"The American Haiku is not exactly the Japanese Haiku. The Japanese Haiku is strictly disciplined to seventeen syllables but since the language structure is different I don't think American Haikus (short three-line poems intended to be completely packed with Void of Whole) should worry about syllables because American speech is something again...bursting to pop.
Above all, a Haiku must be very simple and free of all poetic trickery and make a little picture and yet be as airy and graceful as a Vivaldi Pastorella."
Early morning yellow flowers, thinking about the drunkards of Mexico.
No telegram today only more leaves fell.
Nightfall, boy smashing dandelions with a stick.
Holding up my purring cat to the moon I sighed.
Drunk as a hoot owl, writing letters by thunderstorm.
Empty baseball field a robin hops along the bench.
All day long wearing a hat that wasn't on my head.
Crossing the football field coming home from work - the lonely businessman.
After the shower among the drenched roses the bird thrashing in the bath.
Snap your finger stop the world - rain falls harder.
Nightfall, too dark to read the page too cold.
Following each other my cats stop when it thunders.
Wash hung out by moonlight Friday night in May.
The bottoms of my shoes are clean from walking in the rain.
Glow worm sleeping on this flower - your light's on.
I LOVE these K!. Years ago, I remember my brother, who was huge Jack Kerouac fan,and took many cross country trips hitchhiking,an occasional freight train ride etc.reading some of these gems to me. I remember sitting on the beach with a bottle of wine,him reciting them to me and afterwards writing one,putting it into the empty bottle and tossing into the sea. It was especially poignant and bittersweet to encounter them again on here yesterday because my brother would have been 58 yesterday. Thank you for the memory K.
Jack Kerouac wrote these haiku in Northport in 1964 at the home of the artist Stanley Twardowicz who was also a good friend of his. Kerouac had been living in Northport for some time and it is fortunate that these rare haiku have been recorded and kept. They are a section of a larger collection produced at the time. They first appeared in the American small press magazine STREET Volume 1 number 4 in the Spring of 1975.
Close your eyes - Landlord knocking On the back door.
A quiet Autumn night and these fools Are starting to argue
Lonely brickwalls in Detroit Sunday afternoon piss call
O for Vermont again - The barn on an Autumn night
Fiddlydee! - Another day, Another something-or-other!
Whatever it is, I quit -now I'll let my breath out -
How many cats they need around here For any orgy?
Tonight I'll lower my tail -- I've seen them around town
In Haikkaido a cat has no luck
Every cat in Kyoto can see through the fog.
The birds start singing but he is in the cat meadows
I'll climb up a tree and scratch Katapatafataya
If I go out now, my paws will get wet
A car is coming but the cat knows It's not a snake
In London-town cats can sleep In the butcher's doorway.
I should have scratched that spot before I started to sleep
Haiku my eyes! my mother is calling!
Some Western Haiku from Book of Haiku (Copyright 1968)
Arms folded to the moon, Among the cows.
Birds singing in the dark - Rainy dawn.
Elephants munching on grass - loving Head side by side.
Missing a kick at the icebox door It closed anyway.
This July evening, a large frog On my door sill.
Catfish fighting for his life, and winning, Splashing us all.
Evening coming - the office girl Unloosing her scarf.
The low yellow moon above the Quiet lamplit house
Shall I say no? - fly rubbing its back legs
Unencouraging sign - the fish store Is closed.
Nodding against the wall, the flowers Sneeze
Straining at the padlock, the garage doors At noon
The taste of rain - Why kneel?
The moon, the falling star - Look elsewhere
The rain has filled the birdbath Again, almost
And the quiet cat sitting by the post Perceives the moon
Useless, useless, the heavy rain Driving into the sea.
Juju beads on the Zen manual: My knees are cold.
Those birds sitting out there on the fence - They're all going to die.
The bottoms of my shoes are wet from walking in the rain
In my medicine cabinet, the winter fly has died of old age.
November - how nasal the drunken Conductor's call
The moon had a cat's mustache For a second
A big fat flake of snow Falling all alone
The summer chair rocking by itself In the blizzard
Drunk as a hoot owl, writing letters by thunderstorm.
Time to finally read On the Road. I started to read about him and it is interesting that he was the son of French-Canadian parents and his name was Jean-Louis Kerouac. He originally began to write On the Road in French, wrote it in 3 weeks but had to wait 7 years for it to be published. The family certainly wasn’t long living, he died at 47 and his only child, his daughter Jan (also a writer), died at 44.
Post by cigalechanta on Sept 19, 2010 16:54:54 GMT
you might know that there's an annual jack Kerouac Literary festival? this year it's from Sept.30 to Oct. 3 in Lowell. The keynote speaker is novelist Russell Banks who wrote the film adaption of ON THE ROAD for Francis Ford Coppala. There are tours to JC's important sites in his life and literature. His BIL will read some letters between JC and Ginsberg. On the closing day, JC's friend Billy Koumantzells will reminisce about his friend. These gritty stories are out in a new CD: On the Lowell Beat:My times with Jack Kerouac.
I read the recently published unexpurgated version of On the Road a year or two ago and I found myself more impressed than the first time I read the book. I think the first time I was impatient for "things to happen" but when I went back to it, I just relaxed my way through the book.
I love these. This man was so talented. Found this page while looking up painting haiku which is an offshoot of literary haiku. Really tiny painting measuring only 11" by 14" with a single simple subject. Was looking cause I love painting them myself any one interested in seeing a painting haiku can see mine at artbykathymitro.blogspot.comMitro Art