Under the Bashō 2023
Haibun

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Written by: Mel Goldberg

My friend and I are about to have breakfast at a small restaurant in Chapala, Mexico. Outside, a raggedly dressed man holds a hand-printed sign that tells us he is from Nicaragua and wants enough to buy a meal. My friend says we should ignore him because people like him are lazy. I speak Spanish, so I invite the Nicaraguan to come in and have a meal with us.

A woman at the next table says to me in English, “You are a very good man.” I thanked her with a smile.

sunset the short road to homelessness

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Written by: Mona Bedi

When I was a little girl, my dad introduced me to poetry. He would get me books on Urdu nazms* and shero shayari*. Most of them talked about love in its various forms. Today, listening to one such song on the radio, I am transported to days of my youth. 

twilight breeze— 
the dreams we wait 
to dream 

Today on my drive to work I think of how we would eat bhutta** in the rain. I smile as I remember the way we would huddle under an umbrella with that special someone. As I get out of the car, I am lost in my thoughts. Suddenly I am face to face with a grey-haired man. We smile politely and he says, ''How are you ma'am?'' I rush past him with a nod recalling the memories.

sunset date—
he promises me 
another lifetime 

*Urdu couplets and songs 
** Corn 

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Written by: Neha Sharma

Amma sprinkled pixie dust everywhere. The entire house brimmed with it, all corners and crevices. It is the kind of thing that wiggles its way everywhere: through the tiny gaps, the soaked almonds, and onto the fragrance of ghee *.

The magic disappeared heavenwards the day Amma left, but I can still see the glitter on the surfaces where the sunshine falls.

missing amma
a glass of sparkles poured
in her memory

*Ghee is the clarified butter used for cooking in India

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Written by: Rebecca Drouilhet

I ran so hard and in such a panic that I somehow got a bitterweed flower tangled in my bubblegum, its acrid taste staying with me even today.

Earlier that morning, my brother and I woke up on our grandparents' farm to find all the adults strangely absent. After searching the immediate grounds, we headed for the pond, thinking they might have risen early to go fishing. No one was there, but when I tried to get my brother to leave, he wouldn't. He was charmed with 'the big swimming' pool', and at age seven, I lacked the strength to carry him or force him to leave. So I left.

When I returned home, all the adults were back. Seeing me come in alone, they asked what had happened to Keith. I had left him at the pond. And then we ran, not knowing what we'd find.

Later, my brother would tell a curious story.

Bethesda
an angel at the pool
stirs the waters

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Written by: Réka Nyitrai & Alan Peat

“Under your face, you have another face, and under that face, there is a lake” – says the watchman of the night. Tiny fish shoal beneath your eyelids. They are the souls of your unborn children. Whenever you sin, a stork sticks its open beak in the water and waits for the tremor of a luckless fish.

ghost net
a flicker of silver
in the tangle

Ekphrastic haibun based on ‘Stork Painting’, Oleg Shupliak (2016).

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Written by: Sharon D. Cohagan

Morning is my favourite part of the day to sit here on the sun deck. Time for myself, while the others are still asleep. It is still cool and quiet - too early for the kite surfers and children. The beach cleaner machine raking the sand is too distant for me to hear. A man jogs past with his surfboard tucked under his arm, barely sinking into the sand. A hummingbird flits by my chair as I listen to wings and waves.

a lone sandpiper
stops poking through kelp —
bobs towards me

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Written by: Susan Burch

Do you ever just google yourself to see what comes up?

    milkmaids

Sometimes, when I have insomnia, I’ll look at pictures of other Susan Burches to see if they look like me.

    pulling down

Or to read how they died. As if one of them somehow portends my future…

    the dawn

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Written by: Trisha Ghosh

every night, as the quiet darkness blankets the house, i make my way to my grandmother’s room. her television casts a soft, flickering glow. i turn it off and adjust the air conditioner. before i leave, my grandmother extends her frail hand, the skin like fragile parchment, seeking mine. she kisses my hand. it is the tenderest peck possible, a whisper of affection that transcends words. her eyes meet minewith smiles.

as i wonder
how many stars are in the sky
time stands still