IN203 Honors Seminar: Global Haiku Tradition
Dr. Randy Brooks • Spring 2006

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Traci Rapp

Essay on Jeffrey Winke

Now That’s Some
Baby Making Haiku!

Traci Rapp

Introducation: If you’re looking for a raunchy laugh,
want to feel all tingly inside, and fear if you read
one more blossom haiku you’ll wretch, then you’re
reading the right stuff! You won’t find nature as
the main affixation in my writing and the lack of
“pretty images” is a choreographed move. Such
haiku artists at Masajo Suzuki, George Swede, and
Jeffrey Winke were my favorites, and inspiration,
because they focused on topics that few dare—love,
lust, and sex. I don’t believe anything is more
important or prevalent in a human life and the lack
of material concerning such in haiku is sickening.
There is nothing to fear about love, lust, or sex and
I hope this haiku has NO BOUNDARIES, makes
the reader chuckle of blush, or even be the haiku
that “made some babies’!

With love first and foremost to my family, China, my beautiful students, and my Wilma . . . I will come back.

Traci Rapp is an elementary education major whose basis for haiku writing is raunchiness, perpetuation of tingles, and the lack of blossomness. Haiku poets who inspired her were Masajo Suzuki, George Swede, and Jeffrey Winke because they focused on topics that few dare—love, lust, and sex. Her writings are dedicated first and foremost to her family and friends, China, her beautiful students, and her Wilma….she’ll be seeing you real soon.

Deep in Arkansas, there was a cashier at the local gas station, Possum Trot, with the name tag of Margaret. In a thick drawl, she asks me if I want any taters as she points at the display case of fried food. I wait a little while as she counts out my change for the small diet coke—97 cents. She tells me to have good day and god bless as I put the two cents in my purse and pass under the mounted deer head to exit the still swinging door.

resting Ozark dust—
as she fans her southern words
not a single lie

swallowing her holy wafer
she licks her lips
for the altar boy

and it felt so good
to flour ourselves—
dumplings of China

hands comfortably entwined
Red Rover instinct

summer dishes;
drying her hands
on his jean cheeks

coughing blood in the lazy boy
on each crescendo
promises of chickadees on the sill

And there they were. Down in his basement— a basement like every high school basement—shooting some pool. Those days had turned into two months, and now each second seemed to wear on him. He felt his sweaty hands slide down the stick as he waited his turn. She was lining up her shot, and from the depth of her v-neck, he knew it was going to be a good one . . . he shook his head in pretend disbelief as the orange ball crawled into the side pocket. They danced for a while- him sashaying to the left and her swiveling to the right—the table was starting to feel dizzy. And then because he had read in Cosmo that spontaneity was a good thing, and because he fucking wanted to, they met in the middle of their promenade with her back stretched across the green felt and his arms scattering the score. He was thinking about how to tell the story to his friends. She was thinking about how to tell the story to her friends. And a crazed menopause woman with the voice of a thousand gargoyles was thinking and screeching “GET OFF MY POOL TABLE!!” And there they were—him with a chipped tooth and her with a stamp of whore—it was laundry day.

Eight ball
as a head rest—
a shot at second base

hawaiin shirt suitor
knocks on my door
bouquet of poison ivy

blades skimming August
kissing the dust
I wish was you

the missing of Changchun
so crimson crimson red
I carry it always

legs wide apart
she asks him
Check on the kids?

2nd grade valentine
no expiration date

Darfur thunderstorm
slashing her clitoris
he curses the rain

through the pinstripe
she feels his salsa

While teaching in China, I met my student, Wilma. Drawn in by her curiosity and infinite desire to please, I learned her story. Orphaned after car accidents and disease, she became the property of her caring village by age 7. As the years went by and she was passed hut to hut, she worked hard in school to show her thankfulness. The prestigious school I taught at heard of her great intelligence and brought her there. Now that I am back in the states we email, write letters, and once a month I call. Talking with my beautiful student Wilma, I realize the strength of destiny to have met the sweetest and most giving person who just happened to be nestled half way around the world, in a country of over a billion in a small northern city attending high school on scholarship for her true brilliance.

summer examinations
finally she rests her eyes
to cry

cooling december wave
sneaks through my pane
jack frost foreplay

resting on moss
he quotes
Lord Byron

© 2006 Randy Brooks, Millikin University, Decatur, Illinois
all rights reserved for original authors