I am unearthing this one from the Very Good Haiku page, both so that it does not get lost in the sands of that experiment being over, and because it’s been about a year since my oldest friend in Chicago’s husband took his own life. He became the eighth person I’ve known to die by suicide or overdose in as many years (almost always in the winter), so I stayed up all night kind of processing it by crowd-sourcing songs people love about snow on Twitter and composing haiku of specific memories they have related to the song or my own thoughts and reflections if they did not supply one. What I wanted people to take away from these pieces is the feeling of being a part of something even though we were isolated in quarantine winter and absolutely abysmal sociopolitical and economic situations, as well as a sense that their lives matter, and that their memories are sacred–and unfortunately, the only place so many people we have loved live now. I also uncovered a photograph of the “memories are sacred” graffiti one haiku mentions, so I have updated this piece with photographic evidence of the best street art I have ever seen, before it got blasted off. Here it is out here on its own two feet for second pandemic winter, something I definitely did not anticipate.
*curtain*
If you have desired
to be buried with your love
then, I guess: you know.
First time listening
after his death, wondering
about his last snow.
Desperate backdrop
of NOR’EASTERS every week
for a month: JANDEK!!!!!!!!
Riding the M train,
two feet of snow drifts sideways.
Everything: copper.
Drums fall like strong snow:
tragedy and comedy,
“love you ’til the end.”
Note: This last line is what I *hear* in the chorus, not the actual lyrics. Most of the geniuses we love seem to die early of self-inflicted wounds.
Staring out windows
with my daughter, wondering
about what went wrong.
A night off, drawn out
by tavern fellowship’s glow–
egos checked in snow.
Love songs of: change, self,
the fathers who weren’t around,
those who held our truth.
A Minnesotan
locates this in Seattle,
a plow-less wasteland.
Very few Black folks
have composed songs about snow–
SNOW AS OPPRESSION!!!!
Note: Yes, please worship at the altar of that Galaxie 500 into Run the Jewels transition.
Grooving and dreaming,
consciousness unclarified,
making joyful noise.
Got fired on Thursday
from the CD/game exchange
where they paid in DISCS!
Sweet psilocybin
pyramid-shaped chocolates
got me FLIPPIN DISCS!
Age 10, MTV’s
gorgeous music goddesses!!
RED-HEADED BASSIST!!!!!!
Moving to Richmond
from NYC, I wonder
if the snow falls here?
Once a heckler yelled:
“PLAY THE SAD ONE!!!”–and he laughed,
laughed so fuckin’ hard!!!
Kate Bush is truly
snow’s greatest champion and
sonic cheerleader.
Very Important Note: I am the second greatest.
Perfectly captures
heavy snow on gigantic
pines from my window.
The best street art here
was blasted off: “MEMORIES
ARE SACRED,” it said.
Fresh blizzard, downtown
Chapel Hill, empty campus
on repeat with plants.
Walking and singing
towards work, in the coldest
and wettest weather.
(English translation:)
A stick, a stone
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump
It's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass
It is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death
It's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms
A fox in the brush
A knot in the wood
The song of a thrush
The wood of the wind
A cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump
It is nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free
It's the end of the slope
It's a beam, it's a void
It's a hunch, it's a hope
And the river bank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the end of the strain
The joy in your heart
The foot, the ground
The flesh and the bone
The beat of the road
A slingshot's stone
A fish, a flash
A silvery glow
A fight, a bet
The range of a bow
The bed of the well
The end of the line
The dismay in the face
It's a loss, it's a find
A spear, a spike
A point, a nail
A drip, a drop
The end of the tale
A truckload of bricks
In the soft morning light
The shot of a gun
In the dead of the night
A mile, a must
A thrust, a bump
It's a girl, it's a rhyme
It's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house
The body in bed
And the car that got stuck
It's the mud, it's the mud
Afloat, adrift
A flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail
The promise of spring
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart
A stick, a stone
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump
It's a little alone
A snake, a stick
It is John, it is Joe
It's a thorn in your hand
And a cut in your toe
A point, a grain
A bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard
A sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle
A sting, a pain
A snail, a riddle
A wasp, a stain
A pass in the mountains
A horse and a mule
In the distance the shelves
Rode three shadows of blue
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life
In your heart, in your heart
A stick, a stone
The end of the road
The rest of a stump
A lonesome road
A sliver of glass
A life, the sun
A knife, a death
The end of the run
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the end of all strain
It's the joy in your heart
(THAT HAIKU, THO:)
Much adored by my
dead lover–February
was too long and hard.
A civil war in
the people we most need here:
everyone loses.
Always reminds me
of early winter, teenaged,
Chicago’s North Shore.
Note: All haikus composed from human memories relating to snow and sound, mostly sourced via Twitter!
1/27/21-1/28/21
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COME AWAY WITH EMD 