Haibun Today
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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Editor
Volume 4, Number 2, June 2010


Charles Hansmann
Sea Cliff, New York, USA

 

More Translations of the Wayless Poet

This threat that split your pursed reticence rapt in let-go meetings of tide and new-touched land is not escaped by waking: dreams a long time naked run the way they shout themselves, more spill than brew. You need a shaking hand so that this quench of lips parched all the way to breaking can start to lap the overflow.

___

the sound kept approaching after
all the planes arrived

___

Two grackles or some other common blackbirds burst from that new tree’s first green in no way like kaleidoscopes escaping from their colors. They are all there and seen at once invisible. Your feet are bare and overhead you hold the cloudless sky. Together we can almost not believe how weightless is this perfect balance.

___

if song, they sing a cappella
if wind, no sails billow

___

Moss underfoot you said like wearing slippers with little fans inside: the wind crawls along these roots and leaves your toes arched and airing. Only an hour of light until these trees are lost in air, thrush song overheard, your skirt unzipping the curved but slim prop for arms akimbo.

___

magic in the windshield
a place we’d like to stop

___

Out of that nut no meat. You pluck its sprouting tree and cast the shoot away with laughter. It lands on the root of its ancestor. You stop and can’t go on. The moon is caught in your delay, nowhere to toss this slightest shadow, a beam too bright for loss.

 


 

 

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