Haibun
Edited by Pravat Kumar Padhy
- Details
- Written by: Amoolya Kamalnath
On a fine morning, I am in the kitchen, as usual, with my cook, discussing the nitty-gritty of life as a newborn mother. A sudden tweeting sounds. I rush to the bedroom and watch my baby smile in her sleep.
Gently I scroll back the window curtain and peep outside. A kingfisher with fluttering wings reaching its nest.
cuddled in the arms
of the riverbank
the scent of fresh violets
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- Written by: Andrea Eldridge
Reflections, on the past year, on the next year, in the window. I’m peering out onto the deck and beyond, at the unexpected light showdown over the mountain. In the bottom left windowpane is framed the reflection of our fire burning on the hearth. This past year of misplaced loyalties and loss is up in smoke. The middle panes hold two branches mirroring one another each with snow still clinging. In front of them, identical watchdogs stand guard at the sill. In the top two panes, new year’s rockets streak and flash. For the finale, a fireworks burst of blooms—pink, green, and white cosmic chrysanthemums. At this moment, the promise of a new year.
scribbled across
a blank slate sky—
your message
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- Written by: Ann Smith
On one of the first days of the summer holidays we visited our local castle and I watched a little boy running with joy over the grass. He tripped over his own feet and fell sprawling. It was soft green grass and he didn’t hurt himself but he stayed face down hoping someone would notice and come to his aid. He lifted his head, looked around and called to his mother, but she was busy reading out one of the information panels to her other kids.
Eventually, he sat up and bent forward
when you are three
sometimes to make it better
you must kiss your own knee
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- Written by: Anne Kundtz
In a centuries-old inn, hanging on the edge of a Colorado mountainside, a key museum—1000 keys dangle from the ceiling, lay in dusty shadow boxes, or swing from faded ribbons tied to 10-pound nails—none of them unlock or lock anything anymore.
Rock Hudson’s bedroom, Greta Garbo’s Caddie key, commemorative keys to the city of Jackson, Wyoming, and Innsbruck, Germany. Half keys for lovers to keep, keys to the kingdom of somewhere. Skeleton keys and blank keys waiting to open anything.
The key to my heart hangs on a nail in the kitchen. Sometimes, I wear it on my sleeve or hang it on a ribbon around my neck. Often it rests heavy or bangs on my solar plexus trying to get in.
a twist
just out of reach…
spring outside
- Details
- Written by: Cristina Povero
Houses turn into merciless creatures, though, if you walk away and abandon them. They will not forget, they will never forgive you. I moved to a town center attic, a dream flat with a tiny terrace and an awesome view over the roofs. Quite suddenly, in a few months, I left my old house where I had started my married life. I packed my books, clothes and kitchenware and I left a lot of things behind. Actually, I had promised to go back and see if something was still worth it.
Time passed. In a blink, I realized that nearly ten years had passed. One day, as we were considering selling the house, I decided I could no longer wait.
after moving
the shadow of her drawings
still on the wall
Everything turned out to be hard from the very start. The key got stuck, the door was scratching the floor and the heavy blinds would not go up or sideways. As I walked from room to room, I heard unfamiliar noises, as if something was stepping away. Heavy layers of dust all over the place threatened that I was not entitled to touch anything.
There was no sign of happiness. As if the neglected injuries seep through torn wallpaper and chipped tiles. Cobwebs at every corner. I feel I was an intruder, surrounded by hostile looks with leftover outlines of furniture. Disheartened, I tiptoed away, restoring her quiet.
abandoned –
I feel spied
by sneering tenants
- Details
- Written by: Deborah Burke Henderson
Standing in the library with a digital SLR camera in hand, I spy a small porcelain figurine nestled amidst spring green fronds in a potted urn. “Ah, it is the Kannon, in a contemplative posture” I gasp, edging in for a closer look. “Guanyin,” I whisper with delight, “the Bodhisattva of Mercy and Compassion.”
The time is centuries ago in the Song Dynasty, one of China’s most prosperous and vibrant time periods. Having reached Nirvana, Guanyin has returned to be among mortals to assist them in achieving enlightenment. I offer a respectful bow. My fingers toyed with the Nikon’s f-stop feature, hoping to capture the divine image. I feel blessed.
the Nine Dragons scroll
offers a glimpse of forgiveness …
mid-summer fire
Author’s note: Kannon is known as the goddess of mercy. In Chinese mythology, she is known as Guanyin and revered as the "most widely beloved Buddhist Divinity.
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- Written by: Diana Webb
The ridgeline perfectly delineated between the blue which fills the frame between the red brick walls and the awning's shifting edge. Not a hint from this distance of the petals that hide in the leaves which the ramblers will miss in their purposeful march beyond.
beneath the surface
daffodil stems
the level of water
- Details
- Written by: Diana Webb
You can keep the Ganges, Mississippi and Nile. Here by this little-known tributary of the Thames, a long green thought in a long green shade.
black hole
dot to dot stars
of reflected ripples
Author’s Note: The haibun is written in memory of the famous metaphysical poet, Andrew Marvell.
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- Written by: Don Baird
Fallen buildings, and hopeless homeless stand hunched in their graves wondering about the book of Revelation. “They weren’t kidding” came to their minds in dead thoughts of a darker world than a three-foot closet where goals don’t matter. Living on the land, a land lost early on, they celebrate their prized creations while 7 chairs in each of them remain filled with evil. Sure, they dusted their homes, their cars and their clothes but they neglected the beauty of the Earth for a world of 7 sides closed on them for all eternity. Becoming smaller and smaller they realize they were the executive losers, the risen in their own egos of desires to find themselves in a bowling alley without pins wondering what happened as tombstones had their own epidemic.
Egos flare as they claim deserved parts of darkness, buy the most expensive evil, and compete to discover who is number 1 in a new world rot. Strange the way seagulls fly. Funny how dogs bark at shooting stars. What do they see the blind cannot? They fly through it all weaving dead cars in dead cities of dead seas where waves try to clean up debris.
Empty trash cans. Where are the angels of life? Are they visible to the dead? Is it too late to become butterflies again? Or do the dead remain as wolves chasing rabbits with carrots that claim to be gold? Will heads inevitably bow, slapped by their own gaunt faces? Will they realize that flowers were once painted by children who had dreams too?
innocence forgotten —
steam from the abyss
shaped like hands
- Details
- Written by: Dru Philippou
My father sits alone on the living room couch, watching TV with a bottle of whiskey at his side. His Player’s cigarette packet bears the image of a bearded, blue-eyed sailor with Hero, the name of his ship, written on his cap band. He’s framed inside a lifebelt, with three ironclad warships, a lighthouse, and a yellow-orange sunrise in the background. A white swan drifts forever on the emerald waters on Father’s vesta matchbox. I smooth out the creases in his ruckled newspaper and hand it to him. When in a good mood, he lets me take a sip of whiskey. Unable to put a name to my face, he stares at me with bloodshot eyes.
blackout
a candle holds
the light
- Details
- Written by: Elizabeth Crocket
I ask the doctor and physiotherapist if I will walk again and am relieved when they answer yes, in unison. They explain the limitation of my permanent leg disability. When the physiotherapist gets me up to walk with the aid of a walker, I wonder if she realizes it is the most severe physical challenge of my life. I lost my father earlier in the year, but I imagine his hand on my back.
artificial eye
dad's vision only hampered
by others
- Details
- Written by: Florin Golban
I was trying to guess the slabs of the platform. There were tufts of grass covered in mist on the edges. The station was barely out of the fog. Silhouettes ran back and forth.
Some for tickets, some for cigarettes and pretzels.
I felt like a stowaway among the commuters at seven in the morning. I got on the train, stomping down the aisle, and lit a cigarette, drawing on the steamy train window.
cloudy sky -
the cock crows
the same song
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- Written by: Hemapriya Chellappan
On our way back home from trekking, my husband and I find a hidden spot with several waterfalls. Some are thunderous, some are sublime, but each is a beauty in its own right. Aloof in the deep mountainous setting, the place looks prehistoric, with giant ferns and towering pine trees. We venture deeper into the woods. Suddenly, the ground beneath our feet trembles.
cataclysm the earth throws a crisp dark shadow
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- Written by: Herb Tate
Depending on when you choose to travel the humidity may be high and the temperature higher: you will wish to be wearing your coolest clothes and regret, if you haven’t, not packing an umbrella.
Your destination is about fourteen kilometres northeast of the city. Just a little too far comfortably to walk, perhaps, but easily accessible by auto-rickshaw or a taxi that – more often than not – will be more than happy to wait. In this tranquil place, Shakyamuni first preached the Middle Way.
Though busy occasionally, it is seldom crowded, particularly later in the afternoon, and easy enough – if you put your mind to it – to slip the solicitations of your guide, step aside from the path, and walk alone through the stupas.
incessant rain
I choose my shelter
under an old tree
- Details
- Written by: Jenny Fraser
All I want is to be a morning muse. To follow a ripple of silver thread in mid-air. Watch the rise and fall of a white dove’s breast, greyed in the winter sun. The spin of burnt orange from an autumn elm and drop of the last sycamore leaf.
the wind's breath
a raindrop trembles
on a twig
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- Written by: Jerome Berglund
She showed no signs of getting any better. Nonetheless, the whole kit and caboodle of the greenhouse spared no expense in lavishing her with the greatest care and attention of which they were capable. But despite their best efforts, the fertilizer, heat lamps, nutrient sticks, pruning the dutiful weeding and misted spritzings, regular replanting in progressively larger pots, shifting from one corner to the other, experiments in exposure between direct and indirect sunlight, shading and direct irradiation, and removal of dried leaves from her arms and fingers, nothing seemed to whatsoever improve the dame’s ghastly condition, try as they might to ascertain remedy or amelioration. The old lady merely gawked, drooled, burped and jabbered. Eventually, it was all the plants could do to try if nothing else to maintain her inferior position and stave off further decline, halt this plunge into an abyss and get the matron as comfortable as possible on the ledge to which she had tumbled, establish a secure grip on the rockface where she clung dangling over the fatal drop, life hung cruelly in the balance between this world and the next.
steam engine
into the countryside
one-way ticket to ride
They sprayed her down with pesticides, fed and hydrated regularly, and shrugged their barky shoulders sighing. Some folk just were not made for this zone, they postulated, peering down at her shabby plight with concealed horror, imagining their own gradual denigration as blossoms were invariably shed piece by piece till nothing of consequence was left remaining. If ostensibly the proper shade, the glass hothouse’s inhabitants possessed no green thumb in the sense which counted, were only capable of forestalling, prolonging that gratuitous inevitable for a time until it claimed their cherished longtime companion and the assembly were left to fend for themselves, see to the water and power situation and associated contracts and contingencies, haggle and bicker with representatives and navigate other convoluted logistical concerns. The plants thus set about orchestrating, and through the direction of legal council retained, rushing through proceedings to draft and ratify a durable power of attorney, see to it that they had all the great dowager’s assets consigned to their purview and allocation, something which significantly mitigated the situation and left the Flora quite well endowed to oversee her expenses and more importantly safeguard their own interests staunchly. Hence were they equipped to watch the old woman’s decline with a certain grotesque remove, and reconcile themselves with the impending reality. Like a chewable aspirin which may not taste delicious, the plants were convinced things were properly handled and organized, so when she did depart from their society the loss would be acceptable, the plants might even go so far as to say worked out in her brood’s favor. It was sad to recognize, but this was just the way the world worked.
fog over the cornfield
leisurely lingers
shoulder months
- Details
- Written by: John Zheng
You are a rice seedling I have grown in the paddy of my heart, a rope bridge I sway between city and country, a seesaw I use to keep ups and downs like the motion of sun and moon. Tell me when you want to smell the scent of new rice, and I will bring you a whole bag of it grown with my muddy hands. Let’s promise to meet on that wooden bridge when we see each other again. Trust me, our yin yang will spin forever like the earth under our feet.
caged days
a strong wish to hear
a magpie
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- Written by: Kala Ramesh
My siblings and I have been named dawn-lit mountains. We stand on the land of this remote region, rarely visited and unknown to many. I am located at the far eastern tip of this land that I call home, the first to be illuminated by the rising sun. The sprawling earth and rivers behind me require more time to shake off the shackles of darkness.
At my dazzling best I want to shout, “Hey, look at, look at me!” but there isn’t anyone around.
Oh, Sun God Aditya, would you tell the people at Kanyakumari, who gather in thousands to see you dip into the ocean, that there are mountains up here also worth seeing? And don’t forget to tell them that when they arrive, you will be here to greet them with a warm "Good Morning."
gold-tipped wings
of a Himalayan eagle . . .
cloudless sky
Author’s Note: This haibun is inspired by Meghadūta (Samskrit: मेघदूत Cloud Messenger) a lyric poem written by Kalidasa (c. 4th–5th century CE), who is considered to be one of the greatest Samskrit poets. It describes how a yaksha (or nature spirit), who had been banished by his master to a remote region for a year, asked a cloud to take his wife a message of love.
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- Written by: Lakshmi Iyer
Reminiscing about the memories of a friend, I can never forget her unique visits to our place around noon. She somehow persuades us to make all the arrangements for the cooking of 'theplas', that spicy flatbread so distinct to Gujarati food. And then she comes and heads straight to our kitchen. Her eyes roll to the round-shaped moons, and her fingers deftly flip them up on the griddle. Once, twice, and down on the plate!
While she keeps her hands busy with joyful gestures preparing the cuisine, she continues to weave absorbing stories of her childhood days.
Sitting alone, I recall her open-mouthed smiles and graceful chatters.
windless day ...
the cuckoo takes off
on her own song
- Details
- Written by: Marco Fraticelli
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”
-John Lennon
Somehow, all of a sudden, I find myself celebrating my hundredth birthday. I can’t account for how it happened, but here I am, struggling to blow out the candles. Fortunately, my children had the good sense to only put ten candles on the cake, one for each decade. Even one more candle for good luck might have been too many for me. Not to mention that by now, I’m pretty sure that I’ve already used up all my share of good luck.
leaves
slowly turning
into an old man
Author’s Note: The haibun is a part of an unpublished biographical book based on the lyrics by The Beatles.
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- Written by: Marietta McGregor
Each morning from sun-up Monday to Saturday a square in Rome’s historic heart fills with a bustling market. Memories stir here. The gentler ones recall a 1943 film about the bittersweet wartime love story of fish monger Peppino and fruit seller Elide, played by Aldo Fabrizi and Anna Magnani. Other memories are not so gentle. In the market’s centre, casting gaunt shade across colourful flower stalls and shoppers intent only on the best bargains to be found in swordfish, tortellini and sunflowers, looms a larger-than-lifesized bronze of Giordano Bruno, a medieval martyr burnt at stake for heresy. His sin: to believe in cosmology and an infinite universe.
campo de’ fiori
faggots of dried pasta
leaning on a tent pole
That evening, along with my daughter I return to the square for dinner at a nearby restaurant. At the next table sits a slender, black-haired woman with the tormented face of a beautiful Antigone. She is smartly dressed, a soft wool wrap draped around her head and shoulders. Lighting cigarette after cigarette with trembling fingers, she takes a deep draw of each and stubs it out. Begins talking to herself, arguing. Wheedling, cajoling, almost weeping. Voice loud, then suddenly soft. Gesturing wildly at her face reflected in the unseeing glass. After each monologue, she falls silent. A waiter sets down food, which goes uneaten.
civil war
a woman's heart
above the law
I order saltimbocca, my daughter chooses pasta with ragù. We eat, to the muttered soundtrack. The waiter leans over to whisper that she lives nearby. She comes alone to the café most nights and is always the same.
ancient stones . . .
only the gods know
what lies buried
Footnote: Giordano Bruno was an Italian Dominican friar who was burned alive in Rome in February 1600. A philosophical thinker, mathematician and poet, he believed the universe has no centre, that there are many worlds, and stars are suns surrounded by planets and moons. Thus, remarkably for his time, Bruno outlined large-scale aspects of modern cosmology, including foreshadowing the existence of exoplanets. Ref: Alberto Martinez, ‛Scientific American’.
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- Written by: Michelle Hyatt & Jacob Salzer
I wander into the forest as the full moon hovers in the northern sky. The spruce trees quiver gently as my body brushes against their snow-laden branches. Making my way through thicker foliage, I sink with each step in knee-deep snow, as I return to a place I have missed, but not forgotten. At the crest of a hill in the clearing, I see the verdant beings, standing like guardians in the moonglow.
"You've grown. You've changed,” I whisper to one of the trees, still adorned with a few decorations from past Solstice ceremonies. In the spaces between, from deep within, a flutter.
"So have you.”
turning the page
a silhouette disappears
in the fog
Prose: Michelle Hyatt
Haiku: Jacob Salzer
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- Written by: Mircea Moldovan
When a tornado takes my hut away, I feel saddened and take the wooden doll by her hand and proceed towards the seashore. I pick shells, greet a blue dragonfly and finally, make a big sandcastle sitting under the twilight sky. Place the flag of a monarch butterfly at the top of the tower and experience the breeze of happiness caressing my doll.
with me the joyful screams of a seagull
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- Written by: Mona Bedi
Driving to work I see a small boy begging. His clothes are torn and his face is smeared with dirt. My heart goes out to him. I avoid giving money to him as I fear he may be troubled for the same.
I stop my car and ask him whether he would like to have something. “Yes, I want to eat momos,” he says. He gulps down a few that I offer and hides the rest in his shirt, maybe for a sibling at home.
spring cleaning
forgotten memories
in a box
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- Written by: Reid Hepworth
I’m already in bed when I hear the knock on the door. Knowing it’s the landlady, again, I cover my head with my pillow. I’m just about to fall asleep when I hear a large crash.
Tiptoeing out of bed, I look through the peephole. It’s dark on the landing. I creep to the front window and peel back a sliver of the curtain, peering out into the foggy night. Other than a guy going through the trash, all is quiet.
I finally drag myself out of bed and make a quick breakfast of toast and a thermos of tea. As I open my door to leave, I’m surprised to witness the bloated, snoring body of my landlady. I can smell the alcohol wafting off of her. I turn back, grab a blanket from my couch and gingerly drape it over her.
Just for good measure, I leave my toast on the floor beside her.
junk drawer…
a stack of unpaid bills
and a pink slip
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- Written by: Réka Nyitrai (Romania) & Alan Peat (UK)
On my way home, a woman dressed in green approaches me and hands me an envelope. She says the envelope contains a letter from my estranged mother. I tell her it must be a mistake because I live with my mother and spoke with her no more than an hour ago. But the woman insists that the letter is indeed addressed to me. I open the envelope which contains nothing but a dry leaf. On the back of the leaf, it is inscribed:
I'm waiting for you to come back home.
Your loving mother,
The forest.
stump —
in every ring
an old storm’s story
An ekphrastic haibun based on Toyen’s painting ‘The Message Of The Forest (1936)
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- Written by: Roberta Beach Jacobson
We assemble at the harbor at 8 a.m. next to local cats who await the boats to arrive with the day’s catch. A runner expertly navigates around several café chairs before bounding our way. As she passes the torch to another citizen-runner for his pre-Olympic lap, cheers and applause erupt. While the excitement of the moment isn’t totally lost on me, my eyes fixate on the bouncing flame with some suspicion forming in my mind. How did this reach our far-flung Greek island?
childhood
they ask if we want smoking
or non-smoking
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- Written by: Scott Wiggerman
The smooth pen between my thumb and fingers, like holding a wrist pulsing with electric ink. Only cool instead of warm. Is this how I write another into my life?
Faber-Castell
skipping over
that thin black line
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- Written by: Stephen Toft
sitting in the square with a takeaway coffee and a satchel full of detective books, i’m on the only bench that the morning sun has reached. the street drinkers and drug addicts have started doing what they do - or maybe they never stopped. i recognise one of them from the homeless project, and he greets me with an unexpected warmth by offering a swig of his vodka.
dirty river -
a pair of angel wings
floats by
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- Written by: Tim Gardiner
I try not to dwell on the past. My choice was blind and honest; who could have known where the limelight would fall? Television made it worse, the adoration of screaming crowds drunk on the euphoria of success. I console myself that John and Paul wouldn’t have needed a pianist on tour. Besides, the quiet life has an appeal of its own.
autumn moon
I play the piano
like yesterday
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- Written by: Tsanka Shishkova
After 10 years away I am home again. Our dog greets me with undisguised joy. I open the front door and here is the first thing I missed so much - a lot of messy shoes, umbrellas, and clothes. Unexpected fascinations followed from the annoying hugs, my brother's burnt pancakes, the fake singing of the family choir...
This is the home that remembers my successes and failures, the chaotic outbursts of love and joy.
long flight
my travel bag
full of memories