The opium haiku

This so-called fragrance
is an allergen. Makes me
sneeze. Kills small animals.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2017)

Note
Based on facts! Even though at least one person I know and love would contradict me vehemently and keeps wearing it.

Disclaimer
Does not refer to the drug.

The Nike haiku

Little goddess in
a niche. Modest and helpful.
Shines a timid smile.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2016)

Note
Does not refer to the omnipresent manufacturer of sports items but to the much, much older Greek goddess of victory whose name appears to have been appropriated by that same manufacturer in hopes of assuring victory to the wearers of its shoes.
I actually wrote this little poem in January of 2016 and stumbled across it today when I opened the art sketchbook in which I'd written it in pencil. I suspect that it was inspired by the picture of a statue of Nike but did not write down any details.

The Virginia Woolf dismisses James Joyce haiku

... a dog that pisses,
a man who farts ... the topic
is monotonous.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Elucidations
Watched about one half of The Hours (2002) last night, which is about 1/3 or more about Virginia Woolf and two incarnations of Mrs Dalloway. Read up on Woolf today, including the bit about the Woolfs turning down James Joyce’s Ulysses in 1918. Apparently, it did not find favor in Mrs. Woolf’s eyes ... among the reasons for this being those outlined in the poem above.

The concrete haiku

This one is very
concrete – deals only with stones,
rocks, flint and pebbles.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Note
The counterweight to the recently composed abstract haiku.

The abstract haiku

Shake and melt and shade
do not I repeat do not
(mis)represent me.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Note
The battle between abstract and representational rages mostly in the art field, but here it is extended to poetry and, in particular, the haiku.

The thanks haiku

For S.

Thank you India,
thank you Sadhana! Thanks!
You’ve been good to me.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

It's the thanksgiving time of the year, and I'm joining in along with Haiku Heights.

I must admit that the first line was inspired by Alanis Morisette's song Thank U, so I'm also giving thanks to that song:

Writing in Montreux

The Jethro Tull said hi,
bonjour, grüezi* in Montreux
and proceeded to play.
And I’ve almost finished my
seven lines in Montreux,
looking out on the lake,
listening from far away.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

*Swiss German greeting (more or less like "good day!")


The challenge was to write seven lines in a place where one has never written before:

One poem.

7 lines in length. 

Make it perfect.

Poets United

The butter haiku

You sweet and creamy
thing! How you get slandered as
saturated fat!

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

Written for Haiku Heights and butter.

Notes
No comment needed for this one.

The dreadful haiku

Dr. Dread hands me
another exciting glass:
dread or be dreaded.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

Inspired by Haiku Heights and dread.

Note
This one is about choice, but actually more about the fundamental error of black versus white choice situations into which we see ourselves put occasionally. The choice is not between dread or be dreaded. The choice is not to have to accept the glass from Dr. Dread.

The long lost river haiku

The long river flows –
song heard on radio long
ago. Who sings it?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

Evoked by Haiku Heights and river.

Note
Completely true once again – nothing invented. Heard this song on the radio about 40 years ago. Never have heard it again. But have never forgotten it. Or should I say: never forgotten the memory of it. Memory works in the strangest ways.

The tradition haiku

Abolition would
be a good and proper end
to some traditions.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

Note
There are some silly traditions (for example, that my family always had to have cheese fondue on New Year’s Eve even though I, for one, hated it), and then there are some that are downright nasty, like bull fights in Spain and female circumcision in some African countries.
All in all, I tend to be more wary of than gung-ho on things traditional, though, of course, there are also many good traditions that deserve to be retained, such as honesty, fairness, modesty, literacy and the like.

Written for Haiku Heights and tradition.

Pol(s)ka

The unwritten Warsaw
ballet remains unwritten
until return.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

A contribution to Haiku Heights and ballet.

Notes
I'd promised myself that I would write one poem a day during my recent trip to Warsaw, Poland, and failed miserably. My diary contains entries from just two days out of four, and these are just notes on what happened or what I saw, nothing that could be called a poem. Of course, there are many valid excuses: lack of time alone, tiredness after lengthy excursions in Warsaw and other places in Poland, etc. You can't always write what you want, to quote the Rolling Stones.
However, I liked Poland so much that I'm ready to return any time, so that there is a chance that the Warsaw ballet will be written some day after all...

Morning impression

Neighbor's out
on her balcony

Taking quick
decisive puffs

It's that neighbor
whose age

is in hot dispute
between Sadhana

and me. I
make her younger,

she insists on
beyond forty.

It's difficult
to tell

because we
only ever see her

in the shade
of the drawn

sunblind, always
puffing away

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2013)

Last day in May, 2012

They're certainly chirpy out there,
sitting on their branches
and communicating for the sheer hell of it
(or so it seems to one
who doesn't speak a word
of their language),
while there's no communication at all
in this office, with everyone
staring at their screen quietly
and firing off the occasional typing staccato.
I wonder what they think about us
when they peer inside.
What a boring existence, they might say,
with not a chirp or twitter.
We have no clue what it's all about,
but we certainly are fitter.

– Leonard "Impersonator of Sparrows" Blumfeld (© 2012)

Flowering

My inbox in white
exuberant bloom this spring
as never before.

– Leonard "Florescent" Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written for One Single Impression and inbox.

Note
The inbox is a variety of box distinguished by its small, fragrant white flowers.

This is a modern poem

It is trendy and online,
knows what iPad and iPhone are
and was written
while eating an apple.

– Leonard "Modernist" Blumfeld (© 2012)

Written upon inspiration by Sunday Scribblings.

Snowdrops / A. D. Miller

(Warning: This is a more or less polemic blurb without any claim to thoroughness or completeness.)

Finished reading Snowdrops this weekend, a novel about a British lawyer who becomes involved in fraud in his work for an investment bank, and, in private, in a case of apartment fraud as a consequence of falling in love with a mysterious Russian woman.

So what's true about the hype?
'Totally gripping' – more ho-hum than gripping. Took me numerous sessions to read and is certainly not one of the potboilers you cannot put down.
'Disturbing and dazzling' – draws a disturbing picture of Russia and Moscow. Greatly reduced my readiness to ever go there.
'Electrifying ... Leaves you stunned and addicted' – That opinion, pardon my bluntness, is a striking example of pure bullshit. Seems more appropriate to LSD, heroin or some other drug than anything written.

As it says on the back cover, there is some similarity to the writing of Graham Greene, but more along the lines of imitation. Neither the writing itself nor the plot are that good. There is that Greene-like feeling of guilt, but there's so much insistence on building it that it becomes annoying. The confessionality (the story is told as a confession to the hero's fiancée) is also reminiscent of Greene, except that it never comes alive, so to speak, because the person the story is told to remains nondescript, making the whole device seem irrelevant.

Then there's that constant puerile harping about how awful it is to be older than thirty. (I believe a lot of people have successfully moved on even into their forties or fifties.) And the annoying premonition building (along the lines of 'I should have known better then that ...', 'Had I not ...') that seems to come straight out of a fiction writing workshop manual. And then there are all the attempts to humanize inanimate objects with adjectives that mostly didn't do much for me. That's the literary touch, I suppose.

A third plot line – pretty much unrelated to the other two – is about the body of an old man found in a rusty orange Zhiguli (mentioned umpteen times in the course of the novel to make it absolutely clear that it has to have some significance).

You may rest in peace, Graham. This ain't no serious competition for The Third Man or The Quiet American.

– Leonard "Won't Write Reviews" Blumfeld

Daniyal Mueenuddin / In Other Rooms, Other Wonders

The book of interrelated short stories (centered around Pakistani landowner K. K. Harouni) I'm reading these days. Well-written, mostly a depressing look at the human condition.

Picture taken at Fiumicino Airport in Rome while I was waiting for my flight.

The Shiva machine

I dropped the change in the slot.
Nothing happened,
nothing was returned.
Hey, that's no way to change,
I told myself.
Change is not loss.
Or is it?
Is it the beginning of change?

– Leonard "Shivji" Blumfeld (© 2012)

Posted for One Single Impression and Change.

Seeking refuge

Mi verso es un ciervo herido
Que busca en el monte amparo.
– José Martí

"So what's a wounded fawn doing in the forest, quoting poetry?"
I had to laugh at my friend Ramesh's deadpan understanding of things.
"The fawn's not quoting poetry. The fawn is wounded and seeking refuge in the forest."
"That sounds realistic enough. So where's the poetry connection?"
"José Martí says that his verse is a wounded fawn –"
"– seeking refuge in the forest. I get that all right, I'm not that dumb. I just fail to see the point."
"Come on, Ramesh, you just refuse to see it."
"Oh, I get his drift all right. Poetry is frail and all a-tremble in the forest, shaking with fear to be read by critical and analytical souls like me."
What could I say? I'd never be able to convince this agnostic, this nonbeliever in the frailty of poetry.
So I quoted more Spanish poetry at him:

La poesía es un arma cargada de futuro. *

That made him chuckle.
"This one I like a lot better," he said, "but that weapon charged with future is probably what wounded that frail fawn in the forest."

You just can't win against Ramesh in matters of poetry. Or Spanish language poetry, to be more precise.

– Leonard "Seeking Refuge in Poetry" Blumfeld (© 2011)

* Title of a poem by Gabriel Celaya.

Written in response to 'seeking' at One Single Impression.

Notes
The first quote may be familiar from the song Guantanamera, which is based on the poem by Cuban poet and national hero José Martí.
While the above dialog is entirely fictitious, my friend Ramesh does exist and, with his typical distrust of things not traceable by science, might have responded in this very manner.