poem – Page 62 – don't confuse the narrator

fragmented thoughts on haiku

The other day I tagged yet another post as ‘haiku’. Later, in the comments, I admitted that the description was probably inaccurate, and it occurs to me that any reader who clicks to read other haiku posts on the blog might infer that I don’t actually know what the word means.

There are plenty of factors that may be taken into account when defining a haiku, including number of lines, syllable count, subject, kigo (season word), kireji (cutting word) etc.
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yesterday’s poem

I was thinking about poetry yesterday, even if I didn’t manage to find time to write anything on the blog about it. Indeed, I found something very like a poem at the bus station in Madrid – far busier on the Monday before Easter than the quiet small-town bus station in the photo.

I’m not sure if the concept of ‘found poem’ exists in Spanish, but if it does, I think this must count as one (line breaks have been tweaked, but the wording is as found):
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april

Laundry day

Spring blossoms scent the air;
the kitchen smells
of Marseilles soap and ironing.

April is not only the cruelest month, it’s also National Poetry Month. (Though I suppose that may depend on what nationality you are.)
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not enough poetry

There’s definitely not enough poetry on this blog recently.

This morning, while walking back from the village, I heard something scuttle across the road and turned to look, only to find it was just a dry leaf blown by the wind, not an interesting small creature that would inspire me to write something new.

Then again, the scampering noise and the slight incongruity reminded me of the white mice in this piece, which dates all the way back to the year 2000:
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gender agendas

I’ve mentioned to several people recently that I don’t seem to have many ideas for new writing, and although I know it’s only a small sample, their reactions seem to clearly support the idea that men and women use language for different purposes.

From the women there have been vague sympathetic noises, general clichéd reassurances that the tide’s bound to turn, and reminders that it’s not the first time I’ve complained of lack of ideas.

The men, though, have offered ‘solutions’.
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