Wednesday, January 9, 2013

poet Jane Stuart + real/surreal issues (bless you) of togethering an anthology


poet Jane Stuart + real/surreal issues (bless you) of togethering an anthology of poetry

Some real/surreal issues (bless you!) as one altogethers a poetry anthology can be/should be several-fold, and! yes! I hear you, you are now muttering ‘I do hope he (ayaz daryl) provides further elucidation of just what these real/surreal issues (bless you) are!!’  No worries, I've heard you!

The first is obvious - thirty-five poets will be in the first bear creek haiku anthology, yet it should be 2,035, or, all the poets that have ever appeared between the covers and the tail ends (see prior post on tail ends, if you so choose) of bch print pub!  But that seems quite impossible (but, perhaps I can do more than one anthology?)  No, wait, just wait on any further such thoughts!  first, first and foremost, one (that be me) has to bring this first (and foremost) anthology into existence!  (Am grateful we got that settled)


I love the poetry that has (and will) appear in bear creek haiku. Here is a sample bio and a few fine poems from a most favorite poet Jane Stuart :


Jane Stuart
  I - I have a PhD - didn’t know what a cell phone was - I said “certainly not” to someone - I thought he meant jail  
  It’s a family house, an old log cabin.  Rewiring was done, but I didn’t get hooked up.  I learned later that I had two telephone numbers - no, just one - that one had been changed - I had none.  But I did not want to argue with anyone about having email or my getting on internet or about my being able to go online.  I don’t know how to use and chose, I don’t know how to get rid of a virus so I work slowly and mostly by longhand.  I can write, setup, store (save) and print with some organization, but I use index cards, too.  It is all hard copy and snail mail.


park concert’s final note -
a red Frisbee
thumps the bass drum


Near the garden fence
dreams we planted grew up high
touching blue, blue sky


A rin-tinny day
Rusty memories
Caught in gusts of wind


An oracle wakes -
Misty smoke curls rise
Out of winter’s ice


early morning wind
whispering through meadow grass
an ancient love song


turning windmill
-cold air rising
in great sobs


a little red drum,
a reed flute and tambourine
left beside the pond


A lonely flute played
in a castle by the sea
many years ago


Floating under rocks,
a broken oar and tattered sail
grabbing at the sea


A juniper bush
squared on top - an open box
full of winter wind.


Morning follows night,
moon falls into paradise,
listen to the sun.


One small butterfly
floats across an easy wind
on an endless day


Alone, on the beach
our nets fill with starry night
driftwood and seashells


Rich trees, glossy leaves
clumps of moss beside the creek
mornings full of rain


and, yes, yes, we will continue onto the/a second real/surreal issue (bless you) of togethering a poetry anthology within the next few posts - and, last, a poem 
from ayaz daryl nielsen - 


embarrassed    our hammock    gossips


ok, alright!  maybe this post did become one poem (mine) too long - nonetheless, nonethemore - 

- see you in a moment -  

ayaz daryl nielsen





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