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Peggy Willis Lyles
Penny Harter
Tom Clausen
paul m.
Angelee Deodhar
Arizona Zipper
Bruce Ross
Tom Clausen
John Stevenson
Carol Conti-Entin
Fay Aoyagi
Ebba Story
William J. Higginson
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In Memory of
Elizabeth Searle Lamb
January 22, 1917 — February 16, 2005
The editors of The Heron’s Nest join the family, friends, and world-wide admirers of Elizabeth
Searle Lamb in grateful celebration of her remarkable life. Her immeasurable contributions to the
development of American haiku weave threads of kindness, compassion, intelligence, depth,
experimentation, enthusiasm, and twinkling humor into its fabric and spirit. She leaves a body of
poems so rich and timeless that when I am sad there will be no new ones in my mailbox, I imagine
Elizabeth suggesting, “You could read some old ones again,” and then adding a little
smiley face to her note. I believe she would be pleased that so many of us have re-read and shared
her haiku since her death. Surely, she would welcome the words of comfort and fellow feeling that
have passed among us and the thoughtful way her closest friends have assured us that her passing
was gentle. Elizabeth’s message was always one of love and peace, and her wish for us remains
clear and simple: “May haiku bring you joy.”
— Peggy Willis Lyles
Thinking of Elizabeth
From first meeting Elizabeth and Bruce years ago in Manhattan, through times shared with them in
Santa Fe until Bruce’s death in 1992, and with Elizabeth since then, she has been one of my
dearest friends. Her vibrant optimism and caring friendship, her indomitable spirit (always seeing
things “in the light”), and her gentle humor nourished my days. She was a superb haiku
poet with a lively intellect and finely tuned creative voice, and we often shared both haiku and
longer poems. How beautifully she opened her heart to so many of us. She was a source of spiritual
strength!
We shared both fine and challenging times, many a good meal, well loved novels, lots of poems, and
a running joke about how easily I fell asleep on her couch. We both loved to watch ice-skating,
and even from New Jersey, I’d still call her to say, “Turn on ABC; Michele Kwan is
skating.” And then we’d watch together across the miles. Elizabeth was and continues
to be such a strong presence in my life that, although I already miss her sorely, I feel she’s
still here, looking over my shoulder as I write this, and saying, in her usual fashion,
“Oh my!”
broken harp string —
but how the wind sings
in the cottonwood
— Penny Harter
I have posted one of Elizabeth’s haiku on a dictionary stand here in the lobby of Cornell
University’s A. R. Mann Library:
the broken harp string
curving
into sunlight
— Elizabeth Searle Lamb
and in looking at her many wonderful haiku in Across the Windharp, I am very moved at the indelible
graciousness, specialness, and extraordinary life she lived. I’ll never forget all her encouraging
feedback from the days she was editor at Frogpond. She always had kind words, and gentle yet clear
guidance to offer, and she made me feel very accepted as a novice writer way back then. It is hard to
imagine her not “here” but hopefully she is in peace, and
love, and certainly we will all celebrate her magnificent life and her
many gifts to us. To share the sorrow of her passing and the joy in
knowing such a remarkable and beautiful being:
opening the door
to hear better . . .
owl hoots
— Tom Clausen
I regret not knowing Elizabeth personally, but I have always admired her work. My favorite poem of hers is:
by the night light
tiny spider’s tiny web
leaving it there
— Elizabeth Searle Lamb
Over these last years I have always thought of her that way, as that tiny spider—our night light if
you will—at the edge of the community, at the edge of her beloved desert, her poetic web spun years
ago. She helped make it possible for later poets like myself to find a receptive audience.
the tiny web remains —
to I don’t know where
this arroyo wind
— paul m.
I was very sorry to hear about dear Elizabeth’s passing . . . a very gentle, kind soul, a true haiku
spirit. I corresponded with her often and she was always very encouraging. She was a haiku mentor for me.
winter evening
the beggar’s breath
joins smoke from the fire
— Angelee Deodhar
A letter and collective gift to Elizabeth sent by John Stevenson, March 31, 1998:
Dear Elizabeth,
The enclosed is returned to you, with love. I am told that this began as your Christmas greeting to
Arizona Zipper. From there, it has passed through the hands of a series of haiku friends, wintering with
Bruce Ross, Tom Clausen, Carol Conti-Entin, Fay Aoyagi, Ebba Story, and me. Now it is spring and we
return your greeting, sevenfold.
(Elizabeth’s poem to Zipper was)
early blizzard
the faintest cries of wild geese
in the dark, in the snow
— Elizabeth Searle Lamb
(And the following poems were added, in this order)
snowflakes
astrologer
stargazing
— Arizona Zipper
heavy ice storm
icicles hang from the two-tier
birdhouse
— Bruce Ross
under the streetlight
— looking up into
the slow snow
— Tom Clausen
winter beach
a piece of driftwood
charred at one end
— John Stevenson
purple coneflowers
enter me in capsule form
snowbound
— Carol Conti-Entin
winter rain —
an umbrella, not big enough
to catch my jealousy
— Fay Aoyagi
winter sunset
drifts of sea foam
whiten the shore
— Ebba Story
I always thought this was an example of how Elizabeth’s generous spirit inspired something of the
kind in others.
— John Stevenson
On Elizabeth’s Going
Carolyn Lamb, Elizabeth’s daughter, has lived for some time in a house just across a shared driveway
from her mother. She was with her mother much of the time through the two recent short hospitalizations,
and told us that when Elizabeth was last in the hospital, her regular M.D. stopped in to see her, and she
told him she was ready to go. She said to him, “When I get there, I’ll write you a letter and
let you know how it is.” Wry humor and light inextricably mixed in much of what Elizabeth said and
wrote.
After that hospitalization, Elizabeth went home to hospice care, which she and Carolyn had agreed was the
best for her situation. On Elizabeth’s last afternoon, Carolyn was with her mother, and shared the
fact that one of her poems that appeared in The Heron’s Nest in 2004 was singled out for special
mention in the annual Valentine’s Day awards. The poem goes:
still wanting
to fly these feathers
of the dead owl
— Elizabeth Searle Lamb
A few tears ran down Elizabeth’s cheek when when Carolyn read the poem. Carolyn went on to read some
of her mother’s poems from Across the Windharp to her. And so it was when Elizabeth stopped
breathing, with Carolyn and a caregiver on either side of her, and she at peace.
a spring flurry
crows large as ravens
move tree to tree
— William J. Higginson
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