EN340 / IN350 Global Haiku Tradition
Dr. Randy Brooks
Spring 2005
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CHANGING LANES
A collection of Haiku
by

Nicole Silverman

I am currently at the point in my life where my entire world is in transition. I am quickly moving from dependent childhood to independent adulthood. Along the way I have stumbled and soared depending upon the circumstances; regardless, things never stop moving for an instant. It is this search for self through past and present experiences that I strive to present in my haiku. Through the title, "Changing Lanes," I hope to capture the transition I now feel as well as the mildly reckless feeling of trying to cope in the midst of constant forw

Reader's Introduction

Introducing the work of Nicole Silverman is a difficult task because I doubt my words in this humble paragraph can describe the work better than the work describes itself. In reading Silverman's haiku, one is reminded of the tiny, miniscule details of our lives that invigorate us, that grate on us, and that simply make us alive. In a culture where the big picture is always at the forefront, Nicole has somehow managed to escape the obtuse cliché words that cast a mood; she instead focuses on succinct details that catch my breath and easily expand beyond the initial image. It is in such beautifully worded images that she colors her world for us, shades of blue that let me into her life but are readily identifiable in my own life and in the way the world works. —Brooke Christensen

kitchen light flickers,
I turn my head
as you try to kiss me

popping the
second zit
         I feel ugly

crayon crawls across
white walls
         a masterpiece

unable to cry
I sharpen a
stack of pencils

thinking of you
I burn the toast
black

winter wind rips raw
he passes by
without a word

naked
she winces at her reflection
Fat Tuesday

changing lanes
I remember the names
of old boyfriends

single hair
on the pillow
too short to be my own

lipstick smears
feet tottering
in red high heels

winter sunrise
         I remember my
              Mother's hands

dentist appointment
brushing my teeth
for the second time

soft snores
         eyeglasses lying
         side by side

My grandmother has had a hard life; however, the specifics are a gray area as she never speaks of the past in concrete terms. Sometimes she will mention it, usually in the form of a regret, and a cloud passes across her eyes. She is the type of person who finds it difficult to be content. She is always very eager when I come to visit. I am always greeted with a hard hug. Her bony frame is neither accommodating nor comforting. Her movements become tense and nervous and her conversation is usually punctuated with apologies. She never answers the phone while I am there. The goodbyes are awkward and there is sadness lurking behind her eyes as I turn my back to walk away.

thin hands
clasping and unclasping
the cup of tea

Every summer of my childhood we have driven up to northern Michigan to visit the lake my great-grandfather purchased as a meeting place for his children, grand-children, and the generations to come. The lake, before it was dammed off, used to look like an anchor from an aerial view and so it is called Anchor Lake. As we turn off the main road through town onto a gravel road, my heart begins to pump and the excitement rises in my belly. The dust rises on either side of our small car packed tightly with our things. The gravel makes a crunching sound beneath the wheels that can be heard even above the music. On either side of the road, the trees begin to thicken. On the right is the Lubke’s house. Farther down the road we finally reach the mailbox and the painted sign my grandfather made warning against trespassing in red and black letters. After the slight curve the First Cabin appears on the left and then the New Cabin. Here is where we stop, as we have every summer, as the relatives start appearing through doors, collecting us from our car in a barrage of hugs and conversation.

My heart jumps—
the grind of gravel
beneath the tires.

     Summer Memories

red berry—
sunburnt child
napping naked

     dry grass
     harsh beneath bare feet

beneath the shade
of an apple tree
—forgotten sandals

legs swinging
from branches
too high to climb

     ripple
     as the frog jumps away

tadpoles flee
as wild feet
lunge through water

Nicole & little sister

 

©2005 Randy Brooks, Millikin University, Decatur, Illinois || all rights reserved for original authors