ii 2022 (new haiku)

Copperfield’s sun shines
giving all he needs and’s not got
an adult tongue’s ear

A.H (7th February 2022)

After Reading The Song of Songs

Originally posted on a blind catch in the sun:
for my real imagined otherTheir’s the earth, the world, mountain, moon. Their’s not this earth, married in the sun. They are whole, whole, holy. Let us dream their path, poetry. Where now is she, where he. Where are we. What do we have. Squabbling city guards…

Ozu (Haiku)

Originally posted on a blind catch in the sun:
Mainly I avoid ekphrastic poetry (poetry in response to art) and here both my first two poems posted after my revamp are, but simply to follow that film theme (I think these my only two film influenced poems so far, though I’ve been tempted several other…


after seeing The Colour of Pomegranates

pomegranate blood
transfuses soul without speech
bird song sown to flight

A. H / K. H-H (16th April 2020)

Spotlight on . . . Rebecca

(after Alfred Hitchcock’s film)

Lost at sea

The Wars of the Narratives
bidding for control
with disinformation of the heart

Reality subtracted from reality
leaves what?

An empty tennis court?

And perhaps we tell our tales with bias
the good, the bad, the melodramatic

But how the heart has found its task
when truly made to work —
to love, to act in love

at the rock face, information’s motherlode,
free to be
constructive not constructed

A. H / K. H-H (30th October 2018)

my goodness, 200 poems and i manage to spotlight the same one i started with last november again (broken). I am not obsessed with it. Really. I think.

So, another. This one inspired by seeing Hitchcock’s film, chosen now as it’s about people living with the broken.


(after seeing Late Spring)

empty shots move me
vase, trees, tea, hint at the whole
he knows, apple peeled

© A. H(2016)


(after the films)

some unholy myth of achievement
rat champion of every maze
we wish you well in your bereavement
reborn we know our loss of face

continued here . . .


50’s dream girl, poodle skirt, suspenders. Thrown, stockinged feet pass face, shoes a memory left long in the thrill of his hold, she’s gone soft in his arms, necklace almost lost, skirt whispers over silken skin, heart, body and soul, swish. This is the thrill, this, is the thrill, of it all. If he’d just…