Have you hear of a Haiga? Colleen explains it expertly. It’s defini something I will try with my young writers in Writers Club.
Since so many poets are inspired by photos, drawings, paintings, or other images when they compose their poetry, I wanted to add the “Haiga,” a dramatic poetic form to my weekly syllabic poetry challenge starting the first week of February 2019. So, for the new challenge posted on 2/5/19, this will be another acceptable form for our syllabic challenge.
Haiga is sometimes called observational poetry because it contains an image with either a haiku or senryu written on it or near it.
This one form combines three artforms: imagery (photographs or original art), poetry, and calligraphy.
The site, ahapoetry.com shares this about the Haiga:
“Haiga is a Japanese concept for simple pictures combined with poetry, usually meaning haiku. In Basho’s time, haiga meant a brushed ink drawing combined with…
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This is a poem I wrote the year my mum passed away. Even though Christmas has passed, I thought I would share it again as a special tribute to her, my little bird!
Now the clock is ticking
Santa is drawing near
We’ve put up your Christmas decoration
Since you won’t be here
No struggling, cursing, crying
To get you through the door
And the happy sense of achievement
When your wheels touch the kitchen floor
We won’t choose the meal together
Since last year’s meal was your last
No fighting over whose house to visit
Now that you’re in the past
I’m going to try not to miss you
When I don’t see you sitting there
Children reaching to open their presents
They’ve kept back, so that moment, with you, they could share
Every minute of Christmas this year
Will breathe in for a new tradition
As you, dear Mum won’t be there
Since you’ve taken a life-long intermission.
Threads dispersed, tendrils drifting,
Cross stitches holding my heart together
Fragile grips for forever
Like kisses on a broken organ.
Undisclosed attachments to materialistic grips
Patterned designs meant for purpose
But, oh, giving me goose bumps of joy
As I blanket stitch them together.
Expressing my toxic insides
Filtering them with padding
Slip stitch my lips so nothing escapes;
Shh! Here comes the blunt truth…
Nothing can hold back the black and white
No shade. Backstitch that bad stuff,
But the running stitch won’t erase it.
The stark truth prevails like a blind stitch.
Consume my physical receptacle
Pool your passion as you will
Favour the inevitable
As I swallow the bitter pill
Of realising your incompetence
Of being more than a physical presence
Leave me yearning for more substance
In my search for a soulmate’s essence.
I am water – gluedmirror
— Read on gluedmirror.wordpress.com/2018/05/29/i-am-water/amp/
I feel as though bits of me are slipping away. The more I fulfil my dreams, the more my essence fades. Where is the balance between my destiny and my provenance? The journey doesn’t secure a link to both. Though I’ll gladly discard the parts that are unsecured and tangible, the rest I want to retain.
I feel as though bits of me are slipping away. Maybe one day I will awaken to the butterfly and not the caterpillar. Until then, my doubt lingers like the promise of metamorphosis.
mostly reading, but sometimes i write
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Life is a broadway musical and everyday is a song. These are mine manifested as poetry.
words, glorious words...
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