SSnnooww MMoooonn

Steven Carter is a retired emeritus professor of English,having taught for 38 years. A former Senior FulbrightFellow in Poland, he is the only two-time recipient ofUNESCO�s Nuove Lettere International Poetry andLiterature Prize. In 2010 he was awarded the Eric HofferFoundation�s Montaigne Medal grand prize for his bookof essays, Devotions to the Text. This is his first collection of haiku and haibun

<Steven Carter�s Snow Moon is a beguiling collection ofhaiku/haibun. The writing is nuanced, ranging from lyrical to haunting... with touches of wry humour.=Cynthia Rowe, Editor, Haiku Xpressions & President,Australian Haiku Society

<Snow Moon offers a winning combination of haiku andhaibun. Carter>s lightness of touch, sureness of tone andteasing subtlety deploy the potencies of dream, memoryand imagination across an impressive range.=Jim Norton, Founder Editor, Haiku Spirit

<From the Magrittian Equinox to the Munchian 1991,Carter displays consummate artistry in both his haikuminiatures and in the broader canvas of his haibun.= Maeve O>Sullivan, Founder Member, Haiku Ireland

SSnnooww MMoooonn

SStteevveenn CCaarrtteerr

AAUS$12.00 / UK £8.00

Alba Publishing

SStteevveenn CCaarrtteerrhaiku and haibun

AAlba Publishing

SSnnooww MMoooonn

SStteevveenn CCaarrtteerrhaiku and haibun

Published by Alba Publishing, P O Box 266, Uxbridge UB9 5NX, United Kingdom www.albapublishing.com

© 2011 Steven CarterAll rights reservedNo part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwisewithout the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the BritishLibrary

ISBN: 978-0-9551254-4-7

Edited, designed and typeset by Kim RichardsonCalligraphy by Nao (www.japanesecalligrapher.com/)

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Some of the haiku and haibun in this volume originallyappeared or will be appearing in the following journals:“Vernal Equinox” in A Hundred Gourds; “MottledMoon” in Haijinx; “Mountain” in Notes from the Gean;“Yellow Moon” in Notes from the Gean; “October” inShamrock Haiku; “May Day” in FreeXpresSion; “SnowMoon” in Taj Mahal Review; “May’s Old Moon” inMagnapoets; “Snow Geese” in Taj Mahal Review; “TheHouse” in Presence; “Berkeley Night Town,” “In Lieu ofan Elegy,” and “Ukrainian Moon,” in contemporary haibun online

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EEQQUUIINNOOXX 55

TTHHEE HHOOUUSSEE 1111

OOCCTTOOBBEERR 1199

LL88EENNVVOOII 3333

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EEQQUUIINNOOXX

No, the moon that astronauts played golf onisn’t the same moon hiding behind clouds in haiku.And yet (as the Buddhists say), the tiger seeks topersist as the tiger. But which animal are we talkingabout--the tiger in the jungle or the tiger in a poem?Which moon? And which you sitting next to me?

ripples fadingwhat we say

what we hear

EQUINOX

our silences—the right words

only words

rain-shadowspower back on

we try it a new way

far shore—between us

the moonrise

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EQUINOX

winter moonpull of hidden crocuses—

you wave without looking back

hazy skykeeping the envelope—

a lost letter

harsh words—still warm

the bed where she sleeps

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EQUINOX

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our silencesa fork in the stream—

seedpods approach

brightening the nightpale yellow moon—

heartache

icy moon—our silhouettes

a bed of nettles

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EQUINOX

careening moon—the stillness

of your glass of wine

desert moondreamless sleep

. . . . what is taken away

yellow moon—. . . . knowing

it’s the last time

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EQUINOX

one star tonight—before we leave

our journey begins

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TThhee HHoouussee

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TTHHEE HHOOUUSSEE

Dreams of my mother—always the same: Imeet her on a commuter train heading south fromSan Francisco; she hands me the key to our Berkeleyhouse, saying, “I’ll meet you there.” When I arrive Iopen the door with the key she gave me, only to findthe house deserted, apparently for years: dust every-where; wallpaper torn and hanging; dirty dishes inthe sink; cold ashes in the fireplace; furniture coveredwith sheets. . . .

trappedbetween icicles

spring moon

THE HOUSE

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waiting for the test results—on which side of the window

a fly?

spring gardenmayflies—

cold earth under my nails

moon clouds moon cloudsdeceased

my first movie crush

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THE HOUSE

yellowsof sunrise

the world’s oldest man dead

evening windsinging—

the empty birdhouse

late summer garden—not yet covering the green

darkness

THE HOUSE

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May’s new moon—grandfather’s

grandfather clock stopped

another death-daycold fireplace

the cat staring in

day moon on the lakeflying into its reflection

a hummingbird

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THE HOUSE

bathing in its own lightthe moon

. . . .those who are gone

sleeplessafter chemo—

moon-gazing

snow moon—rummaging the attic

all my fathers

THE HOUSE

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knowing the darknessthe darkness—

no River of Heaven

blackening the lakea storm—

unwritten poems

mottled moonno one brings up

the lymphoma

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OOccttoobbeerr

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OOCCTTOOBBEERR

They don’t call it the big sky for nothing.Rowing on Swan Lake late one chilly afternoon I seediamond-white Mt. Aeneas, cut by frozen sunlight,dwarfed by thunderheads piling up over the“Chinese Wall” to the east; southward, mountainranges leap-frog each other below the setting sununtil the vanishing point, making my eyes ache.

A quiver of cobras, a battery of barracuda, asleuth of bears: why not a mystery of mountains?Before and since Lewis and Clark, humans have trav-eled these mountains to find or to lose themselves. Isthere a difference?

ripples fadehow the dark

knows the dark

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OCTOBER

moon trapped in a rainbow—getting in the way

a raven’s cry

the wine bottle empty—sun from behind a cloud

its light still cold

Maui moon—. . . .tasting like a rose smells

mountain apples

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OCTOBER

vernal equinox—in the mirror

another mirror

big storm coming—trembling

one leaf

chasing cloud-shadowscloud shadows—

how to look at the lake

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OCTOBER

behind scattered cloudsthe coy moon

. . . .regretting a kindness

lone moon—seeing all the blossoms

seeing none

surprisedby spring—

White Mountain

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OCTOBER

accompanying the pinestamaracks—

dark music

scent of lilacs—lost in the blossoms

a star

campfire blazing—we run out of songs

moonrise

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OCTOBER

planning out the day—in the wind

children’s laughter

raven’s cryplaying scales on the lake

the moon

taking early retirement—winter moon

no longer part of something

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OCTOBER

mountain apples—just one day

our journey is postponed

bright moonwinter dreams—

a red fox on the ice

dull knife—pushing back

the pomegranate’s darkness

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OCTOBER

May’s old moonthe found cat

ignores its new name

smell of rain—last night’s dream

lasting all morning

midnight arrivalsudden view at first light—

Kilimanjaro

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OCTOBER

mountainwind moving

the deck chairs

snow geeseMay’s old moon

lording it

still behind the hilla wind arch—

birds lie down in the grass

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OCTOBER

dark moona campfire voice

I should have—

self-absorbedgreen on green—

juniper pines

cicadas—the elderly man’s words

If you cry, cry alone

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OCTOBER

ravens—through Blackfoot eyes

the lake

rain—watercolor half-done

. . . .wet logs for the fire

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LL88EEnnvvooii

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OONN AA DDAAYY TTHHRREEAATTEENNIINNGG RRAAIINN

At my parents’ graves in Saratoga I feel thepresence of something so much larger than I that,incongruously, the word ridiculous pops into myhead. It awakens the forty-year memory of witness-ing my mother’s death; this time, however, it’s some-thing else I’m experiencing. Well, if not death, thenwhat? Then I have it.

The something brings me to my knees in thetall grass, leaning forward. I can’t not touch thenames cut into dark gray stone.

afternoon wind—handyman

mowing around the graves

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OOVVEERR LLUUNNCCHH

“. . . .Your dad had an affair,” Marie tells usmore than thirty years after my father’s death.“Apparently there was a child involved.”

Suddenly my brother and I—we’re havinglunch with my parents’ friends, the Turners, at theirhome in Palo Alto—conjure up all sorts of scenarios,unfolding like origami in our fevered imaginations:Do we really have a half-brother or -sister walkingthe streets of an unknown town or city? What’shis/her name? What does he/she look like? Whatwere, or are, his/her dreams?

By the time we get home, like George andMartha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, we’ve created an imaginary living, breathing human being,searching (as we have; I was seven, my brother two,when he died) for our father.

And, in the end, we’re both filled—go fig-ure—with a pleasant sense of well-being.

dark gray gravestone—the name

the need to touch it

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OODDEE

Talismanic, the willow tree keeps its hearthidden from me, but I know some of its secrets. Oneday, equipped with a hammer, boards, and nailsclenched between my teeth, I climb the thick,gnarled trunk to build a crude tree house, just longenough to lie down in. Other days I scamper like a monkey from room to room of the tree’s greenmansions—for it is a house of many mansions—andspy on next-door Sheila, my fourth-grade classmateriding a pony around the small corral her father builtin the back yard.

Sometimes at night the tree sings to me, itsharp of leaves and branches accompanied by wind-storms off nearby San Francisco Bay. But what’s mostdeeply rooted in my memory is simply gazing atthose branches, a dozen shades of green, tumblingalmost to the ground, reminding me always of girlswashing their hair by a stream and then, on handsand knees, tossing it forward to dry in the warm sun,so that their faces are hidden.

center of the universe—turning and turning

eyes on a friendly star

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KKIITTEE

When very young, I experienced on-againoff-again spurts of religiosity. At age four, I prayed tothe light on my bedroom ceiling, calling it Susan.Susan kept the monsters under my bed where theybelonged.

Eight years old, I made a kite, heavier thanmost kites, but it flew. One day I was in the fieldbehind my house, flying the kite higher and high-er—so high it was a light blue dot in the bluer sky—when the string snapped. The kite shrunk evenmore, when a sudden burst of wind sent it suddenlyhigher. . . .

At that moment I spun on my heel and wenthome, not looking back. In this way the illusion that it was flying up to heaven might persist. And so it did.

cloud cover—the mind turns

earthward

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DDEESSCCEENNTT

“I think he’s still alive.”I’m talking to J—, a world-renowned sociol-

ogist whose father happened to be my late father’sbest friend in college. Calling his entire family dysfunctional, he goes on to say that not only is heuncertain whether his dad is still living, he franklydoesn’t care.

J— is the third person in my life—mycousin was the first, an old high school friend thesecond—to say, or hint, that I’m probably better off with my father dead. And I think back to mypaternal grandfather, divorced by my grandmother,and his father, who killed five people in a Kentuckyfamily feud before he too was murdered, just acrossthe Indiana state line.

And back to the Garden? All our fathers. . . .

cemetery—in shadow

one side of the stone

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BBEERRKKEELLEEYY NNIIGGHHTT--TTOOWWNN

Walking south on Bowditch Street I glancein at middle-class yards: birdbaths, hoses and sprin-klers, Pyracantha hedges framing the chrome handle-bars of bicycles gleaming in starlight. The full moonfollows me, winking through emaciated branches ofcherry trees; my legs feel heavy as if I were walkingunderwater, trudging through the April night in adiving suit. I think of my dad, who'd lived some-where in this neighborhood—"just south ofDurant," my mother told me—in 1936, the year hegraduated from Cal. Twenty-five years ago hewould've been one of those invisible presences I'mwalking past, dreaming like them as the sea ofmoonlight laps against the windowpanes.

Indulging in what Baudelaire called a divineprostitution of the soul—like Baudelaire himself onthe cobblestones of Montparnasse—I want to enterthe lives of strangers–no, to become them. This urgeis so intense and unexpected that my eyes fill withtears. Embarrassed–even though no one is near—Iblink the tears away and walk back to my ParkerStreet apartment, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I know that others have experienced suchmoods—a wonderful, manic, irrational affection foreverything—the frame of mind I started out withthat night turned inside out like a sock. Killing mydeep depression, I know now, would've killed the

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epiphany it mysteriously produced.Would I have done so—annihilate the one

by annihilating the other? Yes.

early moonbroken gnomon

a sundial—more beautiful

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IINN LLIIEEUU OOFF AANN EELLEEGGYY

That summer Stacy had completed her sophomore year at the University of Montana; shewas picking up money for next fall's tuition by serving cones at the ice cream parlor north of town.On the third occasion I came in she gave me a dou-ble-scoop butter pecan waffle cone instead of thesingle I'd ordered.

"On the house," she said as I, and the cone, melted in her gaze. "Just don't put it in thenewspaper."

Stacy was blonde, with hypnotic blue eyes.The pleasure of her company notwithstanding, shestirred gloomy thoughts—as only three or fourfemales in my life have—of assignations that neverhappened: would-be loves that lived in the past,nipped in a crimson bud forever.

Three weeks after I saw her last, Stacy was en route back to Montana from Colorado with her family in their private Cessna. They were low onfuel, but her dad decided to make one more turnaround the airport on the hill so that Stacy's momcould practice a landing. Four hundred feet off thetarmac the engine quit and the plane pancaked intothe ground, the impact driving Stacy's contacts upinto her skull. The only survivor of the family of fivewas Stacy's older brother John, paralyzed for lifefrom the waist down.

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Plangent voices in the dark winds ofPurgatory: too late, too late.

early morning windher name

misspelled

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SSAAWWTTOOOOTTHH RRAANNGGEE

At first he’s a mere blur on the horizon southof Browning, Montana, heart of the Blackfoot IndianReservation. Then I make out the cross. Drivingslowly in a construction zone—the flagman is justahead—we pass him. Then we stop and he passes us,shouldering a large wooden cross with a wheelattached.

My laconic father-in-law remarks frombehind the steering wheel, “Kind of defeats the pur-pose, don’t you think?”

Bearded, long-haired, very thin—he actuallyresembles that painting of Jesus reproduced in a zillion Sunday schools—the young man reaches theflagman without stopping; we can still see him in thenear distance, wheeling the cross north on U.S. 89toward the mountains. As we wait, a tribal police carpulls up; the big, burly cop gets out and talks to thestranger.

Is the cross-wheeler in violation of some law?So was Christ, I say to myself. But in northwestMontana, in the year 2002! Well, why not? I look upat the aptly-named big sky, stretched taut as a tentover the Rocky Mountain Front. As I watch, cloudsgather—weather changes in these parts faster thanyou would believe—and the light begins to fade.

The cop waves the cross-wheeler on. I won-der: Is this dude schizophrenic? Demented? Plain

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dumb? I’m in no way, shape, or form religious; and yet, and yet. . . .

The flagman spins his sign around to readSLOW, and, just before turning off for Glacier Park, we pass him one last time. Now he looks up,adjusting the cross on his shoulder, and I meet hisgaze. It’s like looking at the bottom of an ocean. Hislips move slowly—I can’t hear him because my window’s closed—but I lip-read his words:

”Don’t forget me.”

mountain moonspring storm

darkening peak by peak

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UUKKRRAAIINNIIAANN MMOOOONN

Cold autumn winds blow off the steppes aswe walk the graveyard in Zamosc, a small town tenmiles from the Ukrainian border. Polish cemeteriesattract natives and strangers because the statuary andgravestones are so beautiful: old, weathered, half-crumbled, each one unique.

This is the Day of the Dead, 1991. Bundled-up Poles visit the graveyard after sunset with many-colored candles: so many flickering that the shadowsof statuary perform a merry danse macabre on theirown graves.

red leafspinning

a mourner’s frayed coat

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11999911

In a strange and terrible way, September isthe cruelest month for Auschwitz—the skies are blueand balmy, the grounds and surrounding fields lushwith flowers, grasses, and chestnut trees. These land-scapes make the facilities—gas chambers, crematoria,barracks, dungeons, the Wall of Death—morepoignant, even unbearable. I saw more than oneFulbrighter throw up and return to the bus.

Here is the gibbet where Rudolf Höss,Commandant of Auschwitz, was summarily hangedin 1945; the image of Christ on the Cross scratchedin stone by the fingernails of a doomed Polish officerwho’d led an unsuccessful rebellion; in the small on-site museum prosthetic limbs, boots, shoes, eye-glasses, rings, crutches, wheelchairs, and mountainsof human hair; empty canisters of Zyklon B gas pellets; and small tins once filled with liquid body fatdistilled from corpses in the gas chambers. Exportedfor sale in Germany, these are emblazoned with thelogo “Oil of Pure Jew.”

in the display casereflected—

our faces

The “hygienic shed” features a double row oftoilet holes, 400 in all, meant to service 17,000

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inmates in one section of Birkenau, the camp adjoin-ing Auschwitz. Directly below the double row ofholes is a sluice which carried urine and excrementout of the shed to a processing plant where they wereconverted to methane gas. The gas was then pipedfive hundred yards across the compound into the SSbarracks to keep the officers warm in the frigidPolish winter. In this, and in other ways, the campwas self-sustaining.

Between the barracks the grass is especiallythick and tall. The tour guide, a retired professor ofhistory from the Jagiellonian University in nearbyKrakow, stoops and pulls up a bunch, describing oneparticular drawing in a Krakow museum dedicatedto children’s art of the Holocaust. The work wasdone at Birkenau in August of 1944 and is entitled,Why Are There No Butterflies Here? It consists, theguide explains, of little more than boldly-renderedcharcoal streaks that depict the grounds around thebarracks—exactly where we are currently standingankle-deep in the rich green grass. The reason thechild saw no butterflies that summer, the guide continues, was that there was no grass. The inmates,whose carefully measured food intake averaged 700calories a day, had eaten it all.

in the windsound

of a violin