Bus Stop Haiku Read online



  BUS STOP HAIKU

  the urban haiku of

  Brian Robertson

  foreword by Scott Robertson

  ©2014 by Brian Robertson

  all rights reserved

  vfin709 edition

  Cover photograph © 2014

  Scott Robertson, all rights reserved

  Acknowledgments

  “Whoever told people that ‘mind’ means

  thoughts opinions, ideas, and concepts?

  Mind means trees, fence posts, tiles,

  and grasses.”

  Dogen Zenji, Zen master,

  Thanks to Karen and Scott for their

  wonderful help with this manuscript

  and to Our Linda of the ATM

  “When we try to pick out anything by itself,

  we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”

  John Muir

  This version of Bus Stop Blues

  If you came into possession of it

  without paying, please go to

  that supports the writer.

  Thank you.

  Foreword

  by Scott Robertson

  "Eventually, everything is nature.”

  Brian Robertson

  If there is an essence to the moment, Brian Robertson will capture it.

  Whether he is out strolling the streets, spiral notebook in back pocket “poem catching,” or at home among his treasured books and cats practicing his deep roots in Spirituality, he is aware of a fullness to the world that is unseen or simply overlooked by others.

  “Sometimes it’s not like I’m writing – I’m almost sketching. I'm drawing on the paper with words, making corrections on the spot with lines and arrows drawn this way and that.” Brian laughs as we sit down on his floor over some tea. The human eye can see only a certain amount before the mind steps in and tries to take over the show. Brian waits for that “decisive moment” that Henri Cartier-Bresson looked for in his photography on the streets of Marseilles.

  For example, Brian shows not tells as in a photographer's dream scenario:

  in that tall building

  top window catches the moon

  others get darkness

  Having written that, he gives both the light and darkness a role in his short play.

  I ask Brian, “What are the boundaries of nature or nature?” He takes a sip of his warm tea and responds simply, “There are no boundaries. Where does nature start and stop? On top of that, you have to say that something seen in this world is related to and entwined with all other things. It's what Thich Nhat Hahn has so very gracefully called interdependency.”

  “After all, what isn’t nature?” he asks. “Rain, but not tears? Storm, but not anger?” From this vantage point, nature can be a beautiful hill, a fresh pond, or, in his haiku reply a moment of

  sparse yellow flowers

  in front of the liquor store

  frankly, do their best

  Is nature “the new stubble on cheek”? Or the wrinkles he catches in a reflection that shows the years that have passed? To Brian,“Nature” is everywhere in an unbroken world, patiently pointing beyond itself to the world without imposed duality, but, rather, with pristine wholeness.

  In the haiku above, Brian doesn’t have to tell you that there is nature in both the flower and the desolate liquor store -- he shows you. He goes on to say, “The brain breaks things into bite-sized parts, but actually things ultimately don’t live in two different worlds. In quantum science, there is no such thing as a dividing wall between the Observer and Observed, just as in writing or reading there no real break between Poet and World.”

  In Brian's writing, there are undertones of his own past. Some are obvious, but some are hidden in the voice of a character or in the moment itself that has been captured. For instance, from his work:

  red dirt road

  place it goes to

  no longer there

  His words can’t help but evoke a feeling of something lost, distant but always close to the surface. One also sees a kind of personification, one that points back to himself, whether simple or complex, in his portrayal of people or objects.

  midnight silence --

  abandoned shopping cart

  in the tall grass

  His haiku evoke strong emotions out of the simple moments in life, most of which the average person simply misses or overlooks. It can be revolutionary and participatory for the writer and the reader. “In my haiku,” he says, “I’ve never written something that I’ve just thought up, something I've never seen.”

  In Bus Stop Haiku, Brian Robertson’s urban haiku are like trap doors through which, once touched, a renewed world of shared nature opens.

  Haiku

  old man with the cane

  doesn’t make the stop

  before the bus leaves

  my dad's old coat:

  wearing it as my own --

  amazed it fits

  north wind cuts so deep

  I cannot remember

  lifeless July heat

  at the bus stop

  he whispers into cell phone:

  Got me my bus fare home

  man stops at the street

  with a dead bird in the grass

  waiting for the light

  a cat moon-gazing

  presses against the window

  she looks up and out

  that plant in the pot

  is called a Money Tree --

  it has not worked yet

  from the cracked pavement

  groundwater swells to reflect

  autumn birds drinking

  the entire night

  back and forth --

  warm bed to cold desk

  lone bird’s harsh call breaks

  atop the closed liquor store –

  another Christmas

  do ghosts get a job

  driving a taxi cab

  on their graveyard shift?

  quiet squirrel sits

  the garden statue has acorns

  cupped in Buddha’s hands

  small roach on the wall

  is still the entire night:

  wait – not brave, dead

  rising autumn wind

  brown leaves all know the secret

  the green ones? clueless

  wake in the night

  to unmistakable sound --

  a cat throwing up

  spring rain ends:

  leaves stars in street puddles

  on the dark water

  my sleeping cat

  wakes only long enough

  to lick her paw, once

  on this cold sidewalk

  the sudden welcome heat --

  passing bus exhaust

  empty restaurant:

  cook and I swap recipes

  at a back table

  early New Years Day

  drunk man pounds at my gate

  calling, “You ok?”

  after the first glance

  broken bottles in moonlight --

  dream jewels, nothing more

  did I grow up here?

  chipped paint with the windows dark

  what dreams left inside

  I step on dry leaves

  crackle of old pages

  a brittle dream book

  all stop – cold wind,

  bird in cloud, whiff of smoke

  cat sleeps on my chest

  after hours –

  the vintage barber chairs

  hair on checkerboard tiles

  in my voice

  giving him directions

  how old I sound!

  temple doors

  slam shut in the storm

  a stone Buddha sits

 
autumn chill

  as cat’s whiskers

  brush my forehead

  in her picture

  a knife hides

  disguised as memory

  Sit and drink my tea

  with unexpected sun

  this bright winter day

  gone, gone; gone beyond.

  gone beyond beyond.

  oh, wow!

  Heart Sutra for those who recall the 1960′s

  beneath low blinds

  bare feet on concrete --

  their private purpose

  out on the street

  cross paths with a poem

  under the pale sky

  photo’s glass frame

  reflects such deep lines --

  my old man face

  grandson with four teeth --

  almost as many

  as I have left!

  this old photo

  my two children at play --

  a shadow on the grass

  moonless sky

  when asking Who am I?

  forms