Haiku relates to the moment when the person is in meditation and alert to mindfulness. The sense of yearning is often present when the senses are alive to touching, hearing, feeling, … These are all metaphorical and stand for deeper memory.
Buson was also a great pictorial artist; he wrote until his death at age 68. Here is a haiku by him:
A Frog jumps into the pond,
Splash! Silence again.
beneath a wine barrel
in a tavern.
the cask will leak.
sakaya no kame no
shita ni ikeyo
moshi ya shizuku no
The second poem, written late in Auden’s life dwells on the enjoyment of solitude and pleasure, but notes that these are only available after the day’s chores are done. What be these pleasures?
It may be noted that, as an act of humility, Hopkins did not offer any of his poetry for publication when he was alive.
Caroline appreciated the two stark lines that end the short poem, which is a reflection on the unsatisfactory condition of humankind after having acquired 'unnatural' powers ('to fly like the eagles', 'to voyage to the moon'). It is the same self-disgust and horror that the physicist, Robert Oppenheimer, expressed upon the explosion of the first atomic weapon, when he quoted from the Bhagvad Gita:
It is derived from the letters and poems the two wrote to one another, which continued through all their infidelities until the violent death of the poet Gumilev. Rachel also recalled a CCBC meeting at which they had the author of a cookbook, Sudha Koul, a Kashmiri:
CCBC invited Sudha Koul to discuss her book, The Tiger Ladies, a memoir of her life in Kashmir. In her gracious manner, she gave each of the CCBC members an autographed copy of her cookbook.
there will be something to regret.
If there is something to regret,
there will be something to recall.
If there is something to recall,
there was nothing to regret.
If there was nothing to regret,
there was nothing to desire.
Now barefoot I tread
the best of my lines are written:
with the tip of my tongue on your palate,
on your chest in miniscule letters,
on your belly . . .
But, darling, I wrote thempianissimo!
May I erase with my lips
your exclamation mark?
It should be
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it . . .
against each other, they produce a sound
inaudible to us but heard up there, in the clouds and higher,
by those who can no longer hear common sounds . . .
Or, maybe, this is how He wants to check by ear: are we still intact?
No cracks in mortal vessels? And to this end He bangs
men against women?
a paper-cut on my palm.
The cut extended my life line
by nearly one fourth.
your I love you has been translated,
if I could find the original,
consult the dictionary
to be sure the rendition is exact:
the translator is not at fault!
...if necessary, the books shall be divided as follows:
you get the odd, I get the even pages;
“the books” are understood to mean the ones we used to read aloud
together, when we would interrupt our reading for a kiss,
and would get back to the book after half an hour…
why so sad?
Am I not cheerful?
Words of mine,
why so rough?
Am I not gentle?
Deeds of mine,
why so silly?
Am I not wise?
Friends of mine,
why so dead?
Am I not strong?
to be the first to part.
Tears, saliva, sperm
are no solvents for solitude.
On gilded wedding bowls,
on prostitutes’ plastic cups,
an eye can see, if skilled,
solitude’s bitter residue.
lilacs give a whiff of ink.
If only we could wage love-making
all day long without end,
love so detailed and elastic
that when the nightfall came,
we would exchange each other
like prisoners of war, five times, no less!