9 Breaths of Monsoon Season in Ontario by Eli Sokoloff Harris

1.
The sumac bushes bloom
As the shield passes us through
Its granite hands
A heavy whisper is the campfire’s only song

 2.
I know of two men:
A man who knows the future
And a man who chooses not to

 3. 
As a winter lodge carries a serenity 
Inside its polyurethane doors, 
A cabin will ease you into 
The neighbouring dimension
Just quickly enough to wake a sleeping cat burglar
And steal all your precious seconds
From under your snivelling nose

 4. 
I’ve made more mistakes than
Two parents on their 8th week of parenthood
And I have learnt less than they have on their 9th

 5.
A tent will usher you through a forest door
Colouring your cataract eyelids
So you cannot see 
Your children anymore

 6.
The train-tracks rumble softly;
I know a train comes soon
I sip from my can 
And chunks of gravel shake beneath me

 7.
Tefnut smiles down therapeutically 
And opens her hands wide
To shatter the cerulean heavens;
We are grateful for the rain
Her sundogs howl around her waist

 8.
When the autumn breaks
The big organ is always a little off key
Our paddles battle the waves valiantly, and
do we ever rush forward, 
The river’s current no match 
For last night’s treachery.

9.
When elegies for the voice are made,
And not just for the heart, then perhaps
I shall write one about the monsoons
That laugh at your very existence 
And how the candles and the nighttime 
Are always running a race
To see who is extinguished first 

10. 
Even though I love you,
I want you to go:
Please don’t see me just as a vain and ignorant God
I’m only so young, for such a small deity.
And I know that the vegetables don’t always grow
And the canoes don’t sail like they used to
But someday I’ll take you to where they do

__________________________________________________________________________________

We’re proud to presented our next Pessimistic Haiku featured poet, Eli Sokoloff Harris! Eli Sokoloff Harris is a Jewish singer, songwriter, and poet from Toronto, Ontario. He studies classical music at Wilfrid Laurier University. During the spring and summer seasons, he is an outdoor educator at various Outdoor Education centers and Summer Camps in British Columbia and Ontario. This is his first published work.

March Poetry Contest

Spring is coming in the northern hemisphere.  Eventually.  We hope.  This month’s poetry contest is simple: Write about your experience of the spring.  You may reference fertility if you must, but try to avoid descriptions of your outdoor whoopie.  That doesn’t start until the first of May.  Follow us on Instagram and post with the hashtag #PessimisticSpring or email your entry to canard@pessimistichaiku.com between now and March 31 to enter.  We’ll feature the stand outs on Instagram along the way, and may choose one of those to feature on our website for March if we really, really love any of them.  


For now, we’re going on the JoCo Cruise.  Many thanks!  

-pessimistic haiku

Incompatibilities 5, by Jacqueline Smith

We’re proud to present our next pessimistichaiku.com featured poet, the winner of our February Poetry Challenge, Jacqueline Smith (@ravingpoet64)!

Jacqueline Smith lives in London and works as an interviewer. She has previously been published in Ambit, South Bank, Cake Magazine, Inkspill, Spilt Milk and Poetandgeek.

Visit our page or post with #pessimistichaiku for a chance to be featured here.  Many thanks!

A Retelling: To Enter That Rhythm Where The Self Is Lost by Lianne Xiao

We’re proud to present our next pessimistichaiku.com featured poet,
Lianne Xiao(@stone_froot)!

Lianne Xiao is a queer, non-binary Chinese Canadian writer currently based in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Originally from Toronto, Ontario, they are currently pursuing a degree in history and creative writing at the University of King’s College. Lianne is the President of the King’s Students’ Union, the incoming Chairperson of Canadian Federation of Students-Nova Scotia, and is passionate about free education and racial justice. You can also find them on twitter @baby_mooncake. "A Retelling: To Enter That Rhythm Where The Self Is Lost" is inspired by the work of Muriel Rukeyser. 

Visit our page or post with #pessimistichaiku for a chance to be featured here.  Many thanks!

Las Venas de la Biblia, by Xaviera Hernández Sánchez

We’re proud to present our first pessimistichaiku.com featured poet, Xaviera Hernández Sánchez (@thearchives)!

She studies Creative Writing at the University of North Texas with minors in history and Spanish, and is a writer for both the North Texas Daily and the North Texas Review. “Las Venas de la Biblia” is a heartfelt piece with a clever and aesthetically pleasing form, recounting the memories evoked when she received her late great-grandmother’s bible.

Visit our page or post on instagram with #pessimistichaiku for a chance to be featured here. Many thanks!

[insert your poetry here]

Up to now, this blog has primarily been a vanity project for me, and I’ve enjoyed posting my own poetry here, hoping that someone would happen by.  Since I’ve been posting less and less, and there’s plenty of room, I’m hoping to feature other authors in this space as well.  If I find something I want to post, and you are ok with the three people who usually look at my poetry viewing yours too, I will be happy to compensate you accordingly.  Please email canard@pessimistichaiku.com with submissions or any questions.  Thanks!

twilight(not the book)

What is this face?
I should have known better.
How does it feel to know
you’re old enough?

So out of pace
with a slow letter,
out of the mood,
or going off the cuff.

Chasing the twilight,
I fight to drag the sun back
to the sky.
I’m chasing the twilight
to show up in the corner
of your eye,
when you pass by.

Tear up this road
where the chance receded.
How does it feel to know
you’re far enough?

Is it unjust to
claim I’ve been mistreated?
End over end, I tried
to rise above.

Chasing the twilight,
I cling to red reflections
in the haze.
I’m chasing the twilight
to stay within the margin
of your gaze
on better days.

You’re still innocent
and chronically going
through a stage.
Who or what, if anyone,
is waiting overleaf?

Amoeba

The gurgling amoeba spreads, it hungers and it slides, trailing slicks of waste on planes of light.

It swallows and assimilates the runners in its path, there’s no escape, no power left to fight.

We can’t swim out.  We can’t kick through.

It fills our world.  It sticks like glue. 

Who’s to blame for blending in when breaking down is all that we can do?

Our flesh will feed and fuel its binge, as sure as all the fools who bend the knee and marvel at its might.

Displaced


I excavate an off key twang

that wants to be the song you sang

the first time I absorbed your voice.


To drown my ears, my mouth, my eyes

still cannot insulate my mind

from sleeping on the easy choice.


Street scenes are a condensate

of everything you love and hate.

The glory days and sweet relief,

so soft to touch and smooth to taste,

miss the balm to soothe the grief

of time and objects left to waste.


Distractions by the second hand

let hours sneak past what I’d planned.

Were they lost or just displaced?

Oblivious

I’m staring into darkness wondering

what and who and where

and don’t know if the reason for it

is or isn’t there.

Illogical deduction leads. I

never find a clue.

My dreams concoct solutions, but my

sleep is missing, too. 

I don’t know who you meant to hurt, but

guess that you don’t see

whatever happens there tonight is

happening to me.

Taker

You make your way by taking
and you take me by surprise.
I’m foolish as a child when
I’m beguiled by your eyes.

You found me of some use when
the abuse had run its course.
Now, fodder for the slaughter,
I lose to the darker horse.

You’re kneeling on my feelings
when you beg her for a bone.
I can’t take all this giving
so I’m living on my own.

pessimist

I’ve written you 10,000 words
just to say “I want to talk,”
shooting myself in the foot so
often I can hardly walk.
I’m a dimwit if I tell the truth,
the devil if I lie,
a pessimist to walk away,
a masochist to try.

Wanting to believe in what you
say, I act as if it’s true,
but my gut is seething when I’m
translating the things you do.
I’m a moron if I force a smile,
a monster if I cry,
a pessimist to walk away,
a masochist to try.

Chances may be squandered as I
stare at hypersonic clocks.
I don’t know if they’re spent or if
they’re still alive in your black box.
I’m presuming if I raise the lid,
insipid if I’m shy,
a pessimist to walk away,
a masochist to try.