"Striking Bone" Illustrates an American Renga

A renga is a five-line poem--haiku of 3 lines + 2 line couplet. Japanese has a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable count for the five lines. American English varies this with some liberties, as shown below. The poem then is passed to the next person (sake is included in the traditional Japanese setting but not here), who composes a poem that responds to previous verse (word, sound, image, or idea). And then the poem is passed to the next writer, to build a  conversation. In this renga, seven poets participate: Denise Low, Ken Eberhart, Barbara Montes, GeneAnn Newcomer, Diane Willie, Erika Zeitz, and Alan Proctor. Feel free to send me more verses and join in:

STRIKING BONE: A RENGA
*
Lost? Yes, again the stars fall
on 13th Street where a house, now demolished,
was my home. I was young.
Funeral dirges sound from the new building
and hearses ferry the dead to and from. I was young

and swung on the backyard tire swing

one late October afternoon under red leaves
drifting like red stars to my feet.
I was young and then I was gone like the house.
An old woman remains in my place.
     Denise Low
 *
When I remember you,
my thoughts do not bring
you back from the dead; no
amount of nostalgia could
reanimate your body.

You were a just a thought

once: mother’s eyelashes,
father’s cigarette smoke.
Memory cannot make you
again, like their lust once did.
     Ken Eberhart
*
But 89 years
should have been enough
to leave a trail, an imprint
stronger than birds' feet on sand,
or mice darting from baseboards.
     Barbara Montes
*
Still this does not mean
I will stop looking for you,
everywhere.
You are in my sheets
I pull back at night,

my dreams, even before I fall asleep.

At my breakfast table you are
the drink that touches my lips.
As I leave home each day,
the breath I can't quite catch.
     GeneAnn Newcomer
*
Yet, only the aura of its frame
Pulses and gives life with a heartbeat
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe, I say.
Don’t live among the memories
Death is no place to be, I say.
     Diane Willie
*
As old as the stars,
My eyes wash the empty space,
Tears for memory.
What was lost, I fight to find again,
Slow, slow my breath and sight.
Wherever I sit, back and forth,
I swing.
     Erika Zeitz
*
You are there in the heart's
echo, the blood's ping striking bone,
memory's temple where the magpie
settles on my shoulder
after a long flight from home.
     Alan Proctor

© 2013 Denise Low. Reprint permission may be granted for non-commercial uses. Please contact Mammoth Publications for further information--mammothpubs [at] gmail.com