Thursday, October 16, 2014

Feast - a sonnet

Where nation, having fled tyranny's shore
Meets bitterness again in frozen form
To have a faith that still stirs, barely warm
And sees new worlds are humbled even more

Deeper than leaf-meal on the forest floor
Are secrets kept for those guardians of skin
Who have not peeled the forest back within
But share its shadows briefly before war

Announcing him who represents the least
When blood and gold the summer overtakes
The arrowed geese are shofared over lakes
And woods of mist, witnesses to the feast

The eyes of sky and hands of earth beneath
Hold mercy for each trembling, clinging leaf

October 14, 2014

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Wild Geese Are Yodeling

Wild geese are yodeling
On a wind that's in training
To bruise us before long

All the flags are gold and brass
Mists among the fruit and vines
Feign silver before old sun's rebuke

Grant us on a changing world
Peace in skins that flake and peel
To spill and waste to die and feed


Friday, December 24, 2010

Pockets 080304

NW - 12 assorted guitar picks, slide , capo, paper clips
NE - twonie, 3 elk, penny, Kleenex, 2 sets of keys
SE - wallet (no cash) - contents too dishevelled to list
SW - rectangular key, rogue plectrum, gum in foil


copyright 2008 Trevor Haug

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Preferring Poetry

One day I'll board a plane
With nothing more
Than verses in my head
And a few under my arm
No guitar to hide in the bulkhead
No amp to rent at the other end
No reverb, delay, effects to tweak

I'll have a comfortable chair
And a short introduction
And polite applause
After every selection
The faithful will trickle in
From surrounding towns
Older ladies who have time for poetry
A child or two and a coughing man

And with these borrowed
Items from other poets -
A crutch of grief
A nostalgic seabreeze
And witty jazz metaphors
I'll hobble and paint
Over someone's despair
With my own carousel tones
And sad eyes

While outside
The cars will wait
In the Spring mud

copyright 2008 Trevor Haug

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Cien Poetas Mexicanas

I have invited
100 Mexican poets
into my bedroom
I shake them alive
like dusty puppets
who need forearms for spines
and fists for brains

My Spanish is lacking
so their eloquent soliloquies
are full of gaps
like messages from space
disrupted by solar winds

I catch something from Carpio
about the virgin,
a whisper of death from Espino
Lerdo tries to explain light
Solana, a tree

I coax from some
the shadows of sadness;
from others, secrets
buried by time's conquest

Hour after hour
they interupt each other
in an anthology of ruined verse
In the end, leaving me to dream,
they interpret each other's awakenings

Gallardo is in the corner,
head in his folded arms
and Nova is lost
in a volume
of Neruda's love sonnets

Plaza and Rincon
have slipped out
to make quesadillas
While the rest have joined
the moon and the stars,
riding like bandits across the sky


copyright 2009 Trevor Haug

Christmas Sonnet

The crowning and the cry - it is begun
Thrust out with groping hands into our world
Turned on His human side, the Son preferred
An ambience of hooves and straw and dung

Soon feeding like a beast upon the breast
He turns milk to His body and His blood
With eloquent witnesses, chewing cud
As passive as the east is to the west

How bright tonight the wide symphonic sky
To stage a spectacle amongst the poor
And draw them to the stable's open door
With lambs in tow, to see, before they die

The Lamb who heals the fault of worlds apart
Sleep comes to His incarnate racing heart


copyright 2010 Trevor Haug

Friday, March 7, 2008

Ironwood Giraffe

I hold in my fist
the neck of a foot-high
ironwood giraffe
I bought in a market 
in Johannesburg

This hard wooden sculpture
reminds me that
I saw no giraffe
while in Africa
though I strained my neck

and squinted against the plane's
tempered double window
and looked upon Senegal
to see only darkness
and a few huts

All the way to Jo'berg,
to Maputo and north
along the coast of Mozambique,
past the swollen Zambezi,
there was no sign

of the prophetic beast
who says very little
but flaps an ear
while exfoliating
a village tree

I saw children close to earth
and mothers bending the knee
and a ragged beggar
sleeping on the beach
and many bare feet

There were homemade boats on the shore
and on the wrong side of the road
worn down diesel trucks
I met mahogany colored people
who raised the palm with "Salaama"

Beneath me, the hard red earth
Above, palms and boabab trees
At eye level, orphans and widows
bright smiles and laughing
music and dancing

I still see large yellow African morning skies
with rainbows at noon
I hear the rhythms of Makua and Makonde tongue
I listen to boys with wares on the beach
who can negotiate with anyone

Then back through small airports
named for national heroes
but never a glimpse
of a noble and cow-eyed
black and orange race of seers

So I hold my ironwood
giraffe by the neck
and plant him on the mantle
so I can see every day
what I have not seen

copyright 2008 Trevor Haug
from "Poems of Africa"