Deborah Barbour Lundy

Deborah Barbour Lundy resides in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, within the Greater Yellowstone Eco-System.  

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Deborah Barbour Lundy
By Robert D. Wilson

Deborah Barbour Lundy's hokku speak for themselves. They linger in a reader's cerebellum long after perusal, refusing to be ignored, insisting on interpretation, each hokku more than just a well-placed assemblage of words (objects). Most haiku and hokku penned today, including winners of competitions and those published, are forgettable. How many do you remember?

Her poetry is activity-(koto/objective) biased. They focus on becomingness versus objects, calling to mind a surplus of meaning. Non-colonized Japanese short form poetry has layers of meaning because they are crafted utilizing aesthetics style born in pre-19th century Japan. Successful hokku poets today, and they are few, utilize said styles (tools) that include yugen, ma, sabi, kokoro, etc. Immersed in said poetry is zôka, nature's creative force.

Lundy's poems are hokku, not haiku. Haiku is the invent of Shiki, who renamed and colonized hokku. Her hokku are a breath of fresh air. They have something to say with style, creativity, and intelligence. Each poem resonates with a metric schemata that is musical, do I dare say, poetic? Yes, poetic; hokku with purposeful meter, a trait indigenous to the genre.

Read these hokku. See them through your eyes, not through Lundy's. What does each poem have to say, how do they relate to your cultural memory and experiential mindset? Do they tell all? Does each poem invoke a surplus of meaning, caused by a symbiotic union of the said and the unsaid? Do they think for you or do they inspire perusal?

breathless elk . . .
so much orange in this
harvest moon

broken wheat --
a sand crane dancing

canyon spring --
how many echoes
left behind?

turned soil -
the taste of absinthe
in raindrops

early snow --
a coyote's cry hangs
between seasons

summer sky --
a raven drifts on shades
of thunder

morning song . . .
a piece of sky falls
from the nest

moon-faced owl . . .
the silence of winter