have to get hotter

which is not what I was willing to do

so I instead put their songs through

headphones and imagine what the plains

smelt like would they cause me to sneeze

like my desert pollen what about the east

coast is the water really warmer would it

not turn my skin red like

the cold of the Pacific.

 

I sit in airplanes monthly and

feel sad in a different time zone.

 

Into the Green

 

Mist rises above the lake vibrating

green, dancing alongside the pine

trees and sways along the shore.

 

Steam rises out of the plastic

lid of my coffee cup and the water

is flattered by its reflection.

 

I fell off the dock once, ages ago

my arms flapped until they failed

and I sighed until I reached the bottom.

 

It took 30 minutes before I decided

not to drown. The fish nipped at me

in relish–bait without a hook.

 

I knew I’d miss the simple things, coffee,

uncertainty, spiralling, misty mornings,

fall weather. There has to be more than this

I told myself as I reeled myself to the shore.

David M Blake, from San Bernardino, CA, intertwines personal reflections on childhood and loss with an introspective exploration of life and death in his evocative poetry. With a BA in English, a Master's in Education, and a current pursuit of an MFA in Creative Writing, David's verses, influenced by Allen Ginsberg and modern poets like Neil Hilborn, have found homes in various literary journals. His work stands as a testament to a nuanced understanding of the human experience, capturing the intricacies of emotion and existential contemplation. Through a raw and authentic voice, David invites readers into a world where every line is painting on the canvas of humanity.

 

One Poem & Nine Haiku Poems by Jennifer Gurney

 

Clouds

 

I can’t recall a time

before knowing and loving

Georgia O'Keeffe.

From close-up flower paintings

to cow skulls, 

from southwestern landscapes

to cityscapes

I love it all.

 

In my early 20s,

I saw her paintings

in various museums in

DC and New York.

Her posters

colored my

my dorm rooms and

apartments and

she was just

part of me.

 

I appreciate how O’Keeffe

saw things differently

from others.

She was bold

and new

and different.

 

And I like that in my art.

 

When I was living in DC

in the mid 80s,

there was a huge installation

of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings.

I remember going to the

National Gallery

with my Aunt Marge

one Sunday

and we were rueing the fact

that she was leaving that day

and the exhibit was set to open

 

the very next day.

 

We bemoaned that she would

miss

the

exhibit.

A museum guard approached

and said,

"There’s no reason

why you should have to

miss this exhibit.

It's all ready.”

He opened the door

and let us in.

 

Just us.

 

We were stunned.

We walked in

and stood at the top

of a set of stairs.

Before us was a huge mural:

O’Keeffe’s Clouds.

 

After she flew in an airplane,

she painted picture

after picture

after picture

of clouds.

 

She was fixated on them

and their beauty.

The mural we saw was huge

and spectacular!

 

I was mesmerized.

 

There was no one in front

of the paintings,

blocking our view.

There were no other people

talking in the exhibit,

just us.

It was an experience

I had never had before

… or since.

 

This is my thank you letter

to that Museum guard

all these years hence.

 

I am beholden.

 

I was living in DC at the time

and many people I knew

came to town specifically

to see that exhibit.

I went with each

group of friends

and numerous times

on my own.

But no visit to the exhibit

could begin

to match

my first visit.

 

I was heartsick

the next time I went

and the view of the Clouds

was entirely obstructed

by other visitors.

Don’t get me wrong,

I’m thrilled so many people share

my passion for her art.

But I know that no one,

myself included,

would get a clear view of Clouds

or any other painting again.

 

Clouds should truly be unobstructed.

Haiku

how is it possible

to miss you more today

than yesterday

 

***

 

your voice on the phone –

an anchor

to my day

 

***

 

new day dawning

endless possibilities

for my half-lived life

 

***

 

love in motion

spins me around and 

leaves me dizzy

 

***

 

every book I read–

viewed through the lens

of new reading glasses

 

***

 

a serenade--

my love sings silently to you

from my heart

 

***

feeling blue--

no candles on your cake to blow

for you're in heaven

 

***

 

overnight

from peace to war –

prayers for peace again

 

***

 

a sliver of hope

wakes with the dawn–

fresh new day

 

Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, including Lothlorien, The Ravens Perch, HaikUniverse, Haiku Corner, Cold Moon Journal, Scarlet Dragonfly and The Haiku Foundation.