From Robert Hass, The Essential Haiku:

The term hakkai means “sportive or playful”. It came to be applied to a kind of Japanese poetry that originated in the middle ages or earlier, called renga. Renga was a form of collaborative poetry, usually written by three or more poets, that was created by giving the tanka, the five-line poem of of the classical anthologies, a sort of call-and-response form. One poet wrote a first verse of three lines in a five syllable-seven syllable-five syllable pattern (ed. note: these first three lines of the tanka are called hokku), and the second poet completed the tanka with two seven-syllable lines.

1. Greg said,

   May 5, 2010 @ 5:31 pm · Edit

   “You’re moving too fast.”
   Dad gapes at the monitor,
   A wide-eyed, child’s gaze.

2. Greg Holden said,

   May 6, 2010 @ 10:45 pm · Edit

   life is moving oh so fast
   I can’t let fear become me

by Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Brigit Pegeen Kelly is a poet and Professor of English at the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. Her second published collection, Song, won the Lamont Poetry Prize of the Academy of American Poets in 1994. I’ve read a bit of academic analysis of its title work, all of it no more than otiose poking at Song’s fearsome umbra.

Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song
Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.

Listen: there was a goat’s head hanging by ropes in a tree.
All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it
Felt a hurt in their hearts and thought they were hearing
The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then
They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat’s head
Swayed back and forth, and from far off it shone faintly
The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away
Beside which the goat’s headless body lay. Some boys
Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined.
The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they
Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school
And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything.
The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks.
The head called to the body. The body to the head.
They missed each other. The missing grew large between them,
Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until
The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies
Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills.
Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder,
Sang long and low until the morning light came up over
The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped….
The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named
The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after
The night’s bush of stars, because the goat’s silky hair
Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit.
The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night
She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train’s horn
Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke
To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang
Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats.
She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily
That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming
Made it so. But one night the girl didn’t hear the train’s horn,
And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat
Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm
Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain
Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone
Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called
To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called
And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling
Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides
Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat’s body
By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles
At the goat’s torn neck. Then somebody found the head
Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take
These things away so that the girl would not see them.
They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat.
They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear
Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke….
But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have
Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they
Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job,
Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark.
What they didn’t know was that the goat’s head was already
Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn’t know
Was that the goat’s head would go on singing, just for them,
Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen,
Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would
Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees
Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There
Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song,
The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother’s call.
Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song
Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.

Matt Taibbi in Rolling Stone

Taibbi’s been writing as cogently about the economic crisis and bailout as anyone I’ve encountered:

What’s taken place in the year since Obama won the presidency has turned out to be one of the most dramatic political about-faces in our history. Elected in the midst of a crushing economic crisis brought on by a decade of orgiastic deregulation and unchecked greed, Obama had a clear mandate to rein in Wall Street and remake the entire structure of the American economy. What he did instead was ship even his most marginally progressive campaign advisers off to various bureaucratic Siberias, while packing the key economic positions in his White House with the very people who caused the crisis in the first place. This new team of bubble-fattened ex-bankers and laissez-faire intellectuals then proceeded to sell us all out, instituting a massive, trickle-up bailout and systematically gutting regulatory reform from the inside.

How could Obama let this happen? Is he just a rookie in the political big leagues, hoodwinked by Beltway old-timers? Or is the vacillating, ineffectual servant of banking interests we’ve been seeing on TV this fall who Obama really is?

Well, obviously, the latter. I guess after eight years of the Bush gang, many of us desperately wanted to believe there was something more to this man and his campaign than is abysmally typical of American politicians and politics. We were easily duped by vague and ultimately empty promises. But the War Party and its bankers never lose Congress* or the White House. What is to be done?

*Sen. Dick Durbin, on a local Chicago radio station this week, blurted out an obvious truth about Congress that, despite being blindingly obvious, is rarely spoken: “And the banks — hard to believe in a time when we’re facing a banking crisis that many of the banks created — are still the most powerful lobby on Capitol Hill. And they frankly own the place.” The blunt acknowledgment that the same banks that caused the financial crisis “own” the U.S. Congress — according to one of that institution’s most powerful members — demonstrates just how extreme this institutional corruption is. (Glenn Greenwald, April 30, 2009)

It is the object of Zen, therefore, to save us from going crazy or being crippled. This is what I mean by freedom, giving free play to all the creative and benevolent impulses inherently lying in our hearts. Generally, we are blind to this fact, that we are in possession of all the necessary faculties that will make us happy and loving towards one another. All the struggles that we see around us come from this ignorance. Zen, therefore, wants us to open a ‘third eye’, as Buddhists call it, to the hitherto un-dreamed-of region shut away from us through our own ignorance. When the cloud of ignorance disappears, the infinity of the heavens is manifested, where we see for the first time into the nature of our own being. We now know the signification of life, we know that it is not blind striving nor is it a mere display of brutal forces, but that while we know not definitely what the ultimate purport of life is, there is something in it that makes us feel infinitely blessed in the living of it and remain quite contented with it in all its evolution, without raising questions or entertaining pessimistic doubts.

from D.T. Suzuki, Essays In Zen Buddhism, Vol. 1, 1927

I went there on September 19th, just to take a few photos and say good bye. The park was a bit shabby, maintenance no doubt the victim of imminent closure. The Little Dipper roller coaster was badly in need of repainting.

The rides and other equipment will be auctioned off next month. Will someone bid for everything and attempt a resurrection? More photos here.

CEO’s of the Big Three automakers are escorted to Capitol Hill upon their arrival in Washington. The trio made the trip from Detroit via freight train.

Mt. Hope, Kansas, eighteen miles northwest of Wichita in Sedgwick County, was founded in 1887. The photo on this postcard looks old; no street lights and Ohio Street appears to be unpaved. Though, without vehicles, its age is hard to establish.
It was probably taken looking south near the intersection of Ohio and Main Streets, as this current view (courtesy of Google Maps) shows. The corner buildings have persevered, though degraded by “repairs” no doubt inspired by a narrow expediency. It’s striking to me how the two photos, unpopulated and spare, evoke similar senses of desolation and quietude.

I can’t tell you much about Mt. Hope. Neither the public library’s nor the town’s website offer any local history, and the sites for Sedgwick County and the Kansas State Historical Society don’t include much about the town. The last census counted 830 residents, and demographically it is a fairly average small Kansas town. A two man police force and a volunteer fire department.
One interesting thing is that an all-female debate team from Mt. Hope won the state high school championship in 1917. The Kansas Debate League was started in 1910, and the competition was dominated by small schools at the outset. No school serving a town with a population over 1,000 won until 1921. The popularity of the debate competition in small towns and rural areas and its accessibility to young women was something of an anomaly, in that it was a secular pursuit thriving in a strongly religious and gender-role restricted educational environment.

“How would you like to take a swim,” wrote Mama, from Hinton, WV, in August of 1908. Strange she sent a postcard of Long Island.

Hinton sounds like a pretty town:

Woven into the mountains of Appalachia, along the scenic New River in
Southern West Virginia, is the quaint city of Hinton.

Hinton is a “Railroad Town”, formed about 1871 with the tremendous
building boom that occurred during the Gay ’90s period from 1890 to1920.

The glory of the train days have come and gone, of course, leaving in its
wake a community that today is rich in history and natural beauty.
The downtown Historic District, officially listed on the National Register
of Historic Places on February 17, 1984, is an architectural gem waiting
to be discovered.