We
are fifteen years old! Founded in January 2007, Shamrock Haiku Journal
has since been published regularly. On this occasion, we have prepared SHAMROCK HAIKU JOURNAL: 2012 - 2018,
a print edition of the twenty issues of Shamrock, Nos. 21 to 40, as
they appeared on the Shamrock website. This paper-based collection
covers the full range of English-language
haiku, from classical to experimental, as well as haibun. Also
included are English translations from one of the most prominent
Japanese haiku poets of the 20th century, Ryuta Iida, and an essay on
translating Matsuo Basho's haiku.
Shamrock
Haiku Journal: 2012 - 2018
Edited by Anatoly Kudryavitsky.
Copyright
2012 - 2018 by Shamrock Haiku Journal.
All
rights reserved.
Published
in Dublin, Ireland.
Printed
in the United Kingdom.
Price
Euro 16.92
ISBN 978-0-244-9767-9-8
Trade
paperback. 302 pp.
5.8"x8.3", perfect binding.
Preview available here
Shamrock
Haiku Journal Readers' Choice Awards 2021
BEST HAIKU
Eight haiku have been nominated as the best of the year by
our
readers and contributors. The following pieces that both appeared in
our No. 45 were voted the best haiku
published in Shamrock Haiku Journal in 2021 (in alphabetical
order):
after a downpour,
the garden
of blossoming moons
-- Anatoly Kudryavitsky
(Ireland) #45
too old to shake
a fly from its mane,
the grey mare
-- Michael Dylan Welch (USA) #45
The following haiku were the runners-up:
barefoot
on frozen dew
the stars cascade
--
John Newson (England) #46
thawing snow
four days of footsteps
come and go
--
Thomas Powell (Northern Ireland) #45
BEST
SENRYU
Three senryu have been nominated
as the best of the year by our readers and contributors. The following
piece that was initially published in our No. 46 became the winner in
the best senryu category:
laid off...
I watch the snow
falling on snow
-- Chen-ou Liu (Canada) #46
And the runner-up
were the following piece:
broken-hearted
local wine's the best
wherever you are
-- Barbara A. Taylor
(Australia) #46
We congratulate the worthy winners, and express our sincere
gratitude to each and every reader who cast a vote.
Irish
Haiku Society International Haiku Competition 2021
The prize-winning haiku from this competition are available
for viewing here:
https://irishhaiku.webs.com/haikucompetition.htm
There are excellent poems aplenty on that page; check them
out!
fog
a single note
from a blue jay
sleet turns to rain
two mourning doves
sync their calls
cold fog
my cough the scent
of Earl Grey
-- Brad
Bennett (USA)
rain-slick road
coming through the fog
shadow mountains
rotting tree stump
the slow work
of woodpeckers
--
Adelaide B. Shaw (USA)
starless night
glow of a raccoon's eyes
in the backyard
a dandelion's first bloom bees keep coming
--
Albert Schlaht (USA)
driving before dawn
another rabbit leaps
into my commute
Tesuque downpour
the petrichor
of potsherds
--
Alanna C. Burke (USA)
distant thunder
slowing to a drip
locust song
outdoor church service
cicadas fill in
for the choir
-- Lori
Becherer (USA)
sultry night
through the open windows
stench of the old gasworks
nightfall –
fruit bats sail through
the Milky Way
-- Mark
Miller (Australia)
leaves and cloud...
shapes shifting
on a summer breeze
low tide...
finding a moon
among the rockpools
-- Jo
McInerney (Australia)
birds at dawn
louder and louder
insomnia
on the tip
of the birds beak
a drop of rainbow
-- Earl
Livings (Australia)
ambush
a gannet vanishes
into the splash
salt marsh grasses sway freighted with light
-- Anton
Floyd (Ireland)
tornado siren
a vortex of snow geese
spiraling to the pond
-- Keith
Polette (USA)
autumn oak
a squirrel steals
the last leaf
-- Greg
Schwartz (USA)
end of the road
the soft needles
of this new path
-- Julie
Warther (USA)
winter wind
the clang
of tangling coral bells
--
Laurie Greer (USA)
rusted rail tracks
the squeaks
of winter wrens
--
Richard Matta (USA)
an old pond...
nothing to account for
the ripples
--
Stewart C. Baker (USA)
grains of salt
on my fingertips
catching light
-- Mary
McCormack (USA)
no matter which path i take crescent moon
--
Deborah Burke Henderson (USA)
these tired branches
the weight
of snowfall
--
Justin Brown (USA)
what was once
a casuarina cone...
shingleback lizard
-- Owen
Bullock (Australia)
the rhythm
of bouncing raindrops
frog song
--
Louise Hopewell (Australia)
under the moon's weight
a slow loris steadies
its branch
--
Richard Thomas (England)
the peewit's tail
zipping to and from
canopy light
--
Joanna Ashwell (England)
past our bedtime
the garden slippery
with slugs
-- Tony
Williams (Scotland)
underground moon
flash of a
fox's fang
--
Brendan Duffin (Ireland)
long night
the eucalyptus tree
cradles the moon
--
Fionnuala Waldron (Ireland)
crack of dawn
a pearl inside
the seashell
--
Rajandeep Garg (India)
from across the prairie honeysuckle wind
-- Mona
Bedi (India)
somewhere deep
in the canyon...
the birth of wind
-- Joe
Sebastian (India)
icy sunrise
the frosted nest
of storks
a raven
between seasons –
winter bridge
--
Vladislav Hristov (Bulgaria; translated from Bulgarian by the author)
Before the Storm
By Elizabeth
Crocket (Canada)
I glance out the window at the starless sky. Descending into a black
hole, I grasp for something to hold onto. Slowly, my hands turn the
pages of a glossy magazine to steady myself. The nurse enters the room
and her presence offers the calm I am searching for.
hurricane
before we know its name
I see it coming
Street Gang
By Bryan
Cook (Canada)
It's the late 1950s in Banstead, a small country village newly minted
as a London suburb. As pre-pubescent kids, we're bursting with energy
which no amount of footie can abate.
We re-enact ancient British history through our "Norman street-gang",
so named after our wildest member. Holes are dug in his back garden to
create thatched Celtic roundhouses. "War" is waged with swords cut and
sharpened from old bicycle frames; metal dustbin lids are our shields.
Spears are cut from the willow thickets. We costume in old sacks.
"Maidens" willingly join in, tending the fire pits. Lots of ashy
bannock is sloshed down with Lucozade "mead".
chalk downland
Saxon warriors lie beneath
golf fairways
Our leader finds a diagram of a Norman crossbow in the Encyclopedia
Britannica. A deadly weapon is fashioned with geared winding able to
fire sharpened lag bolts over a hundred feet.
crossbow bolts
still in the old Scots Pine
boyhood pranks
Our bubble bursts when we thieve the hub caps off Constable Boyle's
private car to add to the shiny collection on the mud walls of our
roundhouses. We smarten up under the threat of being sent to a
reformatory. Soon we will go our separate ways to higher education and
careers in which some measure of success is due to our boyhood
instincts!
boardroom battles
with hidden agendas
a clerk wields the sword
En Plein Air
by R. J.
Sobel (USA)
I came for the setting, a bit of a breather after a season's first
rain, the perennial promise that I might seize some kind of likeness in
a certain light: the singular tree – its majestic crown, outstretched
branches adorned with silvery-sage beards of lace lichen – reigning in
the foreground of the prospect of this vast snow-crested mountain
range. But landing here on this muddy precipice – pochade box on
tripod, paintbrush in hand, heart in pieces – only to behold unexpected
company gathering beneath the charismatic canopy of the great live oak,
gives me no respite.
Confounding, this palette of mood and atmosphere: rarefied plumes of
petrichor – musky, earthy, fresh and sweet, a trace of the fusty armor
of the old oak – rising up in rapturous intervals, like the
congregation below, be it revival, rally, some kind of retreat, now
assembled as one at the acorned apron of the prodigious tree. Taking it
all in, I muse, did I somehow expect all the rest of the world to go
into hibernation so I could have my little moment of solitude?
leaving autumn
another bear joins the den
one great ball of fur
Clouds thickening overhead, voices chilling the air – the scented air,
lingering like the perfume of a lost lover – off in the distance, the
sun has broken through; bluebirds cheering above the treetops, golden
patches of light mottling the pewter valley floor. I pack my gear,
check my footing before heading down to firmer ground – the wry corners
of my smile conceding the inescapability of the crowd, confessing I am
but the portrait of a windblown leaf, weary of the winds of worldly
affairs.
Out of the fragrant shadows of the mountaintops – clear of the
scrub-lined path that begins and ends where the live oak stands – a
splash of open spaces; the birds, heartened in the sunshine; still
blank canvas on my back.
the smell of rain
a dream of far-off places
in each new footprint
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