Mu
Inaugural
Issue
© 2013 Mu. All Rights Reserved.
Mu’s inaugural issue has been a bittersweet affair. It suggests a birth of sorts, but it also marks the passing of one of its founding members: Thom Williams. Everything Mu will now be in honor of Thom, and Mu will strive to publish and represent exactly that which Thom himself would have wanted to be read and shared with the haiku world. That being said, Thom was one for quotes, so we’d like to begin this preamble by quoting the man himself. This is the last published haiku of Thom’s; it won the Merit Award in the 2010 ITO EN competition:
north wind
always so much
to say
In response to Thom’s haiku and the sentiment it has left us with, Jon-Michael has written this:
south wind
still so much
to say
And we hope that some of the unsaid words of Thom Williams will come to be heard through here; and if not, the words, my friend, are blowing in the wind:
Thom Williams’ jisei:
I am sorry
I will personify
this wind
There was a great turnout for the inaugural issue, especially given the great diversity of countries from which we received submissions. We are once again honored to take part in the contemporary haiku world and represent haiku we feel have a natural honesty to them. Similar to our contest and our home page, we have selected three haiku we feel best exhibit the aesthetic Mu is striving for.
Our first issue is all Mu. We started Mu to provide an audience for what we feel is misrepresented in the modern haiku world. One of Thom’s favorite quotes was “brevity is the soul of wit,” and we feel that while contemporary haiku still embodies brevity, it is often at the expense of the soul and the wit. We’re hoping you find a little bit of soul or wit in this issue. We thank everyone that contributed, and we are grateful for anyone who takes the time to read our endeavors.
Basho once said, “Is there any good in saying everything?” Well, we don’t think there is so now we present our inaugural issue, in memory of Thom Williams, the Muest of us all, nothing to be added, nothing to be taken away.
Mu Mentions
the empty field rises
starlings
— Matthew M. Cariello
Columbus, OH
Cariello does something significant here. There’s meditation; there’s contradiction; there’s a quiet world; and there’s the world running amok. We don’t want to think too much about this haiku. We want to feel this haiku. We think Thom Williams would quote Blyth here, “The thing perceives itself in us; we perceive it by simple self-consciousness.” As with any accomplished haiku, Cariello’s work shows us that specific “outside something” that can awaken and stir a relationship with the very nature of all our “inside somethings.”
how long
we've known each other -
white cyclamen
— Miriam Sagan
Santa Fe, New Mexico
This haiku brings to mind the sensibility of Basho’s great longing and sorrowful haiku. We don’t know whether the writer is speaking to the flower or their own personal relation, but we don’t really need to. Who, who has any such heart, cannot relate to the sentiment here? One thing we do know is the feeling it conveys, and we’ve known that feeling for long.
sky full of birds
what I think
what I don't
— Jennifer Gomoll Popolis
Springfield, IL
“what I think / what I don’t” says it all. And by all, we mean the “all” that attempts to be human. There’s nothing more to say about being. Within the scene, Popolis’ pondering over the birds eschews any need for specifics by challenging the speaker’s humanity with the “fullness,” the everywhere-ness, of the birds. There’s companionship, isolation and the intersection that is living here. Popolis’ haiku is everything and nothing we think it is, and is also everything and nothing we think it is not.
Issue I
across the road
another lavender field
exactly like this
— David Ash
Mukilteo, WA
ashram
the mountain mist
lit from within
— Ernest J Berry
New Zealand
prayer over a stone is a stone
— Helen Buckingham
Bristol, UK
orange peel on frost -
if I were younger
I would write about it
— Emily Caponetti
Washington D.C., DC
yellow leaves then none then few
— Matthew M. Cariello
Columbus, OH
oil on masonite
removing my shadow
from the coral
— Bill Cooper
Richmond, VA
solid winter -
no more space
for books
— L. Costa
Brazil
evening light
in the shadow of the hills
- cow bells
Rose festival
each blossom carries over
some of last night’s rain
— Angelee Deodhar
India
How quietly
the roses wither -
no screaming here
— Bruce England
Santa Clara, CA
lightning storm...
between flashes in the rain
finding my way home
— Ernesto Epistola
Sarasota, FL
winter evening -
my stone lantern
turbaned in snow
— Maralee Gerke
Madras, Oregon
noon heat
fire azaleas wreathe
the vacant homestead
Big Dipper
water trickles
in the dark springhouse
— Elizabeth Howard
Crossville, TN
winter trees
a lone robin turns
into the sun
— Frances Jones
Bend, OR
hot-air balloons
their distance on the night
I first missed you
all day climbing
the shadow
of the golden flower
— B.T. Joy
UK
whiting out
names in my address book
winter settles
— Kirsty Karkow
Waldoboro, ME
early dawn
even the chickadees
are silent
morning walk
the first acorn
chimes the hours
— Joseph M. Kusmiss
Tilton, NH
snow-bound woods -
caught on a pine branch
new moon
— Natalia Kuznetsova
Russia
my shadow
one step ahead of me
autumn dusk
— Chen-ou Liu
Ontario, Canada
wanting fish
for supper
I fish
— Michael McClintock
Clovis, CA
unpacking winter clothes
something moves
in my pocket
— Harrisham Minhas
India
April snow
a robin sings
an unfinished song
— Edith Muesing-Ellwood
Bushkill, PA
howling wind -
the neighbor’s dog
answering back
— Nancy Nitrio
Orangevale, CA
fence line -
the flowers belong
to themselves
— Jennifer Gomoll Popolis
Springfield, IL
a puddle
shining back
moon to moon
— Katherine Raine
New Zealand
evening river
the bird swoops
after its reflection
— Elaine Riddell
New Zealand
leaving home -
in mid-morning light
a lotus opens
— John Ripton
Lebanon Township, New Jersey
forest fire smoke -
even the dragonflies
are grounded today
— Richard Stevenson
Alberta, Canada
Sturgeon moon
the Oompah band's
drunk again
Only a woman
peeking through her fingers...
Fukushima's Mu!
— Patrick Sweeney
Japan
train home
I wake up in the eyes
of a stranger
— Dietmar Tauchner
Austria
summer storm
raindrops on my window
no two the same
only pennies
in the fountain
hard times
— Pat Tompkins
San Mateo, CA
Good health, peace and good writing to everyone!
— Mu
Photography Courtesy of Chih Chen
Chih Chen is an amateur photographer based in Toronto, Canada. She builds terrariums and sleeps okay.
