[Jim Moonan]

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rv.4
The Memory Forgets

In memory of Joe Rose

1.

Fall is a good way to go. We skipped a wake and, after some time passed, gathered to say goodbye to him. Cliches were the language of the day. A handful of children played in the yard. I said a few words. At the end guests were given a rose to take home. I placed mine in a cut-glass vase. Days passed and the tight-lipped bud loosened to become a silky red labyrinth of pouty petals. Then a petal fell. I did not see it fall, only found it on the table. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. Day after day I watched it grow limp, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. The fringes of the petals shriveled and darkened like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Memories meshed into a fading bouquet of thoughts unbound by time. The clouded water in the vase vanished. The rose burned into oblivion. I kissed it. Threw it away.

my cut rose
drinks cloudy water
exhausts itself.


2.

I sometimes tuck things inside books: a holy card, a scrap of poetry, a photograph, a flower. Things I’ve no intention of ever retrieving. It becomes them. There’s a finality in that. Long ago I placed a long-stemmed rose between the pages of The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare. I could not remember what its significance was. (When the memory is lost, is the meaning lost too?) Then the day of the purge came. I was moving out and getting rid of books I no longer wanted. Ones I never read, ones that had lost their appeal, textbooks that gathered dust for decades on shelves. I packed them in boxes, brought them to the library after-hours, and left them near the door. Today, years later, I suddenly recall it. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. The memory not the rose. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

my darkened rose
pressed, ghostly,
escapes between lines.



EDITS

2. was:
I sometimes tuck things inside books. A holy card, a scrap of poetry, a photograph, a flower. Then the day of the purge came. I was moving and ridding myself of things I could live without. Books I no longer wanted, books I never read, textbooks that gathered dust for decades on shelves. Between the pages of one book, The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, I had long ago placed a long stem rose. I could not remember where the rose had come from. I packed the books in boxes, brought them to the library after-hours and left them near the door. Today, years later, I suddenly recall it. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. The memory not the rose. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.





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rv. 3

Two Roses

In memory of Joe Rose

1.
Not long ago we gathered and said goodbye to him. Roses were given to those who came to celebrate that day. Today I found a single petal had dropped from the rose I had placed in a small cut-glass vase. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. I watched it for days and weeks slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. The tight-lipped kiss of the closed bud opened to become a labyrinth of lips that slowly went slack-jawed, loose as old age. The edges of the petals shriveled as if singed by a flame, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem, flower, youth, age, beauty, truth, water, fire — all meshed into a bouquet bound by time and memory. The water in the vase had vanished. The the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. Threw it away.

...Cut red rose in water
...sucking dry every drop
...exhausts itself.


2.
Long ago I put a long-stemmed rose inside an illustrated volume of Shakespeare’s complete works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It stayed for decades on a sagging pine board shelf. I rarely took the book down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. I left it alone. It became nothing more than a vessel to keep the pressed rose flattened between pages of literary perfection. A few year back, when I was moving to a new place and cleaning house of things long left untouched, I gave the book away to charity. I absent-mindedly left the rose in it. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. The memory not the rose. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

...Pressed into darkness
...compressed, colorless, confined,
...it escapes between lines.



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rv. 2

Two Roses

1.
Today I found a single petal had dropped from the funereal rose I had placed in a small cut-glass vase. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. I watched for days and weeks the cut rose slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. Over time, the tight-lipped kiss of the closed bud opened to become a labyrinth of red lustrous lips that slowly went slack, loose-lipped as old age, shriveled, singed at the edges, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem, flower, youth, age, beauty, truth, water, fire — all meshed to become a bouquet of thoughts. The water in the vase slowly vanished. The quietus of the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away. The rose.

...Cut red rose in water
...sucking dry every drop
...extinguishes itself.


2.
When I was much younger, I put a long-stemmed rose inside a complete illustrated volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It was a long time ago. It stayed for decades on a sagging shelf. I rarely took the book down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. It became nothing more than a place to keep the pressed rose flattened between pages of Shakespeare. Not long ago, when I was moving to a new place, something compelled me to give the book away to charity. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed it. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

...Pressed into darkness
...compressed, colorless, confined,
...it escapes between lines.


EDITS
was: "stem sucking dry every drop"
was: "everything escapes between the lines"


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rv 1

Two Roses

Today I found a single petal had dropped from the rose I had cut weeks ago and placed in a small cut-glass vase in the center of my round glass table. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there on the table below. I left it there, not wanting to interfere.
I watched over days and weeks the cut rose slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. Over time, the tight fist of a bloom had opened to become a labyrinth of red lustrous lips that then began to fall apart as if pouting, then shriveled at the edges, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem and flower, life and death, youth and age, beauty and truth, water and fire meshed to become a bouquet. The water that filled the cut glass vase slowly vanished. The quietus of the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away. The rose.

Red rose in water
stem sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.

I kept a rose on a long stem flattened inside a complete volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It’s been a long time. It stayed for decades on a sagging shelf. It was a fixture in my life. I rarely took it down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. It became nothing more than a place to keep the long-stemmed rose. Not long ago, when I was moving to a new place, something compelled me to give the book away to charity. I let it go, along with other things that suddenly seemed disposable. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed the memory. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled red rose blood.

Condensed in darkness
compressed, colorless, confined,
everything escapes between the lines



EDITS

LI was: "the rose I had cut to be on a short stem weeks ago"
Various grammatical changes to the opening prose poem.


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ORIGINAL
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While Paula's haibun sits in detention, I grew one of my own that may or may not be a true haibun. My petals are beginning to drop. It's too late to concern myself too much with form…


I Looked For A Long Time

Today a single petal dropped from a single rose I had cut weeks ago to be on a short stem and put in a small glass vase of water on my table. I did not see it drop. Only found it lying there on the table below. I left it there, not wanting to interfere. I have watched for weeks the cut rose slowly droop in the glass vase, and always come away with teeming thoughts of life and death and the connection between the two. I watched as the tight fist of a bloom opened to become a labyrinth of impossibly red lustrous petals that turned a deeper, impossible red and begin, over time, to fray at the edges like dried blood does in the corners of a mouth. I watched the water disappear. It burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away.

Fire in the water
sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.

I once kept for decades a rose on a long stem flattened to be a keepsake bookmark in the middle of a complete volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It’s been a long time. Once, when I was moving to a new place, something came over me and I gave the book away with the rose inside, along with dozens of other books I abandoned. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kiss the memory; am pricked by its thorn; bleed.

Condensed in darkness
colorless, odorless, gone
nothing lasts forever

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[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Jim—

I like how these two haibuns serve as companion poems—the first a meditation on the impermanence of beauty in the physical world; the second, on the immortalization of beauty in art and memory. I like the allusion to Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind” at the end of the second haibun. Lovely work.

Glenn

[Matt Q]

Hi Jim,

Haibun is not a form I've tried, though I've written haiku. Good to see you giving it a shot.

For me, the two haiku are what is working the least well here. How familiar are you with the form?

In schools, haiku tend to be taught as a syllabic form with 5/7/5 syllables and pretty much no other constraints. I guess it's an easy thing for kids to work with. However, modern haiku in English typically use around 10-14 syllables, for reasons given here and here. Basically, due to differences in the two languages, 5-7-5 syllables in English is a fair bit wordier than a haiku in Japanese, and hence doesn't replicate their brevity. There are, of course, other considerations to what makes a haiku. See e.g. here for links to some good discussions/guides.

I prefer the first of your two haiku, though it's pretty wordy (more so because it's actually 5/7/6) and would benefit from being more concise. There is imagery and some surprise in the last line. Though it also reads as one continuous unit, with no "cutting word", no sense of a break. The second isn't really working for me at all, as it combines abstraction with cliché. As the piece stands currently, I think it's better without the haiku.

Some comments on the prose.

1st para.

I wonder if the first sentence is too long/complicated, has too many qualifications? Maybe it would work better as two sentences?

I have watched for weeks the cut rose slowly droop in the glass vase, and always come away with teeming thoughts of life and death and the connection between the two

Personally, I'd just end this sentence at "vase". Do we need to know what the N thinks, or is it more interesting for us to ponder / supply our own interpretations? He's watching the rose die, after all. And you have the blood image coming. Or if you think we need to know it, can you find a less abstract/telly way to communicate this?

I think "begin" should be "began". I really like the image of dried blood at the corners of the mouth to illustrate the fraying rose, while also hinting at death.

I watched the water disappear. It burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away.

I get confused at this point. How is the N kissing the disappeared water? Or throwing it away, for that matter. Though I guess maybe there's still some left. Or is he kissing the memory of the water? (In which case, how does that work, and how does he throw away the memory?). If it's the rose he's kissing, maybe there's a way to make that clearer. I think, given the contrast with the second para, in which he keeps a rose, it is the rose he throws away. But the referent of "it" doesn't seem to be the rose.

2nd para

I like the parallelism here, and the contrast. The short-stemmed (and short-lived) rose and the long-stemmed (long-stored) rose. Again, I wonder if the first sentence should be made into two sentences? Maybe ending after "bookmark"?

I wonder if "It's been a long time" and "along with many other books I abandoned" are needed. Would you miss them if you took them out? I think the first can be deduced from the N not remembering. And with the second, the important point seems to be that that he gave away the book. Do we need to know he gave away others? Does it add to anything? Concise prose is (traditionally at least) a thing in haibun, as I understand it.

I'm not sure of the thing of clarifying that you're talking about the rose and not the book is adding much, but if you're going to do it, it might work better if you only do it the once.

I don't understand what the semicolons are doing at the end of this paragraph. Commas or full stops, I reckon.

best,

Matt

[Jim Moonan]

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Thanks Glenn and Matt. Major revision posted.
I’m still (still!) learning to give deeper artistic consideration to my writing and editing vs. spouting the first words that come out of my thoughts and onto the page.

Genn, I’m happy to hear you enjoyed it. Much of my poetry is rumination in the raw. Thinking out loud. Thinking out loud doesn’t often make for good poetry, but it does serve to empty my mind : )

Matt, Though I have never done much research on or even much reading of the haiku form, I’ve always found it to be refreshing in its dichotomy of simplicity and complexity. I’m pretty sure, though, that the Japanese authorities would confiscate my attempts at writing haiku if I were to attempt to enter their country with it in my bag — Ha!

Yes, I first learned of haiku as being 1.) bound by the 5-7-5 syllable count, and 2.) nature-related. When I was in grammar school the nuns had us writing strict 5-7-5 haiku as part of our English class lessons. In recent years the form seems to have been exploded to become pretty much anything that can be contained within three short-ish lines. The only real criteria seems to be that it must be phantasmagorical.

Your links are fantastic and I got lost in them for a time, learning more about the form in thirty minutes than I had known my whole lifetime. Thanks for that. Your crits are often tutorials for me.
I’ve combed back over the entire haibun, (I’m not even sure it is a haibun) using your comments as a spur, and have largely re-written both parts.

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[Jim Moonan]

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In anticipation of Paula’s haibun being freed from detention, and having second thoughts about having two haibuns on the board, and given the fact that I have revised the original to be something else, I have freed mine from its own confinement to the haibun form. It's now prose poetry ending in a flurry of verse.

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[James Brancheau]

I think your latest revision is an improvement on the original, Jim, though I’m not at all fond of the first sentence of section 1. I think it's too wordy and might try to explain a little too much. It risks throwing readers out of the poem before they have a chance to appreciate what follows. And I see that you’ve mined some good images out of what you originally wrote. I would just write “a labrynth of lips” – but I like it. Also, “loose-lipped as old age” made me smile. The dried blood in the corners of the mouth I think is nice and “bouquet of thoughts” I like. Though I’d cut “Stem and flower” from the list.

I’d slightly adjust the ending of the first section: “I kissed it and threw it away. The rose.” I want to like “The rose” ending of section 1 more than I do. This making sure that the reader gets what you are referring to (the rose) is maybe my favorite thing about the poem. I absolutely love it. It’s terrific re voice, and can be so revealing when it comes to the speaker’s thoughts, frame of mind, and connect to possible themes of the poem as well. It’s wonderful. The problem is that, in that first section, I don’t think that there is any confusion about what the speaker is talking about. Maybe I’m missing something there, but, for me, it’s obvious that the speaker (N) is referring to the rose. This, however, does work well in the second section and in fact I’d be tempted to end on it (dropping “not the book”). I might be tempted to end both sections like that, if you could make the close of that first section work. I’m not terribly fond of the last three sentences of section 2—not quite fresh enough, and kiss a memory is rather intangibly blah. The rest of that section works very well, imo. I like it a lot.

I’m still thinking about section 3. I like “extinguishes itself,” and probably like the first half of it more than the second… Something like ‘sucking dry every drop from where it was cut…’ ?? I dunno. Like I said, I think I need more time with it… If I come up with anything that might be useful, I’ll come back. I enjoyed reading and thinking about this one, Jim.

[Jayne Osborn]

Hi Jim,
I enjoyed reading this, being very fond of (yellow, in particular) roses. I'm in a rush to go out at the moment, but I just wanted to say that "over time" twice in close succession jumped out at me.

Jayne

[Paula Fernandez]

Jim--
I like the second revision very much. The rose feels like it's carrying a lot of weight as a symbol. Whether that symbol stands for Nature, Love, Life, Youth, Beauty--it works. It seems to me a meditation on the inevitability of loss--whether you attempt to nurture the beautiful thing with water or instead preserve it as a dried memory--eventually, it will lose its luster and value to you and retain only its value as symbol. Very well done and enjoyable read.

Here are some notes on particular bits:
1) I found a couple of word choices a bit clunky--funereal and quietus both stuck out as elevated language that may not fit well in the haibun form.

2) I would change the second sentence to "I did not see it fall".

3) I found the sentence "I left it alone, not wanting to interfere" simply haunting. A sort of modesty about the limits of human capacity in the face of all that fades.

4) I would end the first prose section with just "I threw it away" and not "The rose". I would also remove "The rose" in the second prose section. It's not moving us forward and I already know you're referring to the rose.

I like your two haiku which I think do some good work to tie the haibun together. I don't love the word "extinguishes" in the first one but am struggling to think of something better. I guess I don't see how extinguishes itself is accurately reflecting the story you've told. More like it runs out of time and resources. Maybe "exhausts itself"?

Overall--very beautiful and even, in places, haunting. Thanks for joining Glenn and I in the haibun party!

[Jim Moonan]

Revision posted.

Thank you James, Jayne, Paula. I’ve made many small changes to the sentence structure and the word selection based on suggestions. I also realized that I had left out a crucial piece of information: the poem was sparked by my brother-in-law's death and the memorial celebration we had for him His name was Joseph Rose. I've now dedicated this to him and changed the opening line to reflect that.

I don’t expect those who have taken the time to read and offer comments/suggestions to necessarily come back and comment. I’m just glad you did come by in the first place to push me along and make this better. In the flush and blush of happiness that came over me as I realized this poem was getting better with some guidance from poets here and additional contemplation, I rushed to write down the following note:

I see in metaphors and by associations. Thanks to the suggestions, this continues to blossom into being the flower that inspired it. Nearly all your suggestions have been taken. I am not one of those poets who has the ability/privilege to post a poem and stand steadfast by it, feeling little need to change anything. I lack that kind of conviction — for good reason, too. I post them here precisely because this is a workshop. I’ve seen what critical thinking can do to make a poem posted here better. Some poets here have made their way farther along the path in their development. They post poems that have already passed through their own rigorous editing process. Maybe a word here and there has been overlooked, but otherwise the poem is strong as is. I can’t express how much I admire that. But for me, most always, for whatever reason, the poems I post are only a shadow of what they can become with constructive criticism. (And praise when it's deserved.) That criticism becomes a catalyst for me.



James, I went back and forth on whether I should change “labyrinth of red lustrous lips” to just “labyrinth of lips” and decided to go with your suggestion in the spirit of ridding the poem of containing too many descriptors. It still retains its alliteration which is what I’m after. Gotta love that alliteration : )

I may have gotten too cute in part 2 with “the rose not the book” followed closely by “the memory not the rose.” But for now, until/unless someone chastises me for not seeing something, I like the sound of/effort by the N to want to be absolutely certain that the reader makes no mistake. It is also meant to be humble.

Jayne, I’ve tried to grow roses with little success to show for my efforts other than scraggly, thorny, anemic-looking bushes that spit a rose or two out every now and then! They flummox me…. There is something startling to me about the color of a deep red rose that goes right to my heart. I could say the same about yellow roses but I’d first have to own one — Ha! I’m a red rose guy. Thanks for reading.

Paula, Thank you for liking what you liked — especially the effect of “I did not want to interfere”, as it was a line that seemed to slip out without me realizing that it was an important part of the mood I was feeling. It haunted me too, to read it. But when I wrote it I was simply saying exactly how I felt: I felt no need to pick up the fallen petal. It was still a part of the rose I had been gazing at for days. It belonged there. There’s some truth to the idiom that sometimes poems “write themselves”. We need only to know when to step aside and let our fingers move like they do when placed on a planchette of a ouija board — Ha! Many times my default mode of thought when writing a poem is to treat it like a meditation and let what comes through me come out. The irony of that is I’m not a meditator! At least not in the conventional sense.

I’ve changed/deleted both words you found clunky. I had inserted them last minute and thought they worked. But your questioning them caused me to rethink what I was trying to say and resulted in a new opening line and also a dedication. I’m much happier with what is there now. Thanks.

I’m glad you like the haikus. Matt’s response to me had me doubting if they were true haikus, even given the wide berth that haikus are given. But I now think they are within the guardrails : ) (If you want some good reference reading on haikus check out the links in Matt’s response)

Thanks again and again.


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[Paula Fernandez]

Jim--

Love where your piece has arrived and especially the late realization that it was in celebration of your brother-in-law. A fitting tribute.

As an aside--I was struggling with some pink spray roses in my garden. Basically, they had gone from abundance to deadwood in the course of two seasons. I asked a master gardener friend for suggestions. He asked me what fertilizer I was using. I replied, "none". He replied, "ok, try that." Sure enough, the roses have come back with a simple shake of basic fertilizer. So... just in case you hadn't thought of that yet, I wanted to share.