Alan Summers, Earthlings: Allan Burns

Alan Summers, The Deep End of the Sky: Chad Lee Robinson, What Was Here:
Julie Warther, The Sound of Shadows: Chase Gagnon, grandma’s chip bowl:
David Jacobs

Lorin Ford, An inch of Sky: Paresh Tiwari

Ljubomir Radovančević, Minimalistic haiku-art by Djurdja Vukelić-Rožić

Garry Eaton, Antlered Stag of Dawn: Gabriel Rosenstock

Patricia Prime, Gathering Dusk: Ellen Compton

Guy Simser, Voice of the Cicada: Raffael de Gruttola


Vol. 12, No 20. Summer 2015

Fay Aoyagi, In Borrowed Shoes: Clelia Ifrim


Vol. 11, No. 19, Winter 2014

Dietmar Tauchner, noise of our origin / rauschen unseres ursprungs: Lorin Ford

Milenko D. Ćirović Ljutički, Здраво 'свануо/Happy Wake Up: Zoran Raonić


Vol. 11, No. 18, Spring 2014

robert d. wilson, A Soldier's Bones: Boris Nazansky

Charles Trumbull, A Five-Balloon Morning: Marian Olson

Damir Janjalija, Sloboda u izmaglici / Freedom in the Mist: Dimitar Anakiev


Vol. 10, No. 17, Summer 2013

Issa's Best: A Translator's Selection of Master Haiku by Issa Kobayashi; English translation by David G. Lanoue

Vesna Oborina, Proljeće u srcu / Spring in the Heart: Zoran Raonić, Milenko D. Ćirović Ljutički


Vol. 9, No. 16, Summer 2013


Damir Janalija, Otisci snova/Imprints of Dreams: Dimitar Anakiev

David G. Lanoue, Frog Poet, Red Moon Press: Curtis Dunlap, Michael McClintock, Marjorie Buettner


Vol. 8, No. 15, Winter 2011

George Swede, Joy in Me Still: Haiku: Michael Dylan Welch

Helen Buckingham, Armadillo Basket: Liam Wilkinson

Ljubomir Dragović, Uska staza/ A Narrow Road: Robert D. Wilson

Tomislav Maretić, Leptir nad pučinom (Butterfly over the Open Sea): Dubravko Marijanović


Vol. 8, No. 14, Summer 2011

Helen Buckingham, Christmas City: A Haiku Sequence: Anatoly Kudryavitsky

Zlata Bogović, Pjesma slavuja / Nightingale's Song: Vladimir Devidé, Vasile Moldovan, Đurđa Vukelić-Rožić, Zvonko Petrović

Petar Tchouhov, Safety Pins: Morelle Smith

Slavko J. Sedlar, Таквост 3 (Suchness 3): Mileta AĆIMOVIĆ IVKOV, Nadja Brankov, Zoran Raonić

Ljubomir Dragović, Uska staza/A Narrow Road: Vladimir Devidé, Mileta Aćimović Ivkov, Dragan Jovanović Danilov, Dimitar Anakiev




Lorin Ford, Australia

apology moon – Cherie Hunter Day


book cover
apology moon
by Cherie Hunter Day
Red Moon Press. 2013
ISBN: 978-1-936848-28-7
Pages: 64
Size: 4.25" x 6.5"
Binding: perfect softbound
Price: $US 12.00

apology moon, Cherie Hunter Day’s second full length haiku collection, is deservedly a winner of The Haiku Foundation’s 2013 Touchstone Book Awards. As well as remarking on Day’s background as a biologist and on the range of haiku in this book, the Touchstone panel reports that “The majority of the haiku are nature-orientated . . . Others employ some of the disjunctive strategies articulated by Richard Gilbert.” Indeed, the following haiku, included in apology moon, is anthologised in Gilbert’s The Disjunctive Dragonfly1, under the category heading, “The Impossibly True”:

salt wind ripples on an inner lake

“Haiku of the impossibly true”, Gilbert states, “reveal that realism is a subset of reality . . . (these haiku) penetrate to the deeper layers of identity and self, providing a glimpse of the ground of poetic being.” Day’s haiku shows us that what’s perceived with the senses (salt wind) calls forth a mirroring, responding self. While we live and breathe, the barriers between outside and inside, self and other are permeable. A sensuous cue, such as the touch and scent of a salt wind, will spark associated memories but the embodiment suggested here goes further than that and can best be spoken of in metaphor.

However, it’s the haiku that apology moon takes its title from that urges me to jump in at the deep end. There’s always a reason why an author selects a particular haiku to provide a collection’s title and I imagine Day chose this one quite carefully. I find it, in Gilbert’s terminology, the most “reader- resistant” of all of the haiku in this book:

apology moon
tonight the word
is ‘meniscus’

Here, Day overtly reminds us that, as readers, we perceive through language, at a remove from direct perception through the senses. Our language has its history in older languages. Meniscus comes via Latin from the old Greek for moon, mēnē. Here, 'meniscus' might identify the shape of the present moon (☾-shaped or ☽-shaped) and/or a cartilage in the human knee. Or the moon might metaphorically be the ☾ or ☽ (or the ☾ + ☽) shaped lens that the apology is investigated through. Or all of these, alternatively.

What sort of apology is it that Day has associated with the moon and to what or whom is it directed? Should we read ‘apology’ as the usual “I’m sorry” sort or as “a formal defence or justification”? (Shelley’s nineteenth century A Defence of Poetry is an example of the second kind of apology.) Is Day suggesting something like an almanac time when apologies of one sort or the other are in season? Perhaps, but not necessarily only that. ‘Apology’ is another word that derives via Latin from old Greek – apologia, made up of the prefix - apo (“from, off”) and the suffix logos (“speech / the word”). As far as human beings go, “In the Beginning was the Word…”, but the moon was there before this beginning, before speech, before even pointing. The haiku is left open to reader interpretation and cannot be resolved, but it certainly focuses, lens-like, our attention on language and the “vertical axes” in language itself. In the light of this haiku, the idea of haiku as a “wordless poem” begins to look a bit like one of Plato’s ghostly “ideal forms”.

The use of old Greek and Latin words, such as meniscus, is essential for allocating names in the biological and medical sciences, as the meanings remain fixed and stable and can be understood worldwide, unlike the shifting meanings of words in living languages. This view has been subject to contention from some quarters in recent years, though, which brings us to the humorous pairing of the haiku on the facing page to the ‘apology moon’ ku:

dawn crows the scuffle of nomenclature

I chuckle at the irreverence of this striking revelation. Who would’ve thought that ‘scuffle’ and the ragged, raucous noises of crows going about their group business could be associated with something as seemingly fixed and orderly as nomenclature? On second thought, I’ve read some of the debates on nomenclature by Wikipedia contributors. For instance one person claims, wrongly but high-handedly, that the plural of platypus is platypi, until another comes along and informs him that he doesn’t know his Greek from his Latin and it should be platipodes. A third suggests the debate is meaningless, since everyone familiar with these animals calls them platypuses. A scuffle, indeed.

Moving on from sampling Day’s more challenging, language-oriented haiku, I was delighted to find one of my favourite haiku in apology moon, the luscious:

calla lily
the sound of a ladder

Through the repeated alliteration, the lily and the ladder’s sound are drawn together. I have these lilies, the white variety, in my yard. In late spring to early summer the flower stalks seem to lengthen visibly as one watches. Is the juxtaposition of the sound of an (extension) ladder lengthening a lovely rendition of synaesthesia, in the tradition of Basho’s “the sea darkens/ the voices of wild ducks/ are faintly white”? Yes, and the quotation from Rilke that prefaces apology moon would seem to support such a reading:

“Everything is blooming most recklessly;
if it were voices instead if colours,
there would be an unbelievable shrieking
into the heart of the night.”

That’s not the only possible reading, however. The romantic in me suggests an alternative scene of a lily-lit night complete with an unseen, stealthy Romeo about to visit his Juliet. Neither of these readings exhausts the possibilities. Another of the haiku, which employs a central ‘hinge’ or ‘pivot’ line, might very well have been written in homage to Chiyo-ni’s famous ‘morning glory/ well bucket’ haiku, but proposes a more likely quandary for the contemporary householder:

the trim needs paint
in all the usual places
nesting finches

In the following haiku, do we see a danger to the mother cat and kittens? Some readers might. Worry about the cat and kittens may be implied. Having seen mother cats leap amazing heights, over and over again and each time with a kitten in mouth, I rather see this cat as having deliberately chosen this place as relatively safe from interference because of the missing rung.

new litter of kittens
the missing rung
on the hayloft ladder

As the Touchstone judges report, the range of Day’s themes and approaches to haiku is remarkable. There is a skilfully presented variety of haiku in apology moon, more than sufficient to satisfy any contemplative reader.

winding road
for the next eight miles

cranial sutures
the continents no longer
fit together

a minute more daylight than yesterday paperwhites

The juxtaposition in ‘winding road’ provides a pleasant experience, the choice of music being nicely suited to accompany the relaxed adaptation needed to drive a winding road, but try reading the ‘cranial sutures’ haiku when you’re suffering from cranial nerve pain and your head feels as if it’s splitting! (I swear I felt my brain wince.) ‘a minute more’ so captures the intent and feeling of my own short, shivering forays into the backyard this Melbourne winter, I almost feel I wrote it! But I didn’t – Cherie Hunter Day wrote it for all of us. This haiku encapsulates the way we still look to the familiar, seasonal events of nature to orient ourselves in the world. The sight and incomparable scent of the humble paperwhite narcissus signals the return of the light for each world hemisphere in its turn. Spring will come, though incrementally. The celebratory countdown begins, again, quite as much for us in this age of advanced technology as it did for observers at Stonehenge in more ancient times.

This review will be published on the first day of spring in Australia, in late summer in the Northern Hemisphere. Wherever there are readers who appreciate finely crafted haiku, Cherie Hunter Day’s apology moon will be a long-time companion for all seasons.

1. Page 62, The Disjunctive Dragonfly, Richard Gilbert. Red Moon Press, 2008. Revised and updated, 2013.


First appeared in A Hundred Gourds 4:4 September 2015.

Republished by the author’s premission.