ant ant ant ant ant four

July 15, 2013 § Leave a comment

“In many ways the culmination of my original vision for the journal.”

ai li, Ronald Baatz, Peter Bakowski, Michael Basinski, Guy R. Beining, Ed Bennett, John M. Bennett, Ernest J. Berry, Diane Borsenik, Jason Sanford Brown, Tom Clausen, MTC Cronin, Bill DiMichele, A. di Michele, Dennis H. Dutton, John Elsberg, Crag Hill, Gary Hotham, Dorothy Howard, Jim Kacian, W. B. Keckler, M. Kettner, Jim Leftwitch, Shawn Lindsay, Paul Long, paul m., Robert Major, Errol Miller, Sheila E. Murphy, Dan Nielsen, Jim Normington, Simon Perchik, Anthony J. Pupello, George Ralph, William Ramsey, Dennis Saleh, Hiroaki Sato, Sam Savage, Caroline Steinhoff Smith, John Stevenson, Michael Dylan Welch, Arizona Zipper.

http://en.calameo.com/read/00251154550cdc71c99db

ant ant ant ant ant five

July 7, 2013 § Leave a comment

Now available for the first time here the complete facsimile of the Spring 2002 issue of ant ant ant ant ant. Hiroaki Sato translates selections from Tomizawa Kakio’s Wolf in Heaven. D.A. Levy’s Secret Garden Mix. Samples from M. Kettner’s  Full Penny Jar. Jim Kacian’s The Slate Step Brightens. She Rouses Briefly And Says Dragonfly by Chris Gordon. All original design elements included:

http://en.calameo.com/read/002511545dd1f66feb5c4

HIROAKI SATO ant ant ant ant ant four

November 9, 2011 § Leave a comment

Wartime

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February when people often die has come again

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Kubota Mantarô

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For my child leaving I pick moonlit eggplants and cook them

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Takeshita Shizunojo

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In the midst of layered spring haze a murderous intent

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Ugaki Matome

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The black cat too is painfully summer-thin in my house

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Mitsuhashi Takajo

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“Cease with destruction” “Cease with destruction” my heart freezes

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Kubota Mantarô

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In the pitch-dark room I remain leaning on a papered door

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Takeshita Shizunojo

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I fold only cranes with my child in the autumn shower

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Fubasami Fusae

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Under a two-day moon the Divine State has gotten small

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Watanabe Suiha

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All of them the writings my husband left in this seed bag

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Takeshita Shizunojo

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Survived: I sowed buckwheat and now it has flowered

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Hayashibara Raisei

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Hiroaki Sato, Translator

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TOMIZAWA KAKIO by HIROAKI SATO ant ant ant ant ant five

October 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

Scenery In Green Flames

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Cold thunder a single fish slaps heaven

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To cross the strait something vermillion stirs

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Soughing out of my lung a blue butterfly’s wings

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The day honey overflows in bee hives its heaviness

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The shadow merely the migrant birds above the salt lake

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The light turned off oh the heaviness of mercury

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When the snow falls the snow falls quietly nude

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The night the snow accumulates I become a deep-sea fish

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In the evening wind both horse and woman are in the wind

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Night the moon falls I live in the shadow of leaves

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Night the rain smolders I remain closed with petals

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Camellias fall oh this lukewarm midday fire

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Day of pollen the birds do not have breasts I see

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Chickens mate and the sun’s letting mud drip

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Swaying geese come scenery in green flames

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I turn into a snake a drop of water taking a walk

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A butterfly glistening glistening and I darken

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Away in the yellow wind they strip a house duck naked

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Right in the middle of autumn wind a blue shell hole

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Torn clouds here on earth are 15-centimeter howitzers

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Autumn deep clanking our canteens we eat

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Dead ahead clouds glittering forced to cross a river

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There getting wet rain-red is a hand grenade

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Night bandage smudges with blood geese fly honking

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The trench’s belly blood-red in undulating rains

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In the blue sky I hammer a nail that makes a piercing sound

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Deep in my ears I hide a single red machine gun

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Gluing themselves to my retina are mud and muck

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Deep in my chest a gray gun carriage overturns

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I close my eyes and in the void a black horse prances

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FUJIKI KIYOKO by HIROAKI SATO ant ant ant ant ant six

September 30, 2011 § 2 Comments

As If She Were Machinery

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In deep autumn I go on traveling unenlightened

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The scent of perfume so lively sudden loneliness

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The quiet sound of a falling mosquito resounds in my body

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Ears of wheat reveal the depth and shallows of the sea

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The day my black hair’s heavy and cold we part

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A spring evening I ride a car with an ordinary man

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Katydids my perspective gradually narrows

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A girl’s limbs are thin and wise air-conditioned

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Having got used to the depth of war I love a dog

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Summer deep I sleep the day with my own smell

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Fingerprints of desolation everywhere clouds white

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The trifoliate orange is sharp the lady’s elegant

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Oppressed by the sea in twilight I await a train

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Covered by the sounds of insects lies a brain

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Lonely spring a wife lives as if she were machinery

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The night I give up and sew the needle shines

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A white moon turns to gold above the young leaves

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Through my temples a locomotive dashes dark

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Here’s life the fruit juice amber transparent

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Early autumn’s good my veins transparent arteries pulse

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Rainy season desolate I find myself with peanut shells

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At a katydid I feel as if noon day were sinking

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With dusk slow to fall gruel’s cooking at my feet

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Knotweed growing thin falls into the typhoon zone

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A spring evening is wound down toward the apple skin

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Coming away from parting I drink hard cold water

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White noon no white letter comes knocking

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Only a horsefly’s voice annoying my ears I make unlined clothes

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Having lived single-mindedly I’ve lost my goal

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CHRIS GORDON A Guide To Haiku For The 21st Century (1997)

April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Everything Comes But The Bus

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the countenance of the little girl muted distant televisions

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a purple evening in the window she folds her underwear

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snagged on the rock the water going out with the tide

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on the edge of the paper an ant the smell of rain without the rain

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diving into the shudder of darkness maybe this time

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lunacy a lost poem about an acetylene torch

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doppelganger spring a drawer of sex toys and failed medicines

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willow leaves drag against my scalp I can’t see her eyes

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morning thick and humid they forgot to turn off the streetlights

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ducks break the surface in the dark blurry crescent moons

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she’s in the shower an airplane crosses the darkness in the trees

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wind stirs the wind chimes on the porch there’s a fire

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clapping my hands I kill a mosquito find it was a moth

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the drip down the back of her thigh a mourning dove calls

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the brown dusk held by algae blooms an egret’s feather

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he washes his feet in the lake the cormorants their wings

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sheets soaked her hand draws away from my breath

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brief warm spell over thumping the outside of the pane the flies

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putting on my glasses gnats hover above my face

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weeks later her sweet voice it’s just a machine

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visible only in the shaft of light a fly her crumpled clothes

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the full moon low a dead tree its seed cones

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the dark shape of a spider wrapping a moth it starts raining

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the smell of garbage cans she asks me to keep her ring anyway

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imagining her with someone else behind the blinds the moon

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my cold foot steps on her bra still warm

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rain louder than thoughts everything comes but the bus

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still sick the tree shadows as real as the trees

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dressing afterwards her voice hardens

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winter again in my coat pocket a strand of her hair

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selected by Hiroaki Sato for A Guide to Haiku for the 21st Century (Gendai Haiku Kyokai 1997)

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