Pat Nolan
               A HISTORY OF HAIKAI
                   Three Dokugin Kasen
        in memory of Keith Kumasen Abbott
INSTANT OF EXISTENCE
               The rushing stream
I join in swiftness toward that
               instant of existence
                                             —after Saigyo
big bamboo bows beneath
the weight of tiny drops
               the pile of books
at bedside grown taller
               winter evenings
in the visual cortex
resides the voyeur
               full moon reminds me
having traveled far and wide
               the hole in my sock
shimmer of a puddle’s surface
reflects a break in the clouds
               play now pay later
he should have had that
               tattooed on his knuckles
separated by time
even the neighbors are distant
               looking at the old
photos I realize now
               I can’t trust the mirror
just a scruffy literary type
wild hair wild eyed wild heart
               alone tonight
after the first glass
               the bottle pours itself
skeletal remains catch a breeze
hung from the window’s edge
               late afternoon sun
shadow carves a new face on
               the abandoned pumpkin
full moon’s midnight glow
on the porch railing
               emerging from sleep
dreams clothe themselves
               in a waking reality
relive the past
preparing for the future
               new blossoms flutter
in the rainy wind protesting
               too soon too soon
a smear of blue
edged by majestic billows
               sneeze tremor extends
to hand holding coffee cup
               café au lait tsunami
tragedy for the asking
day in and day out
               wild onion flowers
gather what remains of light
               frog chirp evening
seated too long I rise
a cricket at every joint
               newspapers pile up
paint peels gray porch sagging
               a yellow weed lawn
among the wild thorn bushes
a single bearded iris
               hard rain pouring down
room lighted by one candle
               —poetry weather
with each longer day
yesterday's further away
               old spider web
stillness at dawn
               a robin cocks its head
sawhorse left out in the rain
another delay
               moon’s crooked smile
as I go from room to room
               turning out the lights
choose without thinking
from moment to moment
               wet winter
do the little entryway
               rug two step
large fuzzy cloud comma
punctuates afternoon blue
               a knock at the door
cord of wood neatly stacked
               payment on demand
I raise my cup what I owe
can never be collected
               late winter the pink
almond blossoms invite
               a fine white rain
caught up in one day
turtle pace of a passing year
ICY NIGHT
               Sounds as if water’s
cracking on this icy night
               I lie wide awake
                              —after Basho
cat a furry ensō asleep
before the gas fireplace
               shorter frosty days
last leaves cling as
               old dingy brown rags
mist slips from the ridge top
a pale orange skyline
               so then Issa wrote
“Guard the door leafy shadows
               I’ve gone to the moon”
light showers after storm
green hills run with mustard
               gingko leaf afloat
in the old watering can
               overflowing rain
coffee cup keeps hiding by
being where it always is
               young bird perched on
the shadow of a branch cast
               across the asphalt
clouds have seized the light
and returned a wintry sky
               pretentious foo dogs at
the new neighbor’s gate tagged
               by real dogs’ comments
through the trees the flag
a breeze brings to life
               inevitably
in front of the bus shelter
               the largest puddle
evening star poised to
drop into the cup of moon
               off to work early
headlights rake
               the old gray fence
rhododendron leaves large
dragonflies glazed with dew
               white rain compliments
the pink of blossoms and
               paler shades of green
black birds leapfrog
in the dry yellow grass
               the young widow just
about to give birth the long
               shadows of late day
driven to distraction
no need for a road map
               at twilight a small
white dog follows scents
               the tall summer weeds
hot afternoon’s silky breeze
lapped at my drowsy edges
               get wives with kids
mistresses with poetry
               thus immortality
the ghost of the bedroom
closes the door on its own
               the clouds let go
a blessing or a curse caught
               without an umbrella
shorter days lengthened
with a tall bottle
               I wasn't so lonely
last autumn at this time
               just a candle and me
from bank robber to reverend
difference a shaved head makes
               if there was a moon
it shanked behind the pine like
               a big old golf ball
how quickly puddles become
still the fleeting shower
               past the empty beach
an armada of mallards float
               on velvet waters
a cup of tea a warm book
static of steady light rain
               a barking dog
the darkening bog
               opens a mystery
even in an overcoat
the scarecrow looks cold
               cloud marbled blue sky
a strong wind picks up
               pink blossoms fly by
gusts bow the tall reeds over
and over the withered moor
A HISTORY OF HAIKAI
               After a brief shower
sunset leaves its signature
               on standing water
rain attends the flanks of firs
time to drain the bank account
               autumn evening
questions posed answered perhaps
               weighty old memories
I turn to heat my back
humming to myself alone
               the old wicker gate
held up by its latch
               the winter moon
                              —after Kikaku
every star in its place
too cold to linger and count
               dish towel draped
over my shoulder long after
               the dishes have been done
swatting a fly the price
I’ll pay in eternity
               on the street below
cat pauses listening maybe
               he heard me thinking
cash receipt marks a page
in the book I return
               not much different
from a single electron
               that stubborn recluse
with so much wretchedness
guilt at my moment of joy
               I couldn’t hear
the wind blew the words away
               the shape of her mouth
up until now nothing but
nonsense the moon tonight
               kept inside by the storm
kids in their rain-gear
               impatient for showers
when the car finally pulls up
I can find worry free sleep
               pounding head
crick in neck I blame
               the cherry blossoms
                              —after Buson
I don’t need the bright lights
dew strung on gossamer just fine
               I can no longer hear
the high pitched whine
               of evening’s hunters
in charge of its destiny
the last melon on the vine
               in a ragged coat
stop to view a majestic presence
               mist in the tree tops
“I should stop by but it’s been
so long what could I say”
               fast asleep
the taste of blowfish repeating
               may be a mantra
                              —after Basho
satisfied in a dream
I can put those desires to bed
               impatient blue sky
at the edge of a cloud burst
               wetter than winter
raking petals into a pile
the bare earth’s turn
               if I returned as
a moth I would sadly expect
               the same treatment
“I know all that” hollow
words fly back in my face
               a chill comes with
the rain easing up
               immaculate moon
has this dust always
covered everything
               wild chamomile anemic
along the cracked sidewalk
               about to keel over
                              —after Shiki
“who I am today more than
yesterday less than tomorrow”
               it must be very cold
the actors speak their lines
               with visible breath
even in the shadows
snow remains snow
               after random cherry
blossom beauty order
               imposed by the broom
the young bamboo races up
to its supple green height
Pat Nolan writes: "Keith Kumasen Abbott and I became interested in the idea of haikai no renga (linked verse collaboration) around the same time thanks to the publication of Basho’s The Monkey’s Raincoat, translated by Maeda Cana (Grossman, 1973). We were already well practiced in collaborative writing using the Surrealist model adapted by the New York School of Poets. By the mid-seventies we had made forays into linked verse, writing with little more understanding of this haiku based verse form than that the stanzas alternated three lines and two lines. Syllabic count, season specific stanzas, and the rudiments of linking were not yet considerations. Alerting by Keith to the publication of Earl Miner’s Japanese Linked Poetry (Princeton, 1979), I started my education in the intricacies of linking verse. Miner’s second volume, The Monkey’s Straw Raincoat (Princeton, 1981), added to our collective knowledge and obsession with what we now referred to as haikai no renga or renku. Thirty years later we were still writing haikai, giving it our own contemporary spin, and had roped a few of our poet friends into the practice as well, dubbing ourselves The Miner School of Haikai Poets. We published a number of our collaborations in haiku magazines, anthologies, and limited edition chapbooks. In 2015, I published a selection of three decades worth of Miner School linking titled Poetry For Sale (Nualláin House, Publishers). Now with Keith’s passing this last August, a vital link to the enjoyment of this practice is no longer available. I composed these three solo haikai (dokugin) of thirty six stanzas (kasen) in his memory, employing shifts and leaps in the linking that I imagine he would have enjoyed."
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               A HISTORY OF HAIKAI
                   Three Dokugin Kasen
        in memory of Keith Kumasen Abbott
INSTANT OF EXISTENCE
               The rushing stream
I join in swiftness toward that
               instant of existence
                                             —after Saigyo
big bamboo bows beneath
the weight of tiny drops
               the pile of books
at bedside grown taller
               winter evenings
in the visual cortex
resides the voyeur
               full moon reminds me
having traveled far and wide
               the hole in my sock
shimmer of a puddle’s surface
reflects a break in the clouds
               play now pay later
he should have had that
               tattooed on his knuckles
separated by time
even the neighbors are distant
               looking at the old
photos I realize now
               I can’t trust the mirror
just a scruffy literary type
wild hair wild eyed wild heart
               alone tonight
after the first glass
               the bottle pours itself
skeletal remains catch a breeze
hung from the window’s edge
               late afternoon sun
shadow carves a new face on
               the abandoned pumpkin
full moon’s midnight glow
on the porch railing
               emerging from sleep
dreams clothe themselves
               in a waking reality
relive the past
preparing for the future
               new blossoms flutter
in the rainy wind protesting
               too soon too soon
a smear of blue
edged by majestic billows
               sneeze tremor extends
to hand holding coffee cup
               café au lait tsunami
tragedy for the asking
day in and day out
               wild onion flowers
gather what remains of light
               frog chirp evening
seated too long I rise
a cricket at every joint
               newspapers pile up
paint peels gray porch sagging
               a yellow weed lawn
among the wild thorn bushes
a single bearded iris
               hard rain pouring down
room lighted by one candle
               —poetry weather
with each longer day
yesterday's further away
               old spider web
stillness at dawn
               a robin cocks its head
sawhorse left out in the rain
another delay
               moon’s crooked smile
as I go from room to room
               turning out the lights
choose without thinking
from moment to moment
               wet winter
do the little entryway
               rug two step
large fuzzy cloud comma
punctuates afternoon blue
               a knock at the door
cord of wood neatly stacked
               payment on demand
I raise my cup what I owe
can never be collected
               late winter the pink
almond blossoms invite
               a fine white rain
caught up in one day
turtle pace of a passing year
ICY NIGHT
               Sounds as if water’s
cracking on this icy night
               I lie wide awake
                              —after Basho
cat a furry ensō asleep
before the gas fireplace
               shorter frosty days
last leaves cling as
               old dingy brown rags
mist slips from the ridge top
a pale orange skyline
               so then Issa wrote
“Guard the door leafy shadows
               I’ve gone to the moon”
light showers after storm
green hills run with mustard
               gingko leaf afloat
in the old watering can
               overflowing rain
coffee cup keeps hiding by
being where it always is
               young bird perched on
the shadow of a branch cast
               across the asphalt
clouds have seized the light
and returned a wintry sky
               pretentious foo dogs at
the new neighbor’s gate tagged
               by real dogs’ comments
through the trees the flag
a breeze brings to life
               inevitably
in front of the bus shelter
               the largest puddle
evening star poised to
drop into the cup of moon
               off to work early
headlights rake
               the old gray fence
rhododendron leaves large
dragonflies glazed with dew
               white rain compliments
the pink of blossoms and
               paler shades of green
black birds leapfrog
in the dry yellow grass
               the young widow just
about to give birth the long
               shadows of late day
driven to distraction
no need for a road map
               at twilight a small
white dog follows scents
               the tall summer weeds
hot afternoon’s silky breeze
lapped at my drowsy edges
               get wives with kids
mistresses with poetry
               thus immortality
the ghost of the bedroom
closes the door on its own
               the clouds let go
a blessing or a curse caught
               without an umbrella
shorter days lengthened
with a tall bottle
               I wasn't so lonely
last autumn at this time
               just a candle and me
from bank robber to reverend
difference a shaved head makes
               if there was a moon
it shanked behind the pine like
               a big old golf ball
how quickly puddles become
still the fleeting shower
               past the empty beach
an armada of mallards float
               on velvet waters
a cup of tea a warm book
static of steady light rain
               a barking dog
the darkening bog
               opens a mystery
even in an overcoat
the scarecrow looks cold
               cloud marbled blue sky
a strong wind picks up
               pink blossoms fly by
gusts bow the tall reeds over
and over the withered moor
A HISTORY OF HAIKAI
               After a brief shower
sunset leaves its signature
               on standing water
rain attends the flanks of firs
time to drain the bank account
               autumn evening
questions posed answered perhaps
               weighty old memories
I turn to heat my back
humming to myself alone
               the old wicker gate
held up by its latch
               the winter moon
                              —after Kikaku
every star in its place
too cold to linger and count
               dish towel draped
over my shoulder long after
               the dishes have been done
swatting a fly the price
I’ll pay in eternity
               on the street below
cat pauses listening maybe
               he heard me thinking
cash receipt marks a page
in the book I return
               not much different
from a single electron
               that stubborn recluse
with so much wretchedness
guilt at my moment of joy
               I couldn’t hear
the wind blew the words away
               the shape of her mouth
up until now nothing but
nonsense the moon tonight
               kept inside by the storm
kids in their rain-gear
               impatient for showers
when the car finally pulls up
I can find worry free sleep
               pounding head
crick in neck I blame
               the cherry blossoms
                              —after Buson
I don’t need the bright lights
dew strung on gossamer just fine
               I can no longer hear
the high pitched whine
               of evening’s hunters
in charge of its destiny
the last melon on the vine
               in a ragged coat
stop to view a majestic presence
               mist in the tree tops
“I should stop by but it’s been
so long what could I say”
               fast asleep
the taste of blowfish repeating
               may be a mantra
                              —after Basho
satisfied in a dream
I can put those desires to bed
               impatient blue sky
at the edge of a cloud burst
               wetter than winter
raking petals into a pile
the bare earth’s turn
               if I returned as
a moth I would sadly expect
               the same treatment
“I know all that” hollow
words fly back in my face
               a chill comes with
the rain easing up
               immaculate moon
has this dust always
covered everything
               wild chamomile anemic
along the cracked sidewalk
               about to keel over
                              —after Shiki
“who I am today more than
yesterday less than tomorrow”
               it must be very cold
the actors speak their lines
               with visible breath
even in the shadows
snow remains snow
               after random cherry
blossom beauty order
               imposed by the broom
the young bamboo races up
to its supple green height
Pat Nolan writes: "Keith Kumasen Abbott and I became interested in the idea of haikai no renga (linked verse collaboration) around the same time thanks to the publication of Basho’s The Monkey’s Raincoat, translated by Maeda Cana (Grossman, 1973). We were already well practiced in collaborative writing using the Surrealist model adapted by the New York School of Poets. By the mid-seventies we had made forays into linked verse, writing with little more understanding of this haiku based verse form than that the stanzas alternated three lines and two lines. Syllabic count, season specific stanzas, and the rudiments of linking were not yet considerations. Alerting by Keith to the publication of Earl Miner’s Japanese Linked Poetry (Princeton, 1979), I started my education in the intricacies of linking verse. Miner’s second volume, The Monkey’s Straw Raincoat (Princeton, 1981), added to our collective knowledge and obsession with what we now referred to as haikai no renga or renku. Thirty years later we were still writing haikai, giving it our own contemporary spin, and had roped a few of our poet friends into the practice as well, dubbing ourselves The Miner School of Haikai Poets. We published a number of our collaborations in haiku magazines, anthologies, and limited edition chapbooks. In 2015, I published a selection of three decades worth of Miner School linking titled Poetry For Sale (Nualláin House, Publishers). Now with Keith’s passing this last August, a vital link to the enjoyment of this practice is no longer available. I composed these three solo haikai (dokugin) of thirty six stanzas (kasen) in his memory, employing shifts and leaps in the linking that I imagine he would have enjoyed."