Welcome to my blog “Photos-Poetry-Haiku”. I hope you enjoy your visit. I am an Amateur Photographer / Poet from Dumfries in beautiful South West Scotland.
I enjoy Minimalist Photography, sometimes single images, sometimes multiple images on a theme. Most images here will be in colour but I’ll include black and white images too.
My poems tend to be short, I’m a Scot after all and words are precious things! I also write in Scots dialect. Whether Scots is a separate language or not, I’ll leave to others, I just like to write.
The above probably explains my interest in Haiku and its associated forms. I agree with the statement that syllable and line count are not vital in contemporary English (Scots!!!) language haiku. Many writers produce fine haiku using the 5-7-5 syllable count, however, I feel that counting English syllables in this way can make the haiku too long and can loose the essential quality of the form. Haibun are prose poems that use embedded haiku to enhance the overall effect, although the haiku should be able to stand on its own without referring to the prose. Haiga combine an image with a haiku in the same relationship as the two parts of a haibun.
Anyway, enough of the arty-farty stuff. Please use the menu to navigate, I’ll add and update as I go on, I’m still new to this! Also, please feel free to comment, one of the main points of this is to connect with like minded people.
Closeburn near Thornhill this time. Former parish church re-built 1741 including the remains of its predecessor and in use until 1878. Norman fragments remain. A 10th century cross-shaft and grave slabs of similar date have been found.
Between the Waves
We are drawn
to the sea,
Where the tide
When the water
And the cold
winds are tamed.
Let there be
no more storms,
Nor a shift
in the sands.
Let us pause
for a while,
Let us swim
in the calm
The forest is winning again,
in its own relentless way.
It is pulling this old cottage
back into its deeper self,
reclaiming this precious space,
slowly restoring the balance.
It is nature that is cracking
these walls, its weighty growth
that his broken through the roof.
But, there is no real death here,
there is only life that can
no longer be held at bay.
You arrived here by chance,
now take the time to look around.
Touch new leaves, smell wild flowers,
feel the air, fresh from the forest.
Take your leave in your own good time,
there is no need to close the gate.
Light does not stray here anymore,
It passes through these broken walls.
Sounds do not echo anymore,
There is no roof to hold them in.
The scents of life have gone from here,
Decay grabs my every breath.
I touch the walls, but they are cold,
The hearth has left them long ago.
Yet, still my shadow flickers through
To signal that life carries on.
My feet still rap on the stone floor,
Like the heartbeat of the world out there.
And carried here on a brief wind,
The smell of the forest ghosts by.
On the window sill, a flower grows,
I reach out, touch it, then let it go.
Thirs nithin a can dae,
tae stop the way the river rins.
It’ll fin the sea,
nae metter hoo much
a wush it wid bide a wee.
Aw rivers’ rise an faa,
it’s jist the wey it is.
Today The Nith is calm,
a’ll stan a while an savour,
whit a can chynge, whit a cannae.
The ruins of Polmaddy, a traditional Galloway ferm-toun (farming village), can still be seen in a clearing of Castlemaddy Wood (just of the A713 nr Carsphairn). Changes in farming in the 18th and 19th centuries led to the abandonment of many such small farm villages in the area. The earliest reference to Polmaddy was in the 16th centur
If words have ghosts,
they are wandering these fields,
whispering of an absent town
and lives that could last no longer.
If names have hearts,
Polmaddy's has been broken
by the bitterest cut of all.
It lost its reason to be.
If stones have souls,
then let these ones rest in peace.
They had their time, let them settle
into the earth of their story
Polmaddy, stones in an open field,
Braille for a low sun’s fingers, waiting
For the light to trace it’s pages.
There’s the pack road, almost rubbed out,
And there, the inn, the house of stories.
That thin line, the mill race where water flowed
To turn the wheel that fed them all.
Two houses side by side, to share
Warmth and the gossip of the day.
Here and there, clearance cairns, where fields
Were opened and furrows written.
Now the sun goes down, closing
The covers on another day, leaving
Only silence and words in the dark.