WHAT’S IN THREE LINES

Painting by Paul E. Marquart

Spring inspires most of us in various ways—perhaps the mild weather causes us to write poetry, paint, or plant flowers. The advent of spring inspires me to search my shelves for books about haiku, those three elegant lines of aesthetic verse written by the great Japanese poets. The major ones include Basho, Buson, and Issa, for whom haiku was a way of life, sometimes, as in Basho’s case, a wandering way of life that required focused attention to details of nature, primarily flowers, trees, mountains, lakes…

When I looked for books about this art form, I discovered Natalie Goldberg’s observations about three-line verses and her visits to Japan to study haiku further in a book entitled Three Simple Lines. However, Sam Hamill’s Pocket Haiku, published by Shambala Press in 1995, actually ended up in a pocket of my Covid-wear (slouch pants). The book satisfied my envee for haiku and sent me outdoors several times yesterday.

Those three lines of an art form in poems by the aforementioned Japanese poets—Basho, Buson, and Issa—peaked in the 1700s and spanned only 100 years of Japanese literature. This brief period brought listeners and readers poignant and lasting metaphors in three short lines of 200 poems in Hamill’s translation. The book is small enough to fit into a pocket of slouch pants, robes, or blue jeans, any casual wear that allows haiku readers to relax and think about images of beauty.

Most contemporary poets fail to compose poignant insights in three lines of verse, and Hamill cites Gary Snyder, Richard Wright, and Richard Wilbur as leading the enlightened few to produce memorable haiku.

 

Many wannabe poets attempt to write in this form but fail to explode the top of my head, metaphorically, as Emily Dickinson describes her feeling from reading good poetry. The work of a master does not reflect brief surface thoughts but records a single moment of deep spiritual contemplation.

When I look at my brother Paul’s painting above, I think of haiku and wish that I could write a “three-liner” that captures a single moment of appreciation for this lovely piece of art. I dare not! However, I allow Basho to say what I feel:

Come out to view

the truth of flowers blooming

in poverty.

Painting by Paul Emerson Marquart, photo by Lori Marquart

BACK TO BIG SUR

No, I'm not riding around on the central coast of California. I'm rooted in place in frozen south Louisiana. Somehow, thoughts about this scenic stretch of California I visited many summers made me feel warmer in the 28 to 34-degree weather we're experiencing this week (and the same slated for next week). My computer screen saver has held a graphic of Big Sur for several years, and Sunday I indulged in a "soap" movie entitled "The Sandpiper" to get a good look at the seaside cliffs and the Pacific Ocean views. Although some viewers would've been drawn to Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor romancing in this setting, I just wanted to view the region's pristine scenery again.


I’ve had peak experiences while traveling to and staying in a state park at Big Sur. It's a fantastic stretch of undeveloped countryside unmarred by billboards and commercial activity. A trip along the Pacific Ocean through this rugged region is a spiritual experience, and during some of my visits, I wrote a ream of poems while riding along the narrow two-lane highway. Views from cliffs are remarkable, but I've read that travel on the highway has been hampered by a total of 55 landslides. However, I never felt unsafe, even in a large RV with seven people aboard.


For nineteen years, Henry Miller, who lived at Big Sur, described the area as "the face of the earth as the Creator intended it to look." He paid tribute to Big Sur in Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, and one summer we visited the Henry Miller Library and bookstore to get our copy of this classic. I've seen several documentaries featuring Jack Kerouac and his gang encamped in the area, and I understand Big Sur is still a major attraction for the literary-minded.

On one of our stays at Big Sur, we turned into the drive leading to the Esalen Institute, where the Human Potential Movement developed during the 1960s, but guardians of this New Age Movement immediately surrounded us. We withdrew and planned a trip to Carmel, where my granddaughter and I visited the poet Robinson Jeffers' home. When the guide asked for a volunteer to read one of Jeffers' poems, I stepped out of the circle of tourists to perform for my granddaughter. The guide remarked, "You read like a poet," and Kimberly snickered.


During that trip, I had an envee to visit the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center that called for a drive up a steep 12-mile dirt road, but fellow travelers in the RV gave the destination a thumbs down, so we backtracked to San Simeon to see the lavish Hearst Castle — the ostentation was visual overload for me, I might add.


The only drive that inspired a bit of fear and awe in me was the Bixby Creek Bridge en route to Carmel, which is now closed again. If you Google photos of this structure, it’ll be evident why I had some trepidation about crossing this bridge.


Most of the beaches in the Big Sur region are surrounded by private property owners, but we often stayed at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park under the umbrella of towering sequoia trees. We made side trips to see seals and otters at Point Lobos, wind whipping around us strong enough to drive me indoors… to begin planning the following year's travel on this "All American Road" touted by the 1996 National Scenic Byways Program.


Just a bit of California warmth on this frosty morning in the sunny South — following a call just received about boiling water because of low psi. Back to daydreaming about Big Sur!




Painting by Paul E. Marquart; photograph by Laurel Marquart.

THE PINE TREE STATE

"Storm Warning" by Paul E. Marquart

Today's rain and cold temps evoke memories of the winter I spent in Limestone, Maine, many, many years ago. Although I endured below 15-degree weather numerous days during that sojourn, the memory of living in the bitter cold of an old farmhouse clinging to a low hill in Aroostook County makes me shiver. I feel compelled to write that the rugged scenery of that State held some appeal in an aesthetic sense and acknowledge that Maine's license plates advertise it as "Vacationland." Still, I've never regarded it as a place of enchantment.

My former husband and I were part of Army personnel attached to Loring Air Force Base, a Strategic Air Command Base in the town of Limestone, Maine. At that time, the U.S. military suspected that Russian air attacks would be made on America's far northern shores.

Limestone, situated in Aroostook County, boasted mainly bumper potato crops, which began burgeoning in the 1920s. We lived inland and never enjoyed touring the coast country rife with lofty lighthouses (like my brother Paul's painting above) that mariners built along Maine's shores. In Maine's maritime history, these lighthouses, such as Saddleback Lodge Light Station, have been preserved and are a picturesque part of the sea life surrounding the Pine Tree State.

During the era of sailing ships, the direction of the wind impacted mariners' safety. Lighthouses abounded along the rugged Maine coast, each tower operated by a keeper who made certain the light was always burning. Electric lights caused the lighthouse keeper's job to become obsolete; however, sixty lighthouses still stand on Maine's shores.

When we lived in Maine, we were far from the sound of the Atlantic Ocean and near islands, some of them just mossy rocks rising above the waves. However, I always wanted to visit Acadia National Park, and Bar Harbor on the island's eastern tip was a "wannasee" destination. We were confined inland to wooded areas where deer, raccoons, skunks, possums, and ubiquitous squirrels roamed freely.

A major nesting ground for birds, Maine harbors warblers, thrush, wrens, and other birds familiar to Louisianians, but I'd never heard the weird cry of loons that often carried across lakes and ponds that we approached. We welcomed the sight of ducks and herons, our Louisiana water birds. Still, I never got to see the famous puffin shorebird that gathered beyond the mouth of Penobscot Bay on an island bereft of humans and reputed to be noisy with raucous bird cries.

Army duties prevented weekend tours, even as close as jaunts to Portland because my husband seemed to stay on 24-hour alerts, but I had a list — maybe it's now a bucket list — one that Covid keeps me from completing… but when I get my travel plans certified again, I hope to follow Route 1 from Kittery in the south to Madawaska in northern Maine, to buy a sack of those Aroostook County potatoes and Texas pinto beans, both of which kept us alive and well while living in "vacationland" (?) many winters ago. P.S. I gained ten pounds on that fare.

"Storm Warning," a painting by Paul E. Marquart; photographed by Laurel Marquart

PAUL EMERSON MARQUART, BROTHER, ARTIST

Yesterday, February 10, marked the six-year anniversary of the disposal of brother Paul's ashes at Big Bear, California. Paul, an artist who lived in Crescent City, California for over 20 years, worked in oils, painting renderings of northern California's coast and surrounding scenery. He often shared photos of his art with me that enhanced the covers of my books of poetry.

 

Artist in the Forest

In his 19 x 21 foot studio in Crescent City, Paul placed a wood-burning stove, a garden bath, and built a small kitchenette that overlooked one of the numerous gardens he tended when he wasn't painting. In his studio, he sometimes spent entire brisk winter days painting while his wife Lori sat nearby reading Christian Science publications and offering counsel.

 

The Garden

Paul rendered most of the paintings that now hang in Lori's Costa Mesa, California apartment. However, I also enjoy Paul's work as Lori photographed some of the paintings and put them in two black notebooks with which she gifted me several years ago.

Boats Docked in Fog

Paul's property was a plant paradise on Lake Street in Crescent City. Vickie Sullivan and I made the coast trip from Los Angeles to Crescent City several times during the last fifteen years of Paul's life and enjoyed his lush gardens and beautiful art collection. We also viewed some of his work on display at the Harbor Art Gallery on Marine Bay in Crescent City. Paul often held exhibits of his work in the front garden on Lake Street and served kettles of Louisiana gumbo according to the recipe of our Cajun Grandmother Leila Vincent Marquart of Lake Arthur, Louisiana.

Sailboats on Monterey Bay

The sky darkens, and a Louisiana root soaker pelts down on my patio; I leaf through Paul's notebooks and decide to share a few of my favorites with readers whose day may be brightened by his colorful work.