Carpe Diem Haiku *Shiki “the cuckoo’s cry”*

Today (July 23rd) The Netherlands have a national day of mourning for the casualties of the Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17, shot dow in Ukraine. A haiku, written by Masaoka Shiki, goes along the same tone and spirit, thinking about every innocent life lost in this tragedy:

* * *
in the coolness
of the empty sixth-month sky…
the cuckoo’s cry

* * *

The following one is mine:

* * *
colourless sunset
smoldering ashes of broken wings
hornbill goes silent

* * *
Carpe Diem Haiku Kai

Carpe Diem Haiku *Basho ”autumn frost”*

Today on Carpe Diem our source of inspiration is a beautiful haiku by Matsuo Basho (1644-1694):

* * *
if taken into my hand
melting in the heat of tears
autumn frost

* * *

As it was common back then, this haiku had a preface:
”At the beginning of September I came back home. I was already long since my mother had died. The grass in front of mother’s room had withered in the frost. Everything had changed. The hair of my brother and sisters (Basho had a brother, an elder sister and three younger sisters) was white and they had wrinkles between their eyebrows. We could only say, ‘we are fortunate to be still alive’. Nothing more. My elder brother opened an amulet case and said reverently to me, ‘Look, at mother’s white hair. You have came back after such a long time. So this is like the Tamate Box of Urashima Taro. Your eyebrows have become white’. We wept for a while and then I composed this verse.”

I wrote my haiku, trying to stay close to the same mood and spirit:

* * *
dandelion fluff
escaping my palm
evening breeze

* * *
no trace on the cheek
droplets of rain

* * *

Carpe Diem Haiku Kai

In Silence…


Sintija was a fighter. A beautiful young woman who faced cancer with amazing strenght and fought with all she had till the very last moment. Being diagnosed with terminal small cell ovarian cancer half a year ago, she was sure there had to be a way to beat the dreadful disease. In her early twenties, with so many dreams and strong determination to make them real – giving up wasn’ t even an option. She believed. We all did – with yet another chemo tried, with each new test results. Even through the last 2 weeks when doctors had given up and she was already moved from the hospital to a hospice. Sometimes it is almost impossible to stop believing in miracles and very difficult to face reality. 

Cancer hasn’ t been just a term in a dictionary for me for quite some time – I have learned years ago about how sneaky and cruel that monster is but desparately hoped this will be an exception. I was wrong, unfortunately. We lost Sintija early yesterday morning. Her little brother and sister think she now lives up on one of the stars and I would want to believe that very much.

Although sometimes not fair, life still is really precious and fragile, isn’ t it….

fleeting silhouette
in the end of empty street
raindrops keep falling

light of candle
more viable than the last hope
life interrupted

There Are People…


Quite some time ago on my blog I use to post poetry that was not mine but had caught my eye…or, to be precise – had touched strings of my heart in one way or another. “There Are People” by Latvian poet Imants Ziedonis…you know, it just seems to hit the raw nerve when the world is out of balance.

There are people – very deep-hearted.
It almost seems they don’ t have heart at all.
Are they evil? Are they lovely?
When do they laugh? And when do they cry?

You thought you could cover the world with storms,
Dazzling joy, so painfully sharp!
Leaving and moving on, just later to notice –
Nothing has even happened yet.

There are people – very deep-hearted.
It seems they realise nothing at all,
But deep down inside love
Keeps breaking stones with bruised hands.

Bruised hands, without a single word
It breaks stones and crushes piece by piece.
It builds the world, destroys it
To rase and build all over again.

Where is your “love”, and where is your “want”?
Where is your tree, and where is your branch?
Where is your path to infinity?
Where is your plow and the one to plow?

Who are your friends, and whom do you love?
It seems you realise nothing at all.
There are people – very, very deep-hearted.
They laugh at you and they weep with you when you fall.

In Silence


* * *
light of candles
more viable than the last hope
lives interrupted

* * *

The roof of a Maxima supermarket located in Zolitūde’s Priedaines Street in Rīga, Latvia collapsed on 21st November, 2013 at approximately 6:00 PM. 54 people are reported dead, among them three firemen, and another 36 have been recovered from the rubble and received medical attention.

Meeting At An Airport

Meeting At An Airport” is a poem by a Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali (Arabic: طه محمد علي‎). I was deeply moved by it-quite a whirlpool of emotions still swirling within me therefore would love to share with you:

You asked me once,
on our way back
from the midmorning
trip to the spring:
“What do you hate,
and who do you love?”

And I answered,
from behind the eyelashes
of my surprise,
my blood rushing
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
“I hate departure . . .
I love the spring
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning.”
And you laughed . . .
and the almond tree blossomed
and the thicket grew loud with nightingales.

. . . A question
now four decades old:
I salute that question’s answer;
and an answer
as old as your departure;
I salute that answer’s question . . .

And today,
it’s preposterous,
here we are at a friendly airport
by the slimmest of chances,
and we meet.
Ah, Lord!
we meet.
And here you are
it’s absolutely preposterous-
I recognized you
but you didn’t recognize me.
“Is it you?!”
But you wouldn’t believe it.
And suddenly
you burst out and asked:
“If you’re really you,
What do you hate
and who do you love?!”

And I answered-
my blood
fleeing the hall,
rushing in me
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
“I hate departure,
and I love the spring,
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning.”

And you wept,
and flowers bowed their heads,
and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled.

I would suggest also An Endless Migration In Us…The Fourth Qasida by Managua Gunn.