On Sky News Sunrise show this morning, they had a promo interview with Hayley Westenra for her new album Paradiso in collaboration with Ennio Morricone (think Clint Eastwood and spaghetti western fame and many other great films). Wow! Just blew me away. This is my birthday gift to myself.

Anyway, here’s another collection of haiku tweets plus a couple of non-haiku comments I kept.

I really should get out more.

As always I never have a camera to capture the scene of my thoughts here in Cannes, but @thechannelc has a beautiful moment she captured during her trip to New Zealand that fits just as well.

A Sunday evening twilight alone and tweeting by candle light and laptop glare; supper, wine, haiku games, and random snippets of on the spot philosophy (in French no less), more wine.

I was a little maudlin by the end of that evening and thinking way back to when our family used to have an holiday apartment in the mountain village of Leysin, Switzerland (tourist office). How at night there are no lights to wash out the vast view of the stars, how air is so clear and fresh, and the water like crystal and sensuous across the tongue.

Of course come next morning, I felt a little naughty, and who better to share a naughty thought with than an online friend I’ve never meet like @amykate. Not sure she caught the double entendre though of the haiku.

Erato, as Wikipedia explains, is one of the Greek Muses that inspires lyric poetry, typically romantic and erotic verse. And Selene is the goddess of the moon I’ve often written of.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum (club), no sooner than I composed the haiku as a note on my cell phone, some women crying and smelling of spilt beer stops me in the street, tells me about the recent death of her mother, and asks if I can help her back to her hotel. She clearly was having trouble with the vertical axis, so I help her out, find the hotel, and see her up to her room. Next thing she’s wanting me to come into her room and spend the night.

While this sounds like some teenage fantasy come true, I really didn’t fancy her, and it would not have been proper to take advantage of her in such an emotional and drunken state. I had to tear myself away from her as she tried to pull me into the room.

I think I should be careful about invoking Erato’s and Selene’s names in my haiku in future, cause I clearly I got more than I bargained for.

This morning while walking Baka and listening to Lorenna McKennitt’s album The Book Of Secrets, I started to think about the suggestive photo of the milkweed pod on the back of the liner notes.

I imagined a woman lying nude and asleep in my bed, me awake, simply watching her, and how much would I ever come to understand her. I then wrote these two versions and I couldn’t decide which of the two expressed that thought more clearly.

So far, nothing has happened yet after having invoked Erato’s name twice in one morning, but the day is far from over yet.

Later I find myself wide awake during the pre-dawn hours, unable to sleep. I rise, go to my study, and light several candles. Even though the glow from the laptop screen is enough to read by, it lacks the warm ambience that flickering flame gives.

As the candles burned, my thoughts drifted towards more erotic sensations and the need to share them. A sort of 9½ Weeks moment.

The slow tint of ghostly blue light signals the coming dawn. I dress and opt to walk Baka early through dawn drizzle in damp silence. No lights from windows, no passing cars, just a dark bluish shift to sombre grey light as the day slowly comes into view around Cannes.

Once more @jaava provided food for thought as she settled into her evening. A gracious hostess.

But finally with the grey dawn, came a westerly bringing with it more steady rain to nourish the trees and flowers of spring; a wine urn totted by a godly servant amongst the thirsty guests of a Greek banquet as they lounge or cavort in accordance to their whims and desires.

It’s as these times, that I’ll play with Baka a little, fold the clean pile of laundry, go for walk; essentially fall back a step and remember to breath.

I eventually broke through the past week of writer’s block and felt the world shift. My colleague, Steve F. in the UK, was so pleased to hear of the successful conclusion as we talked over Skype that he had me wait as he disappeared for a moment, distant sounds of bumps and bangs, only to return with the sound of a quick click and hiss of a cold one being opened in honour of the occasion. Cheers.

Today is one of those lovely sunny, slightly breezy, spring days in Cannes. Baka and I once more strolled through the fée gully, with the Jasmine now in bloom, along with the Judas and Wisteri.

I of course tweeted my #haiku of the experience and then out of curiosity visited twyric to see it presented with a picture. I was pleased with the choice. I sat and read some of the others as they passed by and noticed one from @jaava that struck a familiar chord.

Update 30 Apr 2009

I found @fishtron’s supplication to some unnamed goddess (probably a waitress at her local café in Vancouver) like a cry or scream into the night.

As a teen I thought of the Moon as a messenger between distant lovers, where I used to lookup and entreat the Moon to carry a message to my first love, when I lived in Sydney and Waterloo.

Selene, the Greek goddess of the Moon appears in many myths and has a couple of names and incarnations. Personally I still see her a part messenger, part cupid, often coquine. Though sometimes I wonder if she’s the goddes of blue balls and cold showers.

I’ve often referred to the Anemoi, the Greek gods of the winds. So a cool spring evening walk, with many floral scents carried on the wind, made me wonder if Boreas also suffered from blue balls.