“Why are you unhappy?
Because 99.9 percent of everything you think, 
and of everything you do, is for yourself
—and there isn’t one.” 

- Wei Wu Wei (1895–1986) 

Marie Bortolotto Art

The Edge

by Robert Creely, American Poet (1926 - 2005)

Long over whatever edge,

backward a false distance,

here and now, sentiment —

to begin again, forfeit

in whatever sense an end,

to give up thought of it —

hanging on to the weather’s edge,

hope, a sufficiency, thinking

of love’s accident, this

long way come with no purpose,

face again, changing,

these hands, feet, beyond me,

coming home, an intersection,

crossing of one and many,

having all, having nothing —

Feeling thought, heart, head

generalities, all abstract —

no place for me or mine —

I take the world and lose it,

miss it, misplace it,

put it back or try to, can’t

find it, fool it, even feel it.

The snow from a high sky,

grey, floats down to me softly.

This must be the edge

of being before the thought of it

blurs it, can only try to recall it.

Marie Bortolotto Art

 

This place is a dream
only a sleeper considers it real.

Then death comes like dawn,
and you wake up laughing
at what you thought was your grief.

But there's a difference with this dream.
Everything's cruel and unconscious
done in the illusion of the present world,
all that does not fade away at the death-waking.

It stays.
and it must be interpreted.

-- Rumi (1207 - 1273)
(translated by Coleman Barks - The Essential Rumi)

Marie Bortolotto Art

 
....still working on a new book of haiku,
though we've had a mild winter here in Western Canada

 

 
“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, 
nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” 

— The Lorax by Dr Seuss

Marie Bortolotto

Toshi Tsuchitori plays ancient Japanese Bronze Bells

Urban Jungle
by Marie Bortolotto

Wild-mouthed, a dog whines in swelling octaves.
A garbage truck crouches over its prey.
Squabbling children, a sullen breeze hovers,
then swoops. Round and round, 
a red and white bicycle wheel whirls.
All is full of love.

All is Full of Love by Bjork

From "A Handful of Poem-Images"
by Marie Bortolotto

A Lost Key

We dance in a line of pigeons; and crows, 
noisily, flapping wings over a vacant parking lot. 



A tall, stark thistle; motionless, against the backdrop 
of far-off mountains.



At a yellow-tiled temple, voices of enchantment lull us 
deeper into sun-soaked dew, where, finally; we can rest. 



On a bench, there, for us to see; a lost key.

Marie Bortolotto Art

Marie Bortolotto Art

 

Stay alive; at least for the moment:it doesn't last long. 
Stay alive. Other worldly considerations though are out.
The living has nothing to do with the life.

William Bronk, American Poet 1918 - 1999

Marie Bortolotto Art

 Wind
Shinkichi Takahashi
(translated by Lucien Stryk)

Give it words,
Stick limbs on it,
You won't alter essence.
Whereas the wind --

I'll live gently
As the wind, flying
Over the town,
My chest full of sparrows.

One Character Poem
by He Peiyu, female poet of the Qing Dynasty 

A flower, a willow, a fishing rock,
A streak of setting sun, a bird in flight.
A mountain, a stream, a Zen temple,
A forest of yellow leaves, a monk returns.

Marie Bortolotto Art

One-Line Poem-Image
Marie Bortolotto

trudging through 
the weight of wet snow 
birds in flight 

Marie Bortolotto Art

 
1/ Flower

Dreams are severed fruit
Auburn pears have fallen in the field
Parsley blooms on the plate
The leghorn at times seems to have six fingers
I crack the egg and the moon comes out



2/ It Is Snowing

Upstairs from us, a grand ball! 

Devious angels dance in disorder, and out of their steps fall shards of deathly white snow. 

Death is among the holly leaves. Crawling quietly in the attic.
Gnawing at my finger. Anxiously. And then at midnight—it falls at the storefront of the glass shop, exposing its stark white back. 

Old love and time are buried, and the earth devours them. 

 

--by Chika Sagawa (1911 - 1936) Japanese Modernist Poet 

(from The Collected Poems of Chika Sagawa 
translated by Sawako Nakayasu) 

Chika Sagawa says: 

I believe poetry is the study of language. Unlike spoken language, it is a language of the heart, not visible from the surface. It is the filling of the air with words selected out of deep contemplation. Not a gathering of the meanings of words spoken to be spoken, but an attempt to say something, or to reflect something. Very sparse and most strict, it is a skillfulness right on the brink of burning out like a flame.
          - "When Passing Between Trees" 

Marie Bortolotto Art

"Thoughts of the Heart"  Marie Bortolotto Art 2026

Today I am inspired by the Paracelsus quote in James Hillman's book "The Thought of The Heart And The Soul of The World" (Spring Publications 1992):

Speech is not of the tongue, but of the heart. 
The tongue is merely the instrument with which one speaks. 
He who is dumb is dumb in his heart, not in his tongue...
As you speak, so is your heart.

Paracelsus (1493-1541) 

 

I'll be honest, although I like this quote I have trouble with the word "dumb" -- it's just not the best word for our modern age. And what about the pronoun "he?" Are only "he's" dumb? I would like to replace dumb with the word "mindless" instead. And "he" with "those."

So my revision will read like this... I hope Paracelsus doesn't mind!:

Speech is not of the tongue, but of the heart. 
The tongue is merely the instrument with which one speaks. 
Those who are mindless are mindless in their hearts, not in their tongues...
As one speaks, so is one's heart.

Paracelsus (1493-1541) 

 

Marie Bortolotto Art 2026

 
Short Verse
by Marie Bortolotto

cold sunshine
the persistent tweets
of a solitary sparrow

Instruments of a Beating Heart by Ema Ryan Yamazaki on Vimeo

Short Verse
by Marie Bortolotto

 

all that remains
of a child's clarinet practice
ode to joy 

A haiku book in progress...

Haiku in the Time of Winterberries
by Marie Bortolotto

Haiku Sketches: 
300 One Line Zen-Inspired Poems

Available now on Amazon!

 

Under the trees, among the rocks, a thatched hut:
verses and sacred commentaries live their together.
I'll burn the books I carry in my bag,
but how can I forget the verses written in my gut?

-- Ikkyu 

Marie Bortolotto

 

Haiku Sketches ©
by Marie Bortolotto


300 One-Line Zen-Inspired Poems

Available Now on Amazon! 

Haiku Sketches © by Marie Bortolotto

Artist Marie Bortolotto takes us on a mindful stroll through her portfolio of haiku sketches as she follows in the footsteps of renowned Japanese poet, Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902). Shiki is best known for his efforts to modernize haiku poetry, especially his idea of shasei or “sketch from life” where he encouraged poets to look at the world, as an artist does with a sketchbook, observing and expressing what they see in everyday life with fresh eyes. Each haiku sketch in this collection offers a window into meditation, inspiring us to open the eyes of the heart and find poetry in the ordinary.

 

A few excerpts from Haiku Sketches © :

resting on a vintage garden chair dead leaves

autumn’s decline even the bindweed sheds its glory

atop melted snow a red scarf and a carrot

slowly a beetle crawls across the sidewalk

Paperback, approx. 110 pages


Marie Bortolotto is a visual artist and poet. In early years she travelled extensively, both as an airline employee and a humble backpacker. She has a Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree and worked for many years in complementary healthcare. Currently she lives in Vancouver, Canada.
 

consider me
as one who loved poetry
and persimmons

- Masaoka Shiki (1867 - 1902)

Marie Bortolotto

Marie Bortolotto Art

One Line Poem
by Marie Bortolotto


yellow leaves raining down empty swings

The Meaning of Existence (2002)
by Les Murray

Everything except language
knows the meaning of existence.
Trees, planets, rivers, time
know nothing else. They express it
moment by moment as the universe.

Even this fool of a body
lives it in part, and would
have full dignity within it
but for the ignorant freedom
of my talking mind.

 One Line Haiku
by Marie Bortolotto 

dried leaf fading between pages red

One Line Haiku Poem
by Marie Bortolotto


morning the pine tree bereft of whispers

 
from Birds. Art. Life. by Kyo MacLear

 

"...except this simple secret:

if you listen to birds, everyday will have a song in it."