Saturday, December 21, 2013

Lilliput Review #190 (Don Wentworth), and! Candi Cooper-Towler. . . Martha Christina! Greg Watson!


  Don Wentworth's Lilliput Review, #190 just arrived - Don has given us 190 issues (!) of what is, has been (and will continue as) the most heartfelt and influential small press print publication we have (in beginnings of bear creek haiku, Don was mentor) - 190 issues!      Imagine Don's hard work, devotion to poetry, and sheer grace! 



                     
two poems from #190. . .

GARDEN MEDITATION
  A mourning cloak butterfly
  settles on a red dahlia,
  folds its wings and feeds.
  For five minutes
  of its remaining life
  (and mine) I sit, watching
                                                 Martha Christina
                                                 Bristol, RI


                      Sometimes the words
                      of a poem arrive
                      first, sometimes
                      the silence.
                                                 Greg Watson
                                                 Saint Paul, MN


and this, a lovely poem from Candi Cooper-Towler:





see you in a moment 

ayaz daryl nielsen                      
                                                          darylayaz@me.com

                                                          bear creek haiku
                                                          po box 3787
                                                          boulder  co
                                                          80307
                                                          usa

worthy, healthy holiday wishes!
                                                           

                     

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Ms Angelee Deodhar, doctor of poetic peace and communication between cultures


this image, from Ms Angelee Deodhar of Chandigarh, India, contains an obvious beauty and (for me, humbling) blessing - below the image itself, a latest international poetic endeavor of this remarkable woman of poetic peace and communication between cultures. . .  





Haiku Sansaar

Haiku Sansaar is a new online bilingual English/ Hindi journal, presenting haiku and its related genres.  We present the work of both international and Indian poets who are well-known among their own language groups but unknown outside it.

The journal’s chief goal is to foster understanding and communication among haiku poets and readers who speak different languages so that we can learn from each other.  It is our hope that Haiku Sansaar will help to promote friendship in a truly international way.  The work will appear in both languages.

Editors : Dr. Jagdish Vyom (Hindi)
Dr. Angelee Deodhar (English) 
http://haikusansar.blogspot.jp/2013

Dr Angelee Deodhar's email address -
angeleedeodhar@gmail.com 
an admirable international endeavor, worthy of our kindest words and our best thoughts and attention -

and, in closing, the cover from Ms Deodhar's last international poetic endeavor -


a translation of Japanese haiku into Hindi through the window of English, this, and Ms Deodhar's prior translations/endeavors, "speak of her love of Japanese literature and her actions as a bridge between Japan and India", as "gifts for poets writing in Hindi".  
Thank you, Dr Deodhar (and Dr Jagdish Vyom).


see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                            darylayaz@me.com






Saturday, November 16, 2013

Miriam Sagan's beautiful failures


Miriam Sagan has 60 of her haiku (a celebration of this remarkable poet's 60th birthday) in a limited edition book (100 copies) titled       
                     ALL MY BEAUTIFUL FAILURES

                                     
  cover illustration by Katsushika Hokusai  1760-1849 

among these 'failures' (which have many fine homes including bear creek haiku and have earned many fine awards) are. . .

bend in the road
you're not home
I suddenly feel it

                                           talking to crows
                                           as if expecting 
                                           news of you


                 the nun scatters 
                 her cut hair
                 for the nesting birds


                                                you tell me these ducks
                                                don't always mate for life
                                                are you flirting with me? 


footprints in snow
crescent moon, all my
beautiful failures

my birthday blessing from Miriam Sagan was receiving copy #35 - and! have been inspired to gather my 'beautiful failures' into a limited birthday edition, but, was not able to move beyond the age of three (alright, ok, it was two). . .

may we all have the extreme good fortune of failing as beautifully as has Ms Sagan
          Miriam's Well    (http://miriamswell.wordpress.com)


see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                                      darylayaz@me.com
                                                   
poetry (11 lines or less) for consideration by bear creek haiku is mailed (perhaps with an SASE) to:
bear creek haiku
po box 3787
boulder co
80307 




Saturday, November 9, 2013

Bukowski's first and last words


Rediscovering Bukowski every other month.  Near-sleep last night, reading first and last words from his poems realized they're still better than most I've written sometimes I appreciated the abbreviated poem as much as the poem in its entirety. . .

                           they need what they need
                           out here near San Pedro we have
                           you and
                           wonder.


                      one thirty-six am
                      I laugh sometimes when I think about
                      say
                      he's not alone tonight
                      and neither am
                      I.

repeat
it's an
old poem:

for their sake
and for ours.


                     4 cops

                     dogs walk the walls
                     as the submarine sinks quickly to
                     bottom.
                     I'll never return to this coffee shop
                     again.


KFAC                                                           
                                         
here I sit
again for
one more
night
along with me.



              beaujolais jadol

              the dogs of Belgium feel bad
              the lost and forsaken
              lives of so
              many.


a plate glass window

dogs and angels are not
very different
working good
all up and 
down
inside the
darkness
here.


and,

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                                     darylayaz@me.com


above semi-desecrations extracted from Charles Bukowski's 
Love Is A Dog From Hell   
(and)   
the night torn with mad footsteps  






          
                  





Sunday, November 3, 2013

'on the way home' and a 64 year marriage



on the way home. . . at Austin-Bergstrom Int'l Airport after father-in-law's funeral, the most moving moment (for me) was Judith choosing to carry one item to the plane: the American flag (for his military service) given to her at Elray's graveside. . . am re-reminded of one (of so many) sacred moments as a hospice nurse, standing beside a lovely lady as her husband moved on after 64 years of their married life together, she turned to me, and said - 




the day we were back in Colorado, an elder of mine, (and of many), a dear friend who had insisted I take his new plaid sport coat to our Texas funeral, unexpectedly, quickly moved on. . . his wife stated as we stood bedside his hospital bed 'he wanted you to keep his coat'. . .


see you in a moment

                                     ayaz daryl nielsen             darylayaz@me.com


              












Sunday, September 15, 2013

much needed uplifting poetic vibes from p l wick, the versifier of bard valley













Our Front Range Mountain Range, declared a disaster area (heavy rains, unbelievable flooding, loss of lives/pets/homes) - the National Guard states immensity of their rescue efforts here with military helicopters, vehicles and personnel compares to Hurricane Katrina (the Guard has rescued many hundreds, even thousands, of Coloradan folk, including friends of mine, have saved many lives, and are, again, even beyond heroism) (and) (as a veteran, am re-reminded of thankfulness for having served through the vehicle of our US Army) -

now, now let's just relax into, and embrace, above/below poems by friend and fellow local Coloradan, p l wick


and,
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                                  darylayaz@me.com
  


Saturday, September 14, 2013

from Anisoara Ioradace, Constanta, România, trans Miss Alina Bumbac (heartfelt thanks for sending your poem/image), and, a poetic visit from Peggy Dugan French

                                                                                                    
from Anisoara Ioradace, math teacher at Secondary School nr.6"Nicolae Titulescu", Constanta, România (translated by Miss Alina Bumbac) this abstract poetic image which - - the more one looks, all the more one appreciates - - am delighted she (they) choose to share  (seedy character in lower right hand corner not part of desired poetic/artistic image)


and, from Peggy Dugan French, Cardiff, California - poet, editor of Shemom, friend -

seasons of love

spring love
we climb mountains
bask on a perfect rock

summer love
we gather with family & friends
exchange vows

autumn love
we raise two kids
pass on family traditions

winter love 
we bury parents
watch the kids leave home

forever love
we stand together
past radiant, future unfolding


and,
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen               darylayaz@me.com

                                     (worthy associate Frosty)
                                                  

Thursday, September 12, 2013



A lovely poem from Tatjana Debeljački, Užice, Serbia (also in the latest bear creek haiku, #114)




and, from the versifying skunk cabbage of Empire, Colorado,          p l wick - -

early morning frost
burrowed down into a pail of feed
three meadow mice

                  
                            Sometimes, when I whistle
                            and Bud-dog
                            does not amble in,
                            I'll find him
                            dreaming
                            out behind the shed
                            in fender-deep weeds--
                            beside the rusted pickup.
                            Helping him up
                            onto the opened tailgate,
                            we sit in silence
                            letting summer's breezes
                            ruffle our hair.

                            old friends
                            up on blocks


see you in a moment 

ayaz daryl nielsen                                darylayaz@me.com 
    

Friday, July 26, 2013

beatidude Carl Mayfield ~ Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 'All the Way Up'



an especially necessary early morning's yawped beatidude of poetry becoming: mister master Carl Mayfield's multifarious Blank Looks and Read Agains...

Blank Look #819
  no post card
  can do it:  
            mountain peak
            knowing where to stop



                           Only witness
                           to behind the knee kisses -
                                  the scented candle


Blank Look #137
  I hold a begonia
  up to the light

  no, all the way up



cold wind--
   the daffodils
         anyway


                         
Blank Look #186
                                     hearing the finches
                                     singing at first light
                                     means we've come
                                     through, too



Wife's knees
   spooned into mine. . . .
sound of the house doing nothing



beatidude Carl Mayfield's current chapbook (including some above Blank Looks/Read Agains plus! Many Others) is
                 Modest Proposal Chapbooks (#24)
                       an imprint of Lilliput Review
                       Pittsburg's Don Wentworth
                                             

and,
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                   darylayaz@me.com











Tuesday, July 23, 2013


yawping beatitudes of poetry becoming - days/nights becoming better through/because of especially necessary early morning poems...

from the last post, Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, to this, Coyopa's longerish and quite wonderish Sometimes A Wild God -

  

Sometimes A Wild God            by Coyopa              

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.                          
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles around his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides...
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
'I haven't much,' you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it's fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,                            
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox.  You cough.
Oh, limitless space.  
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour from your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fist on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
"Why did you leave me to die?"
Asks the wild god and you say:
'I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn't know how.  I'm sorry.'
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer...
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart...
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black hair.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear sits by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.




next, early morning beatitudinal yawping of poetry becoming from master mister Carl Mayfield

so, will
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                           darylayaz@me.com

Sunday, July 21, 2013

yawping beatitudes of poetry: Judith Partin-Nielsen... Coyopa, Carl Mayfield, and a Courtney Love manifestation

















'yawping beatitudes of day becoming' - days/nights becoming better through/because of especially necessary poems... and, I realize they weren't for me to write (well, ok, a somewhat ego-soothing way of saying 'couldn't have written') -

three of these yawping beatitudes: Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, Coyopa's Sometimes a Wild God, and a poem (plus) from Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 by Carl Mayfield (love this dudearoonie)

and we begin, in this post, with Poetry Everywhere, by Judith Partin-Nielsen...


Poetry Everywhere
                                           for Courtney Love
"I wrote poetry everywhere
on the walls, on his shirt
I wrote poetry everywhere"
I couldn't stop
at night on the sheets in our bed
in my sleep, in my dreams
I wrote poetry everywhere
on my face like war paint
(stirring up all kinds of trouble)
I wrote poetry on the table cloth
in Jax's Fish House
a haiku surrounded by wine
glasses, white napkins, red brick,
walls, green fish - tiny dots of
blue light hanging from the
ceiling - Nick Forester eating sushi
at the next table
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote in books that
didn't belong to me, past due,
checked in, checked out,
on posters at the coffee
house, poetry notes on golden
peeling bathroom mirrors
surprise tanka on the
toilet seat
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote poetry on the stairs
seven steps to the landing
turn left.  Six more up to your room.
Listening to the blues, Muddy Waters
wailing, sitting on the floor
eating dates, drinking white wine.
I wrote poetry everywhere.
You made a pass, I didn't notice
better to keep writing poetry
everywhere
Flat on my face, flat on my
ass, flat on my back
just keep writing
poetry everywhere


and,
see you in a moment
and,
in Coyopa's beatitude

ayaz daryl nielsen                            darylayaz@me.com

    

Thursday, July 4, 2013

this nation's birthday: sacred texts under stars, among fireflies - robert wooten, joanna m weston, caroline simpson, michael conner, carl mayfield, p l wick, dorothy mclaughlin and giovanni malito












us, and fireflies, beneath the evening's stars...within, the sacredness of this nation's birthday (of these United States) accompanied by a few sacred texts of poetry within the hearts, minds, and loveverliness's of all whichever/wherever paths and poems are truly ours...

blue-velvet dusk
the evening star 
nestled in thereness                            michael conner
                                                                      tahoka, texas



                                Venice Prayer
caroline simpson                  
goztepe, turkey               Why do I crave the fog,
                        a softened silhouette?
                        Wrap me like a Russian nesting doll
                        in layers of mist that soak and sink;
                        Immerse me in damp whispers
                        and blur my outline into thick emerald lagoon,
                        bright, crisp stars twinkling above.



shades of moonlight
the difference
she makes                                      joanna m weston
                                                                    shawnigan lake,
                                                                    canada



                                             cardinal beaks grown close
robert wooten                             with mating in the dark path
raleigh, north carolina                   he gives her the seed               
                   



                 old crow and I
                 laughing, cawing as
                 we meet once again                 crows by a lone crow
                                                                            fort collins, colorado
                                                                            senryu, ayaz 



marmots
whistling from the talus
a mountain flute ensemble      
                                                    p l wick
                                                                     empire, colorado



                                            the sound of the wind
                                   clearing a path for itself
                                     through the trees
dorothy mclaughlin
somerset, massachusetts



           What I wanted -
           well, dust is quick to forget
           the busyness

                                               carl mayfield
                                                               rio rancho, new mexico



                                          on the lake
                                          listening to the loon
                                          after it's gone

                                                       giovanni malito
                                                                          ireland
                                           
    
and
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                            darylayaz@me.com                            

                                        

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

soon enough, everything! the poetry of a. l. wright, of Pat Prine, plus, editor as tank commander and ninja























And this especial morning (as it is, above) loverly and embracing 'everythings'... 
including some mistakes of this editor...
yet! a morning breeze, the rising sun and my assistant Frosty (Famous Cat Who Ran for President and who is actively participating in 
a sleep-in across the middle of our desk) inspire, even insist 
upon an early morning attempt 
at amending mistakes...

Am delighted to share with you two poems by a. l. wright whose poetic inspiration often comes from walks beside lake Michigan, from 7 year old son Malachi, from a love of visual arts and whose poems I accepted some time ago, misplaced somewhere and, fortunately, was re-reminded of their necessary existence:   


My Name Is Called

A door opens
And I
Awake.

My name is called
And I have gone
Looking.

Looking
For the one
Who seeks me out.


                                         Paper

                                         Paper on my desk
                                         Becomes origami bird
                                         Silently chirping
thank you, a. l. wright


and, whose poem is this?  I mis-listed it as one of Pat Prine's in the bear creek anthology (which is still somewhere near completion):

  He strains
to pee -
  the old hound


Pat Prine is one of my most favorite poets, and here are two that are hers:

standing guard
in the children's playground
a green rhinoceros

                                    
                                     Happy Birthday!
                                     Dad's old flannel jacket
                                     still hanging in the closet


plus! mistakes by this editor are often, I'm told, of unique interest -

two examples -

first picture, the notion of self as 'tank commander'  
(kept falling off/out of tank) - 
second picture, a belief in my super-effectiveness as an almost invisible ninja...                                           
                                                                               



and,
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                                   darylayaz@me.com  




Sunday, June 23, 2013

legends of enchanted beginnings - joanna m weston, sean lause, donna snow, carl mayfield's modest chapbook!, and, frosty!











lovely poems, necessary poems have found their way to bear creek this past week, many of which were/are a response to poetry within the last post... among these poems, many were selected for issue #114 (the next issue) of bear creek haiku, and my assistant Frosty the Famous Cat Who Ran for President in the Last Election (all the cats who voted voted for Frosty, who is currently sprawled across the middle of our desk) and I are elated about sharing a few of them, below, with all of you...


summer day...
the scent of
creeping thyme               joanna m weston, 
                                                          shawnigan lake, 
                                                          british columbia 



                           
                                     The learned astrologer
                           told us the sun sees all.
                           "Not so, not so,"
                           said the nightingale.
                                                     sean lause,
                                                                           bluffton, ohio



The woman who walked in feathers
scattering them
as she tread,
smiled as the colors fluttered
around her.                                    
                                                donna snow,
                                                turlock, california



                                                                 cold wind -
                                            the daffodils,
                                               anyway

BLANK LOOK #819
  no post card
  can do it:
             mountain peak
             knowing where to stop
                                   
                             two by carl mayfield,
                                          rio rancho, new mexico
                                                      from a new collection of carl's oh-so-worthy 
                                                      poetry via a new Modest Proposal Chapbook
                                                      from don wentworth/lilliput review

           


                 
                         
   




and,
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen




                         darylayaz@me.com              Frosty

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Elk Heart Walking, poets Michael Conner, Peggy Dugan French, Dennis Rhodes, Caroline N Simpson and! Don Wentworth!
























       
                                                                 
                                                                                              blue-velvet twilight
                                                      the evening star
                                                      nestled in thereness
poet Michael Conner

                                                                               

                                  
                             thumb in your back pocket
                             arm draped over my shoulder
                             strolling....      
                                                 poet Peggy Dugan French



Venice Prayer

Why do I crave the fog,
a softened silhouette?
Wrap me like a Russian nesting doll
in layers of mist that soak and sink:
immerse me in damp whispers
and blur my outline into thick emerald lagoon,
bright, crisp stars twinkling above. 
                                             poet Caroline N Simpson



                          Issa's Answer
                    
                   The whole world sloughs off
                   it's skin - do you have a question
                   for Mr. Snake?
                                            poet don Wentworth



                                                  orphan
                               
                                     Poor little haiku.
                                     Seventeen sweet syllables
                                     with nothing to say.
                                             poet Dennis Rhodes



see you in the next bear creek haiku, and/or, perhaps, a future bear creek post... better yet, upon a Colorado mountain, beside a river among aspen, mountain mahogany, big bluestem, pasque and columbine, listening to bull elk bugle as they slowly wade through the clear, cold glacial current...
and,
see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                            darylayaz@me.com