Saturday, October 04, 2014

Maria Callas "La Wally"

Ode to Aphrodite

Deathless Aphrodite throned in flowers,
Daughter of Zeus, O terrible enchantress,
With this sorrow, with this anguish, break my spirit,
Lady, no longer!
Hear anew the voice! O hear and listen!
Come as in that island dawn thou camest,
Billowing in thy yoked cart to Sappho
Forth from thy father’s
Golden house in pity!... I remember
Fleet and fair thy sparrows drew thee, beating
Fast their wings above the dusky harvests,
Down the pale heavens,
Lighting anon!  And thou, O blest and brightest,
Smiling with immortal eyelids, asked me:
“Maiden, what betideth thee?  Or wherefore
Callest upon me?
“What is here the longing more than other,
Here in this mad heart?  And who the lovely
One beloved thou would not lure to loving?
Sappho, who wrongs thee?
How so unwilling..
Come again to me!  O now!  Release me!
End the great pang!  And all my heart desireth
Now of fulfillment, fulfill!  O Aphrodite,
Fight by my shoulder!

Monday, June 09, 2014

Waterlily Series by Pamela A. Babusci and Diane Dehler

I have always been drawn to waterlilies as symbols of wisdom and transformation. In my pursuit of the waterlily I seek the joy and transcendence that emerges from perception of perfect beauty. I approach photography as only a poet can: with an intuitive heart & desire to become that which I perceive; a perfect moment of a flower.

Friday, June 06, 2014

La Beauté
fair as a dream in stone I loom afar
— mortals! — with dazzling breast where, bruised in turn
all poets fall in silence, doomed to burn
with love eternal as the atoms are.
white as a swan I throne with heart of snow
in azure space, a sphynx that none divine,
no hateful motion mars my lovely line,
nor tears nor laughter shall I ever know.
and poets, lured by this magnificence
— this grandeur proud as Parian monuments —
toil all their days like martyrs in a spell;
lovers bewitched are they, for I possess
pure mirrors harbouring worlds of loveliness:
my wide, wide eyes where fires eternal dwell!
— Lewis Piaget Shanks,

Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

Monday, June 02, 2014

a tanka, said Princess Haiku

white magnolia
from a flower market
bathing in a
transparent bowl of moonlight
perfume of forgotten desire

Quill and Parchment June 2014

Thursday, May 29, 2014

a haiga in becoming said Princess Haiku

This water lily has excellent potential to become a haiga after I write a tanka to go along with it. I captured this image in the lily pond at The San Francisco Botanical Garden yesterday. It was one of those perfect days when spring has catalyzed an amazing blitz of floral beauty.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Secret Text by Diane Dehler

Secret Text

I was browsing through my favorite used bookstore.
To my delight I found a 1955 copy of
“The Selected Poems of Frederico Garcia Lorca.”
Inside the book was a faded slip of paper perhaps
used as a bookmark.  On it were written these words
which I have embraced as a secret text for all of us.

“…ourselves before and ourselves after.
This assures anonymity.  While we can talk with each
other and feel each other, we cannot identify each other.
Thus you will never be able to be entirely sure that each
person you meet for the rest of your life, has not
participated in the Lorcian with you.”

Diane Dehler

Published in the Munyori Literary Review

Sunday, May 04, 2014

Hot breath of all desire by Diane Dehler

Hot breath of all desire

rises straight high
a spirit wind, winged
beast awakened

Poised on a cliff’s
steep jutting edge
with sharp claws
as pink as dawn.

Embodied writing, the
pale of me and your
molten leopard flesh.
Hot breath of all desire
splattered with pattern

Of wild rosettes.
A stealthy approach
sly leopard licks salt
of my flesh, feeding

On my sheer wild
nakedness -- bleeding
creation all over me.
Solitude of a leopard
joins passion.

Diane Dehler

Published in the Munyori Literary Review

Monday, April 28, 2014

Face Transparent, was published by Contemporary Literary Horizon

My eyes are wild roses underwater.
They disappear every morning and wake up at night tide.

Dangerous ghost love, friends warn me.
Princess Nukuda lays her cheek next to mine,

Curls with me into dawn, on an indigo tatami mat.
Dreams in-between morning and sorrow.

Ono No Komachi, my tears belong to
Poetry and not to love.

I am certain a small corner of paradise endures.

Kiss the water,
Kiss the silvery fish with moon,
Kiss the ghost.

Immortal seasons of love lead into the startling center,
Where Kasa No Iratsume, embraces me with scent of ink.

Cream skin, soft petal soft.

My hair pale, not as white as a rose in moonlight.
The immortals will comfort me.

All of us, beneath a raspberry tinted shawl laughing.
Abandoned, flower growing dream and ghost love.

There is no past, for love this moment awakens,
As the moon rides across the sky in a tantric dance.

The world is covered with plum blossoms,
white, purple fragrance, petals for all.

I offer them to every one as you will not have them.
My indifferent beauty, indifferent song.

A man possessed of Buddha is lost to love.
Why should his lips taste so sweet on mine?

Wild rose under moon, I drown myself,
And do not die because water gives forth life.

Poet of many graces save, love.
Lost perfume lingers through years.

Does this shade of fuchsia honor the immortal robe?

Diane Dehler

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Persephone; a poem by Diane Dehler


I can be seen
Slipping down the dusk
In a thin black boat.
Oars made of my 
Wooden love, send 
Chilly notes of reproach 
Through watery channels.
I pass beneath frozen
Rocks that dazzle me
Cold black and grey designs.
A solitary bell tolls,
Persephone’s bell
Ringing an ancient time.
One moment past tragedy
Hours before dawn.
Remembering roses and
Sunlight, windy clouds,
Rain on my face. 
There are crevices where 
My eyes once were.
You who have tasted the
Bitter red fruit 
Of love, we know one 
Another you  and I.

Diane Dehler

Published in the Taj Mahal Review Vol. 12 Number 2

Saturday, March 15, 2014

a white peacock said, Princess Haiku

Charles Tomlinson Griffes was born 1884 at Elmira, New York and lived a quiet life until an early death at age 36. Griffes early developed an interest in the Far East and one of his favorite authors was Lafacadio Hearn, a kindred spirit in literature. "After he saturated himself with Hearn the young Griffes began to absorb all of the literature he could find on Persia, Hindustan, Japan and China. Though influenced by Debussy the White Peacock was inspired by a poem of William Sharp".

Guide to Listening:

"The music paints a garden on which a tropical sun bets relentlessly.  This garden is rich in blooming magnolia, honey flowers, multi colored poppies, and pomegranate; and in it "cream white and soft" struts a while peacock. A languorous melody paints the beauty of the vain creature as it moves through the garden. Glistening with a subdued glow, strange chords flow one into the other, picturing the lush growth and vivid colors of the garden..."

Excerpt from "The Story of One Hundred Symphonic Favorites," by Paul Grabbe.

Saturday, March 08, 2014

the moon after rain said Princess Haiku

The Moon After Rain

Died 1205

Isn't she waiting for the moon in the village at the end of the clouds as the fierce rains recede?

On the Moon above the Chrysanthemums on the Woven Fence:

Waiting for frost the chrysanthemums on the woven fence take on the color of the moon at the rim of hills.

On Mount tatsuta the storm must have weakened at the peak: even the water uncrossed has torn brocade.

translated by Hiroaki Sato

Saturday, March 01, 2014

Anne Hebert

More and More Narrow

That woman at her window
A place for her elbows on the sill
A vermillion furor tied to her side
Lovely nasturtium in blue sandstone.

She watches a bitter traffic pass
And doesn't budge
All day
Afraid to bump into that wall of silence behind her.

Frosted breath on her neck
Silent space where that man of salt
Has just enough place
Between the woman's back and the wall
To damn her veins that freeze each time he breathes
His slow, cold and immobile breath.

Anne Hebert

© BOA Editions, Ltd 1987

Saturday, February 08, 2014

a leopard flower from, Ono no Komachi said Princess Haiku

Ono no Komachi
(fl. 833-858)

The color of the flower has faded, as vainly as my life and world have passed in these long rains..

Because I fell asleep thinking of him I saw him. Had I known it was a dream I wouldn't have woken.

Ever since I saw someone I love while dozing I've been depending on what you called dreams.

When I miss him desperately I wear my leopard-seed nightclothes turned inside out.

In the real world all right perhaps: Seeing you watching for others' eyes in a dream desolates me.

Following my endless thoughts I'll come by night; it it's a dreampath, no one should notice me.

Translated by Hiroaki Sato.

I just ordered a copy of this wonderful book!

Thursday, February 06, 2014

Helene Grimaud plays a ravishing Brahms Concerto with the San Francisco Symphony...

Helene Grimaud, played a ravishing Brahms Concerto today with the SF Symphony. Confronted with a keyboard, Grimaud becomes a conjure woman; channeling otherworldly force and beauty. Her fingers pulse and radiate across the keys with an almost supernatural strength, power and sensitivity. During her performance she enters a hypnotic fugue where all is music and draws her audience into her own personal realm. -A place where music is created anew each time she performs

Saturday, February 01, 2014

a flower, a poet, Yves Bonnefoy

The Task of Hope

It is dawn. Has this lamp, then, finished
Its task of hope, hand placed
In the clouded mirror, on the fever
Of the one who kept watch, not knowing how to die?

But it is true that he has not put it out,
It still burns for him, in spite of the sky.
The seagulls screech their soul at your frost-covered
Window, morning sleeper, boat from another river.

Yves Bonnefoy

Translated by John Naughton

Monday, January 27, 2014

To Debussy by Diane Dehler

To Debussy

In a bottle of sea,
Debussy dreams of
Sharps and subdued
Flats. Muted flute trills
Through water. Salt water
Clings to a wet chemise.
A muse eluding poetry,
Symbolist music speaking
Beneath mind.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Anyone wishing to purchase a signed copy of, "A Solitary Woman;" contact Pamela Babusci at: moongate44@gmail.
i carry
borrowed moonlight
into the house
only a translucent memory
of myself exists

A Solitary Woman – Tanka by Pamela A. Babusci. Trade Paper-Back, 5.5 x 8.5 , 76 pages, $15. Available at the Createspace e-store: Introduction by David Terelinck. Cover Art Still Water Bath by Larry DeKock, oil painting. For a signed copy contact . ISBN-13: 978-1492846741 ISBN-10: 1492846740
Re...viewed by Jane Reichhold

When I first opened this book and began reading of all the people involved in the making of it, I was struck by the contrast to the title. Babusci may see herself as a woman alone in the world, but she has the distinct ability to garner the talents and cooperation of a large number of persons.

I found the introduction by David Terelinck, of Australia, to be especially well-written and luminary with his sensitive insights into Babusci’s tanka poems. The best review one could give this book would be to reprint his words. Even the blurbs on the back cover seemed to be the best reasons for getting a copy of this book:

"There are many reasons to fall in love with A Solitary Woman. I did! Lovely, sensuous, brave, spirited tanka in the tradition of Izumi Shikubu, Yosano Akiko, Akitsu Ei and countless others who took the joys and pains of love, life and loss and transformed them into poetry. Hats off to Ms.Babusci for digging deep and unearthing the light in even the darkest moments of the heart. The ancient tradition of tanka lives on around the world, and Ms. Babusci is testament to its enduring power and grace."

--Leza Lowitz, Editor of A Long Rainy Season: Contemporary Haiku and Tanka by Japanese Women and Author, Green Tea to Go: Stories from Tokyo

Pamela A. Babusci is an artist. When she writes tanka she "puts a brush into paint & paint unto canvas" and not one shade of emotion or experience is absent from her palette. Hanging comfortably alongside van Gogh's Starry Night, Picasso's Blue Nude and O'Keeffe's Red Canna are honest self- portraits, passionate abstracts, landscapes of a life and soul laid bare. These are tanka of love, grief, pain, strength, longing, and at the heart of each, the pulse of every woman is palpable. In the hands of this gifted poet, A Solitary Woman is an invitation to a private viewing of a remarkable collection.

-- Claire Everett, Editor of Skylark and author of twelve moons.

Perhaps the only thing missing is a selection of Babusci’s poems.

Here in joy:

skinny dipping
in a summer river
a million stars
clothe us
in liquid light

In hurt:

i walk for miles
after your betrayal
my black beret
white and heavy
in the falling snow


pure moonlight
three years post cancer
the long surgical scar
fading into the belly
of my womanhood

And as a poet:

river of stars
in the pond
i scoop up
Orion’s belt and tie it
around my heart.

Pamela A. Babusci
A Solitary Woman (2013)

Diane Dehler: Five Poems Accepted for, The Art of Being Human Vol 9- the Best Poetry of 2013

Special thanks to Daniela Voicu & Brian Wrixon for accepting five of my poems for, THE ART OF BEING HUMAN VOL 9 - THE BEST POETRY OF 2013 - An anthology of international poetry. It will be published in Canada and online. It's difficult to have a better start to a day than this. :)) Also thanks to Marie Lecrivain for sending me the submission link.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Sweet Release by Diane Dehler

Sweet Release

I follow a leopard
up steep cliffs and
breath escapes; oh
pain of a stolen rib.
I enter a territory
high in the mountains
of Kathmandu
where I have known
a thousand nights &
eyes of surrender; a
sweet release.

A moment of spirit;
a body gives itself
away and returns.
I know the tired
anguish of a long
journey that never
ceases. Or a lover
that never comes, a
mated century of
doves roast on
oracle fire.

Leopard, I follow
you into a craggy
mountain terrain
where the gentle
hours give way to
a kohl lined night
of predatory love.
You are hungry for
bare flesh and a
most delicious
entry into spirit.

In burning fire
love comes to me
with speed; sinking
teeth of a leopard.
Eat my flesh and
consume my heart.
Blind my eyes with
smoke of centuries
of altars. Carry my
bones around your
smooth neck, my love.

Kiss the sacrifice,
inhale a multiplicity
of rosettes.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Metamorphose by Diane Dehler



A swan floats into a
weir-fall singing
we are all lost.


I say, this is not true,
your soft hand on me

Discovers the place
where none of us are


I am a shell on a sandy shore
hollowed out mother of pearl


I become a gray dove
and the day is raining.

Our love a deep image
moving forever untouched
forever in water.

Wednesday, January 01, 2014

"For Mycea", Edouard Glissant

Excerpt from For Mycea

I named you wounded Earth, whose rift is ungovernable, and I clothed you in
threnodies uprooted from the recesses of yesterday
Crushing dust and hurtling down my words to the pens and pushing the mute
gray bulls to the edges
I dedicated to you a people of the wind where, in your silence you capsize so
that earth, you create me
When you rise in your color, where there is a crater ever in leaf, visible in the

Edouard Glissant

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Images of Love by Diane Dehler

Images of Love


I touch you staring into a
fire’s crackling flame. We are

Only shadows on the wall
for there is no time.


The evening is short;
surrounds us draws us apart,
reunites us.

We are the only music
that is real.


When you came to me
I knew at once Adam. You
were forbidden fruit.

Soft are your firm hands
on me. We have always
known each other.


My fear of you binds me to the
moving postures of this bed.
Is this fear love?


You leap from the music
of, Swan Lake, a prince but

Tonight I am Clytemnestra,
wearing sackcloth and ash. We
do not touch.


We make love by a
seashore. I marvel at your sun

Drenched hair and throw my lace
dress carelessly aside.


Sand wedges batik designs on
our footsteps. A collector of

Seaweed and tides finds my
dress covered with wet sand &

Takes it home. You love
me without it.


Eroticism is a mirage,
touched it disappears.

Who told you, you could
touch my thigh?


When the sailor’s red sun
sinks low in the sky.

In that second we will know
all desire.

Published reviously, From the Four-Chambered Heart: In Tribute to Anais Nin, Sybaritic Press, June 2013.

Friday, December 27, 2013

Venus Retrograde by Diane Dehler

Venus Retrograde

Private conversation
on a couch of love.
Firm cushions and
a hard wood floor.
White sun – clouds
burst into light. A
buzzing bee hums a
song on the window
ledge. Yet the person
undressed was missing.
Multiple identities fly
by. When they are
coming they are going.
A rhythm that never
stops. People making
love in the mind’s eye.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

tanka by Diane Dehler

Just the dark smoke
of 100 torched gold
I bow to you Autumn
enter a season of grief

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