Embedded Files
The following haiga feature poems by Michael Dylan Welch and artwork by Gary LeBel. Our process was that Gary either created new artwork for poems I provided to him, or I wrote new poems for artwork he provided to me. In some cases I wrote several poems for a single piece of artwork, and he selected one that he thought worked best with the art, and then combined it with the artwork using calligraphy, collage, typesetting, and other techniques. Three of these fifteen haiga use what is called “running hand” calligraphy, where letters elide into each other, usually vertically. Because such calligraphy can be a challenge to read, in those cases the poem is repeated in text below the image. Most of these haiga were featured in the 2007 issue of the journal Reeds: Contemporary Haiga, edited by Jeanne Emrich. The “first star” haiga was also printed in an edition of 250 copies for a Haiku Canada holograph anthology in 2007 titled Blossoming: 30th Anniversary Members Anthology. My thanks to Gary for his exquisite work.
The poems appear by themselves at the end.
all that’s left
of the old logging road—
the sparrow’s song
all the times
we never sat to talk . . .
the drifting leaves
first star . . .
a seashell held
to my baby’s ear
Indian summer—
missing
the smell of rain
invisible
over the tulip bulbs
the curve of the earth
meteor shower . . .
a gentle wave
wets our sandals +
muted sunlight—
the constellation of barnacles
on the whale’s belly
news of his chemo—
the meandering path
back from the outhouse
objects in mirror
are closer than they appear—
your hand on my thigh
returning boats . . .
the path of the pelican
from beach to pier
silver in your hair—
you open a drawer
for your favourite knife
“Something’s already
come between us,”
you whisper.
“Yes,” I reply,
“our clothes.”
summer heat—
two squirrels
meet on a wire
tarnished silver—
the only guest
eats in silence +
a letter home—
still that smell
of cigarettes
the path from the cabin
overgrown with brambles—
once we were lovers
the smell of breakfast
today’s paper
warm from the porch
somewhere in the past
a lightning strike
to its heartwood
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