The Golden Muse

The September issue of Haibun Today has now been published. As always, there are many fine examples of haibun and tanka prose, as well as excellent reviews and articles, including Melissa Allen’s review of Jeffrey Woodward’s recently published Evening in the Plaza: Haibun and Haiku and David Cobb’s article, “Transmissions of Haibun”.

Here is my tanka prose from the June issue (7:2):

The Golden Muse

“O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.”

—Shakespeare, Henry V

Seated by the window, you stare into that space where all times are now. There you are, little more than a child, at the Galeries Lafayette, just about to catch Picasso’s eye. You’re buying a col claudine when he stops to tell you that you have an interesting face. He drops his name like a calling card. You’ve never heard of him— but he’d love to paint you! There you are again, brazen and bright as a beach ball, bouncing along the Plage de l’Ecluse with the key to his cabana. Did you ever walk as tall as he portrayed you: a giantess born of love’s palette, your head lost to the endless sky? And there you are, as the self-made noose tightens around your throat. Only you know the truth: are you slipping loose from your shackles, or tethering yourself to him in the hereafter? Oh, to wave my hand across your vacant expression! In another time, another place, who might you have been?


paying no heed to
the gently proffered bouquet
Manet’s Victorine
glassy-eyed queen
of the unmade bed

He said you saved his life, Marie-Thérèse. You, the unseen shadow, the secret code. Every curve, every saturated hue betrayed him. Brushstroke by brushstroke, his mouth was on your graceful neck, his arm was encircling your waist and you were the guitar waiting to be played; you were pitcher and fruit bowl, your very initials bifurcated by his. Fecund and sinuous, you were the black line that defined him, the sun through stained glass. Until, at last, he captured you while you slept naked in your armchair, head tilted toward the light, an open book in your lap. The truth now undeniable as the lyrical colours, the odour of the oils. But in another life, who might you have been?


the perfumes
of golden Byzantium
the mosaics
of Venice and Ravenna . . .
all eyes on Klimt’s Adele

Cast your mind back and find yourself returned to that hall of mirrors; in each glass, adjusted to his vision, do you see yourself as Picasso saw you, at one time or another? Which—if any—pleases you? The moon-white nude, bathing in her own light beneath the luxuriant foliage of the philodendron? or by the sea, that other nude, a strange coalescence of monster and seductress, all at once statuesque and vulnerable, sensual, yet clinically cold? . . . Perhaps it’s the tide that whispers, poor, poor Olga . . . Linger in reflection amid the still lifes; there is something of your smile in those red tulips. And there you are, wrought from wire and welded iron, his Daphne among the leaves in the chateau glade. Go deeper. Look closer. The hall has become a mirrorball and memory has set it spinning. In a blur of colour the Marne swirls you in its water-glass, spits you out in grisaille in Guernica, as the girl frantically running from left to right; the girl with a lamp at an upstairs window; the mother wailing for her dead child. So many lives that might have been yours. Canvas might liberate you, Marie-Thérèse, but flesh? Never. At least, not until—don’t think of that now . . . think of the dove, breasting her eggs. Were you not glad that was you? Your fellow captive, black as night, clawing and squawking inside the cage might have been you, in another life. Dora? War? Who might you have been, otherwise?


“Gala, it is
your blood with which I paint . . .
you are my bread”—
the woven arms and bared breast
of Dali’s la fornarina


brushed into her braids
the soft spill of her hair
in darkness
the almost parted lips
of Wyeth’s Helga

And if Time, the greatest artist of all, could take one moment of your life and sculpt it from marble, or bronze, render it in oils or gouache, frame it with gold, or place it under glass, which would you choose? When were you happiest? Would you sit for him at Le Tremblay, with Maya on your lap, sometime during that sweet hour of eternity amidst the candles, the cut flowers, the fruit bowls, when Pic was the attentive lover, the devoted father? Or would you be on your bicycle, flashing through sunlight and shadow on your way to Boisgeloup to be mistress for the week while Olga was in Paris? Perhaps you’d wish to remain forever on the brink of womanhood, shopping at the Galeries Lafayette, your fingers about to brush that col claudine, the Master’s sleeve, the hem of immortality . . .


from that Minoan shore
to the whetstone
of Phidias’ dream
and the fire of his blade

a patina
of coiled, breathing bangles
scale by scale
the snake goddess stripped
of her livery

and re-cast
from the patriarchal mould
the sloughed-off layers
of her sensual skin
trimmings for her aegis

a She-tower
of chryselephantine
swift allegiance
of the brave, the bold

graven image
robed in motionless gold
and deathly cold as
the Gorgon at her breast

the glistening spear
and Winged Victory . . .
clandestine, at her feet
the limping smith-god’s child

a pedestal fit
for the Brightly-Crowned
Bringer of Strife:
the birth of Pandora
carved ivory relief

Golden Ages . . .
flowers from the garden
in a cobalt vase . . .
from the ray of a petal
pollen in the press of time

Author’s Notes

Images of Paintings cited in Tanka:

Dali’s la fornarina
Klimt’s Adele
Manet’s Victorine
Wyeth’s Helga


Femme Assiss Pres D’une Fenetre (Woman Sitting Near A Window, 1932) by Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) is a portrait of Marie-Thérèse Walter, the artist’s “golden muse.” It sold at auction in February 2013 for £28,601,250. Marie-Thérèse (1909-1977) was Picasso’s French mistress and model from 1927 to around 1935. She was mother to his daughter, Maya. The affair began when Marie-Thérèse was 17 and Picasso was 45. He was still married to Olga (see below). Four years after Picasso’s death, 50 years after the couple first met, Marie-Thérèse committed suicide by hanging herself.

1) Olga Khokhlova (1891-1955), Picasso’s first wife.

2) Dora Maar (1907-1977), said to be Picasso’s “dark muse.” A skilled photographer, she recorded every stage in the development of Guernica (1937), arguably Picasso’s greatest masterpiece. Dora and Marie-Thérèse, rivals for the artist’s affections, are reputed to have wrestled each other, allegedly in front of Guernica, after Picasso told them to fight it out for themselves. In his painting Birds in a Cage (1937), Marie-Thérèse is depicted as the gentle, white dove, so Picasso’s preference appears to be clear.

3) Château de Boisgeloup: the country estate of which Olga was mistress at weekends while Marie-Thérèse resided there during the week.

4) col claudine, a Peter Pan collar.


(I) Victorine Meurent (1844-1927),the favourite model of Edouard Manet(1832-1883), inspiration for such works as Olympia (1863) and Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe (1862-3).

(II) Adele Bloch-Bauer, painted by Gustav Klimt(1862-1918)in 1907.

(III) Gala Dalí, wife of Salvador Dalí(1904-1989). The Portrait of Galerina (1940-45) is a tribute to La Fornarina by Renaissance painter Raphael (1483-1520).

(IV) The Helga Pictures, a series of more than 240 paintings and drawings of German model Helga Testorf, (born c.1939), created by Andrew Wyeth (1917-2009) over the course of 15 years. The sittings were a secret even to the artist and model’s spouses. Braids was painted in 1979.

(V) Mycenaean culture flourished between 1600 BC when Helladic culture in mainland Greece was transformed under the influence of Minoan Crete, until around 1100 BC and the collapse of Bronze Age civilization. Long before the heyday of Athens, the northern patriarchal Hellenic tribes subverted the feminine, matriarchal Cretan goddesses (such as the Minoan snake goddess, protectress of hearth and home) whom they gave a new, masculine origin, making her acceptable to their patriarchal culture by clothing her in armour and making her subsidiary to an exalted Zeus (formerly a minor ‘year spirit,’ or consort to the goddess in Minoan culture). Athena Parthenos(Athena the Virgin), sculpted by Phidias (c.480-430 BC) and his assistants, and housed in the Parthenon. A massive gold and ivory sculpture of the city’s patron goddess, deemed the most renowned cult image of Athens.


Drawing Hands

Drawing Hands

For Owen

When we are deeply in touch with the present moment, we can see that all our ancestors and all future generations are present in us. Seeing this, we will know what to do and what not to do – for ourselves, our ancestors, our children, and their children.

                                                                                   — Thich Nhat Hanh


Come upstairs, down to great Grandma Boyle’s room. She got her smile from you and she’s always making something out of nothing – usually mischief.  Across the landing, in the room next door, great Grandad Price is teaching you five-point perspective, just as you showed him. He takes your pencil from behind his ear where you left it before you were born.

sleight of hand

and rule of thumb

in that armchair

depth is not

the only illusion


There I am, at the boarded-up window, watching the birds that I’m still too young to name. “Swifts!” I cry, just as I always did.



without making

a mark . . .

yesterday screams by

on tomorrow’s wings


Dad, four years old – see how he has your brother’s ears? Why not sit Dad on your knee while you draw Popeye and Mickey Mouse for him, just like he used to do for me and my sisters? Tell him how he’s going to love to go to the Saturday morning picture show.



of mercury . . .

the slightest touch

and the drawing

comes alive


Do you feel that figure brushing by? One of your favourite artists hangs a print in this distant room . . .


drawing each other

on the blank page

of the finished work

we are what we are

yet to be and always were


Author’s Note
: The title is taken from the lithograph by M. C. Escher (1898-1972)

Haibun Today 6:3, September 2012


And we are here as on a darkling plain . . .

— Matthew Arnold

Sometime after midnight, we haul ourselves onto the raft. Here, at least, there is some semblance of stillness. In a few breaths, while I rest my head on your shoulder, we are one with the pulse of the sea. On a clear night like this, the only reflections belong to ourselves, the moon and the stars. And these are all flotsam.

vanished headland
rocks of the darkling plain . . .
somewhere, still
the grey grind of surf
and shale’s cold sting

of words unformed
of shells unborn
I roll my tongue
around mother-of-pearl

anemones . . .
how slowly red sumi-e
winds through saltwater
your breath on my neck,
your lips brushing mine

deep night
we cross a causeway
of moonlit shells . . .
touch leaves no imprint,
we return to the swell

and so we drift
trailing our fingers
in the wine-dark sea
until night, like the cormorant
dries its wings


Haibun Today, 6:2, June 2012


Words are inadequate and I have little to add to the tributes that have flooded in for Hortensia Anderson. I offer two haiga in her memory and in gratitude for the beauty of her life and her poetry. The first is a collaboration between myself and my artist son, Owen. It’s a few months old, but it pretty much describes how I feel now that we have lost another fine poet. The second was my response to three consecutive prompts by Sheila Windsor, the current NaHaiWriMo prompter: ‘open’, ‘ink’ and ‘Hortensia’. I thank my daughter Amy for drawing the swift for me.




and in Hortensia’s own words:

I hold a slice
of freshly cut maple,
whether to lacquer the wood
or burn it to tracelessness

hortensia anderson
(Ribbons Tanka Cafe Winter 2011)


She will be greatly missed, but she has left us much to cherish.

A small sample of her work:

Contemporary Haibun Online

Haibun Today

The Plenitude of Emptiness

 The Plenitude of Emptiness (Hortensia Anderson blogspot)


May eternal peace be yours, Hortensia…

Tuning Out

Tuning Out  

in a lifetime
four round-trips to the moon . . . 
ah, these wings!

Brushstrokes. These breaths of blue. Everywhere, the faint crackle of insects and dawn to dusk the sound of swifts screaming and chittering as they tune in to summer. Mating, even sleeping on the wing; only stopping to rear young. Life in the fast lane. What need is there to pause, with a maw full of flies and a raindrop here and there to quench your thirst? Called ‘footless’ by the Romans, a grounded swift is a pitiful sight.

cut the engine
over enemy lines
and drift back down

World War I. A French airman thinks his eyes are deceiving him. At 10,000 feet, he sails through a colony of dozing swifts. What it is to ascend through twilight and glide through a gnat’s eye of slumber, to find yourself, moments later, miles from where your dreams began.

finding stillness
in a mind that’s never still . . . 
swift on the wing



Contemporary Haibun Online  8:1, April 2012




between stones
and crests of foam
from the weir of this day
we go to bathe with dippers

I recall the words of the old lady who stopped to admire my young family all those years ago. With three children under the age of six, I was more than happy to accept her advice: Leave the housework, the dust will still be there long after you’re gone. It wasn’t always easy to hold that maxim in mind, but the older I get, the more it comes back to me. In a shaft of sunlight, oh, the poetry of those twirling dust motes!

not sugared, simmered,
ladled into sterile jars
but wild . . .
summer’s blood
forever on my tongue

I can’t deny the pleasure of slipping between Mum’s freshly laundered sheets, flipping my pillow to the cool side of a Sea Breeze or a Woodland Dream, but there was little joy in learning how to perform a perfect cartwheel when I got a short, sharp smack for the grass stains on my Daz-white socks. I loved to draw, but never became confident with colour when I could barely move for newpaper, protective sheet, the tightness of those apron strings and Mum following my every move with a cloth in her hand. The veneer of her life shone like a new pin. Inside, a lonely woman became increasingly resigned to her lacklustre dreams. Such guilt I felt in wishing she was more like my friend’s Mum, who would follow her bliss at any given moment, stopping to bake cherry scones on laundry day, singing as she kneaded and rolled the dough, the foaming twin-tub skewed across their tiny kitchen floor.

there is
always time
for dust
and yet
no time

“Come on,” I say to my daughter, “let’s go!”

Note: Caddisfly larvae, Trichoptera, are a large part of the dipper’s diet.

 Haibun Today, December 2011





RSPB guide to Dippers


The Mirror

clear water…
the white-robed egret takes
the Druid’s staff
Within minutes, my world is in perfect focus. All that has been troubling me fades when my eye feels the scope’s coolness and adjusts to the light. My breathing  becomes calm, my chest expands and my neck seems to lengthen.
How might I stand still on shifting sand?  Tucked away, beneath the squall, with what faith might I quill this wing? What it would be to close my eyes and preen deeper into the breast of darkness.
the one-legged Jain
in a godwit’s reflection…
summer rains


first published  in Simply Haiku


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