daydreaming w/ Bob Arnold
Under cherry trees
there are
no strangers
Mother I never knew,
every time I see the ocean,
every time —
Full moon;
my ramshackle hut
is what it is.
____________________________________________________ 
translated from the Japanese by Robert Hass
K O B A Y A S H I I S S A
A sheaf of 3 in wrap band
enclosing 40 new haiku poems
& plenty of art work
by the southwest sojourner
______________________________
$ 20 postpaid in the USA
Overseas please add $5
We accept Paypal or we can invoice you
Please use our email address of
longhousepoetry@gmail.com
More ways to order ~ through ABE Books, Alibris and Biblio
Payable by check ~
Longhouse
PO Box 2454
West Brattleboro, Vermont 05303
Winter sunrise —
summer mountains turn gold
on the hanging scroll
Who are you?
the mirror
never stops
Eight a.m.
the eyes of the housefly
already on me
You lead
I'll follow
butterfly
Turning the compost
and into it
my shadow
No wine
I let the moon
fill my glass
A bath under the stars
all burdens
to the breeze
New robe
way too large
for these bones
Pink sunrise
—bush cherry
in full bloom
All morning
wander the cosmos
without leaving the garden
Endless ambition
the petals
scatter
Inflation
too poor to leave
too poor to stay
__________________
John Brandi
from The Rain Sweeps Through
Empty Bowl, 2023
With her pan
the old prospector
points upward
— for Laura Bell
______________________
Vincent Tripi
the day i find
poems from a desert hermitage
1725 Marion Avenue, Apt 12-I.
Novato, CA.
_________________________
according to his inscription, Vincent
sent me a gift of this fine book of short
poems when he was living in Novato, CA.,
and come to think of it Sweetheart and I
passed through there some years earlier —
I believe Vincent even tried to look us up
in Vermont when he was living just down
river from us but I guess he got lost, as
others have, long before GPS took the fun
out of everything — Vincent passed away
last Fall and I'm thinking about him now
[ BA ]
The Spring of My Life
Once snows have melted,
the village soon overflows
with friendly children
A gust of spring wind —
unhappily — lifts the skirts
of the roof thatcher
The turnip farmer
with a turnip points the way
back to the road
Calm, indifferent
as if nothing's transpired —
the goose, the willow
Give me a homeland,
and a passionate woman,
and winter alone
With my folding fan
I measured the peony —
as it demanded
In early spring rain
the ducks that were not eaten
are quacking happily
A child has drawn
a river from snowmelt lakes
leading to my gate
As old age arrives,
considering just the day's length
can move one to tears
All alone at home,
my wife, like me, is watching
this full moon rise
________________________
Kobatashi Issa (1763-1827)
from The Spring of My Life
and Selected Haiku
translated by Sam Hamill
Shambhala
___________________________________
Nothing can go wrong with Issa, nothing.
First of all, even a bad translator can't quite knock
the Issa touch and wisdom off the tracks — somewhere
in that tangle of Japanese to American there is a light.
And no matter how miserable your life may be, or
is going to be, Issa is ready for you — more than likely
his life has been more miserable, and still he counsels
with the grasshopper, the stars, the breezes, the tears.
He's your guy. Maybe more than anyone away
from your home. Take him along. Most of his
books are lightweight, thin, pocketful, treasures.
For a translator here, we've got a good one in
Sam Hamill — poet, translator, essayist, printer,
publisher, jack of all poetry trades, and like
Issa he's dead, and also like Issa, not dead.
Hello, Sam.
[ BA ]
