(Haiku with chaos)
I write my poem
and the blue bull lifts
(Haiku as in the time of the mythologies)
Once the bull went down to the river.
And once more to see his image again.
Never had he seen a bull so blue
In the mirror I am hypnotized
by the blue bull’s vanity.
In the shower I hear his heavy splashing
(Extended haiku in flora and fauna)
Blue bulls often misunderstand everything, come bounding
as you lie in the grass counting sheep
and jumping men, as in Muybridge
The blue bull’s melancholy
is also my melancholy.
My melancholy is also his
(Sufi haiku on a gray day)
He said, I am a bull.
A blue bull. But once in a while,
for example now, I am also a red bull
Without images poetry remains mute.
Without his color the blue bull is a stunted animal.
Without its special lightness the snow cannot fall
The cars rush and the wind-chime
strums its unmelodic melody.
The blue bull smacks his lips
In Japan the rice farmer mistakes
a distant, rumbling storm
for the smacking of the blue bull’s lips
(Haiku in modern times)
The blue bull stands firm in the wind between the skyscrapers.
He is a happy animal. The fly sitting
on his shoulder is no heavy fly
The water in the toilet is blue.
I disturb it with my urine,
but the image of the blue bull will not disappear
(Haiku for sceptics)
Well, have you
a green bull