The Art of Noticing
A musician. A financial securities trader. A management consultant. A government executive. I’ve been a lot of things.
Like all of us, I’m made from a long thread of moments—some luminous, others chaotic. All of them shaping the rhythm I carry now.
Yes, I have a couple of degrees in public administration and cultural studies. But I probably learned more from my musical training—in jazz composition and improvisation—than I did in any boardroom. In jazz, you listen before you play, adapt when the rhythm shifts, and lead without stepping on someone else’s solo. The art is in balancing structure with freedom — keeping the tune recognizable, but leaving room for something unexpected to happen. That’s how I try to move through work… and life.
I carry a notebook. And a camera. I try to capture the moments that pass unnoticed by most: a red toque flashing past on a bicycle; a single shoe beneath a streetlamp; a stranger’s glance that says more than words. I like to see myself as a purveyor of glimpses.
You will find some of those glimpses here.
I write in fragments. Tight, layered, often sharp.
Sometimes they land as senryu. Sometimes they unravel into something else.
I seem to be drawn to the edges of things—desire, memory, power, restraint.
I like language that walks a thin line between what’s said and what’s only hinted at.
Some of it is quiet. Some of it isn’t.
You will find more writing here.
ancient pines
hikers pause beneath them
scrolling
Published in Failed Haiku (Issue #111), September 2025.
tornado warning
against the darkening sky
the leaves' silver side
Published in “Moving Forward”, an anthology of original haiku written by
members of the Ontario section of Haiku Canada (2020)..
winter's chill
the barista draws a heart
after my name
sleepless night
the forest's silhouette
slowly emerges
Published in “Moving Forward”, an anthology of original haiku written by
members of the Ontario section of Haiku Canada (2020)..
shattered dreams
I wake myself
snoring
Published in Failed Haiku (Issue #111), September 2025.
Saturday morning
shredded lottery tickets
in the trash
ballcaps nodding
through blue exhaust
idle gossip
Published in Failed Haiku, June 2024
week after Christmas
no more Tupperware
in the cupboard
grazed by sunlight
the gentle curve
of her ear
Published in Failed Haiku (Issue #111), September 2025.
heads
tilted to the right
used bookstore
Published in Haiku Canada Review (October 2024).
mental health workshop
again I cancel
my day off
Published in Prune Juice (March 2023).
early morning flight
tops of heads
slightly askew
Published in Failed Haiku (June 2024).
Ian Kenney 