One Light at a Time - a kasen in progress - The Rain Gauge Renku Circle

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One Light at a Time

a kasen by the Rain Gauge Renku Circle
begun May 23, 1999 · eighteen verses of thirty-six

home · a short renku from the spring

Here is our poem so far, one verse a week, with the name of the poet who wrote each one and a few words from me about how it links to the verse before. Read the verses first, straight down, the way you would read any poem. Then go back and read my notes, if you like.

The first six verses make up the front of the first sheet; the next twelve are its back. We are exactly halfway.

· the first sheet, front side ·

first warm evening —
the lobster boats come in
one light at a time
— Robert, Maine · summer

Robert's opening verse, the hokku, did what a first verse should. It named the season, the first warm evening of a Maine summer, and it greeted the rest of us: six poets coming in from far away, one light at a time. We took our title from it.
sent out 5/23 · rain gauge that morning: 0.41 in.

the screen door propped open
for the ginger and the rain
— Eleanor, Hawaii · summer

The second verse answers the first, in the same season and almost the same breath. Robert's harbor at dusk; my porch at dusk. White ginger blooms here all summer, and the rain is always.
sent out 5/30 · rain gauge that morning: 1.12 in.

she counts out the change
in a language she learned
from the radio
— Mary, Oregon · no season

The third verse is the first real step away. Mary left the evening and the weather behind and gave us a person. The link is the open door: someone has come in from somewhere else.
sent out 6/6 · rain gauge that morning: 0.06 in.

the bus driver knows
which stop is hers
— Joan, Wisconsin · no season

A quiet, ordinary verse, which is what this part of the poem wants. We stay with the woman but leave the counter behind. Joan says she was thinking of her grandmother, who never learned to drive.
sent out 6/13 · rain gauge that morning: 0.00 in.

full moon on the mesa —
a coyote's shadow
crosses the arroyo
— Sandra, New Mexico · autumn · the first moon

The first moon. Sandra jumped from the city bus to the high desert, and the link is a crossing, a stop, a passage. In renku the moon alone means the autumn moon, so with this verse our poem turned the season.
sent out 6/20 · rain gauge that morning: 0.23 in.

6	pecans thudding all night on the tin roof of the shed — Jay, North Carolina · autumn Autumn continues, but Jay moved us from the desert to a farmyard in the South. Same night, different country. You can hear this verse. sent out 6/27 · rain gauge that morning: 2.87 in.

· the first sheet, back side ·

grandfather's ladder
still leaning in the orchard
where he left it
— Robert, Maine · autumn

With the seventh verse the polite opening is over and the poem can begin to carry more weight. Robert stays in autumn, at the apple harvest, and lets a little loss in without saying the word.
sent out 7/4 · rain gauge that morning: 0.15 in.

8	a box of letters tied with butcher string — Eleanor, Hawaii · no season I picked up the grandfather and went indoors. Somebody is cleaning out a house. sent out 7/11 · rain gauge that morning: 0.52 in.

he signed every one
with the name of a bird
she had never seen
— Mary, Oregon · love

Our first love verse, arriving right on time. Mary found a courtship inside my box of letters. All six of us agreed it was the best verse so far, including Mary, who almost never says so.
sent out 7/18 · rain gauge that morning: 0.09 in.

10	her lipstick on the rim of his coffee cup — Joan, Wisconsin · love Love verses usually come in pairs. Joan kept the love but moved it from letters to a kitchen table, from far away to very close. sent out 7/25 · rain gauge that morning: 0.00 in.

11	the diner's neon sign buzzing, one letter short of its name — Sandra, New Mexico · no season The coffee cup carried us to a roadside diner and away from the couple. A good shift. The poem was getting sentimental, and Sandra cleared the air. sent out 8/1 · rain gauge that morning: 0.34 in.

12	first snow on the hood of the last car in the lot — Jay, North Carolina · winter Winter. Jay closed the diner for the night. sent out 8/8 · rain gauge that morning: 1.65 in.

13	ice-fishing shacks — a radio plays the game to no one at all — Robert, Maine · winter Robert took the snow out onto a frozen lake. There is a loneliness here that answers the last car in the lot, but the scene is entirely new. sent out 8/15 · rain gauge that morning: 0.18 in.

the winter moon
and Mauna Kea, both white
— Eleanor, Hawaii · winter · the second moon

The second moon. In winter our mountain gets snow on top, and some nights from my yard you can see the moon and the summit together and can't say which is brighter. Robert wrote that it was the first time he understood that Hawaii has a winter.
sent out 8/22 · rain gauge that morning: 0.27 in.

telescope domes
turned toward a sky
the town can't see
— Mary, Oregon · no season

There are telescopes on the summit, and Mary, who has never been here, knew it. Strictly, this verse stays a little close to the mountain, and I asked her twice whether she wanted to change it. She did not. Sometimes the leader loses.
sent out 8/29 · rain gauge that morning: 0.71 in.

16	my son calls from college to ask how you boil an egg — Joan, Wisconsin · no season Joan's son started at the university this month, and this really happened, the first week. A laugh is good medicine in the middle of a long poem. sent out 9/5 · rain gauge that morning: 0.04 in.

apricot blossoms —
the old men in the plaza
move their bench into the sun
— Sandra, New Mexico · spring · the first blossoms

The first blossom verse. Strictly, the blossoms of renku are cherry blossoms. Sandra asked if she could have apricot instead, since in her valley the apricots bloom first and the whole town goes out to look. I said a blossom is a blossom.
sent out 9/12 · rain gauge that morning: 0.48 in.

18	a kite's tail caught on the courthouse flagpole — Jay, North Carolina · spring Spring, and the end of the first sheet. Kites are a spring word in the old Japanese almanacs. Jay ended our first half up in the air, which seems right. sent out 9/19 · rain gauge that morning: 3.10 in.

· · ·

Verse nineteen, the first verse of the second sheet, is Robert's, and due on Wednesday. Spring has had only two verses, and it likes at least three, so I have asked him for one more spring verse, and something that moves us far away from courthouses and kites. He says he has a few ideas and one of them involves a moose.

Come back Sunday.

Eleanor
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verses © 1999 their poets · last updated Sunday, September 19, 1999