Haiku

There: mating. Quickly.
Two grey pigeons on that ledge.
Wing-flaps – down. Preening.

***

With little to say
I do more haiku now:
wish you were alive.

(for Katherine Samuelowicz)

- Brian Walter

Photographer: John Donaldson

Haiku

Imagination:
that black crake softly treading
yielding lily pads.


Mud, and the day-grey
electric lamp – swallow’s nest
cupped, autumn empty.


And the buzzard turns
the sky, silent, far-seeing:
forest green, grey mist.


Mountain mists turn
to rain: then flying ants rise
in breaking sunlight.


That shrike, those weavers
– from dry tree top perches – hawk
the fluttering ants.


That tapping, dripping
– soft last rain on taut canvas –
the blessing of warmth


On the deck, quiet:
you read, I write and she knits:
thoughts like the raindrops.


Whole mountains have gone,
lost in the low mists and rain:
the world draws closer.


There is now no sun:
but waterlily flowers,
mauve in the rain-light.


Green cattle pasture
rain-moist: sacred ibises,
black and white, bow low.


Though all is silent,
raindrops, and a far birdcall,
still patter my heart.


I say after Donne,
patter my heart – let the rains come
and bring her blessings.


Now the mist drops low
and the rainclouds rise – darkly
the mountain shoulder.

 

 
– Brian Walter

Photographer: John Donaldson

Spring Haiku

The apricot blossom  

reflects in the spring 

of the young girl's eye. 

          ***

Spring, 

and words sprout 

from earth­minds. 

          ***

The dandelion holds on,  

lets go ‒ soft and bright, 

the spring breeze. 

          ***

The spring day gone:
cold clouds squall off the south seas
remembering winter.

 - Brian Walter

Cape winter

for Janine and Martin Barr

These short old haiku

in translation encompass

how adrift we are.

***

How the haiku’s words,

so few, and their late winter influence

break my heart!

***

Cape winter evening:

from the stoep the slow knock

of the dog scratching.

***

The house hustles:

I sit in the quiet winter

corner of my mind.

***

Back from the bonsai nursery:

pots, and bits of time and growth,

clutter the winter table-top.

***

The solstice passed: this morning

empty bonsai pots nudge each other

like shy bachelors.

***

The juniper plant waits for spring:

small, low ‒  in a black plastic pot,

still sporting her price tag.

***

Collecting our poetry books

from the arranged restaurant

‒ stanzas sizzling like those spring onions.

***

The printed poetry book

in hand, with pages new

and familiar.

***

Crisp and hopeful this

mid-winter morning:

whistle of the dove’s wings.

***

The winter solstice

but days gone by:

the dove flaps up with a twig.

***

Writing awhile

these Cape winter mornings:

nerve knitting.

***

Bustling in the house,

getting ready: Cape wedding

this midwinter afternoon!

***

All the boys here

‒ catch up talk: outside,

listening from this writing spot.

***

Wedding in the wine-lands:

already these cold dry vines,

pruned back, know the spring.

 - Brian Walter

Haiku

Egyptian geese

– despite everything –

are still the lungs of god

*  *  *

ghalaghadi twisters,

tsunami, tornado:

whirlwinds of change

 - Brian Walter  

Haiku

childhood sight

– a large fish flashes in a stream –

when the world was rich

 *  *  *

called out of class

for speech lessons:

I had a lazy tongue

 *  *  *

I stuttered and lisped

reading “wasps’ nest”: they let me

leave a gap in sound

 *  *  *

I glance upward

without wandering outside:

deadlines at moonrise

 - Brian Walter

Haiku

old edition, hardcover,

its smell, and such thoughtfulness:

the tasselled bookmark

*  *  *

the moth fluttering

for life: following, two wasps

precision flying

*  *  *

in fynbosveld

down, where the stem meets sand

– the stillness of god

 -  Brian Walter