Bus Stop Haiku by Brian Robertson
BUS STOP HAIKU
the urban haiku of
Brian Robertson
foreword by Scott Robertson
©2014 by Brian Robertson
all rights reserved
vfin709 edition
Cover photograph © 2014
Scott Robertson, all rights reserved
Acknowledgments
“Whoever told people that ‘mind’ means
thoughts opinions, ideas, and concepts?
Mind means trees, fence posts, tiles,
and grasses.”
Dogen Zenji, Zen master,
Thanks to Karen and Scott for their
wonderful help with this manuscript
and to Our Linda of the ATM
“When we try to pick out anything by itself,
we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”
John Muir
This version of Bus Stop Blues
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without paying, please go to
that supports the writer.
Thank you.
Foreword
by Scott Robertson
"Eventually, everything is nature.”
Brian Robertson
If there is an essence to the moment, Brian Robertson will capture it.
Whether he is out strolling the streets, spiral notebook in back pocket “poem catching,” or at home among his treasured books and cats practicing his deep roots in Spirituality, he is aware of a fullness to the world that is unseen or simply overlooked by others.
“Sometimes it’s not like I’m writing – I’m almost sketching. I'm drawing on the paper with words, making corrections on the spot with lines and arrows drawn this way and that.” Brian laughs as we sit down on his floor over some tea. The human eye can see only a certain amount before the mind steps in and tries to take over the show. Brian waits for that “decisive moment” that Henri Cartier-Bresson looked for in his photography on the streets of Marseilles.
For example, Brian shows not tells as in a photographer's dream scenario:
in that tall building
top window catches the moon
others get darkness
Having written that, he gives both the light and darkness a role in his short play.
I ask Brian, “What are the boundaries of nature or nature?” He takes a sip of his warm tea and responds simply, “There are no boundaries. Where does nature start and stop? On top of that, you have to say that something seen in this world is related to and entwined with all other things. It's what Thich Nhat Hahn has so very gracefully called interdependency.”
“After all, what isn’t nature?” he asks. “Rain, but not tears? Storm, but not anger?” From this vantage point, nature can be a beautiful hill, a fresh pond, or, in his haiku reply a moment of
sparse yellow flowers
in front of the liquor store
frankly, do their best
Is nature “the new stubble on cheek”? Or the wrinkles he catches in a reflection that shows the years that have passed? To Brian,“Nature” is everywhere in an unbroken world, patiently pointing beyond itself to the world without imposed duality, but, rather, with pristine wholeness.
In the haiku above, Brian doesn’t have to tell you that there is nature in both the flower and the desolate liquor store -- he shows you. He goes on to say, “The brain breaks things into bite-sized parts, but actually things ultimately don’t live in two different worlds. In quantum science, there is no such thing as a dividing wall between the Observer and Observed, just as in writing or reading there no real break between Poet and World.”
In Brian's writing, there are undertones of his own past. Some are obvious, but some are hidden in the voice of a character or in the moment itself that has been captured. For instance, from his work:
red dirt road
place it goes to
no longer there
His words can’t help but evoke a feeling of something lost, distant but always close to the surface. One also sees a kind of personification, one that points back to himself, whether simple or complex, in his portrayal of people or objects.
midnight silence --
abandoned shopping cart
in the tall grass
His haiku evoke strong emotions out of the simple moments in life, most of which the average person simply misses or overlooks. It can be revolutionary and participatory for the writer and the reader. “In my haiku,” he says, “I’ve never written something that I’ve just thought up, something I've never seen.”
In Bus Stop Haiku, Brian Robertson’s urban haiku are like trap doors through which, once touched, a renewed world of shared nature opens.
Haiku
old man with the cane
doesn’t make the stop
before the bus leaves
my dad's old coat:
wearing it as my own --
amazed it fits
north wind cuts so deep
I cannot remember
lifeless July heat
at the bus stop
he whispers into cell phone:
Got me my bus fare home
man stops at the street
with a dead bird in the grass
waiting for the light
a cat moon-gazing
presses against the window
she looks up and out
that plant in the pot
is called a Money Tree --
it has not worked yet
from the cracked pavement
groundwater swells to reflect
autumn birds drinking
the entire night
back and forth --
warm bed to cold desk
lone bird’s harsh call breaks
atop the closed liquor store –
another Christmas
do ghosts get a job
driving a taxi cab
on their graveyard shift?
quiet squirrel sits
the garden statue has acorns
cupped in Buddha’s hands
small roach on the wall
is still the entire night:
wait – not brave, dead
rising autumn wind
brown leaves all know the secret
the green ones? clueless
wake in the night
to unmistakable sound --
a cat throwing up
spring rain ends:
leaves stars in street puddles
on the dark water
my sleeping cat
wakes only long enough
to lick her paw, once
on this cold sidewalk
the sudden welcome heat --
passing bus exhaust
empty restaurant:
cook and I swap recipes
at a back table
early New Years Day
drunk man pounds at my gate
calling, “You ok?”
after the first glance
broken bottles in moonlight --
dream jewels, nothing more
did I grow up here?
chipped paint with the windows dark
what dreams left inside
I step on dry leaves
crackle of old pages
a brittle dream book
all stop – cold wind,
bird in cloud, whiff of smoke
cat sleeps on my chest
after hours –
the vintage barber chairs
hair on checkerboard tiles
in my voice
giving him directions
how old I sound!
temple doors
slam shut in the storm
a stone Buddha sits
as cat’s whiskers
brush my forehead
in her picture
a knife hides
disguised as memory
Sit and drink my tea
with unexpected sun
this bright winter day
gone, gone; gone beyond.
gone beyond beyond.
oh, wow!
Heart Sutra for those who recall the 1960′s
beneath low blinds
bare feet on concrete --
their private purpose
out on the street
cross paths with a poem
under the pale sky
photo’s glass frame
reflects such deep lines --
my old man face
grandson with four teeth --
almost as many
as I have left!
this old photo
my two children at play --
a shadow on the grass
moonless sky
when asking Who am I?
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