My two favourite Haiku

If error messages were Haiku
Three things are certain:
Death, taxes, and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.
David Dixon

Haiku by a 7 year old
Haiku is not nice.
I really do not like it.
But I can write it.

Haiku

Haiku inspired by looking out of the window over terraced houses in East Oxford, early on a Sunday morning

From the window
Grass made pastel by
frost, white rooftops blur into
early morning haze

Sheds' Union
Long gardens with sheds
at their feet, gathering to
gossip about us

Cowley Road
Minaret and crane,
skyline guardians, culture
and construction twinned

Almost a room with a view
“Dreaming Spires View”
At night, in winter, only
when floodlights are on

Thinking of that time

February 1991

Thinking of that time
when we lay on the grass by the fire and
idly passed words between us,
threw out dreams to whirl and dance
in the cloud of popping sparks,
I become quiet.

Thinking of that time
when you drove me through unknown country
to places I have never found again,
when each turn was carefree
and all directions smiled and beckoned.
I become still.

Thinking of that time
when, lying with you, your skin became my own
and I was a sleeping valley with a wide river
spreading slowly over me
pooling and resting, sun-dappled and warm,
Tears fall and dry.

Leaning on the clacking gate,
watching the darkness of that field
where our figures dance and walk
around me still,
I feel empty.

Activity 6.2: emotion in setting

The Pitt Rivers Museum (Activity 6.2)

Version 1
Bel stared at the shrunken head and it stared back dustily; miniaturised and doll-like with its downy hair and neatly stitched eyes. How deliciously gruesome; her class would love it! Her hand went to her belly and rested there for a second. ‘Come on all of you, look at this! What do you think it is? Can you all get close enough?’ Her flock gathered around her, jostling to press their noses against the glass of the packed display case. She loved the way they plucked at her clothes to get her to listen to them! ‘That’s GROSS! Look Miss! It says they put hot rocks in the scooped out skin to make it shrink!’ Bel closed her eyes. The museum’s cool settled her after the sweaty, laughing picnic on the lawn outside, and calmed her slight sickness. ‘All that downy hair on the head tells us it’s a fake. It’s been made from a monkey head to sell to tourists,’ she told the class. She drifted away. All around the display case, eager faces gazed in wonder. She pressed her hand to her belly. Soon she’d have her own little face gazing expectantly at her, in wonder.

Version 2
Bel stared at the shrunken head and it stared back sightlessly; child-sized, with the clenched, stitched eyes of a torture victim. The sullen, constant nausea rose and drenched her mouth with saliva. ‘Step back, all of you! Step back! Stop pushing! Keep quiet! It’s a museum!’ The wave of children surged around her to press their noses against the dusty glass of the display case. How loud-pitched they were! ‘That’s GROSS! Look Miss! It says they put hot rocks in the scooped out skin to make it shrink!’ Bel closed her eyes. The museum’s cold chilled her after the sweaty heat of packed lunches on the balding grass strip outside. She gritted her teeth and carried on. ‘All that downy hair on the head tells us it’s a fake. It’s been made from a monkey head to sell to tourists,’ she told the class. Her voice sounded far away. Behind the glass, the dreaded damaged baby of her nightmares stared back, muttering: ‘You didn’t listen, did you? Should’ve had the tests shouldn’t you. Look what you did.’ She wanted to stroke the downy hair and sob: ‘I’m sorry. It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, it will.’

Alphabet 'poem' under time pressure

Anxiety
bubbles
collectively.

Don't
ever
fear the
group task.

Hoping
inspiration
just
kicks back and
laughs at
my
nervousness.

Open up,
practice,
query,
ramble,
struggle
to
unlock
very
wary and
extremely
yellow
artistic licence